Would you ever make a ‘which Vanserra bro is your mate’ quiz because like… I want to know lol
THANK YOU, Anon, for the beautiful brilliant idea! The quiz is now live below — please please please show me your results if you want to play! The details of the quiz are below, but if you're impatient like me:
→ 🍂 TAKE THE QUIZ HERE 🍂 ←
The quiz includes my Vanserra OCs: Sylas, Marcel, Vermilion, Perses, and Ulric, as well as canon brothers Eris and Lucien!
Reblog this post with your results or tag me! I hope you have fun and enjoy yourself as much as I did making this quiz. Special thank you to @damedechance and @shardminds for helping me brainstorm the questions and being my musical muses <3
Note: Sylas, Marcel, Vermilion, Perses and Ulric are my OCs; please do not use them in any works, thank you!
A couple of notes on the quiz!
There are 27 questions in total. The quiz is designed to take 10-15 minutes, but it can be shorter/longer than that!
Some answers have multiple brothers assigned to them, so you don't have to worry about always choosing an option dedicated to just one result!
Some of the questions have implied NSFW content. Please be mindful upon entering the quiz!
Hmmm favorite sex positions for the boys? I’d also love to hear your thoughts for Eris and Lucien if you’re up for it, they’ve been neglected while we’ve all been thirsting over their brothers 😔
Amazing question; I started answering your ask with Lucien and I can't explain what happened to me after that. I blacked out and now we're here
NSFW under the cut. Please be mindful of uhhhhh biting, spitting, a hint (?) of voyeurism, hurt/comfort, and god knows what else
Lucien
As long as his face is between your legs, all is right in the world. Bonus points if he's caught you in a place so scandalous that the very idea of letting him take you there makes you a little lightheaded. The Day Court libraries, perhaps? The books fall off the desk with a thud so loud you're sure some scholar is going to turn the corner any minute now, only to find the heir himself with his nose buried in your cunt. For some reason, the sound of footsteps approaching makes it all the more exciting. Lucien chuckles, and the low, honeyed sound reverberates deep into your core, his soft, murmured praise lapping at the wetness there. The sound is so obscene it nearly drowns out the increasingly loud echo of footsteps; before you know it, Lucien casts a hard wall of wind separating you from the prying eyes. No one else will ever see you like this. The rumble carries a possessiveness that threatens to send you over the edge. You're mine. Only mine.
Eris
The moment is stolen, shoved into a hidden corridor at the Forest House. He can't be seen with anyone, certainly not like this, anyway. It would threaten everything he's worked so hard on; the image of someone so cold and cruel that the very idea of him having a weakness is laughable to the outside eye. No one can find out about you, Beron can't find out about you, or else, it will all have been for nothing, and you... you, his only weakness, will find yourself in a danger so grave it nearly makes the fire in Eris's blood boil over.
Instead, he channels the fervour into a hot, searing kiss, nearly shoving you against the stone wall, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, urging him closer. He lets your fingernails claw at his back, practically begging you to replace the scars there with marks of your own as he tears your clothes off quickly, desperately. He'd burn them off you if he had the chance, let the flames lick at the soft, plush skin of your curves. Perhaps one day, he will get that chance. He will give you everything, place you on that godsdamned throne himself and make the whole court kneel in the pool of his father's blood. For now, though... for now, he can only take. He can only steal those moments from you, and pray you have enough faith in him to stay.
Sylas
His war tent becomes a battleground for the clash of your bodies coming together at last, two enemies finally letting go of that last shred of restraint. You're tired of denying your attraction to him, tired of acting as though you haven't been drowning in the blood-red pool of his eyes from the moment you'd first snuck in here all those weeks ago, ready to kill him in his sleep. You had taken out his guards then, and had gotten close enough to let your dagger graze his throat, to spot a horrifying burn mark peering from the tight material of his shirt. You wondered how he'd earned a scar so terrifying, and it was that moment of curiosity that made you fail.
