Cursed & Rare

Appreciation blog for rare pairings from Netflix's Cursed. Stay tuned for the first story by 25th of October :) 

[rare-cursed]

epistolary wicklot fic

consider: wicklow puts lancelot in charge of red brothers and asks to send reports.

naturally, lancelot sends very dry letters — but wicklow answers with long ones. and then lance also starts writing short funny remarks, still dry: just comments on strategic decisions and struggles of commanding that herd of morons. (wicklow can relate. he gives him good advice.)

it goes likes this:

Hello Wicklow,

the Red Brothers are doing good. We've moved the troops back to Londinium.

Best regards,

Lancelot

an entire letter JUST FOR THAT

sent miles on horseback

"couriers hate him"

wicklow, furiously scribbing a reply, 2 pages in— maybe I should stop — on other hand — ... 2 pages later — alright, now I really should

lancelot accidentally doodles at the back of the letter he sends; he would draw goliath—

(wicklow has an epiphany that the way to lancelot's heart is by asking him about goliath and has to sit down)

—and then wicklow sees tiny angry inverted crosses all over his horsecloth. so small you don't immediately notice what is wrong with them. he squints at it and look at it through the light and is like "huh."

cracks his knuckles: "is it the crisis of faith i see"

and starts writing inspired, beautiful letters about faith to Lance

who ends up huddling in a corner somewhere, reading them over and over again, while red brothers are just running around like headless chickens

feature lancelot ugly crying, drinking communion wine and rereading the letters times and times again until he resolutely stands up and goes to write a reply which includes a completely made up polite excuse for wicklow to visit the camp.

[rare-cursed]

just a quick silly sketch of Kaze bringing Gawain down to earth (:

[rare-cursed]

Honorem et Gloriam

Chapter 2 - Child

 “Sit still, you unruly child!”  

 Dust danced in the kitchen sunlight. Lancelot mewled, jaw pinched angrily by the abbess who scrubbed the cold cloth over his cheek. It hurt—it hurt as if the skin was about to come off, sore and aching but the more he tried to pull away, the harder she held onto him. The abbess pursed her lips together in the same way her eyebrows reached for each other – the quiet anger on her face made her look like the shaman who’d barked at him a month ago for accidentally setting the sacred longhouse ablaze.

 Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut as he shifted in his seat. His heart pounded with such vigour it felt as if he was about to shoot off the counter and into the domed ceiling. The houses back home hadn’t even been half the size of this room, but he’d never felt more trapped.

[read more]

[rare-cursed]

Worship

Characters: Wicklow, Lancelot Tags: Drabble

It was as if God had sculpted him by hand. With the Devil lingering in the details, perfection was hard to come by, but one could see the patience and passion behind what was undoubtedly God’s finest work. The Bible said not to lust, but it was hard when his eyes burned like the hottest flame; when he was as strong as the storm that sent the waves crashing onto the rocks; when he was as loyal as the shadow on a sunny day. As Wicklow swept a finger over those ashen tears, what the Bible said felt like blasphemy.

A/N: This is a small teaser for a bigger Wicklow/Lancelot fic that’s in the works. :)

[rare-cursed]

where to begin... ah - with crack

so. arthur and gawain, huh?

there is not a single person in the fey camp who doesn’t know about the two. after all, people just keep stumbling on them necking everywhere. it becomes an inner joke.

you go to the armory? they are there. the training grounds? Gawain is standing with an apple on his head and mocks blindfolded Arthur, who is going to shoot him, asking whether he should bring the blindfold tonight as well. the council room? yep; the Moonwing chief is taken away with an apoplexy thanks to them. you try to escape to the inn? there they are, sucking each other’s faces off in a dimly-lit corner like there is no tomorrow.

when someone finally asks whether they are courting, Gawain almost falls off Arthur's lap, sputtering indignantly that of course no, who do they think he is? the fey who asked raises his brows and deadpans "a whore?" and at first, Gawain looks offended, but then nods "tis fair".