Thought it would be interesting to make a pinned post showing what I’m working on and what I plan to work on so you guys know what to expect next:) I will update this as I go
Works in progress:
King Diluc + his Royal knight, Rosaria (rosaluc), sketch. Dark Souls inspired.
Diluc and Princess (headcannoned horse) sketch
Wet and soggy Neuvillette. ough
Kaeya in pretty outfit :]c
Dadluc and his little boy (from wyvernne’s fic, PLEASE read)
Farmer!Diluc for zine, complete, posting full illustration in 2024
awealuc drawings
Hunter!Diluc Bloodborne comic, lots of panels to go
Diluc and Klee sleepover, sketch complete
Prince Kaeya, sketch complete
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To be started:
wanna draw more haikaveh
baseball player diluc with his ass out lmfao
more fatui hunter luc
Diluc as Mr. Darcy lol
Diluc and Kaeya animatic with “He Doesn’t Know Why” by Fleet Foxes (waiting for procreate dreams to come out)
Complete a few or all prompts, it is up to you! This is open to any kind of creative endeavour. Please share your creations to the #aprilluc2025 tag! Have fun and we all look forward to seeing everyone’s amazing work!
This event is hosted by me, @bobaboob, and @eyesforsaturn (who made the BEAUTIFULLLLL graphics. Standing ovation.)
A teaser for @dilucsbeloved’s birthday gift illustration
(๑´• .̫ •ू`๑)♡ AWEALUC FOREVER ! <3
CW mild description of gore
wc: 1.6k
Been thinking about Bloodborne Diluc AU again. You know the drill. Hunter vampluc repulsed by his Vileblood lineage. And you, more than willing to offer your blood.
But he would never put you through that—not for a monster like him. Not from something as sweet as you.
But one night, when the hunt is especially wretched and the moon bleeds red, Diluc finds himself leaning against your door, blood seeping through the fingers pressed to his abdomen.
He has two options. Go through the agony of slowly bleeding out and, hopefully, be reborn through the dream while risking the beasts finding you without his protection...or, bang on your door and beg for a favour he knows he will forever regret asking of you.
There is little time. He can already hear the clacking of claws on the cobblestone bridge.
Against his better judgement, he raps on your door, making a mess of your threshold in the process. The beasts are bound to follow his bloodied scent. Surely that would be a quicker end, at this point. He almost hopes you won't answer.
But you do, and, gods, you are a finer sight than he even remembers. He gazes at you as you take in his heaving and bloodied form using the door frame as support. His mouth parts to say something, but a ghostly howl rings out and he whips his head to look behind him.
Too close for comfort.
He thinks you hoarsely breathe his name—shock and horror in your voice. He wonders, as he looks back at your wide eyes and parted mouth if it's the beast roaming around the corner, or the beast at your door that frightens you.
But your safety will always be his first priority. He ushers you back through the door, grunting at the burning pain that strikes through his wounds from the movement.
And just like that, he is a vampire freely inviting himself into your home, locking the door behind him. He swears that if the sight of him scares you, he will gladly see himself out and use the last of his life essence slaying the beast that dares wander to your door.
But you don't cower from him. Instead, when he looks back down at you, you're cradling his face, desperately wiping the blood from him, eyes beading with tears. He grasps the mantelpiece, steadying his weakening legs.
"Diluc, you're hurt," you cry, trembling hands slipping from his face to hover over the bloody mess of his abdomen. Too much blood. Is that all his? Gods, it looks deep—and is that a rib peeking out?
His large, gloved hands swiftly grab your own, steadying them. "Don't look," he murmurs, voice hoarse and pained. "I need—," he stops himself and takes a few halting breaths, unable to meet your eyes.
"You need my blood," you say for him, and Diluc closes his eyes. A low guttural noise comes from his throat and he seems to lean away from you.
"Please, Diluc, please take it," you say as you slip your hands from his to pull down the collar of your dress. Your hands fumble with the buttons and you bare your neck to the side.
“Here. Take as much as you need.” You hold your collar unfastened. When he opens his eyes again, they’re half lidded. Tired, hungry, and something more…
You pull him in toward you, placing a hand behind his head to have him rest it in the crook of your neck.
