Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness

⭐ Headcanons ⭐

Long before the harsh winter that followed Wendy's departure, and even before his time in Neverland with Peter and his Lost Boys, Curly knew fear. His father was a hard man, cold and unforgiving, and his mother... Well, Curly never knew his mother. All he knew was that she existed once. She had loved and laughed. She had filled their little home with joy and light, but then she gave birth to him and it was as if the world decided there just wasn't enough room so it traded one for the other. His father never forgave him. He hated the boy who had his mother's eyes and head of dark curls –her smile too though he would never know it. He would berate the boy constantly and when words weren't enough, he would let his hands teach the lesson. Of course, Curly doesn't remember these things, but some nights he dreams of it. His memories are fickle things, cobweb thin and fractured. They return as flashes in the night; harsh words or the familiar sting of a palm on his cheek. Some nights he wakes crying, but those memories fade as quickly as they came, leaving nothing more than a familiar ache in his chest.

At first, Neverland was a dream come true. There were adventures to be had, lands to explore, and games to play. Here he was not lonely and while the fear he always felt still rattled in his chest, he found joy. For the first time in his life, he had a family. Yes, they fought and bickered at times, but they were in this together. It was enough to distract from the hint of darkness he could see within their leader. Not enough to ignore it all together, of course. He could always see it there. That beast Peter called a heart that seemed to delight in the bloodshed and savagery, but it was simple enough to distract himself though he always did wonder how no one else could see it. Or maybe they had. Maybe everyone could see it too but they all knew better than to speak out lest you find yourself slipping off a cliff or drowning in the mermaid lagoon. It wasn't until Wendy left, taking the family he had with her that he saw just how cruel and thoughtless Peter could be. The winter that followed was unforgiving, but despite all the suffering it caused, he was grateful for the way it opened his eyes. He knew now that Peter did not care for his Lost Boys but also knew that was something best kept to himself. After all, it as far safer to be with Peter than it is to be against him.

As a whole, Curly is soft spoken and deeply compassionate, but don't let that fool you into thinking he is weak. Having not only survived Neverland's seemingly endless winter but having been slowly shaped by it's wilderness, Curly knows what it takes to survive and is not afraid to do it. That being said, he is fiercely loyal to those he cares for, and while he wasn't certain of the new members of their fractured little family at first, he will do whatever it takes to keep them safe. Even those he would rather shove off a cliff. After all, they are all that he has and he would do anything to keep from losing more people he loves.

While most of his time is spent with the Lost Boys, Curly also loves time alone. He can't quite remember if he was always this way or if it's a preference that bloomed during that long winter spent being either berated or ignored by Peter. All he knows, is that on occasion he needs to be alone. His favorite spot is the meadow just outside the forest. There, he will spend hours enjoying the silence of nature while carving small animals out of wood. It's a hobby he started to help occupy his mind in Peter's absence and found that he quite enjoyed it. If you're nice enough, he'll gift you one and has even left some for the small folk and the merfolk.

⭐ Headcanons ⭐

Long before the winter that plagued Neverland and well before the fire, Bramble Rose was full of light. Rarely seen without a smile she found joy in even the smallest of things. All that knew her, knew that she was pure sunshine, but all that changed when she lost everything. Her friends, her home, her love... Some days she is filled with so much grief she's certain it will kill her while on others she can feel nothing but rage. Rage toward Peter for failing to keep them safe. Rage towards Hook and his men for taking everything she held dear, but most days she feels guilt. Perhaps if she hadn't been away things would have been different. Yes, the fire still would have taken their home and lives still would have been lost, but maybe Thistle would still be here. Maybe they would have escaped together or at the very least perished side by side. Though she will never admit it aloud, she wishes she had been lost too. At least them she wouldn't be forced to live with nothing but memories to keep her company.

There are nights where she wakes choking on smoke. It isn't real, of course. Just a memory made tangible for a moment. It's those nights that her deceased Thistle is most restless. She can hear him whispering to her in the dark, but despite how hard she tries, she can't seem to understand what is being said. Instead, she sits with him and comforts him like a mother would a frightened child. Sometimes, she can even close her eyes and pretend that those gossamer messages aren't said in fear or despair but with love. Little promises of a life that will never be.

Though she doesn't act on it, she loathes Peter and wishes she could make him suffer like she has. Sometimes she sits hidden in the treetops and watches him, wishing she could take what he loves most in this world. She will never act on it, of course. Even she knows Peter has his uses. Instead, she takes it out on his little Lost Boys. Nothing too serious, mind you. Just cruel little tricks until the anger she feels subsides. Her rage isn't directed at just Peter, however, but at Hook and his men. All except for one.

After losing Thistle, Bramble Rose found life to be dull. For what felt like an eternity nothing brought her joy. Not playing tricks on those lost boys or exploring the lands. Her days were spent in her new home beside her love. She would talk to him often and though she could have sworn that she heard the occasional response, it just wasn't the same. The hand she held was no longer warm and the smile that once set her heart ablaze was gone replaced by a opened mouth expression. Only in her dreams was Thistle as he once was. So full of light and love. There she could hear his contagious laugh as they danced beneath the stars or feel the warmth on his breath on the crook of her neck during those delicious nights where they spent their time exploring each other's bodies instead of sleeping. Unfortunately, those dreams never stayed just dreams. Too often they would warp and burn. The warmth of his body against hears would grow, scorching hot until she could nothing but stand there in the flames, watching as he succumbed not to fire but smoke. It was torture and night after night she found herself wishing that she could follow him to the other side. A feeling she almost acted on.