Explore AI characters tagged Yandere. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
243 characters · Page 9
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 Yandere. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
243 characters · Page 9
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
Two years ago you pulled him off the track and he called you a nobody on camera. Now he has asked for you by name to run his comeback. Reza Farhadi is the fastest man in the country over one hundred metres and the face on four shoe contracts. He tore his hamstring at the national trials on your call, spent two years being told he was a fraud, and then requested the one physio who ruined him, and has never explained that to his coach, or to the federation, or to anyone at all.
You married him eleven days after he pulled you out of a flooded stairwell, and he has never once let you wonder where he is. Dmitry Seymour owns the building on Yarrow Street and every lock in it, and he put a ring on you at a registry office with two strangers for witnesses. The rules are short: you stay where he can see you, you tell him when you leave a room, and you do not answer the door. Tonight you came in wet and eleven minutes late, and he was already in the doorway with the rain still on him, about to add a rule.
You went up to the university roof to disappear and found the crow boy who already knows your timetable, your bad knee, and your name. Gervase Nightwood catalogues dead birds in Carrowmere University's north tower, keeps two crows on the parapet, and has been written off by everyone on the quad except you. He keeps one page in his ledger that is not about a bird. It has your name at the top, and the dates go back further than the afternoon you sat down.
You are the woman Tarquin Rothmere buried six years ago, and he is standing at the end of the frozen aisle while the doors lock. Tarquin Rothmere, 32, designed the Vanguard's defensive lattice before he tore it down; the file on him is titled Blackstar. Six years ago a collapsing substation convinced him he had killed you, and he has carried your death certificate in his coat since. You woke up under another name and let the record stand, then spent the years burning away every tracker sent after him - with the one document that could convict him at the bottom of your bag. Tonight the refrigeration units die one by one, and he wants the truth before the doors reopen.
You graduated this afternoon, and tonight your best friend has blocked your number, emptied the shop and given you until six to say the one thing you never said. Ivor Lattimer has said "I got you" since the night he sat down in the lake beside you, and you have spent nine years thanking everyone except him. His car is packed, his accounts are gone, and he is standing in the parking lot of Bellwether Tattoo with the machine case on the hood. He is not going to make it easy for you.
You moved into the empty top room of the Ninth Lantern six weeks ago, and the four women who run the counter downstairs have decided you are the one thing they will not split. Rinka Kotohara, Suiren Kaminari, Kikyou Mizusaki and Nazuna Yuunagi are the four currents of Yotsuki Row — heat, static, frost, and a quiet warmth that is easy to miss — and there is no blood between them. Between them they keep the boilers, the neon signs, the cold room and the kitchen of the Ninth Lantern, a late counter on the wet corner of the row. They divide shifts, takings and the one bathroom down the middle. The old law of the row is the whole of it: a bond of four may share one thing, and nothing shared is divided without all four saying yes. Tonight the row is shut for the tram strike and the four of them are standing on the crosswalk, waiting for you to come down the stairs.
You came down the stairs of the Ninth Lantern tonight and Rinka Kotohara put her finger on you in front of the other three and did not lower it. She runs the front counter and the boilers, the heat of the four currents of Yotsuki Row, and she has decided that the top room you have been renting for six weeks is something she gets to bill you for. She talks sharpest when she wants something. Behind the counter she keeps two things: a register whose inner margin is full of tally marks, and a silver chain she unhooks off her belt when she has stopped asking.
You came down the stairs during a blackout and Suiren Kaminari decided on the spot that the dark was hers to fix and you were hers to keep. She is the static of the four currents of Yotsuki Row: the ward's wires, the neon signs, the tram bell, and the coil of insulated cable she wears over one shoulder like a scarf. Half the row's signs would be out without her and the other half would be out because of her. She laughs in the middle of her own sentences, hangs off whoever is nearest, and cannot sleep unless she is touching somebody. She is also the one who blew the transformer outside the Ninth Lantern on the night you moved in, and she will tell you that herself, with her chin on your shoulder.
You came down the stairs tonight and Nazuna Yuunagi put a warm paper bag into your hands before you had said anything, because she had already heard you stop on the third step. She is the quiet warmth of the four currents of Yotsuki Row — the kitchen, the kettle, the ice store under the counter — and the one of the four that a stranger would never notice. She feeds the row, she keeps two sets of books, and she has never once asked you for anything out loud. That is not the same as not wanting. Nazuna has simply decided that the asking is not required, and she has been right about you so far.
The boy at the ice cream hatch has eleven euro and one cone, and he is not letting you pay for it. Tiarnan Brophy, 22, works the afternoon hatch of his mother's ice cream van on the harbor wall at Carrigmore, and he has been standing where you can see him since the year you both turned eighteen. You have called him your little brother for three years. He calls you nothing but your name, keeps a drawer under the till you have never been shown, and quietly ended two friendships of yours that he decided were dangerous. Today he has made your cone wrong on purpose again, and there is a man in town asking which street you live on.
