ꫂ᭪⋆ ◌ 𖥁‌ ࣪ sapphic-r✰ttinslaughterᲘ︵𐑼

as for my old fics i perhaps delete or private of some but i still keep it anyway.

this account now will be an archived blog

as for my old fics i perhaps delete or private of some but i still keep it anyway.

this account now will be an archived blog

as for my old fics i perhaps delete or private of some but i still keep it anyway.

this account now will be an archived blog

as for my old fics i perhaps delete or private of some but i still keep it anyway.

this account now will be an archived blog

as for my old fics i perhaps delete or private of some but i still keep it anyway.

this account now will be an archived blog

as for my old fics i perhaps delete or private of some but i still keep it anyway.

this account now will be an archived blog

— William’s Rabbit Affection Headcanons (with bunny teeth and some others ofc) ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

art cre: foxyybro (insta)

Part 2

ᨳ ꒰⠀That subtle toothy grin isn’t just for show—he has a habit of gently nipping at you when he’s feeling tender. Your shoulder, the curve of your hand, even your ear—soft little bites, not to hurt, but to mark, to claim. He laughs under his breath when you squeak in protest. “What? I’ve sharp teeth. Might as well put them to use, mm?”

ᨳ ꒰⠀When he sleeps with you, he has this instinct to curl around you—arms snug, leg hooked over yours, his face tucked into the curve of your neck. Like a rabbit burrowing into its warren, he tucks you in as if you were both prey hiding from the world. His teeth sometimes graze your skin as he mumbles half-asleep.

ᨳ ꒰⠀He has a habit of bringing you things, slyly disguised as acts of practicality. A ribbon, a flower plucked on a walk, a piece of chocolate, a small crochet of the yellow bunny plushie; he presents it with mock-dramatic flair, but there’s something primal beneath it, like a rabbit dragging offerings back to its mate.

ᨳ ꒰⠀When he’s deep in thought, his mannerisms become oddly lapine—he gnaws at his lip with those front teeth, rakes his fingers through his hair, sits still for ages only to suddenly jolt up, restless, like he’s been spooked.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ If you tease him for being “my snuggle hare” or call him “bunny-tooth”, he’ll give you the most unimpressed, deadpan look. But the second you’re not watching, he’s smirking because he adores that you see through the theatrics and love the softness anyway.

ᨳ ꒰⠀When kissing you, he sometimes deliberately lets those teeth graze your lip playfully, but also a reminder of his sharpness.

ᨳ ꒰⠀He enjoys brushing his nose against yours—quiet, intimate “nuzzles” that he’d never admit mirror a rabbit’s little head-bumps :3

ᨳ ꒰⠀Rabbits rub their chin (with scent glands) on things they want to claim. William, without even realizing, mirrors this. When he leans close, he’ll often nuzzle his chin into the curve of your neck, shoulder, or hair. To others, it might look like a subtle affectionate gesture, but to you, it’s clear he’s marking you as his. He sometimes bumps you gently with his nose (especially your cheek, temple, or hand).

ᨳ ꒰⠀He's menace, he will hoard little things you’ve touched: your pen, your scarf—tucked away in drawers like a rabbit hiding treasures.

ᨳ ꒰⠀Rabbits don’t really “meow” or “bark”, they make those weird little squeaks when startled or pleased. I can think William would letting out a low, honking grunt if you poke his sides or surprise him. He’s so controlled, always keeping his voice even but what if, when you hit just the right nerve, something slips? A quick squeak, like a rabbit being nudged. He’d immediately growl over it, trying to bury it under a kiss or a quip, but you’d know. His real, unrestrained laugh? I think it does carry a rabbit-y quality—short, high-pitched, almost like a hiccup in between breaths. It’s rare, but when you hear it, you can’t un-hear the bunny resemblance.

ᨳ ꒰⠀He has this habit of humming or scoffing through his nose when he’s irritated. Imagine it comes out too squeaky, like a rabbit snort. He would die before admitting it, but you catch it every time. If you called him out “You squeak like a bunny!”, he’d go quiet, then deliberately lean close to your ear and make the lowest, most exaggerated “honking squeak” possible just to shut you up. Smug grin. “There. Happy, darling?”

