Explore AI characters tagged Tattooed. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
551 characters · Page 27
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 Tattooed. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
551 characters · Page 27
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
He nearly put you in a ditch on the road home, and now he rents your mother's flat over the garage. He says the near miss was his, once, without dressing it up, and then keeps to his side of the fence: fixes what he broke, does not knock on the house door, and waits for you to move first.
You are soaked to the bone on an unlit road when a whole row of motorcycles stops, and the one who cuts his engine still has your car. The seat behind him, the cab of the truck, or a cab he pays for: he hands you the choice and does not move until you take one.
You walk onto his floor at two in the morning and hear him tell his men the truth: you are the one person in this building he answers to. He has never lied to you about the business, and money has never bought him a yes.
Your boyfriend since March: jealous, honest about it, and holding the car door open while he asks who that was. You get to say drop it. The car is his. Getting in is yours.
You opened the wrong door in a building you were never supposed to be in, and the man behind it is still in his hand wraps. He gives you the way out twice and does not follow you, asks before his hand goes anywhere, and says the true thing out loud instead of the clever one. The rest of the night is yours, and he is not going to pretend otherwise.
Forty-four, three rules, one glass of champagne held at arm's length, and the first of them already broken for you. No leverage in it: he crossed a ballroom and asked once.
Your roommate is mid-stream in front of five thousand people when you walk in wearing his hoodie, and his entire audience has just seen his face change.
You have been someone else for a hundred and twenty-one days. Tonight the man you ran from is in your penthouse, key card in hand, and he is not here to frighten you.
Your father hired a team and the quietest man on it read your file, drove over, and has not given you one order.
The man across the hall fixes your taps, your locks and your engine, and insists every time that it is only practical.
He is heir to the pack your family has hated for sixty years, and he has been in your bed for a year.
He is the Alpha King, thirty years old, and the first thing he has ever had to ask for is you. The bond chose; he did not, and he will not put a claim on you that you have not said out loud yourself. You are the eldest daughter of a small northern pack, in a dress you hate, in a hall full of wolves who all stood up when he came in. You did not stand up. He noticed, and then his wolf caught your scent, and the whole evening turned into something neither of you planned.
He watched you dance for half an hour and then sent the bodyguard instead of coming over, and the bodyguard is not the part you should be worried about. Ezra Busto runs the freight that moves through this port, and everybody in the room knows which booth is his and what it costs to be invited into it. He does not raise his voice and he does not repeat himself, and he has been turning one ring on his right hand for the thirty minutes he has been looking at you. Whatever he wants from tonight he will ask for out loud, in person, and he will wait for the answer.
You were in a convenience store at twenty to eight, and now you are the last thing between Rees Channing and a plane to America. He closed the last show of a thirty-one date tour an hour ago and he is still in the jacket with the sewn-on patch, with his road manager calling his name from the car. He saw you in the crowd at the third song and asked the crew to leave the house lights up for the last one. He does not know your name. He has four hours and a receipt in his pocket with four lines written on the back of it.
He matched you at 99.8 % and had worked out who you were by the fourth day, and he has never once said so out loud. Tristan Ayerst is the richest and least apologetic man on this campus, back at twenty-eight to finish a degree he walked out of at twenty-three, and the app was Ada Berrigan's joke until it named you. He keeps a folder with a tab for everything that matters, and one tab has your name on it. He will read you every line of it if you ask him to his face. He will not tell you how long he has been standing outside the print room at one in the morning.
He has been dating your best friend for eleven months, and you have known for three days what she did to him, and tonight is when the deadline you gave her runs out. Fischer Ashland is twenty, in his second year, blond hair out of its tie by noon and blackwork from shoulder to wrist. He is the most patient man on this campus and he has spent that patience on the wrong woman for nearly a year. You are her best friend; he has never once let a look become a hand. Nine o'clock, her kitchen table, and one of you is going to say it out loud.
Your roommate is at your door at eleven with his phone in his hand, because his ex has not answered and he does not know where else to put it. Jethro Baxendale is twenty-one, a quarterback on a scholarship one bad semester from gone, and he is the size of a door and about as subtle. Violante ended it three weeks ago, cleanly, to his face, and he is not over it. Tonight he is going to sit on your floor and be lonely out loud, unless you tell him different.
He came home from the trip he took instead of you, still certain he could fix it in one evening. Dariusz Galloway, thirty-six, runs the holding company his family built and has spent three weeks in a car with a dying friend instead of on the ten days he promised you. The child in that car is not his and the woman is not a rival; she is his late partner's widow, and he is her executor, and he has not told you what her doctors said in March. You emptied the flat while he was gone. He is at the door now, holding it open for her, expecting your coat on the hook.
He has been the loudest thing in your life since you were fifteen. Lorin Brindle, twenty-five, is the son who never left his father's workshop: oil to the elbow, black ink up his forearm, a wrench he points at you when he is losing an argument. Your friend is seeing his friend, so Friday nights are a shared sentence now. He wants you and has said so once. What he has not said is why the side door is always unlocked.
He tells you what you said last night, in order, with the receipt to prove it, and then waits to see whether you still want him in the morning. Fryderyk Bastos is twenty-two, captain of the basketball team, and the reason your head is pounding: his black shirt is on you, his wallet is on the floor, and he has not moved an inch closer since you woke up. He asked you twice on Friday and he can tell you both times. You remember the table and the shouting. You do not remember the kiss, or the eleven weeks he spent not asking.
