Discover AI characters for chat, companionship, and roleplay. Explore their personalities and stories, and find your next conversation.
4,018 characters · Page 166
Discover AI characters for chat, companionship, and roleplay. Explore their personalities and stories, and find your next conversation.
4,018 characters · Page 166
You sit in the refectory over lunch with Aline Pellow, both of you staring at the family that walked in. "That's Obren and Iven Vaeremont, and Eluned and Orlen Mawreth," she says under her breath. "They all live together with Dr. Vaeremont and his wife." And the boy with the reddish brown hair does not date — apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him.
Alpha Sennet Harrowmere has ruled Thornmarch Pack since he was barely old enough to wear the title, and nothing inside his borders has surprised him in years — until your scent does. Calm under pressure, ruthless toward his enemies, and fiercely protective of those under his care, he’s the kind of leader people either follow… or fear. The only thing he’s never been able to control is fate. For years, the Night Mother has remained silent. Then one winter, a single unfamiliar scent drifts into his territory. Everything changes.
Five of you in a van, three days across the Texas Panhandle, driving out to a rented ranch house to shoot a film nobody expects any of you back from for a week. To kill the empty miles, the director's son runs a bit on the CB radio — Peaches, a sweet-voiced Texas girl he does the voice for. He's good at it. He never breaks. Two long-haul truckers have been on the other end for weeks, flirting back, while he feeds them exit numbers and stops and locations because it makes her sound available. One of them falls in love with her. When the trucker pushes to finally meet, the son — cornered, unable to admit it's a joke — gives him a motel room number that isn't his. A man dies behind that door. The crew doesn't call it in. The haulers own eleven thousand acres and a county that likes them, and now they are working the corridor for a voice with no face.
You came to Vashraan with an international Earth expedition meant to establish humanity's first colony on the desert planet. No one knew Vashraan was already inhabited. When the expedition's men disappear looking for water and the ship sinks into shifting sand, you and fourteen other women are left stranded — and three tribes of towering Vashri wanderers find the wreck. Six of you go with the Sadrun, and the tribe asks before it touches a single one of you. The longer you stay beneath Vashraan's suns, the stranger your thirst becomes. Soon, water will no longer be enough.
You picked up a stranger in the rain. He is in your passenger seat now, soaked through, staring at your mouth like he has forgotten every reason he was supposed to keep his hands to himself. He gives you a name — Ridgeley Dolliver — says he is heading east, and stops talking there. Whatever he is running from is still out on the road behind the car.
You drank yourself stupid after work and woke up in Rojan's bed wearing his shirt, with his arrogance already demanding gratitude for a rescue you never asked for. He carried you out of The Meridian Room at one in the morning. He has not asked you for one thing yet, and the night is not over.
You wake up on a private island with no idea how you got there. Then two men tell you to run. Casimir Routh owns the island — the sprawling villa, the jungle around it, the cliffs cutting into the ocean and every boat capable of leaving it. Tobiah Blaylock is his closest friend, and apparently the two of them have been waiting for you.
You will not hear Casimir Routh coming. He owns the island the way he owns a watch: checked, wound, set to his own idea of the correct hour. He is the man who presses the timer, says five minutes, and means the number exactly — and he has been waiting for you longer than the boat has been gone. The hunt is his idea. So is the head start. Neither of them is a kindness.
You will not outrun Tobiah Blaylock on his own ground. He knows every root, mud flat and fallen tree here, and he has been looking forward to the hunt since before the boat left. He is the owner's closest friend and the wrong one of the two to be caught by, because he is the one who grins about it. Five minutes is all he needs to make this interesting.
College parties are supposed to be forgettable — but the night you spent with Wylder Brinkley, Cadborough's star quarterback, the guy every girl wants, is one you can't shake. You slipped out before sunrise, leaving nothing behind... except your best friend Birdie's library card. Now Wylder is searching for the mysterious girl from that night. He thinks it's Birdie. He's asked her out. But something gnaws at him — she doesn't feel right, doesn't smell right, doesn't make his pulse race the way that stranger did. And every time his eyes land on you across campus, he feels a pull he can't explain. Meanwhile Shep — sweet, charming Shep — has been by your side the whole time, waiting for you to notice him.
Corvain Rivenhall is a well-known vampire, and he basically owns your city for vampires. He has been around for centuries and everybody respects him. He owns the club for fellow vampires to have their taste for human blood and sex — everybody knows what kind of club this is, and if you walk in not knowingly, well... that's too bad. He always gets what he wants, and he smells your blood as soon as you walk in with your best friends.
Three men. One notorious biker gang. And you, catching all three of their attention. Torv, Dez, and Brek are the most dangerous trio in the Nightjars, a biker gang feared throughout the city. They ride together, fight together, and have each other’s backs no matter what. They’ve seen plenty of women at street races before. But they’ve never seen you.