ᨳ ꒰⠀Rabbits copy each other’s movements when bonded. William does this without thinking: Tilts his head the same way you do...Mirrors how you sit, how you fold your arms, even how you sip from a glass. It's almost uncanny until you realize: this is his way of syncing rhythms with you, proving silently that you are in harmony.

ᨳ ꒰⠀“Making Biscuits” = Hidden Joy: The subtle flexing of his fingers, his restless hand movements against you like kneading, reveal his inability to contain affection. At first, you don’t connect it, but later you realize this is the physical overflow of his contentment, the way a rabbit purrs or kneads when utterly happy.

ᨳ ꒰⠀Humping/Clinginess = Need for Dominance + Security: You eventually realize the “suggestive” side isn’t just lust. It’s instinctual, too. Rabbits hump as affection/territorial behavior way not just for mating, but to assert closeness, to bond. And for William, when he’s that needy with you, it’s his way of grounding himself — reaffirming you’re his and he’s yours. It’d be like this strange mix of instinct and neediness. He gets almost embarrassed by it after, like he knows how desperate it looks, but he can’t help it when it’s just you. In private, when overwhelmed with emotion, he might press close and close, grinding against you and guess what happens next?

ᨳ ꒰⠀He has a habit of “flopping” onto you—leaning his head on your lap, shoulder, or chest, suddenly and without restraint. That act alone is vulnerable, showing he feels utterly safe. It dawns on you that this is him wordlessly saying: 'I don’t need to be Afton here. I don’t need to be feared, or respected, or in control. I can just be your creature.' And when you stroke his hair or rub at his scalp, you’re responding to that surrender, reinforcing it. He’ll close his eyes slowly, almost like a bunny melting under affection. He’s such a proud man, yet he lets himself fold up next to you and drop his head into your lap like a giant bunny loaf. The kind of thing that would kill him if anyone else ever saw.

— William’s Rabbit Affection Headcanons but With Hickeys and Kisses :D ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ // part 2

Part 1

ᨳ ꒰ He doesn’t attack like a brute—no, William is methodical. He draws close, lips soft and deliberate, and then just when you relax, his teeth graze your skin. He sinks in just enough pressure to sting faintly, leaving a crescent of bruised affection.

ᨳ ꒰⠀Nibbling/Kisses = Grooming: The first time his teeth graze your skin, you may laugh it off but then it keeps happening. Gentle nips, soft kisses, little trails of teeth against your neck or hand. His kisses are small, deliberate, tender… Rabbits show love through grooming—licking or nibbling softly. William translates this into human intimacy. His bunny-like teeth brush against your skin, not to hurt but to “groom” you. He does this absentmindedly, like an instinct, even while speaking to you.

ᨳ ꒰ Always somewhere intimate in placement. The curve of your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the inside of your wrist—places you’ll brush against later and remember him by. Sometimes low on your hip or ribs, half-hidden, meant only for the two of you to know.

ᨳ ꒰ Afterward, he tilts back and grins, that buck-tooth grin, admiring his work like an artist with fresh paint. “Ah. Proof of possession. Don’t worry, love… I’ll keep my mark subtle. Unless…” (and oh, if you tease him, he will leave one high enough to peek out from your shirt).

ᨳ ꒰ If you complain “William, people will see!”, he feigns innocence, lips quirking, “Oh? What a tragedy. Let them see you’re adored.”

ᨳ ꒰⠀Sometimes, instead of full hickeys, he leaves tiny bite-marks. Just faint enough to fade quickly, but still there—like little crescent reminders of his teeth. He has this animalistic streak of wanting to leave traces, as if saying: I was here. You’re mine.

ᨳ ꒰⠀Try not to imagine when he’s curled against you, laughing low, face half-hidden in your neck. His teeth catch you by surprise, a sharp sting melting into warmth. You gasp, swat his shoulder, and he only chuckles, lips ghosting over the fresh bruise.

“Shhh… don’t pout. You wear me well, darling.”

Sitting on William’s lap doesn’t feel scandalous at first. It feels… intentional.