It was only due to your own magic that you'd managed to escape Sylas's rage, but, ever since then, his obsession with you had only grown stronger. That red-hot fire blazing in his eyes had been chasing you day by day, battle after battle, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't gotten addicted to the chase. You let him get close, only to deny him that one, final swing at your throat at the last second. Instead of frustration, of anger in his eyes, though, you find something else. You find excitement, and it's exactly what makes him pull you into his arms now, in the silent dead of the night, and throw you onto a pile of furs at his cot. He needs you, craves you as much as you've been craving him, his canine teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your flesh, the same neck he's been aiming for over the past few weeks. You let him mark you, claim you as his own, because haven't you always belonged to him? It feels that way right now, anyway. The blinding pain from the bite is quickly forgotten when Sylas's hot tongue swipes over the wound, making you shiver. You dig your nails into his muscled arms, leaving small, crescent moon marks there, and you swear you can feel the great Autumn Court General shudder under your touch. The thought only excites you more.
Vermilion
Your friends had dragged you into the tavern bordering the Summer Court, and you reluctantly agreed, even though you knew they'd leave you to fend for yourself the moment you arrived, swayed by the clinking glass at the bar. You were entirely prepared for a dull, lonesome night when you saw him. The most beautiful male you've ever seen, right in the middle of the dancefloor, his red hair glimmering crimson under the tavern's candlelight.
Had it not been for his height -- and, perhaps, the sheer radiance of his person, his laugh melting into the sway of the live music -- you might not have noticed him at all, for so many faeries had gathered around him. You were certain you've never seen him before, and yet, he looked like he'd been born in that very crowd. You couldn't help but feel drawn to him, your eyes trailing his every movement, every flicker of light reflecting off of his red eyes. He was mesmerizing, like a magnet you might have let pull you in had it not been for your two friends appearing at your table without warning. Or so you thought -- not your friends, you quickly realise, your mind too dazed from the wine, the music, from the male you just watched melt into the music as if it came from his very bones. Your two new companions relentlessly urge you upstairs; they have a room booked, you would love it; have some more wine, yes, they have more upstairs, if you just stopped being so stubborn and-- and they don't get a chance to finish, a casual yet imposing presence appearing at your side.
Long, crimson waves brush against your bare shoulder, and you watch, transfixed, as that same male from the dance floor cocks his head to the side, watching the two others in something akin to mockery. "Surely you must realize she can do better than that," he tells them waving a hand at their suddenly squeamish disposition. His voice is exactly as you imagined; deep and lulling, like the song you'd watched him sway to. One of the faeries is foolish enough to swing at him, snarling something about having "spotted you first." You innocently let him stumble over your foot, spilling the glass of wine over his now-sticky hair. When the two scurry away, cursing under their breaths, the male laughs. "You're not just a pretty face, are you?" he asks. You look up to meet his gaze, only to find him already watching you from beneath dark lashes. "He was lying, you know," he tells you. "He certainly did not spot you first."
You end up going upstairs in the end, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him close. He kisses your face, your neck, you hardly manage to make it to the bed before his mouth descends lower, lower, lower. You're certain the walls aren't soundproof here, and you find that you don't care. You want him, want to taste him the way he's just tasted you, and before you voice your desire, his thumb and index finger already trap your chin, forcing your mouth open. A trail of spit lands on your hungry tongue before he seals it with another kiss, and, feeling bold, you flip him onto his back, straddling his hips. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile, and he lifts his hands above his head, wrists crossed as he yields his control entirely to you. A thrill of excitement shoots up your spine like lightning, and, as you unbuckle his pants, you use the leather strap to tie his hands together. He groans, the sound like music to your ears, even more beautiful than what you'd heard downstairs. It was worth coming here, after all.
I miss the brothers. Tell me a fun fact about any of them?
Anon I would like to apologize to you in advance for leveraging your ask for this debauchery but people wanted to know the hex codes for the color of their tips and I am nothing if not committed. Have an overly detailed description of the vanpeens:
Lucien: #9F6358. Thick and heavy and BULGING. Is that a nuclear missile in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Lots and lots of veins. Dark red happy trail.
Marcel: #CF9A97. Paler than you'd think but honestly, checks out. Veins for days. Long and slender. Neatly trimmed happy trail.
Vermilion: #D19496. Long and curved just right, and really, really pretty. Like, why aren't you on reddit bragging about it pretty (he is). Happy trail that reminds you of the color of his eyes. Tip has a pearly shine to it. Veins perpetually throbbing.
