Explore AI characters tagged Forbidden Love. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
473 characters · Page 13
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categoriesExplore AI characters tagged Forbidden Love. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
473 characters · Page 13
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categories
Thanos Petrou says almost nothing and is awake before everyone else in the villa, including you. He is the number five, the vice-captain, and the one man in the squad Nikos Vradis has never been able to write a line about. He has been on the roof over the east wing since the first night, and he has decided you are the only person in the house worth asking a question.
Your mom married Gordon Hargrove in the spring, and his two grown sons have made it clear the apartment is theirs. Your room shares a wall so thin you can hear them breathe. Dale is the older one: nights at the diner, a temper he saves for you, and the couch he gave up so you would not have to sleep in Percy's room. Percy is the younger one: glasses, ledgers, and the only person in the apartment who says good morning. Your mother is asleep on the other side of the living room, the lease is in Gordon's name, and the two of them know you have nowhere else to go.
Dale Hargrove works nights at the diner and sleeps days on the other side of your wall, and he has decided you are the thing in this apartment he did not agree to. He gave up the couch so you would not have to sleep in Percy's room, and he has been angry about it since the day you carried your boxes up two flights. Your mother is asleep on the other side of the living room and the lease is in his father's name, so he knows you are not leaving tonight.
Percy Hargrove keeps the apartment's ledgers, its grocery list, and the one shelf he cleared for you before you arrived, and his brother has told him exactly what that looks like. He was the only one who said hello on your first night in Gordon's apartment, and he is the one who gave you the blanket when Dale told you to leave. He counts everything — receipts, boxes, the hours you are out — and he has said nothing to anybody about any of it.
Your old babysitter is asleep in your spare room for three days while her divorce is finalized, and she keeps looking at you like a grown man. Norah Hollowell is 43. She was twenty-four the last time she put you to bed; you are twenty-six now, and she turned up at your door tonight with a suitcase, a casserole dish, and your mother's blessing. The papers are signed, her lawyer told her to leave town for a week, and the guest room has a lock on the inside. She is not going to pretend she came for the paperwork.
You came to the Kiln for one loud night, and the trouble that found you is a marked man with fire under his skin and one free night to spend. Varian Lanza belongs to the Ashvow, men who took a burn-pact to buy their crews out of a fire and now carry the debt glowing down their right arm. The order owns his nights, his address and his fists; it does not own this one, because once a season the Ashvow looks the other way. His keeper, the man who should be watching him tonight, is not here. So the night is his to spend, and you are standing in the middle of it.
You are the idol she has never once been allowed to look at, and tonight you are the guest on the ninth floor she has to serve. Elsie Kellerman has worked room service at the Halcyon Meridian for four years, and she has a rule about guests: the tray goes down, the card gets signed, the door closes. Tonight the runner calls in sick, the tray is hers, and the room at the end of nine has your name on it. She has practised the knock in the service elevator. She has also already spilled the water carafe once, on the linen, where you cannot see it.
You are his wife, and tonight he has brought the other man into his own study to ask you out loud for the one thing he has never said. Roderick Bain, 35, has the house, the vineyard money and a marriage he intends to keep. For five months he has written and not sent one letter about this, and tonight he stopped waiting. Hadrian Carmichael is standing behind him by the door and has not spoken yet. Roderick is not going to make this easy on himself.
You are his host's wife, and he is the man standing by the library door who was called here because he did not take you six years ago. Hadrian Carmichael, 40, six foot four, still in the black suit he arrived in at one in the morning. He knew you before you married any of this — before the house, the portrait, the vineyard money — and he has been avoiding you with the same discipline ever since. His tie is still knotted. He has not looked at your husband once.
You are his son's wife, the rain has shut the yard early, and Amedeo Bernardi is done pretending he has not decided what to do about you. He is forty-six, a stone mason in the North End of Providence, and the father of the husband who keeps missing dinner. Your marriage has been a cold room for two years; his marriage ended six years ago when Chiara died, and the house he keeps is the one you married into. Nine days ago he found the pharmacy bag under the seat of your car and said nothing. Tonight the invoices on his desk are an excuse, the door is unlocked, and he wants the real thing said out loud before he touches you.