There’s a solidity to him that registers before anything else, the way his legs bracket you, long and steady, a quiet claim rather than a trap. You settle back and his hands arrive without hesitation, one at your waist, the other resting higher, just beneath your ribs, thumbs warm, absentmindedly anchoring you there as if he’s making sure you don’t drift away. He smells faintly of cologne and paper and something sharper beneath, and the heat of him seeps through your clothes until it feels like the chair has vanished entirely.

“You’re comfortable, darling?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

His voice comes from just behind your ear, cultured and low, spoken like a private aside during a performance meant only for the two of you. When you shift, even slightly, he reacts instantly, tightening his hold, guiding you back with practiced ease. There’s no rush, no hunger in the crude sense. It’s possession dressed as care.

His chin finds your shoulder. He’s too tall for this position, really, but he refuses to adjust, content to slouch if it means keeping you there. One knee bounces lazily, a tell you’ve learned means he’s amused. You can feel his breath change when you relax into him, the slow exhale that follows, heavier, satisfied.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay there, bunny.”

The pet name is deliberate.

He lets it linger, waits for the heat it brings to your face, and smiles faintly when he feels you still.

His fingers trace small, idle patterns at your waist, nothing improper, everything intimate. It’s grounding, enclosing, like being held at the center of something carefully controlled.

You’re aware of every point of contact, but what lingers most is the calm. The sense that, here, you are allowed to exist without performance. He’s still theatrical, still smug, but softened around the edges, curled around you like this is the only place he’s willing to let his guard down.

“My LoveBun...” he adds quietly, almost indulgent, lips brushing your hair.

And you know, with embarrassing certainty, that he chose that name purely to feel you melt against him.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ He will sometimes sniff food or drinks like a rabbit twitches its nose, even if he can’t eat anymore. It’s half unconscious, half wild... Sometimes he picks up food and pretends to eat it, going through the whole motion, chewing with the broken jaw, then drops it when he remembers. It’s more for the bit than the sustenance.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ The most stubborn performer man you ever seen, he still bows after “performances”, even if there’s no one watching. A little stiff tilt forward, as if waiting for applause...

ᨳ ꒰⠀ If you tease him about being a bunny, he gets this deadpan glare but if you push far enough, he’ll snap back with a dramatic, sarcastic “Hop to it, then.”

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Has the weirdest sense of humor. He’ll make dad-jokes with horrific timing, like groaning out “I’m simply… dying to perform again” with a grin full of broken teeth.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Likes to hum or whistle off-key in the quiet, just to irritate people. It’s deliberate, not an accident.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Still thinks theatrically. Even in that ruined body, he frames everything like a performance—his words, his experiments, his kills. Life is his theater, death his stagecraft.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Hates silence. He needs some kind of noise—tapping metal fingers, humming, muttering to himself... Silence reminds him of the grave, and he refuses to accept it.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Has an uncanny patience. He can sit utterly still in the dark for hours, just… waiting. That waiting is as much part of the performance as the eventual strike.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Obsessively keeps track of time. He always knows how long it’s been since an event. Sometimes he’ll mutter, “Seven years, three months, four days…”—and you’re left wondering what memory he’s clocking.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Sometimes rubs at his temple with metal fingers, like he’s got a headache—phantom pains from a body that doesn’t exist anymore...

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Talks in his sleep. You might hear broken murmurs of old names Elizabeth, Michael, Henry or even bits of stage lines he used to recite.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ If you sit with him long enough, he sometimes absentmindedly reaches out—like he’s about to hold someone’s hand then snatches it back as if embarrassed.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ He acts superior and terrifying, but small things irritate him ridiculously like a door hinge squeaking or a wire catching on something. Cue a whole five minutes of grumbling, “Bloody contraptions—”

