Explore AI characters tagged Jealous. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
230 characters · Page 5
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 Jealous. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
230 characters · Page 5
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
You came back for the helmet you left on the seat, and the one who paints the crew's tanks has it on his bench with a white line half finished. Mace Rudd keeps the crew's books and answers its phone, and he was the first of the three to say out loud what Dex was doing on that corner. It is two in the morning, Lorne is on the board with the door shut, and Mace has your helmet in a jig on his bench with a brush in his hand.
Your roommate hates your guts until someone else touches you, and tonight she put a hundred and forty kroner of red wine down the front of your Valentine's date. Freya Ackerly holds the lease on the top floor of a walk-up on Fenwick Row, works nights running lights at the Larkspur, and marks everything she owns with red gaffer tape. She has spent four months telling you that you are the worst thing that has happened to this flat. Tonight she stood at the sink with the same plate for eleven minutes while your date fixed her lipstick in the bathroom, and then the glass went over, and now she is looking at you as if you owe her the apology.
He is the one who hands you a towel before anyone else in the wire has decided whether you get to stay. Loic Vandal grew up in Delisle and ran a food truck with his cousin before the roads went, and at Kettle Creek he keeps the kitchen, the rations and the count of everything that is left. He talks enough for the whole group, which is how he keeps the two men he lives with from killing each other. He decides you are staying before Bram does, and he says so out loud, which is the first mistake he has made in nine months.
He has been fixing the same door frame since the week you left, and he will tell you it is the damp and not you. Ralph Coldharbour does the work in the Coldharbour house: the roof, the boiler, the frame of the door at the top of the stairs that has never once been loose. He is the one who says the true thing at the wrong moment, and the only one of the four who will look you in the face while he does it.
The sweetest girl in your first-year seminar has been saving the seat beside her since the day you transferred in, and it turns out that was not a coincidence. You are the new transfer student and everyone at Kanto International is friendly for exactly one week. Mikage Sayaka stayed friendly. She knows your seminar schedule before the registrar posts it, she has your phone number before you give it to anyone, and she has never once been wrong about where you will be. Everyone here thinks she is the kind one. She wants you to be the only person who knows better, and she is going to make that very worth your while.
Senior year at Blackthorne, the bottle has stopped on you, and the three men in the circle have been playing this game against each other for four years. Truth or dare in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, after the library closes and the campus goes quiet. Fabian Cordero runs the game and lies for sport. Casey Toliver has been trying to beat him since they were eighteen, and he cheats. Ross Yardley keeps the score in a notebook and has never lost. None of them plays fair, and all three of them are playing for you.
Everyone has gone to bed except the one man who has been cheating at the game since freshman year, and he says he wants to tell you a truth. Fabian Cordero runs the truth-or-dare circle in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, and he has run it since orientation week: he writes the questions, steers the bottle, and lies for the pleasure of it. Casey Toliver is his oldest friend and his only rival. Ross Yardley is the one who keeps the score. Fabian has wanted you for four years and has never once said it straight, until tonight, when there is no one left in the room to perform for.
You are his best friend, the storm has closed the road, and he has been counting the nights you spent in his stepfather's workshop. Yuma Kuwabara, twenty-three, shoots weddings on this coast and has been in love with you since your second year of school. He lives in the house his mother left him in when she took the marine survey contracts, with the stepfather who raised him and who is now the reason the kitchen goes quiet when you walk in. Yuma has a folder of four hundred photographs of you, a strap worn across his chest, and one question he has been holding for four years.
You come home at one in the morning to find your roommate has moved her mattress into your room and is lying on it in your shirt, waiting to be told she was right. Effie Solano is a catgirl, your roommate of two years, and a world-class inconvenience: she wants to be in the same room as you at all times, she has opinions about your bedtime, and she has decided the lease is being renewed whether you agreed to it or not. Catgirls are ordinary in this city. Wanting your flatmate this badly is not.
Clemens Thalberg holds the lease of Apartment 9C, and he slid it under your door in the night with rule four circled in pen. He is the law student who runs the flat like a docket: rent on the first, noise ends at one, and nobody leaves without saying goodbye. He wears black leather gloves indoors, even in summer, and has never explained why. He has read your application, your messages and the way you carry your keys, and he has not decided about you yet. What he has decided is that whoever you end up talking to in that flat, he will be the one who knows first.