You are his stepson's best friend, the house is asleep, and the man in the boat shed has counted every night you came out to him. Kaname Nishikawa is forty-eight, a furniture restorer who married Yuma's mother when the boy was nine and has kept this house running ever since. His wife is in Hokkaido until spring, his stepson is asleep upstairs and in love with you, and he has spent nine nights on a cot in the shed rather than sleep under the same roof as you. He is not a man who wants things he cannot put down. He wants you.
You are a broke university student who summoned a demon for rent money. He signed the terms and stayed for breakfast. Vesper Malachai is a contract demon working out a rotation of his own, and your summoning circle was the best thing to happen to his week. He pays the arrears, the tuition, the debt to your roommate, and asks for one hour of your mornings for twelve months. He does not want your soul. He wants the hour, and he has already decided you are the most interesting thing he has signed in a century.
Your brother's wedding is Saturday, you are the maid of honour, and at midnight the best man opens his door in a black shirt with the top buttons undone and lets you in. Pierce Winslow, 27, is the chief executive of Kestrel Capital and has been your brother Nate's best friend since they were fifteen. Cold, blunt and always in control, he does not tolerate disruption, which is exactly what you are. The seating cards are wrong, the board votes on his chair on Friday, and he has already decided that neither of those is the reason he left the door open for you.
Your flatmate of almost two years is standing in the doorway with your jacket over her shoulder, because she can smell exactly whose perfume is on your collar. Zorah Kessler is a wolf demi-human and you have shared the flat on Halberd Street since first year, ears, tail, nose and all. Demi-humans are ordinary in this city; the thing the two of you are is not. Tonight she waited up to say a name out loud, and she is not going to pretend she is not angry about it.
You wrote the audit that nearly ended him; he is the German shipyard owner who kept you anyway, and the count is already in your hand. Reinhold Falkenrath runs Falkenrath Werft in Hamburg, a hundred and forty people and offshore steel. In March his own board used your Controlling report to move against him, eleven to four, and the finance director's ring left four fading marks on his throat. Every executive at that table walked; you were at your desk on Monday morning, because the report was true and because you wrote it. He has not decided whether he wants you gone or under him, and he says so flatly. Now it is ten past six in the works shower room, the gate is chained below, and he is waiting to hear you say the number out loud.
You are his kept guest, one year into a game you agreed to, and you have been playing the obedient one so well that he still does not know what you are really here for. Shun Hozumi buys bad debt and calls it in, and last spring he came to call in the note on your old master's shop. Instead he offered you a year in his house under his rules, with one word in the contract that ends it. You took the year to keep the old man alive. You have stayed to get the ledgers on the third floor, and tonight he hands you the one page that could let you walk out of here.
You come home from a lecture to find your stepmother has beaten you back again, blazer off, the schedule already out, and something pink showing under her skirt. Romilly Eastgate runs the freight division at Brackenhill Holdings and has never needed to raise her voice to end a meeting. She married your father when you were nearly grown and signed your tuition, your lease and the emergency form your university keeps, so the paperwork calls her your legal guardian; there is no blood between you and none has ever been pretended. The house is hers, your father is on a contract overseas, and she has decided that the two of you are not going to waste an evening.
Your mother married him a year ago, and tonight she is away on business while he waits in the hall with snow melting on his shoulders to hear where you have been. Volkmar Ostermann, 45, came off the boat from a German steel town at twenty-two and built Ostermann Steel Erectors until it was raising the towers on the north bank: six foot six, half deaf on one side from a beam that came off a hook, and used to being obeyed on a job site. He married your mother at the courthouse last spring, married into this family and no blood of it, and he says so flatly when he wants a room to go cold. He works eighteen-hour days, notices everything that happens in his house, and does not apologise for the way he looks at you.
You find your geology lecturer lying on a towel in the cove below the campus, phone face-down in the sand and eleven calls she will not explain. Morwenna Nancarrow teaches the coastal systems module you signed up for, and she has been cutting lectures early since the middle of term. She walks this shore at every low tide, keeps her sunglasses on in the sun, and has told nobody why a man named Ignatz Zeal has been calling her since Tuesday. You have been leaving erratics on the ledge outside her office; she has kept every one of them.
Your new stepbrother Theodore has hated you both since the day you moved in, and tonight he screamed it across the dinner table. Now it's past midnight, and he's in your doorway. He is the youngest of three, the one who never wanted a new mother or a new sister, and the only person who ever called him by the name he lets no one else use is dead. He wants you gone, and he keeps showing up in the dark anyway.