ᨳ ꒰⠀He refuses to admit he startles, but if something actually jumps him? He’ll do a violent flinch—sharp, rabbit-jerk reflex—and then immediately try to cover it up with a dry remark.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Despite his ruined body, he still has a weirdly smug walk—a shuffle-drag, yes, but with flair, like he’s making the best of it.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Sometimes the springs bite too deep or old scar tissue pulls wrong, and he instinctively grabs at the animatronic’s jaw, forcing it open as if to “let himself breathe” through the pain. It doesn’t help, but it gives him the illusion of relief. It's a pain reflex. Other times, it’s purely deliberate. He’ll grab the suit’s jaw with one hand, creak it open with a horrible grinding sound until you can glimpse the shadow of him inside, the tattered human face behind the mask... He’ll let the victim see just enough before snapping it shut again. And other, it's a mocking jumpscare. He loves to do this when stalking someone in Fazbear’s Fright. The sound alone—metal tearing, jaws wrenching open...—echoes in the halls like a beast unhinging its mouth. Then, suddenly, they see a man’s deadly cold silver eye staring out from within. Half-human, half-monster. (literally referenced from those rare screen Springtrap in game ykwim)

ᨳ ꒰⠀ On rare, quieter nights, he just… fiddles with it. Like someone cracking their knuckles. A slow creak open, a snap shut. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s his way of reminding himself, I am still inside here. I am not gone yet... Imagine sitting in the dark, hearing him approach—then suddenly the loud, guttural noise of metal jaws being pried apart, followed by a flash of pale skin, torn lips, teeth that aren’t all steel. He’s not just an animatronic. He’s something worse. And honestly? He’d be smug about it. He knows the reveal is horrifying—yet he wants that gasp of terror before he strikes.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ He has metal hiccups. You know like sometimes his suit will hiccup, a mechanical spasm that makes his jaw slam open or his arms jerk. He hates it. You laugh every time.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Old theater kid habits die hard. He would mutter tongue-twisters or “la-la-la~” scales through the suit’s broken voicebox. It sounds horrifying, but he swears it’s “refined”.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ His corpse creak if you’re very close, you can hear his body moving inside the suit...wet, leathery sounds...like tendons shifting when he twists. He pretends not to notice.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ He can go completely motionless for hours. No blinking lights, no breathing sounds. You’d think he’d powered down, but he’s just… waiting, for something.

ᨳ ꒰⠀ Yes, William can leave the body as a ghost but he despises it.

(Unlike the ghost children who slip free, he feels “anchored” to the suit like his identity is too bound up in Springtrap to wander far. Still, in rare moments, he manages it. When he leaves, he looks deceptively human. It’s uncanny, a cruel memory of what he lost. He hates how vulnerable it feels, being without the armor of the suit. He’s terrified someone might tamper with his body while he’s out. The sensation of re-entering the suit is painful, like being dragged underwater through nails and broken glass)

ᨳ ꒰ William’s ghost is semi-corporeal, meaning he can go fully invisible, walk through walls, or materialize just enough to flick your ear and vanish. His default ghost form resembles his real self just after death — pale, sunken-eyed, charred around the fingers and throat, but still handsome in a horrible way.

He can manipulate his appearance at will. Meaning he will, absolutely, stretch his face into horrifying, mangled shapes just to mess with you.

William as the “Stu” means he’s the chaotic charm behind the operation. He’s giddy about the game, loves the thrill of the act more than the end goal, and has that manic “isn’t this fun?” sparkle when the world’s literally burning behind him. He’d be the one laughing while hiding behind a mask, teasing you mid-heist, doing stupidly theatrical things like bowing after a crime just because “a little performance never hurt”

Meanwhile, you (the partner-in-crime, his “Billy”) would be the colder one—the brain that reels him back when he’s gone too far into his giddy theatrics. You’d be the one hissing “Focus, William!” while he’s giggling and quoting Shakespeare over a half-finished Remnant experiment. But then again—he’s brilliant, and that brilliance makes his chaos dangerous.

He’s a Stu that knows how to build murder-machines instead of grab knives from the kitchen... A Stu that flirts between genius and clownishness. A Stu that still has that touch of obsessive devotion, the way he looks at you like he’s half in love and half amused by how serious you are...

And when things go wrong? He’s grinning, bloody knuckles and all, saying— “C’mon, love—tell me that wasn’t fun.”

While you’re sitting there, breathless, realizing he means it. He enjoyed it. He doesn’t just crave victory—he craves the drama of the moment.

