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!
More on Vermilion Vanserra, Sixth Son of Autumn, Courtier and Emissary, playboy and an overall walking disaster:
• While the fire magic of his brothers involves harnessing the raw, living element, Vermilion can mold and shape it entirely to his will. In his hands, fire becomes like clay for him to play with. By day, he uses his power for weaponry, with the fire whip as his weapon of choice. By night… well, you know how the saying goes.
• Despite his charm and charisma, Vermilion is the absolute worst diplomat, deeming his formal responsibilities “impressively dull,” a “waste of good wine,” and opting to spend his time in common taverns instead.
• Vermilion is an extremely skilled artist, with his own fire serving him as paint. Using his magic, he can melt it into smooth, silky colors that craft the most vibrant masterpieces on canvas. Vermilion has a private art studio in the Summer Court that no one in his family knows about.
• Him and Lucien are closest in age and grew up together. In their early youth, the two had formed a temporary alliance, using their good looks and charm to steal all the noble ladies away from the other brothers at balls and formal events.
• Vermilion was appointed as Autumn’s emissary in Lucien’s stead after the brutal murder of Jesminda. He was the one who held Lucien down during her execution, knowing that if he’d let him go, Lucien would have faced consequences far worse than anything Beron had ever done to his sons before. Despite his best intentions that day, Vermilion has never forgiven himself.
• Aside from Lucien, Vermilion is the only son whose name was not chosen by Beron. The Lady of Autumn decided on the name upon seeing the vibrant shade of his red hair for the first time, which reminded her of a bleeding sunset.
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Vermilion is my OC, please do not use him in any works! A MASSIVE thank you to @climbthemountain2020 for being my beautiful perfect art consultant
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.