"Awea," he moans lowly and guttural. His voice against your skin sends shivers down your spine. To offer one's blood to a hunter is an intimate enough act. But to willingly offer one's blood to a Vileblood?
That is binding. More than anything.
You’ve tried to have him drink from you before, but ever the gentleman, he’s always adamantly refused. He’d say something about being scared to hurt you, or that he doesn’t need to drink—that the hunt sates his hunger. But you both know that’s not true. He wants to drink from you. Gods, does he ever. But to pierce his beastly fangs into something as delicate and pure and innocent as you? He would sooner sell himself out to the Executioners.
“You’re dying—please, plea-,” you nearly sob out, pulling at his shoulder.
He knows he’s torturing you both. Why bother knock on your door if he can’t overcome his guilt in his dying minutes? He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to your collarbone.
“Not here,” he whispers. “Let me have you somewhere I can be gentle with you.”
If he weren’t actively bleeding out, you would have paid more attention to the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach from his words.
That’s all the confirmation you need to usher him to the stairs, your chambers on the second floor. He grasps the railing and his other arm wraps around his abdomen. You hold his elbow, going at his own pace as you sniffle.
It’s hard to see him like this. Always so strong and composed, he seemed untouchable. Until now, that is.
He stumbles on a step, and through the crimson moonlight coloured even deeper from the stained glass windows, you see beads of sweat dripping down his temple. His chest labours with not enough air and his pallor is alarming. You both know his time on this plane limited. And if he is to be reborn through the dream, there is no telling how long it will take for him to return.
“No,” you protest. “Here is good enough.” You look up at him from a step below. “It will be okay. I will be okay,” you reassure, offering a half-hearted smile.
He looks down at you, quiet for a moment. You really should be scared of him. He towers over you, his form hulking and powerful even in his weakened state. And yet, even covered in blood and gored within an inch of his life, your wide doe eyes still are able to gaze up at him like that.
His eyes search yours, looking for something, and he seems to break. He takes a step towards you and he leans down. The back of his large hand gently swipes the hair from your neck, pushing it to your back, and you see his eyes track the pulse in your neck.
Your heartbeat flutters faster, like a little hummingbird trying to escape. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, tickling your cheek.
His other hand comes to cradle the back of your neck in a protective gesture. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If I’m hurting you?” he asks in a murmur, brows furrowed in concern.
“I will,” you assure. You won’t. Because he needs this far more than he’s letting on. But you’re sure he will stop himself on his own accord if he notices anything. He’s always been so perceptive.
He looks imploringly down at you and it’s almost enough for you to look away. But you don’t. He looks ethereal. His red hair illuminated by the bleeding moonlight, he bends down. With one hand at your lower back and the other cradling your head, you let your body go lax and open your neck to him.
He licks the tender area between your collarbone and neck, making for an easier puncture. After a moment, his fangs graze your skin and you shudder, gripping onto him. He pauses and tenderly kisses the spot. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs into your neck. His thumb rubs reassuringly on your lower back, and then he bites.
Your breath leaves your lungs in a gasp and you cling to him through the burning sting. He clutches you closer, pressing you tight to him and starts to suck.
You are like honey on his tongue. The putrid beasts will never compare ever again. Every suck he takes of your life force binds you two closer, like loose stitching being tightened in cloth.
His saliva bleeds into your puncture wound and everything starts to grow a little hazy—a little too bright and blurred. Your head lolls to the side, supported by his palm, and you get a view of Yharnam outside. The chaos; the moon weeping red; the burning pyres of beasts tied upside down; the madness—not even that could take you away from this feeling, like you could just float away in his arms. The pressure at your neck only grows stronger as his strength returns.
Just as your toes start to curl in your boots and your nails dig into his back, he relents. He pulls off and you gasp, chest heaving. He peers down at you, your blood smeared on his lips.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and his eyes track back down to a droplet of blood pearling at your neck. He stoops back down to lap at the blood. You’re thankful he hasn’t stopped clutching you to him. Your legs feel no better than a newborn fawn’s.