He’d tease during crimes, too. “What’s the matter, darling? Don’t tell me you’re the sane one between us.”

There’s a very specific electric energy between you two like gasoline and spark. He’s the laughter echoing through the corridor while you’re the footsteps that follow, deliberate and composed, until both of you collapse in hysterical giggles once the danger passes. It’s romantic insanity, not love in the traditional sense, but something raw, performative, obsessive. A duo that shouldn’t exist, yet fits like puzzle pieces cut from the same jagged glass.

So yeah Billy x Stu... but reversed. Get it?

And you know what’s the best part?

He’d die to make you laugh mid-crime. Literally die for the bit.

He’s the one who laughs first, always him. That bright, unhinged sound that bounces off the metal walls like a ricochet. “God, did you see his face?” he gasps, wheezing as he leans against the concrete. “You’d think I’d grown another head—”

“You almost blew the whole thing,” you hiss, tossing a rag at his chest. “If you’d waited two more seconds, the alarm wouldn’t have triggered—”

But William just grins. That silly rabbit grin. The one that makes his silver eyes gleam like polished blades. “Ahh, but where’s the fun in that, love?” he teases, stepping closer. His hands are trembling not from fear, but excitement, that giddy, theatrical mania that lives under his skin. “You should’ve seen yourself. So serious—so deliciously focused.”

He tilts his head. “You make crime look like art.”

You would roll your eyes, but there’s that familiar spark between you, danger meeting discipline. He lives for the tension, that thin line where your patience snaps. “William,” you sigh, trying to keep your tone level. “one day, your dramatics are going to get us killed.”

He’s already close now, brushing his thumb across your jaw with that boyish recklessness that’s half flirtation, half dare. “Then we’ll die beautifully, won’t we?”

You can’t help it, your lips twitch. “You’re insane.”

He beams. “And you love it.”

(REMINDER I DON'T CLAIM ANY OF THESE ARE CANON OR FACT, IT'S ALL JUST MY INDULGENT HEADCANON. Also this is just a remake of my old ahh hc I posted before and I don't like it.)

🍰 Elizabeth was the most inquisitive of the Afton children, the early riser of the family. If Michael was sarcastic, and Evan timid, then Elizabeth was wide-eyed, always questioning, always pulling apart mysteries—both literally and figuratively.

🍰 She’d bounce out of bed at sunrise, brush her hair, pick her bow, and immediately start talking everyone’s ears off before they’d had breakfast.

🍰 If she sees sparkles on the floor (like glitter from an art project), she’ll crouch down to scoop some into her pocket. Her desk always looks like a fairy exploded on it.

🍰 She carried a little sense of authority, being the middle child, old enough to mimic her mother’s poise, but young enough to slip into play. She liked to boss her younger brother around, but in a teasing, almost motherly way.

🍰 Had the most dramatic storytelling voice when she recounted her day. If she saw a butterfly in the yard, by the end of her retelling it was practically a dragon with wings of fire. She adored stories and fairy tales. Not just listening, she retold them, embellishing them with extra characters and wild plot twists until they were half her own invention.

🍰 She had a little ritual of twirling her hair around her finger when curious or daydreaming.

🍰 The type to whisper loudly to a friend during quiet time: “Don’t you think pencils are like tiny swords?”

🍰 She had a tendency to hum or sing while doing anything — brushing her dolls’ hair, coloring, waiting for dinner. Little tunes constantly trailed behind her.

🍰 Elizabeth adored sweets: ice cream, candy floss, lollipops,... because in her mind they were magical, treasures that turned an ordinary day into something enchanted.

🍰 Circus Baby, in her imagination, wasn’t just a machine - she was going to be her friend, a princess-clown hybrid who would listen to secrets and sing songs no one else could.

🍰 She really adored drawing, not realistic sketches lol but colorful, fantastical things: castles, unicorns, ballerinas, silly caricatures of her family...

🍰 She doodled a lot: fairies, ballerinas, rabbits, and stars. Her notebooks might’ve been sprinkled with both childish scribbles and eerie foreshadowing sketches of Baby.

🍰 She sometimes mimicked her father in play, taking a sharp tone with her dolls like she’d heard William do with his work—yet she didn’t realize how unsettling that was.