Sylas: #BA6A65. Girthy enough you wonder if it hurts to walk. Had to have his armor specially made and it still wasn't enough, probably. Flushes an angry red when desperate. Better give him what he wants soon. Heavy balls
Eris: #CF8080. Also flushes a reddish pink but not as much as Sylas's (as everything between those two, yes this is a competition). A rather lovely vein running down the length of it. More on the slender side, curved upwards a little.
how do you think the vanserra brothers age? eris is getting up there. his brothers can’t be too far behind him. even lucien isn’t going to stay young forever.
who has graying temples, frown lines, maybe even a receding hair line? who ages like fine wine?
AMAZING question. This is how I imagine the brothers would age:
Eris: I headcanon his hair to be more on the reddish side than orange, so as he ages, I could see steaks of his hair begin to lose their vibrancy and shift more towards orange undertones. As decades progress, they'd fade into a silvery gray, starting at the temples, then slowly finding their way more and more to the front. And, unsurprisingly, our favorite High Lord would also have some crow's feet + wrinkles from millennia of frowning/sneering:
A little example of what I'm envisioning — I had to wake him up from his nap for this so he's looking just a little grumpy:
Sylas: DEFINITELY grows out a beard as he gets older and that's what starts to gray first. He's the only Vanserra brother with brown hair, so the silver is more noticeable upon first glance as opposed to the others. It's not just at the roots of his hair, either; the gray spans over the entire length of his waves in rather lovely streaks. I don't see his whole head going gray eventually — Sylas is one of those perpetual salt-and-pepper DILFS that has you thinking, it's sort of unfair for assholes like him to age this good. Don't ask me how. He's Fae. It's ✨magic✨
Marcel: He's the one brother I could see aging in a way that has you a little freaked out. It's almost like any traces of color have been well and truly drained from his entire body — layers of his hair turn silver, his pale brown irises fade into grayish pools of swirling smoke, and his already pale skin becomes ashen in tone. Old Marcel is almost like a ghost — ethereal and fleeting yet still always there to haunt you whenever he gets the chance. Forehead wrinkles from how often he's raised his brows in mockery, and crow's feet which I feel like are a Vanserra staple.
Vermilion: He's definitely invented the phrase "ages like fine wine," except that he's also the only brother who doesn't exactly gray at all. There has always been something magical about the rich crimson of his hair and eyes, and while neither lose their lustre as he gets older, parts of his hair begin to turn... white. It's like a layer of fresh snow over the strands growing from his temples, which he styles so that they almost frame his face, bringing out the vibrant color of his eyes. His features, though, do lose their youthfulness and sharpen — you easily catch a few wrinkles here and there, a crease between his eyebrows, some smile lines from that signature Vanserra smirk. The other brothers half-believe Vermilion has made a deal with a Death God to look like this at his old age.
Lucien: Ages similarly to Eris in that his hair becomes a fiery sea of red and orange before hints of silver begin to appear. His features mature deliciously, too — the creases in the corners of his eyes deepen, his jaw betrays hints of a shaved stubble, and the veins in his hands, forearms, and neck become more and more prominent. How does he still manage to look this enticing, this well-built? Well, Lucien may have aged, yes, but his stamina certainly did not. If you catch my drift
You have little faith in your own protest. Pinned down to the cot by his heavy frame, you couldn't really move if you tried.
The General groans his displeasure, his hot breath like a lick of flame against your flushed skin. He presses another kiss to your neck, then another, and you swear you feel a slight graze of his teeth whenever he withdraws. It makes you delirious, your mind swirling — unable to take more than one sensation at a time. The wet, nearly obscene sound as he sucks the sensitive spot below your ear. The slight scruff, like needles dancing atop your skin as he buries his face into your neck. The thigh he'd wedged right between your legs, right where you need him the most, the hard press making your blood sing and your whole body shudder.
"Sylas," you try again. The word barely comes out as a rasp.
"Not yet," the response comes from below, gruff, decisive. Another kiss.
You close your eyes, your traitorous chin lifting towards the makeshift roof of the tent. It offers him a new, delicious angle, a fact you become pathetically well-aware of as your throat bobs, Sylas's mouth immediately capturing the movement.
"Say it." The command disappears in the hollow of your throat. "I want to hear you say it again."
You fist the furs swallowing your body, thick clumps of wool dampened by your own sweat. It's dangerous to give a Vanserra exactly what he wants. Right now, you can't exactly remember why.
A small cry slips past your lips as you feel him bite down on the lobe of your ear, the small sting immediately soothed by his hot mouth. His wet tongue. "Come on, baby."