“Mhm,” you manage to breathe out, not trusting your voice wholly. “Are you?” you ask back, voice shaky. You palm his chest where you know his heart would beat if he had one and you look down to see his abdomen meshing into tender, pink scars.
“I am,” he responds, and his voice sounds so much stronger and sure that you believe him.
Your eyes overflow with tears of relief. They collect on your dark lashes and then fall. Despite this, you smile, the line of your lips wobbly. Diluc thinks you're the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “I’m glad,” you sniffle, bringing a finger to stroke along the side of his jaw.
By Yharnam herself, Diluc thinks he’s in love with you.
༻❁༺ content: fem!reader (reader is referred to by ‘wife’ and "she/her"), established relationship, marriage, reader has hair long enough to reach neck
༻❁༺ word count: ~1.5k
༻❁༺ tags: sickfic, banter while sick, this is just wrio taking care of you and being a butt while doing it, feat. sigewinne who does not get paid enough for this, if you are sick and reading this rn im so sorry and i hope you get well soon, coldsink wrio x heatsource wife agenda
༻❁༺ author’s note: my friend @mmmairon is sick and i am in another country and cannot help so i'm sending wrio on my behalf. pls enjoy especially if you don't feel well right now :(
After a restless night, Wriothesley is thrilled to hear that you're awake now. He wastes no time in rushing to your side.
Wriothesley’s pen scratches unpleasantly against a disciplinary notice, its point threatening to carve into the wood of the desk beneath. The owner mutters darkly under his breath as he completes a signature on the offending paper and slides it to his left. Immediately, another takes its place from the stack on his right.
For two hours, nothing else has broken the quiet of the Duke’s office. Two hours too long, by Wriothesley’s measure. He glances at the clock, hand continuing to sign his name by sheer muscle memory.
Are you getting any rest? Did the chamomile from your tea an hour ago help at all, or are the throes of fever keeping you awake? Does he have the right ingredients to make you beef stew? Preoccupied, he writes “soup” on the signature line of a prisoner release form by mistake.
He sighs, pinching the crooked bridge of his nose between his fingers. They’re as cold as ever. He misses the warmth of yours unspeakably.
The next thirty minutes pass like an eternity. Surely, Sigewinne would be at his side in an instant if you were awake. His presence there now would only serve to wake you from much-needed rest and defer his backlog of paperwork even more. Neither of these points keeps him from staring the clock down like he’s in the ring again.
Suddenly, there’s a quiet knock on his door and Wriothesley snaps to attention, nearly knocking over an inkwell in his haste. Sigewinne enters without his bidding, an unreadable expression on her kind face. She doesn’t wait for his question before she answers it.
“Yes, the tea put her to sleep, and yes, she’s awake now.”
His features relax in a moment, the furrow in his brow smoothing.
“I’m afraid she’s not any better than she was this morning, however. I would have really liked to see her fever come down by now...” The Melusine trails off, her small hand on her chin and a pout on her face. “The chill probably isn’t doing her much good, either.”
Her boss, however, is already halfway downstairs, pulling his coat on as he takes the steps two at a time. Sigewinne sighs as she turns to follow him at a much slower pace. So predictable when his wife is involved.
In contrast to the speed at which he crosses the fortress to your shared living quarters, Wriothesley’s steps are soft as he nears your bedroom door.
“Sweetheart? Are you up?”
A weak cough answers him. He’s by the bedside in a moment, kneeling and pushing aside the curtain that hides you from him. Your eyes squint a bit as the sickly light of the fortress filters in, and his hand moves up to shield your face as he appears in your field of vision.
Despite the red ringing your eyes and nose and the congestion in your breathing, you smile up at him and his heart almost jumps out of his chest.
“Hi, darling.”
The side of his mouth quirks up. “Hi. Feeling any better?”
You shake your head slightly, your hair fanning out on the pillow beneath you. He silently gathers it in one hand and moves it away from your neck as he waits for you to continue. The brush of his cool hand against your flushed skin feels incredible and you bring your hand to rest on his, a silent entreaty to keep it there.
“Sigewinne says I’m in the worst of it now and that from here-” you stop to cough, Wriothesley’s eyes raking over your frame as it shakes with the effort. “-from here it should be uphill. As long as I can rest up today.”