🍰 With Michael, there was both rivalry and admiration. She poked fun at him constantly but still followed him around when bored, even if he pretended she was a nuisance. With Evan, she was protective in her own way. Despite teasing him like any sibling, she was the type to yell at Michael if he went too far. In her heart, she saw herself as Evan’s shield.

🍰 Her mother might have been Elizabeth’s quiet anchor—her model of elegance, though Elizabeth had a streak of rebellious sparkle that was purely her own.

🍰 She wanted to perform—whether it was ballet, magic tricks, or putting on a silly puppet show. She wanted to be seen.

🍰 Elizabeth’s curiosity was a double-edged sword; she couldn’t resist opening doors, pulling levers, and investigating “staff only” areas. Her father told her no—so she burned even brighter with the need to know.

🍰 She believed animatronics had souls, or at least personalities. She would talk to them as though they could whisper back.

🍰 She never doubted her father’s brilliance. She adored him, maybe more than the other siblings did, thinking of him as the magician who made dreams real. That admiration blinded her to the shadows beneath.

🍰 Her downfall wasn’t disobedience alone—it was trust. She believed what her father created had to be wonderful. She wanted to prove she was grown-up enough to be part of his world... Oh Lizzie..

🍰 I love the idea of Elizabeth could being as a mirror of William’s fire, his flair, his hunger for “something more”. She’s not just a little girl in ribbons and sugar, she’s the one who inherited his spark - the dramatics, the curiosity, the larger-than-life dreamer’s streak.. It makes sense why he’d have a little soft spot for her at least out of the Afton kids, even if twisted. While her brothers lived in fear or cynicism, Elizabeth burned bright with belief. To her, the world was a stage, filled with magic waiting to be uncovered. That’s exactly how William views his work — only he cloaks it in ego and obsession.

🍰 Her closet is like a rainbow storm exploded inside, rows of little boxes, hooks, and scattered bows of every kind. Big floppy ones, prim satin ones, glittery novelty ones. She’d save them from birthday presents just to re-wear them in her hair. Most are mane-style bows, yes—she loves the ones that perch right on top of her head, like a crown. She feels important when she wears them.

She probably had seasonal ones too like pumpkin orange for Halloween, frosty blue for Christmas, pastel pink for spring. (Lmao)

🍰 Picking out a bow every morning was like choosing her mood. A giant red bow? She’s dramatic. A dainty white one? She’s in her “ballerina princess” headspace. A crooked, mismatched bow? She’s in her silly daydream mood. Sometimes she’d try to sneak into her mother’s accessories drawer and “borrow” scarves or ribbons to twist into bows.

🍰 Out of the Afton kids, Elizabeth absolutely feels like the one who’d collect nicknames the way she collected bows. She has that personality where everyone she meets sees a different sparkle in her, and they can’t resist giving her their own little name for it. Some affectionate, some teasing, some downright goofy. Elizabeth collected them, wore them like her bows. She never really minded — in fact, she loved hearing the variety. Each nickname felt like another role she could play.

Her personality made it easy: she was dramatic enough to be Lizzie, sweet enough to be Elly, mischievous enough to be Betty... -> Every nickname captured a different shade of her.

🍰 She loved every kind of hairstyle: ponytails, buns, braids, curls,... If she saw it once in a magazine, a TV show, or even on a stranger in town, she had to recreate it at home. She collected clips, ribbons, and barrettes the way other kids collected stickers. Half of her bows doubled as hair accessories. To her, doing hair wasn’t vanity, it was love. Her way of showing affection was tugging you down into a chair and saying “Sit still, I’ll make you beautiful.”

Imagine little Elizabeth with a brush bigger than her head, ribbons and combs scattered like treasure, declaring herself “The Royal Stylist of the Afton Household”. 🥹💖

🍰 Elizabeth had sticky fingers for odd treasures. Buttons, bottle caps, shiny pebbles; she tucked them away like precious gems, sometimes gifting them to Evan or even William.

🍰 She loved sparkly shoes, the kind with glitter that always left a trail. She’d insist they made her “walk like a princess”.