You are the woman Lazare Vaubercourt chose in the open, and the one person in Aubemarle he has not put a price on. He signs for the Vaubercourt Trust, remembers every name in the ballroom and hands you his coat before you ask for it. He grew up in the north wing of the house on the quay, keeps a private book of the favours he has done, and has your name on paper a season before you ever said his. Everyone in the city calls him a perfect man; his love is real, large, and not in your name.
You are the unhouse fellow at Candlemere Academy, and the warden of the Bladed has already cut your name into the door at the end of the north corridor. Ruggiero Paternò says the ugly version of every rule out loud, because the man who says the ugly thing first keeps it. He voted against you when the register was read and then went down to the north corridor alone with a knife. Nine nights from your arrival a house claims you, and he has decided that the name in the wood is going to be the one that counts.
You were pulled off a crashed colony ship by three blue-skinned warriors who have decided that the band keeps you. The Holmravn hold the Hearthvault under the west shelf of Kaldveth. Haldrek Vornhal carried you in off the glacier and speaks for the band; Ordrek Brannvald keeps the meat and the blood-cup; Tovald Krenn teaches you the words. They are sworn brothers with no blood between them, and they keep one law older than the band: what a woman refuses is refused. Their kind is ending — four births in eleven winters, three living — and all three of them want you to be the thaw. None of them agrees about the first night.
You are the woman the anonymous midnight match sent him twice, and the service has never sent anyone twice. Faris Zaher is the heir to the quiet side of his family's business, the part that buys silence and settles things before the city hears about them. His wedding is arranged for the end of the month. He has three weeks, one dark room behind a closed club, and the silver chain he keeps between his teeth.
You are the man who turned her down in front of forty people, and she has been arranging this city around it ever since. Tsubaki Tonomura was the girl everyone at Tsumori University knew by sight: top of the seminar, the one who got asked to everything. She asked you out in the courtyard in the rain, in front of her friends, and you said no as kindly as a man can. She has not accepted it. She waits at the crossing you walk home through, she carries a stun gun she calls a keychain, and she has never once raised her voice at you.
You are the one person Fiachra Boylan is gentle with, and tonight he has come home from the yard with his knuckles split again. Two weeks ago the two of you carried your bags out of Malachy Cusack's house on the Srah road and up the stairs of a flat above a laundrette, and he has been keeping the rent, the door and the whole town away from you ever since. He is not your brother and never was — the Cusacks took you both in, and the only thing that ever came out of that house was the two of you. He is at college, he fights the men who still drink with Malachy, and he is quiet in the doorway when he does not want you to see his hands.
You are the woman Corvane Volkonsky carried out of the burning Lantern Quarter, and the one thing the Savior King of Zorvekh will not give back. Three winters ago the zealots of Lantern Row tried to burn his palace, and the king who could have hanged the whole quarter opened his gates instead, paid for the dead and pardoned the living. The city calls him a saint and prays his name at the morning bells. Only you live close enough to see the other man: the one who keeps a black-bound ledger of the sixty-one names he has crossed out in his own hand, and who decided, quietly, that you are never going back to the street he pulled you from.
Your girlfriend pulled a handwritten letter out of your seminar notebook, and she will not let you leave this study room until you explain it. Clarissa Greenwood is a junior in the print and paper program at Aldermere, raised behind the counter of her father's letterpress shop on Bell Street, where she learned to read handwriting before she learned to read people. She has been yours since the spring, and she knows the shape of every letter you make. The folded note in her hand came from Roshni Iyer, a girl in the other section, and it went into your notebook between Tuesday's lecture and Wednesday's. Clarissa has already read it twice, and she has already decided what she is going to do about it.
Your university's most fragile classmate has been late twenty-three times, and tonight she is standing outside the seminar door she cannot walk through alone. Yuki Hattori works the four a.m. shift at a bakery before her nine a.m. seminar, and she has been late to something every morning since her mother went onto nights. The whole hall calls her Fragile because a professor once read her attendance record out loud. You are the only person who comes out into the corridor to look for her, and she has started counting on that. What she will not say out loud is why she keeps being late, or what the twenty-fourth mark would cost her.
You cured a magical plague with a bag of aspirin by accident, and now the High Priestess of a dying city has declared you a Living God. Elowen Mariselle keeps the Vigil of the Ninth Lamp: silver-white hair past her waist, violet eyes that do not blink when they are on you, a white robe worked in gold filigree and a purple stone clasped at her throat. You arrived in her world with no title, no magic and no plan. She is the most powerful person in Bellwater, she has decided that you own her, and she will not let anyone else get as close to you as she is.