He pushes the hair back from your forehead with his other hand, stroking it absentmindedly. “Well, we’ll have to stick it out until tomorrow then, huh?” The grin he shoots you, all teeth, does more for you than you think any of the medicine on your bedside table has.
That’s why you’re as surprised as he is when the tears start to roll down your cheeks. You hadn’t even known they were there until now, but suddenly it’s so much harder to breathe than it was and Wriothesley is a swimming blur in front of you. The shooting pain in your head, dulled to an ache until now, comes back in full force as your body curls in on itself and your temple meets your husband’s shoulder.
You don’t know if you’re crying from the headache, from exhaustion, or from something else, and your mind is too foggy to care. All you can do is be held as his arms come to rest firmly around you and he pulls you to him, murmuring words of comfort.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry... I wish I could do more.” Your hands grip his collar a little tighter as you sob into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I know, love. You’ll feel better soon, I promise. Sigewinne and I are gonna take care of everything, okay?”
There’s an edge of concern to his voice that you can hear even through the haze of sickness. You hate it. It’s likely just the seasonal flu; half the Fortress has had it at some point this winter. The thought of how much you were making him worry over something so small as this...
“I know what you’re thinking. Stop it,” Wriothesley gently reprimands, his cool fingers stroking your forehead again. You can feel the cold metal of his wedding ring against the heated skin. “You’re not being a baby about anything. You hear me?”
Your silence speaks volumes. He laughs a little, the sound loud in the silence of your bedroom. “I know you well, don’t I?”
It takes a while for your tears to completely subside. When you’re finished sniffling against his collar, he props you up against the headboard with pillows behind your back. You’re more congested than ever, something your husband has the nerve to laugh at as he hands you tissues, but there’s no unkindness in his tone.
He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes as you doze, exhausted from the effort of crying for so long. When he eases the door open again, he’s carrying a tray with a teacup and pot (of course) and a bowl of something that smells warm and comforting.
“Hmm. Excellent room service this place has. The waiter is a little scruffy, though,” you say as Wriothesley places it on your lap, tucking in the covers around you.
He gives you a fake look of injury. “How dare you, ma’am. I’ll have you know I’m too worried about my wife to shave, who I’m afraid is deathly ill,” he sighs, stroking the stubble on his jaw. He spoons soup into your mouth before you can retort, stifling a smile.
Once you’ve drained half the soup, Wriothesley seems satisfied. He removes the tray from your lap and takes your hand, bringing it to his own forehead.
“Oh, no. How awful.” He shoots you a glance. “It appears the Duke of the Fortress has come down with something.”
You raise an eyebrow. His forehead is as cool as the rest of him is. “Really.”
“Oh, yes,” he says, flopping onto your lap. “It looks like he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.”
You laugh, wincing when it makes your head throb. “The Duke sounds like a slacker, if you ask me.”
“Well, everyone knows that,” Wriothesley murmurs, burying his face into your thigh. “They’ll have to tell my boss about it.” You feel him grin against your leg.
You sigh, feigning exasperation. “What a shame. I was just about to ask him to dinner, too.”
Wriothesley has migrated to his side of the bed by now and is nestling into your side with the stubbornness of a dog. “Don’t worry, I hear he’s a messy eater. Absolute carnivore.”
Your hands come to rest on his head, the soft grey strands tickling your palms. “You know you’re going to get sick, right? I’m highly contagious.”
No answer.
“You’re the head of the Fortress, Wrio. If you get laid up, Sigewinne might put a bounty out on you. She seems like the type.”
Your husband murmurs into your side, already half-asleep. “She’ll have to catch me first.”
Despite your many blankets and the body next to you, a sudden chill runs through you and you stiffen. He feels it, arms tightening around your waist.
“Fever pills are on the bedside in the white bottle. Water is next to it.”
You smile. “Thank you, darling.” He hums in response.
A few days later, you’re well enough to leave your room again. Sigewinne would be thrilled, if not for your husband, who looks more smug than any sick man has a right to be.
He sniffles, burrowing into your sheets again as the Melusine glares daggers at him. “I’ll be fine. My wife loves me and I have leftover soup in the fridge. What else does a man need?”