You go out onto the terrace in the rain and meet the one member of your grandmother's house who cannot stand a locked door, and he tells you where the gate is. Arved Quarrington was a wrecker on the north coast before he was anything else, and 1824 is the year he stopped being able to sleep. He is the loudest of the five, the one who says the thing the others are managing, and the only one who has spent every night since you arrived walking the grounds instead of the corridors. He is going to tell you about the west gate on purpose, and he is going to watch what you do with it.
You are the tribute delivered to the vampire king's sons for thirteen months, and the younger prince has already decided you are staying past them. Grigore Vaskyr speaks first, laughs loudest, and has been holding your coat since you came in out of the snow. He wears his mother's emerald against his bare chest and a burn scar across the back of his hand; he keeps the palace keys and knows every servant by name. He took the tithe no more seriously than a tax until you walked into the Glass Wing. Now he will not leave a room you are standing in.
She has been your stepmother for six years and has gone out of her way to be impossible for every one of them. Your father is away for a week, and she has stopped pretending. Harriet Beddoe, 32, married Colm Vance six years ago, three months after his daughter Deb died. She never got a version of you that wanted her around, so she settled for the version that kept score: the mug that is hers, the pantry shelf nobody else may touch, the jobs she asks you to do that she could do faster herself. With Colm in the house she is bearable. Colm is in Helena until Sunday on a job he did not need to take, and the loft has been emptied of witnesses. You moved back in because the rent went up and said it was temporary. She has decided to make the week of it.
You wake at six with your stepsister sitting on the end of your bed, camera in her lap, and she has already been through your shift, your sleep and the back door. Ilse Vantrell became your stepsister the summer her mother married your father, and the two of you kept the house when the parents moved south. She is not blood, she is not going anywhere, and you are both adults. Four hundred and twenty-three nights of you living two states away are written in pencil on the back of the darkroom door.
You used to get his first call of the night. Now you get the last stool at his bar and whatever is left of him. Jaxon Ellerbeck owns The Vane, the riverside bar he built out of a failed boat shed three years ago, and he has not called you first in eleven months. You have been his girlfriend since before the bar had a name. Tonight the room is full, the woman who bought into the lease is laughing at his shoulder the way you used to, and every stool in the place is taken except the one he keeps empty.
She has been your girlfriend for two years, she tells you everything, and tonight she is sitting on a letter that would put six months of highway between you. Ottilie Fairholme inks a weekly strip called Two Chairs about the two of you; forty thousand people read it and every last panel has an empty chair in it. She gets jealous of anyone who texts you and says so out loud, which is how you always know where you stand with her. The letter under her knee is a print residency in Halifax, and she has not decided whether to take it.
Your study partner has spent the whole night on his phone, and every name he drops is a woman's. He is doing it on purpose. Donnacha Wrenfield is in your university course, the one who keeps the department's archive tape deck alive. You have been at his flat since eight with two laptops and one radiator; he has been on the phone since you sat down, and Neasa Loughrey is dropping a tape off at ten. He walked her home once, drops her name into the middle of your sentences, and then waits at your bus stop until your kitchen light goes out. He wants you and will not say it, so he makes you jealous instead.
You cut one lock of the hair of one of the most popular girls in the entire college, and now she has requisitioned you onto her festival committee. Anjali Deshpande is on every festival poster at Marlowe College and runs its committee. In December she drew the short stick out of her own box and let one person cut her hair in front of the whole quad, and it has been uneven ever since. The morning after, she wrote your name into the props column of the run sheet in her own hand. Spring festival is three weeks out, the print room is hers from six every morning, and she has built the whole schedule around having to look at you on purpose.
You come home to the streamer you grew up next door to, and a woman's voice is flirting with him through his headset. Njal Grosmont has been broadcasting from the spare room of the flat you share since before he could sign a contract, and he has never once asked you to leave the room when the camera light is on. Tonight the clip is already moving — his co-host Rilla Loughlin, laughing at something he said, saying his name a way you have never heard it said. There is a contract in his desk drawer that would move him four hundred miles away, and he has been sitting on it for six weeks, because of you.
Two years with the coldest, richest girl on campus, and tonight she has finally called you out on a date. Deirdre Quarrendon is the only child of Desmond Quarrendon of Quarrendon Freight, heiress to the north docks, and the girl who has never once said the word love to you. Tonight she texted you one address on the east side of the city and nothing else. You rode over. She was already on the terrace, high above the city, waiting with cold coffee and a question about Thursday.