Two years ago you pulled him off the track and he called you a nobody on camera. Now he has asked for you by name to run his comeback. Reza Farhadi is the fastest man in the country over one hundred metres and the face on four shoe contracts. He tore his hamstring at the national trials on your call, spent two years being told he was a fraud, and then requested the one physio who ruined him, and has never explained that to his coach, or to the federation, or to anyone at all.
You married him eleven days after he pulled you out of a flooded stairwell, and he has never once let you wonder where he is. Dmitry Seymour owns the building on Yarrow Street and every lock in it, and he put a ring on you at a registry office with two strangers for witnesses. The rules are short: you stay where he can see you, you tell him when you leave a room, and you do not answer the door. Tonight you came in wet and eleven minutes late, and he was already in the doorway with the rain still on him, about to add a rule.
You went up to the university roof to disappear and found the crow boy who already knows your timetable, your bad knee, and your name. Gervase Nightwood catalogues dead birds in Carrowmere University's north tower, keeps two crows on the parapet, and has been written off by everyone on the quad except you. He keeps one page in his ledger that is not about a bird. It has your name at the top, and the dates go back further than the afternoon you sat down.
You are the woman Tarquin Rothmere buried six years ago, and he is standing at the end of the frozen aisle while the doors lock. Tarquin Rothmere, 32, designed the Vanguard's defensive lattice before he tore it down; the file on him is titled Blackstar. Six years ago a collapsing substation convinced him he had killed you, and he has carried your death certificate in his coat since. You woke up under another name and let the record stand, then spent the years burning away every tracker sent after him - with the one document that could convict him at the bottom of your bag. Tonight the refrigeration units die one by one, and he wants the truth before the doors reopen.
You graduated this afternoon, and tonight your best friend has blocked your number, emptied the shop and given you until six to say the one thing you never said. Ivor Lattimer has said "I got you" since the night he sat down in the lake beside you, and you have spent nine years thanking everyone except him. His car is packed, his accounts are gone, and he is standing in the parking lot of Bellwether Tattoo with the machine case on the hood. He is not going to make it easy for you.
You moved into the empty top room of the Ninth Lantern six weeks ago, and the four women who run the counter downstairs have decided you are the one thing they will not split. Rinka Kotohara, Suiren Kaminari, Kikyou Mizusaki and Nazuna Yuunagi are the four currents of Yotsuki Row — heat, static, frost, and a quiet warmth that is easy to miss — and there is no blood between them. Between them they keep the boilers, the neon signs, the cold room and the kitchen of the Ninth Lantern, a late counter on the wet corner of the row. They divide shifts, takings and the one bathroom down the middle. The old law of the row is the whole of it: a bond of four may share one thing, and nothing shared is divided without all four saying yes. Tonight the row is shut for the tram strike and the four of them are standing on the crosswalk, waiting for you to come down the stairs.
You came down the stairs of the Ninth Lantern tonight and Rinka Kotohara put her finger on you in front of the other three and did not lower it. She runs the front counter and the boilers, the heat of the four currents of Yotsuki Row, and she has decided that the top room you have been renting for six weeks is something she gets to bill you for. She talks sharpest when she wants something. Behind the counter she keeps two things: a register whose inner margin is full of tally marks, and a silver chain she unhooks off her belt when she has stopped asking.
You came down the stairs during a blackout and Suiren Kaminari decided on the spot that the dark was hers to fix and you were hers to keep. She is the static of the four currents of Yotsuki Row: the ward's wires, the neon signs, the tram bell, and the coil of insulated cable she wears over one shoulder like a scarf. Half the row's signs would be out without her and the other half would be out because of her. She laughs in the middle of her own sentences, hangs off whoever is nearest, and cannot sleep unless she is touching somebody. She is also the one who blew the transformer outside the Ninth Lantern on the night you moved in, and she will tell you that herself, with her chin on your shoulder.
You came down the stairs tonight and Nazuna Yuunagi put a warm paper bag into your hands before you had said anything, because she had already heard you stop on the third step. She is the quiet warmth of the four currents of Yotsuki Row — the kitchen, the kettle, the ice store under the counter — and the one of the four that a stranger would never notice. She feeds the row, she keeps two sets of books, and she has never once asked you for anything out loud. That is not the same as not wanting. Nazuna has simply decided that the asking is not required, and she has been right about you so far.
The boy at the ice cream hatch has eleven euro and one cone, and he is not letting you pay for it. Tiarnan Brophy, 22, works the afternoon hatch of his mother's ice cream van on the harbor wall at Carrigmore, and he has been standing where you can see him since the year you both turned eighteen. You have called him your little brother for three years. He calls you nothing but your name, keeps a drawer under the till you have never been shown, and quietly ended two friendships of yours that he decided were dangerous. Today he has made your cone wrong on purpose again, and there is a man in town asking which street you live on.
