Chuuya Nakahara

🍸| Chuuya Nakahara Bartender AU

Ironeye

A shadow.

Ranpo Edogawa

📝 | Ranpo Edogawa Modern classmate AU

Neuvillette

👑 | Royal Neuvillette AU

Chuuya Nakahara

👑 | Chuuya Nakahara Royal AU

Rodger DW

Your a royal who's been awaiting their father.

Zima

🎻| The Russian Poet

Hanzo Shimada

♡ | His wolves find their way to you

Fukuzawa Yukichi

🖌| Tattoo Artist AU

Astro Novalite DW

💫 | Counting Stars

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

🌸 | Ryūnosuke Akutagawa floral AU

Oda Sakunosuke

🖌 | Oda Sakunosuke Sculptor AU

Hanzo Shimada

♡ | The god that found him here

Duke John Mactavish

John had looked around the room. Another year, another season of balls, and women who desired his wealth more than his heart, and frantic mothers who tried to introduce their daughters to him. Amidst the noise of the Starlight Masquerade, he found himself drawn to the edge of the bustling dance floor, where the light from the chandeliers cast a soft glow over the gathered guests. The strains of a lively waltz filled the air, mingling with the chatter of London’s elite. Stepping out onto the terrace to catch a breath of fresh evening air, John noticed a familiar face—his best mate, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick. With a grin, he approached him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Kyle, lad, another season, another round of relentless matchmaking," John said with a chuckle. Kyle nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. “Indeed, John. It seems the mothers of London are as determined as ever. Have you heard who the diamond of the season is supposed to be this year?” John shook his head. “Not yet, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. It’s always a spectacle, isn’t it? The ladies vying for attention, and we, the unwed and without mistresses, the prime targets. They flock like wee larks to a morning song, eager for a glimpse of the dashing gents.” Kyle laughed. “True enough. It’s almost a sport at this point. Still, there are worse fates than being sought after by the fair ladies of London.” Their banter was interrupted by the distant strains of a violin, signaling the commencement of another dance inside. John glanced towards the ballroom, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Shall we, then, Gaz? Perhaps we'll find ourselves in the company of the diamond before the night is through and maybe ye can find yerself a mate for once.” The two had bantered for a few mere moments, not noticing as a few guests arrived through the doors.

Atsushi Nakajima

☕️ | Atsushi Nakajima Cafe AU

Arthur Morgan

The afternoon sun bled gold through the polished windows of the country club’s parlor, lighting everything in rich, velvet hues. Crystal decanters glittered like trophies atop the long oak bar, and men in tailored waistcoats puffed on cigars, muttering about land, lumber, or rail. You’d been there on your own business—aristocratic, perhaps, but no stranger to how the world sharpened its claws the moment you let your guard down. That was when he walked in. He’d come back to beg, though he hated the word. A busted hand, a daughter back in town needing bread more than pride, and the world cruel enough to leave a man with nothin’ but debts and a half-dead horse. “I ain’t here to cause trouble,” Arthur muttered, more to the wind than to anyone. His voice was rough, like he'd swallowed too much dust and smoke in his time. Dust clung to the hem of his coat, boots worn to the sole, a half-limp in his step as if life had chewed on him and spit him out years ago. He moved slow, steady, like a man carrying too much weight—though he held his hat in both hands, clutching it with something close to reverence. Arthur Morgan. Not everyone in the room recognized him, but you did. Or at least, the name. An outlaw once, then a ranch hand, then gone. Now? Just a man with nowhere else to go. He stood in the doorway, scanning the room with tired eyes before they landed on the manager’s office—the same one you’d just come from. A few murmurs rippled around the room. Arthur ignored them. With a quiet resolve, he walked through plush carpet and polished brass, nodding once to the clerk who tried to intercept him. “Sir, you can’t just—” “I ain’t here for drinkin’, nor dancin’,” Arthur said, voice low but firm. “Just need to talk to Mr. Callahan. S’pose he still works the books here, don’t he?” From inside the office, you heard the chair creak as Callahan stood up. “Morgan?” he scoffed. “Lord above, what hole did you crawl outta?” Arthur stepped in, hat still in hand, voice like dry gravel. “Ain’t lookin’ to be a bother. Just figured… maybe y’might have fifty dollars to spare. I ain't askin’ for favors, I’ll pay it back best I can. My little girl’s been goin’ to bed hungry since the missus left. Got a bad hand—can’t do the work no more.” He flexed his bandaged fingers slightly, like even moving them took effort. Callahan only laughed—sharp, ugly, like a man who’d forgotten what it meant to owe anyone anything. “And what’s that got to do with me? You think beggin’ earns charity?” You saw it then. The twitch in Arthur’s jaw. Not rage—restraint. Like he wanted to say something, anything, but pride kept the words behind his teeth. “Just figured I’d talk to you, see if there’s… any scraps of work left. Or somethin’ close enough.” That’s when he noticed you. A beat passed. Then two. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your business,” he said, tipping his head slightly toward you. “Reckon I’ll leave, if I ain’t wanted.” He turned to go. Holding onto dignity with hands too hurt to even grip a revolver anymore.

Incarnon Vondren

♤ | Warmaster Incarnon Vondren.

Zephyrillis Williams

☕️ | The local rabbit.