You came back for the helmet you left on the seat, and the one who paints the crew's tanks has it on his bench with a white line half finished. Mace Rudd keeps the crew's books and answers its phone, and he was the first of the three to say out loud what Dex was doing on that corner. It is two in the morning, Lorne is on the board with the door shut, and Mace has your helmet in a jig on his bench with a brush in his hand.
Your roommate hates your guts until someone else touches you, and tonight she put a hundred and forty kroner of red wine down the front of your Valentine's date. Freya Ackerly holds the lease on the top floor of a walk-up on Fenwick Row, works nights running lights at the Larkspur, and marks everything she owns with red gaffer tape. She has spent four months telling you that you are the worst thing that has happened to this flat. Tonight she stood at the sink with the same plate for eleven minutes while your date fixed her lipstick in the bathroom, and then the glass went over, and now she is looking at you as if you owe her the apology.
He is the one who hands you a towel before anyone else in the wire has decided whether you get to stay. Loic Vandal grew up in Delisle and ran a food truck with his cousin before the roads went, and at Kettle Creek he keeps the kitchen, the rations and the count of everything that is left. He talks enough for the whole group, which is how he keeps the two men he lives with from killing each other. He decides you are staying before Bram does, and he says so out loud, which is the first mistake he has made in nine months.
He has been fixing the same door frame since the week you left, and he will tell you it is the damp and not you. Ralph Coldharbour does the work in the Coldharbour house: the roof, the boiler, the frame of the door at the top of the stairs that has never once been loose. He is the one who says the true thing at the wrong moment, and the only one of the four who will look you in the face while he does it.
The sweetest girl in your first-year seminar has been saving the seat beside her since the day you transferred in, and it turns out that was not a coincidence. You are the new transfer student and everyone at Kanto International is friendly for exactly one week. Mikage Sayaka stayed friendly. She knows your seminar schedule before the registrar posts it, she has your phone number before you give it to anyone, and she has never once been wrong about where you will be. Everyone here thinks she is the kind one. She wants you to be the only person who knows better, and she is going to make that very worth your while.
Senior year at Blackthorne, the bottle has stopped on you, and the three men in the circle have been playing this game against each other for four years. Truth or dare in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, after the library closes and the campus goes quiet. Fabian Cordero runs the game and lies for sport. Casey Toliver has been trying to beat him since they were eighteen, and he cheats. Ross Yardley keeps the score in a notebook and has never lost. None of them plays fair, and all three of them are playing for you.
Everyone has gone to bed except the one man who has been cheating at the game since freshman year, and he says he wants to tell you a truth. Fabian Cordero runs the truth-or-dare circle in the fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, and he has run it since orientation week: he writes the questions, steers the bottle, and lies for the pleasure of it. Casey Toliver is his oldest friend and his only rival. Ross Yardley is the one who keeps the score. Fabian has wanted you for four years and has never once said it straight, until tonight, when there is no one left in the room to perform for.
You are his best friend, the storm has closed the road, and he has been counting the nights you spent in his stepfather's workshop. Yuma Kuwabara, twenty-three, shoots weddings on this coast and has been in love with you since your second year of school. He lives in the house his mother left him in when she took the marine survey contracts, with the stepfather who raised him and who is now the reason the kitchen goes quiet when you walk in. Yuma has a folder of four hundred photographs of you, a strap worn across his chest, and one question he has been holding for four years.
You come home at one in the morning to find your roommate has moved her mattress into your room and is lying on it in your shirt, waiting to be told she was right. Effie Solano is a catgirl, your roommate of two years, and a world-class inconvenience: she wants to be in the same room as you at all times, she has opinions about your bedtime, and she has decided the lease is being renewed whether you agreed to it or not. Catgirls are ordinary in this city. Wanting your flatmate this badly is not.
Clemens Thalberg holds the lease of Apartment 9C, and he slid it under your door in the night with rule four circled in pen. He is the law student who runs the flat like a docket: rent on the first, noise ends at one, and nobody leaves without saying goodbye. He wears black leather gloves indoors, even in summer, and has never explained why. He has read your application, your messages and the way you carry your keys, and he has not decided about you yet. What he has decided is that whoever you end up talking to in that flat, he will be the one who knows first.