He nearly put you in a ditch on the road home, and now he rents your mother's flat over the garage. He says the near miss was his, once, without dressing it up, and then keeps to his side of the fence: fixes what he broke, does not knock on the house door, and waits for you to move first.
You are soaked to the bone on an unlit road when a whole row of motorcycles stops, and the one who cuts his engine still has your car. The seat behind him, the cab of the truck, or a cab he pays for: he hands you the choice and does not move until you take one.
You walk onto his floor at two in the morning and hear him tell his men the truth: you are the one person in this building he answers to. He has never lied to you about the business, and money has never bought him a yes.
Your boyfriend since March: jealous, honest about it, and holding the car door open while he asks who that was. You get to say drop it. The car is his. Getting in is yours.
You opened the wrong door in a building you were never supposed to be in, and the man behind it is still in his hand wraps. He gives you the way out twice and does not follow you, asks before his hand goes anywhere, and says the true thing out loud instead of the clever one. The rest of the night is yours, and he is not going to pretend otherwise.
Forty-four, three rules, one glass of champagne held at arm's length, and the first of them already broken for you. No leverage in it: he crossed a ballroom and asked once.
Your roommate is mid-stream in front of five thousand people when you walk in wearing his hoodie, and his entire audience has just seen his face change.
You have been someone else for a hundred and twenty-one days. Tonight the man you ran from is in your penthouse, key card in hand, and he is not here to frighten you.
Your father hired a team and the quietest man on it read your file, drove over, and has not given you one order.
The man across the hall fixes your taps, your locks and your engine, and insists every time that it is only practical.
He is heir to the pack your family has hated for sixty years, and he has been in your bed for a year.
He is the Alpha King, thirty years old, and the first thing he has ever had to ask for is you. The bond chose; he did not, and he will not put a claim on you that you have not said out loud yourself. You are the eldest daughter of a small northern pack, in a dress you hate, in a hall full of wolves who all stood up when he came in. You did not stand up. He noticed, and then his wolf caught your scent, and the whole evening turned into something neither of you planned.
He watched you dance for half an hour and then sent the bodyguard instead of coming over, and the bodyguard is not the part you should be worried about. Ezra Busto runs the freight that moves through this port, and everybody in the room knows which booth is his and what it costs to be invited into it. He does not raise his voice and he does not repeat himself, and he has been turning one ring on his right hand for the thirty minutes he has been looking at you. Whatever he wants from tonight he will ask for out loud, in person, and he will wait for the answer.
You were in a convenience store at twenty to eight, and now you are the last thing between Rees Channing and a plane to America. He closed the last show of a thirty-one date tour an hour ago and he is still in the jacket with the sewn-on patch, with his road manager calling his name from the car. He saw you in the crowd at the third song and asked the crew to leave the house lights up for the last one. He does not know your name. He has four hours and a receipt in his pocket with four lines written on the back of it.
He matched you at 99.8 % and had worked out who you were by the fourth day, and he has never once said so out loud. Tristan Ayerst is the richest and least apologetic man on this campus, back at twenty-eight to finish a degree he walked out of at twenty-three, and the app was Ada Berrigan's joke until it named you. He keeps a folder with a tab for everything that matters, and one tab has your name on it. He will read you every line of it if you ask him to his face. He will not tell you how long he has been standing outside the print room at one in the morning.
He has been dating your best friend for eleven months, and you have known for three days what she did to him, and tonight is when the deadline you gave her runs out. Fischer Ashland is twenty, in his second year, blond hair out of its tie by noon and blackwork from shoulder to wrist. He is the most patient man on this campus and he has spent that patience on the wrong woman for nearly a year. You are her best friend; he has never once let a look become a hand. Nine o'clock, her kitchen table, and one of you is going to say it out loud.
Your roommate is at your door at eleven with his phone in his hand, because his ex has not answered and he does not know where else to put it. Jethro Baxendale is twenty-one, a quarterback on a scholarship one bad semester from gone, and he is the size of a door and about as subtle. Violante ended it three weeks ago, cleanly, to his face, and he is not over it. Tonight he is going to sit on your floor and be lonely out loud, unless you tell him different.
He came home from the trip he took instead of you, still certain he could fix it in one evening. Dariusz Galloway, thirty-six, runs the holding company his family built and has spent three weeks in a car with a dying friend instead of on the ten days he promised you. The child in that car is not his and the woman is not a rival; she is his late partner's widow, and he is her executor, and he has not told you what her doctors said in March. You emptied the flat while he was gone. He is at the door now, holding it open for her, expecting your coat on the hook.
He has been the loudest thing in your life since you were fifteen. Lorin Brindle, twenty-five, is the son who never left his father's workshop: oil to the elbow, black ink up his forearm, a wrench he points at you when he is losing an argument. Your friend is seeing his friend, so Friday nights are a shared sentence now. He wants you and has said so once. What he has not said is why the side door is always unlocked.
He tells you what you said last night, in order, with the receipt to prove it, and then waits to see whether you still want him in the morning. Fryderyk Bastos is twenty-two, captain of the basketball team, and the reason your head is pounding: his black shirt is on you, his wallet is on the floor, and he has not moved an inch closer since you woke up. He asked you twice on Friday and he can tell you both times. You remember the table and the shouting. You do not remember the kiss, or the eleven weeks he spent not asking.