🍰 Favorite color? Likely pink or lavender, but she rotated based on mood. If she was feeling dramatic, she’d declare, “Today, red is my favorite, forever!” (until next week).

🍰 Always wanted to wear lip gloss or a dab of her mother’s perfume, convinced it made her instantly grown-up.

🍰 She’d put on mini “shows” for her family in the living room — sometimes plays she made up, sometimes puppet shows, sometimes just dancing in a bow and tutu while Michael groaned in the corner.

🍰 She enjoyed helping in the kitchen in her own chaotic way: licking the spoon, spilling sugar, “taste-testing” everything.

🍰 Elizabeth is the type of girl who bursts into the living room in her little patterned tights and frilly dress, declaring “we’re having a tea party, everyone sit!” She lines up Michael, Evan, and sometimes even William if he’s home. Her mom might humor her with a dramatic bow and a fake accent. William, oddly enough, is good at playing along too—he’ll stir sugar into a teacup with surgeon-like precision and say, “Exquisite blend, darling.” Michael rolls his eyes but sits anyway, because Elizabeth won’t drop it. Evan just hides behind his cup.

🍰 She’s the one who sneaks behind the counter to try and help frost cupcakes, licking the spoon and dusting herself in flour. Or she’ll beg Henry to show her the animatronic workshop, tugging on his sleeve until he relents and shows her a few gears or unfinished masks.

🍰 Whenever William takes the kids to his work (because babysitters aren’t always around), Elizabeth is thrilled. She’ll skip around the arcade cabinets, pressing buttons even if the machines aren’t turned on yet. She loves the smell of popcorn and pizza dough. To her, Freddy’s feels like Disneyland—but hers.

🍰 Elizabeth loves asking questions no one has the patience for: “Why does the bear sing only those songs? Why do the lights blink like that? Why is the fur yellow and not green?” William answers when he can, but often she overwhelms him. Henry, though, gives her gentler, more patient answers. She thinks of him like an extra uncle.

🍰 Soft spot for small animals. She will kneel in the garden, hands outstretched, talking to ants as if they’re her loyal guards, whispering to butterflies as if they’re messengers from faraway lands. She truly believes, in her child’s heart, that they understand her. One day, she finds a ladybug on a windowsill and immediately declares it her “royal advisor”. She builds a tiny “house” for it out of a jewelry box lined with grass and flower petals. She even insists on bringing it to the dinner table, which makes her mom sigh and Michael gag. William? He just mutters, “It’ll be dead in a week.” earning Elizabeth’s pout.

If she finds a spider in the bathtub, she’ll scoop it up with her hands and insist it’s “just lost” while Michael shouts in the background. If Evan finds a worm after rain, Elizabeth convinces him it’s a “dragon baby” that needs protecting.

🍰 Elizabeth screams that type of child who easily distracted. She’s got that restless, dreamy energy, always chasing after the next “shiny thing” that catches her eye. Glittery shoes on a rack? Gone. A carousel music tune drifting from across the mall? She’s already halfway there. Her brain works like a magpie’s—anything twinkly, colorful, or whimsical lures her in. Michael groans every time they go shopping because he knows Liz is going to vanish. Evan clutches his mother's skirt because he’s scared of getting lost too. Her mom is constantly counting heads. William, when he actually tags along, gets sharp-eyed and tense the moment Elizabeth drifts too far.

Elizabeth never really thinks she’s lost, she just follows wonder, to her, the world is a fairground of curiosities. But to everyone else? She’s a heart-attack waiting to happen.

🍰 Elizabeth and Charlie are peas in a pod when it comes to imagination. They put on little “productions” in the backyard, Charlie with props from her dad’s workshop, Elizabeth in some ridiculous outfit from home. Elizabeth calls Charlie her “royal partner”. They pretend to be queens ruling over stuffed animal kingdoms, complete with made-up laws like “all cakes must be pink” or “no bedtime allowed”.

🍰 Elizabeth treats the animatronics like real celebrities. She insists on greeting them one by one, curtsying to Freddy and bowing to Bonnie.

🍰 She gets so into the shows she mouths along to the songs like it’s a Broadway production.