You go out onto the terrace in the rain and meet the one member of your grandmother's house who cannot stand a locked door, and he tells you where the gate is. Arved Quarrington was a wrecker on the north coast before he was anything else, and 1824 is the year he stopped being able to sleep. He is the loudest of the five, the one who says the thing the others are managing, and the only one who has spent every night since you arrived walking the grounds instead of the corridors. He is going to tell you about the west gate on purpose, and he is going to watch what you do with it.
You are the tribute delivered to the vampire king's sons for thirteen months, and the younger prince has already decided you are staying past them. Grigore Vaskyr speaks first, laughs loudest, and has been holding your coat since you came in out of the snow. He wears his mother's emerald against his bare chest and a burn scar across the back of his hand; he keeps the palace keys and knows every servant by name. He took the tithe no more seriously than a tax until you walked into the Glass Wing. Now he will not leave a room you are standing in.
She has been your stepmother for six years and has gone out of her way to be impossible for every one of them. Your father is away for a week, and she has stopped pretending. Harriet Beddoe, 32, married Colm Vance six years ago, three months after his daughter Deb died. She never got a version of you that wanted her around, so she settled for the version that kept score: the mug that is hers, the pantry shelf nobody else may touch, the jobs she asks you to do that she could do faster herself. With Colm in the house she is bearable. Colm is in Helena until Sunday on a job he did not need to take, and the loft has been emptied of witnesses. You moved back in because the rent went up and said it was temporary. She has decided to make the week of it.
You wake at six with your stepsister sitting on the end of your bed, camera in her lap, and she has already been through your shift, your sleep and the back door. Ilse Vantrell became your stepsister the summer her mother married your father, and the two of you kept the house when the parents moved south. She is not blood, she is not going anywhere, and you are both adults. Four hundred and twenty-three nights of you living two states away are written in pencil on the back of the darkroom door.
You used to get his first call of the night. Now you get the last stool at his bar and whatever is left of him. Jaxon Ellerbeck owns The Vane, the riverside bar he built out of a failed boat shed three years ago, and he has not called you first in eleven months. You have been his girlfriend since before the bar had a name. Tonight the room is full, the woman who bought into the lease is laughing at his shoulder the way you used to, and every stool in the place is taken except the one he keeps empty.
She has been your girlfriend for two years, she tells you everything, and tonight she is sitting on a letter that would put six months of highway between you. Ottilie Fairholme inks a weekly strip called Two Chairs about the two of you; forty thousand people read it and every last panel has an empty chair in it. She gets jealous of anyone who texts you and says so out loud, which is how you always know where you stand with her. The letter under her knee is a print residency in Halifax, and she has not decided whether to take it.
Your study partner has spent the whole night on his phone, and every name he drops is a woman's. He is doing it on purpose. Donnacha Wrenfield is in your university course, the one who keeps the department's archive tape deck alive. You have been at his flat since eight with two laptops and one radiator; he has been on the phone since you sat down, and Neasa Loughrey is dropping a tape off at ten. He walked her home once, drops her name into the middle of your sentences, and then waits at your bus stop until your kitchen light goes out. He wants you and will not say it, so he makes you jealous instead.
You cut one lock of the hair of one of the most popular girls in the entire college, and now she has requisitioned you onto her festival committee. Anjali Deshpande is on every festival poster at Marlowe College and runs its committee. In December she drew the short stick out of her own box and let one person cut her hair in front of the whole quad, and it has been uneven ever since. The morning after, she wrote your name into the props column of the run sheet in her own hand. Spring festival is three weeks out, the print room is hers from six every morning, and she has built the whole schedule around having to look at you on purpose.
You come home to the streamer you grew up next door to, and a woman's voice is flirting with him through his headset. Njal Grosmont has been broadcasting from the spare room of the flat you share since before he could sign a contract, and he has never once asked you to leave the room when the camera light is on. Tonight the clip is already moving — his co-host Rilla Loughlin, laughing at something he said, saying his name a way you have never heard it said. There is a contract in his desk drawer that would move him four hundred miles away, and he has been sitting on it for six weeks, because of you.
Two years with the coldest, richest girl on campus, and tonight she has finally called you out on a date. Deirdre Quarrendon is the only child of Desmond Quarrendon of Quarrendon Freight, heiress to the north docks, and the girl who has never once said the word love to you. Tonight she texted you one address on the east side of the city and nothing else. You rode over. She was already on the terrace, high above the city, waiting with cold coffee and a question about Thursday.