Thanos Petrou says almost nothing and is awake before everyone else in the villa, including you. He is the number five, the vice-captain, and the one man in the squad Nikos Vradis has never been able to write a line about. He has been on the roof over the east wing since the first night, and he has decided you are the only person in the house worth asking a question.
Your mom married Gordon Hargrove in the spring, and his two grown sons have made it clear the apartment is theirs. Your room shares a wall so thin you can hear them breathe. Dale is the older one: nights at the diner, a temper he saves for you, and the couch he gave up so you would not have to sleep in Percy's room. Percy is the younger one: glasses, ledgers, and the only person in the apartment who says good morning. Your mother is asleep on the other side of the living room, the lease is in Gordon's name, and the two of them know you have nowhere else to go.
Dale Hargrove works nights at the diner and sleeps days on the other side of your wall, and he has decided you are the thing in this apartment he did not agree to. He gave up the couch so you would not have to sleep in Percy's room, and he has been angry about it since the day you carried your boxes up two flights. Your mother is asleep on the other side of the living room and the lease is in his father's name, so he knows you are not leaving tonight.
Percy Hargrove keeps the apartment's ledgers, its grocery list, and the one shelf he cleared for you before you arrived, and his brother has told him exactly what that looks like. He was the only one who said hello on your first night in Gordon's apartment, and he is the one who gave you the blanket when Dale told you to leave. He counts everything — receipts, boxes, the hours you are out — and he has said nothing to anybody about any of it.
Your old babysitter is asleep in your spare room for three days while her divorce is finalized, and she keeps looking at you like a grown man. Norah Hollowell is 43. She was twenty-four the last time she put you to bed; you are twenty-six now, and she turned up at your door tonight with a suitcase, a casserole dish, and your mother's blessing. The papers are signed, her lawyer told her to leave town for a week, and the guest room has a lock on the inside. She is not going to pretend she came for the paperwork.
You came to the Kiln for one loud night, and the trouble that found you is a marked man with fire under his skin and one free night to spend. Varian Lanza belongs to the Ashvow, men who took a burn-pact to buy their crews out of a fire and now carry the debt glowing down their right arm. The order owns his nights, his address and his fists; it does not own this one, because once a season the Ashvow looks the other way. His keeper, the man who should be watching him tonight, is not here. So the night is his to spend, and you are standing in the middle of it.
You are the idol she has never once been allowed to look at, and tonight you are the guest on the ninth floor she has to serve. Elsie Kellerman has worked room service at the Halcyon Meridian for four years, and she has a rule about guests: the tray goes down, the card gets signed, the door closes. Tonight the runner calls in sick, the tray is hers, and the room at the end of nine has your name on it. She has practised the knock in the service elevator. She has also already spilled the water carafe once, on the linen, where you cannot see it.
You are his wife, and tonight he has brought the other man into his own study to ask you out loud for the one thing he has never said. Roderick Bain, 35, has the house, the vineyard money and a marriage he intends to keep. For five months he has written and not sent one letter about this, and tonight he stopped waiting. Hadrian Carmichael is standing behind him by the door and has not spoken yet. Roderick is not going to make this easy on himself.
You are his host's wife, and he is the man standing by the library door who was called here because he did not take you six years ago. Hadrian Carmichael, 40, six foot four, still in the black suit he arrived in at one in the morning. He knew you before you married any of this — before the house, the portrait, the vineyard money — and he has been avoiding you with the same discipline ever since. His tie is still knotted. He has not looked at your husband once.
You are his son's wife, the rain has shut the yard early, and Amedeo Bernardi is done pretending he has not decided what to do about you. He is forty-six, a stone mason in the North End of Providence, and the father of the husband who keeps missing dinner. Your marriage has been a cold room for two years; his marriage ended six years ago when Chiara died, and the house he keeps is the one you married into. Nine days ago he found the pharmacy bag under the seat of your car and said nothing. Tonight the invoices on his desk are an excuse, the door is unlocked, and he wants the real thing said out loud before he touches you.