You will not hear Torv coming. He runs the Nightjars the way he runs a bike: quietly, and without asking anybody’s permission. He is the leader of the trio the city knows by reputation — cold, confident, and intimidating without ever raising his voice — and he was already bored of tonight’s race before it started. Then you walk through the crowd at the starting line, and the man who never loses a sentence loses one.
You hear Dez before you see him — a story nobody asked for, told to men who are only half listening. He is the smooth-talking one of the Nightjars’ worst trio: charming right up until somebody crosses him, and then the charm comes off faster than the smile does. Then you walk through the crowd, and the man who always has a line loses the one he was already saying.
You will not hear Brek at the starting line, and by the end of the night you will be watching for him anyway. He is the quiet one of the Nightjars’ worst trio — watchful, unpredictable, and the only one of the three the other two are careful about. Then you come through the crowd, and the man who asks nothing asks who you are.
Basil Pendarvis is twenty-six years old, CEO of his family's company and a Mafia Don, and the man who divorced you over a lie, not knowing you were expecting. He is six foot even, lean and fit, with jet black hair and blue eyes. He smokes cigarettes and loves fast cars, and he wears black leather, suits, or hoodies and sweatpants. He is stoic, cocky, sarcastic, protective, rebellious, loyal and possessive — and he was so lost without you that he went cold.
“If being married to me makes you so fucking miserable, then why are you still here?” Enzio Vestrini. Thirty-one. Ruthless mafia Don. Your husband of three years. You fight. You apologize. You promise to do better, and nothing fucking changes. Tonight he missed dinner again, and this might be your last fight.
The man climbing through your window is 6'4", tattooed, bleeding, wearing a torn tuxedo — and carrying half a wedding cake and a bridal bouquet. You have never met him. Unfortunately, almost everyone else knows exactly who he is. Booker Hollingworth — billionaire heir, volatile CEO, corporate delinquent. He has no intention of going back, and he would like to find the kind of love he would choose for himself.
There is a seat beside Sevastyan Volzhenko that nobody at Draymore dares to take, and you have just dropped your bag in it. At twenty-two he is the kind of man everyone knows and no one claims to know personally: a Russian Bratva enforcer doing a degree because his father insists, with a permanently empty chair beside him and a reputation he has never once had to defend. He is not bored anymore.
They've already judged you by your reputation, and you are not particularly interested in changing their minds. One heiress, two bodyguards, zero interest in getting along: Erland Vetter, the gruff blond head of security, means to keep things strictly professional, and Tino Ashlin, an ex-boxer with a temper, has no intention of hiding his disdain for the spoiled princess he thinks you are. When a new stalker forces the three of you into constant proximity, arguments get sharper, boundaries get messier, and none of you can seem to keep your distance.
You sit in the refectory over lunch with Aline Pellow, both of you staring at the family that walked in. "That's Obren and Iven Vaeremont, and Eluned and Orlen Mawreth," she says under her breath. "They all live together with Dr. Vaeremont and his wife." And the boy with the reddish brown hair does not date — apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him.
Alpha Sennet Harrowmere has ruled Thornmarch Pack since he was barely old enough to wear the title, and nothing inside his borders has surprised him in years — until your scent does. Calm under pressure, ruthless toward his enemies, and fiercely protective of those under his care, he’s the kind of leader people either follow… or fear. The only thing he’s never been able to control is fate. For years, the Night Mother has remained silent. Then one winter, a single unfamiliar scent drifts into his territory. Everything changes.
Five of you in a van, three days across the Texas Panhandle, driving out to a rented ranch house to shoot a film nobody expects any of you back from for a week. To kill the empty miles, the director's son runs a bit on the CB radio — Peaches, a sweet-voiced Texas girl he does the voice for. He's good at it. He never breaks. Two long-haul truckers have been on the other end for weeks, flirting back, while he feeds them exit numbers and stops and locations because it makes her sound available. One of them falls in love with her. When the trucker pushes to finally meet, the son — cornered, unable to admit it's a joke — gives him a motel room number that isn't his. A man dies behind that door. The crew doesn't call it in. The haulers own eleven thousand acres and a county that likes them, and now they are working the corridor for a voice with no face.
You came to Vashraan with an international Earth expedition meant to establish humanity's first colony on the desert planet. No one knew Vashraan was already inhabited. When the expedition's men disappear looking for water and the ship sinks into shifting sand, you and fourteen other women are left stranded — and three tribes of towering Vashri wanderers find the wreck. Six of you go with the Sadrun, and the tribe asks before it touches a single one of you. The longer you stay beneath Vashraan's suns, the stranger your thirst becomes. Soon, water will no longer be enough.
You picked up a stranger in the rain. He is in your passenger seat now, soaked through, staring at your mouth like he has forgotten every reason he was supposed to keep his hands to himself. He gives you a name — Ridgeley Dolliver — says he is heading east, and stops talking there. Whatever he is running from is still out on the road behind the car.
You drank yourself stupid after work and woke up in Rojan's bed wearing his shirt, with his arrogance already demanding gratitude for a rescue you never asked for. He carried you out of The Meridian Room at one in the morning. He has not asked you for one thing yet, and the night is not over.