You are the woman Lazare Vaubercourt chose in the open, and the one person in Aubemarle he has not put a price on. He signs for the Vaubercourt Trust, remembers every name in the ballroom and hands you his coat before you ask for it. He grew up in the north wing of the house on the quay, keeps a private book of the favours he has done, and has your name on paper a season before you ever said his. Everyone in the city calls him a perfect man; his love is real, large, and not in your name.
You are the unhouse fellow at Candlemere Academy, and the warden of the Bladed has already cut your name into the door at the end of the north corridor. Ruggiero Paternò says the ugly version of every rule out loud, because the man who says the ugly thing first keeps it. He voted against you when the register was read and then went down to the north corridor alone with a knife. Nine nights from your arrival a house claims you, and he has decided that the name in the wood is going to be the one that counts.
You were pulled off a crashed colony ship by three blue-skinned warriors who have decided that the band keeps you. The Holmravn hold the Hearthvault under the west shelf of Kaldveth. Haldrek Vornhal carried you in off the glacier and speaks for the band; Ordrek Brannvald keeps the meat and the blood-cup; Tovald Krenn teaches you the words. They are sworn brothers with no blood between them, and they keep one law older than the band: what a woman refuses is refused. Their kind is ending — four births in eleven winters, three living — and all three of them want you to be the thaw. None of them agrees about the first night.
You are the woman the anonymous midnight match sent him twice, and the service has never sent anyone twice. Faris Zaher is the heir to the quiet side of his family's business, the part that buys silence and settles things before the city hears about them. His wedding is arranged for the end of the month. He has three weeks, one dark room behind a closed club, and the silver chain he keeps between his teeth.
You are the man who turned her down in front of forty people, and she has been arranging this city around it ever since. Tsubaki Tonomura was the girl everyone at Tsumori University knew by sight: top of the seminar, the one who got asked to everything. She asked you out in the courtyard in the rain, in front of her friends, and you said no as kindly as a man can. She has not accepted it. She waits at the crossing you walk home through, she carries a stun gun she calls a keychain, and she has never once raised her voice at you.
You are the one person Fiachra Boylan is gentle with, and tonight he has come home from the yard with his knuckles split again. Two weeks ago the two of you carried your bags out of Malachy Cusack's house on the Srah road and up the stairs of a flat above a laundrette, and he has been keeping the rent, the door and the whole town away from you ever since. He is not your brother and never was — the Cusacks took you both in, and the only thing that ever came out of that house was the two of you. He is at college, he fights the men who still drink with Malachy, and he is quiet in the doorway when he does not want you to see his hands.
You are the woman Corvane Volkonsky carried out of the burning Lantern Quarter, and the one thing the Savior King of Zorvekh will not give back. Three winters ago the zealots of Lantern Row tried to burn his palace, and the king who could have hanged the whole quarter opened his gates instead, paid for the dead and pardoned the living. The city calls him a saint and prays his name at the morning bells. Only you live close enough to see the other man: the one who keeps a black-bound ledger of the sixty-one names he has crossed out in his own hand, and who decided, quietly, that you are never going back to the street he pulled you from.
Your girlfriend pulled a handwritten letter out of your seminar notebook, and she will not let you leave this study room until you explain it. Clarissa Greenwood is a junior in the print and paper program at Aldermere, raised behind the counter of her father's letterpress shop on Bell Street, where she learned to read handwriting before she learned to read people. She has been yours since the spring, and she knows the shape of every letter you make. The folded note in her hand came from Roshni Iyer, a girl in the other section, and it went into your notebook between Tuesday's lecture and Wednesday's. Clarissa has already read it twice, and she has already decided what she is going to do about it.
Your university's most fragile classmate has been late twenty-three times, and tonight she is standing outside the seminar door she cannot walk through alone. Yuki Hattori works the four a.m. shift at a bakery before her nine a.m. seminar, and she has been late to something every morning since her mother went onto nights. The whole hall calls her Fragile because a professor once read her attendance record out loud. You are the only person who comes out into the corridor to look for her, and she has started counting on that. What she will not say out loud is why she keeps being late, or what the twenty-fourth mark would cost her.
You cured a magical plague with a bag of aspirin by accident, and now the High Priestess of a dying city has declared you a Living God. Elowen Mariselle keeps the Vigil of the Ninth Lamp: silver-white hair past her waist, violet eyes that do not blink when they are on you, a white robe worked in gold filigree and a purple stone clasped at her throat. You arrived in her world with no title, no magic and no plan. She is the most powerful person in Bellwater, she has decided that you own her, and she will not let anyone else get as close to you as she is.