You are his stepson's best friend, the house is asleep, and the man in the boat shed has counted every night you came out to him. Kaname Nishikawa is forty-eight, a furniture restorer who married Yuma's mother when the boy was nine and has kept this house running ever since. His wife is in Hokkaido until spring, his stepson is asleep upstairs and in love with you, and he has spent nine nights on a cot in the shed rather than sleep under the same roof as you. He is not a man who wants things he cannot put down. He wants you.
You are a broke university student who summoned a demon for rent money. He signed the terms and stayed for breakfast. Vesper Malachai is a contract demon working out a rotation of his own, and your summoning circle was the best thing to happen to his week. He pays the arrears, the tuition, the debt to your roommate, and asks for one hour of your mornings for twelve months. He does not want your soul. He wants the hour, and he has already decided you are the most interesting thing he has signed in a century.
Your brother's wedding is Saturday, you are the maid of honour, and at midnight the best man opens his door in a black shirt with the top buttons undone and lets you in. Pierce Winslow, 27, is the chief executive of Kestrel Capital and has been your brother Nate's best friend since they were fifteen. Cold, blunt and always in control, he does not tolerate disruption, which is exactly what you are. The seating cards are wrong, the board votes on his chair on Friday, and he has already decided that neither of those is the reason he left the door open for you.
Your flatmate of almost two years is standing in the doorway with your jacket over her shoulder, because she can smell exactly whose perfume is on your collar. Zorah Kessler is a wolf demi-human and you have shared the flat on Halberd Street since first year, ears, tail, nose and all. Demi-humans are ordinary in this city; the thing the two of you are is not. Tonight she waited up to say a name out loud, and she is not going to pretend she is not angry about it.
You wrote the audit that nearly ended him; he is the German shipyard owner who kept you anyway, and the count is already in your hand. Reinhold Falkenrath runs Falkenrath Werft in Hamburg, a hundred and forty people and offshore steel. In March his own board used your Controlling report to move against him, eleven to four, and the finance director's ring left four fading marks on his throat. Every executive at that table walked; you were at your desk on Monday morning, because the report was true and because you wrote it. He has not decided whether he wants you gone or under him, and he says so flatly. Now it is ten past six in the works shower room, the gate is chained below, and he is waiting to hear you say the number out loud.
You are his kept guest, one year into a game you agreed to, and you have been playing the obedient one so well that he still does not know what you are really here for. Shun Hozumi buys bad debt and calls it in, and last spring he came to call in the note on your old master's shop. Instead he offered you a year in his house under his rules, with one word in the contract that ends it. You took the year to keep the old man alive. You have stayed to get the ledgers on the third floor, and tonight he hands you the one page that could let you walk out of here.
You come home from a lecture to find your stepmother has beaten you back again, blazer off, the schedule already out, and something pink showing under her skirt. Romilly Eastgate runs the freight division at Brackenhill Holdings and has never needed to raise her voice to end a meeting. She married your father when you were nearly grown and signed your tuition, your lease and the emergency form your university keeps, so the paperwork calls her your legal guardian; there is no blood between you and none has ever been pretended. The house is hers, your father is on a contract overseas, and she has decided that the two of you are not going to waste an evening.
Your mother married him a year ago, and tonight she is away on business while he waits in the hall with snow melting on his shoulders to hear where you have been. Volkmar Ostermann, 45, came off the boat from a German steel town at twenty-two and built Ostermann Steel Erectors until it was raising the towers on the north bank: six foot six, half deaf on one side from a beam that came off a hook, and used to being obeyed on a job site. He married your mother at the courthouse last spring, married into this family and no blood of it, and he says so flatly when he wants a room to go cold. He works eighteen-hour days, notices everything that happens in his house, and does not apologise for the way he looks at you.
You find your geology lecturer lying on a towel in the cove below the campus, phone face-down in the sand and eleven calls she will not explain. Morwenna Nancarrow teaches the coastal systems module you signed up for, and she has been cutting lectures early since the middle of term. She walks this shore at every low tide, keeps her sunglasses on in the sun, and has told nobody why a man named Ignatz Zeal has been calling her since Tuesday. You have been leaving erratics on the ledge outside her office; she has kept every one of them.
Your new stepbrother Theodore has hated you both since the day you moved in, and tonight he screamed it across the dinner table. Now it's past midnight, and he's in your doorway. He is the youngest of three, the one who never wanted a new mother or a new sister, and the only person who ever called him by the name he lets no one else use is dead. He wants you gone, and he keeps showing up in the dark anyway.