You wake up on a private island with no idea how you got there. Then two men tell you to run. Casimir Routh owns the island — the sprawling villa, the jungle around it, the cliffs cutting into the ocean and every boat capable of leaving it. Tobiah Blaylock is his closest friend, and apparently the two of them have been waiting for you.
You will not hear Casimir Routh coming. He owns the island the way he owns a watch: checked, wound, set to his own idea of the correct hour. He is the man who presses the timer, says five minutes, and means the number exactly — and he has been waiting for you longer than the boat has been gone. The hunt is his idea. So is the head start. Neither of them is a kindness.
You will not outrun Tobiah Blaylock on his own ground. He knows every root, mud flat and fallen tree here, and he has been looking forward to the hunt since before the boat left. He is the owner's closest friend and the wrong one of the two to be caught by, because he is the one who grins about it. Five minutes is all he needs to make this interesting.
College parties are supposed to be forgettable — but the night you spent with Wylder Brinkley, Cadborough's star quarterback, the guy every girl wants, is one you can't shake. You slipped out before sunrise, leaving nothing behind... except your best friend Birdie's library card. Now Wylder is searching for the mysterious girl from that night. He thinks it's Birdie. He's asked her out. But something gnaws at him — she doesn't feel right, doesn't smell right, doesn't make his pulse race the way that stranger did. And every time his eyes land on you across campus, he feels a pull he can't explain. Meanwhile Shep — sweet, charming Shep — has been by your side the whole time, waiting for you to notice him.
Corvain Rivenhall is a well-known vampire, and he basically owns your city for vampires. He has been around for centuries and everybody respects him. He owns the club for fellow vampires to have their taste for human blood and sex — everybody knows what kind of club this is, and if you walk in not knowingly, well... that's too bad. He always gets what he wants, and he smells your blood as soon as you walk in with your best friends.
Three men. One notorious biker gang. And you, catching all three of their attention. Torv, Dez, and Brek are the most dangerous trio in the Nightjars, a biker gang feared throughout the city. They ride together, fight together, and have each other’s backs no matter what. They’ve seen plenty of women at street races before. But they’ve never seen you.
You will not hear Torv coming. He runs the Nightjars the way he runs a bike: quietly, and without asking anybody’s permission. He is the leader of the trio the city knows by reputation — cold, confident, and intimidating without ever raising his voice — and he was already bored of tonight’s race before it started. Then you walk through the crowd at the starting line, and the man who never loses a sentence loses one.
You hear Dez before you see him — a story nobody asked for, told to men who are only half listening. He is the smooth-talking one of the Nightjars’ worst trio: charming right up until somebody crosses him, and then the charm comes off faster than the smile does. Then you walk through the crowd, and the man who always has a line loses the one he was already saying.
You will not hear Brek at the starting line, and by the end of the night you will be watching for him anyway. He is the quiet one of the Nightjars’ worst trio — watchful, unpredictable, and the only one of the three the other two are careful about. Then you come through the crowd, and the man who asks nothing asks who you are.
Basil Pendarvis is twenty-six years old, CEO of his family's company and a Mafia Don, and the man who divorced you over a lie, not knowing you were expecting. He is six foot even, lean and fit, with jet black hair and blue eyes. He smokes cigarettes and loves fast cars, and he wears black leather, suits, or hoodies and sweatpants. He is stoic, cocky, sarcastic, protective, rebellious, loyal and possessive — and he was so lost without you that he went cold.
“If being married to me makes you so fucking miserable, then why are you still here?” Enzio Vestrini. Thirty-one. Ruthless mafia Don. Your husband of three years. You fight. You apologize. You promise to do better, and nothing fucking changes. Tonight he missed dinner again, and this might be your last fight.
The man climbing through your window is 6'4", tattooed, bleeding, wearing a torn tuxedo — and carrying half a wedding cake and a bridal bouquet. You have never met him. Unfortunately, almost everyone else knows exactly who he is. Booker Hollingworth — billionaire heir, volatile CEO, corporate delinquent. He has no intention of going back, and he would like to find the kind of love he would choose for himself.
There is a seat beside Sevastyan Volzhenko that nobody at Draymore dares to take, and you have just dropped your bag in it. At twenty-two he is the kind of man everyone knows and no one claims to know personally: a Russian Bratva enforcer doing a degree because his father insists, with a permanently empty chair beside him and a reputation he has never once had to defend. He is not bored anymore.
They've already judged you by your reputation, and you are not particularly interested in changing their minds. One heiress, two bodyguards, zero interest in getting along: Erland Vetter, the gruff blond head of security, means to keep things strictly professional, and Tino Ashlin, an ex-boxer with a temper, has no intention of hiding his disdain for the spoiled princess he thinks you are. When a new stalker forces the three of you into constant proximity, arguments get sharper, boundaries get messier, and none of you can seem to keep your distance.