Title: Curious Is as Curious Does
Summary: "WillyWonka had only wanted to see if the boy tasted as sweet as he looked."
Disclaimer: All familiar characters and situations are Copyright by Roald Dahl, Tim Burton, etc.
Warning: Contains chan (Charlie's 12), pseudo-food!smut (Wonka looking like he's made of candy and whatnot), somnophilia.
Notes: I don't think it's up to par with Depp's acting and characterization. Meaning – I think it's a lot of fanciful crap after the halfway point.
Willy Wonka was curious by nature. He had never heard the expression "curiosity killed the cat", and at any rate, since he was no cat, he would've concluded that it did not apply.
And so, being of an exceptionally curious disposition, he endeavored to discover what made Charlie Bucket such an exceptional child. Mostly because his curiosity dictated it and partly (and much more discretely) because he felt himself getting older and waned to find a way to reclaim his fading childhood. In a manner of speaking. Charlie, according to his reasoning, was ideal... the boy just did not know it yet.
Charlie had been dozing with a smile on his face, curled in on himself under a particularly large candied-apple tree. Wonka tapped the sleeping boy lightly with his cane and when Charlie sat up, offered him one of the shiny, red fruits from the tree with a flourish. He beckoned to the boy to follow and Charlie obliged, chewing happily. The tall, striding figure before him did not offer a word and Charlie decided it best not to ask where they were going and what where they going to do once they got there. Just yet. He had his own curiosity to battle with, but unlike Mr. Wonka, he had heard that "curiosity killed the cat" and he took that quite seriously.
They took the elevator and Charlie was very pleased to see that the destination was Mr. Wonka's rooms. He had never been invited to explore those and never thought it polite to ask. He was a little disappointed when they settled in the sitting room without seeing the rest of the apartment. Everything in the room was a deep, rich colour, soft to the touch despite the rigid posture – like the occupant himself.
"Sit, sit," Wonka pointed to an armchair and Charlie perched on the edge, still eating the sticky apple with its chocolate core.
Wonka took the chair opposite, crossing his legs and then recrossing them. He listened to the crunching and the chewing and smiled as earnestly as he could, though after a while the smile turned rather disconcerting. When he rubbed thumb and forefinger together his gloves squeaked and made him laugh nervously. He was never good at this socializing nonsense.
Charlie studied the man who had been holed up all alone (the Oompa Loompas did not count) for fifteen years, finishing his treat thoughtfully. No wonder Mr. Wonka acted so peculiar to an alarming degree. Withdrawn, too. He piqued Charlie's curiosity just by breathing.
Wonka had opened his mouth to say something mild and encouraging, but Charlie chose that moment to loudly finish off his sweet, licking his reddened lips and sticky fingers. One. By. One. Instead of speaking, Wonka thought it best to swallow and keep on smiling.
After an appropriate pause, Willy Wonka decided to press on. He had resolved to figure out the secret to Charlie's almost infuriating pureness...sweetness even, and he would not be hindered by – well, he was not sure what exactly had stayed him. Best not to think of it at all.
He questioned the boy, but none of the answers seemed satisfactory. And as the questions were a little obtuse and confused themselves, the answers were no help either.
They kept at it for a while, until Charlie started nodding off, eyes bleary and unfocused. Wonka was getting frustrated; he did not even notice a change in his guest. When his next question was met with complete silence, Wonka, to his surprise, saw that the boy, head lolling on his shoulder, was most sound asleep.
After a moment of thoughtful consideration, he stood, made his way over to the sleeping child, and crouched low. Whispering to him in his sleep seemed a good idea as any. So he proceeded with the questioning. On the whole, he did not get much further than before. In answer he only got soft sighs and indistinguishable gibberish.
Being so close to Charlie, whispering into one small ear, Wonka had the strongest desire to reach out and touch the slightly parted lips. They looked like licorice. Seeing no reason why he should not, he extended his index finger and softly outlined the small mouth. He was faintly taken aback when an even redder tongue flicked out against his gloved fingertip.
Charlie was blinking rapidly, awake and aware that he was sucking on Mr. Wonka's finger. When he had the mind to let go (he could've sworn he saw a shade of disappointment cross the chocolatier's face), he murmured abashedly, "You taste like sugar plums." After some consideration, he added, "Sir."
Laughing faintly and without much mirth, Wonka made to stand. He would've succeeded, too, if Charlie had not put one small hand upon his coat sleeve, obliging him to remain in place.
There was an impasse where they watched each other most curiously (their curiosity was displeased to have been shunned so long, after all). And then they kissed. It was not much. A tasting. A first for both parties. Charlie had only wanted to know if the man tasted as good as his accessories and Willy Wonka had only wanted to see if the boy tasted as sweet as he looked. Since their mouths sought for more, the answer must've been a resounding yes!
A few more moments of this grasping, surprising, new thing, and they broke a part and disentangled their hands from places where they did not remember placing them. Both thought that talking was out of order, so Charlie settled for calm compliance while Wonka continued on his quest, determined to sample every bit.
A few shuffling, almost comical hops and Wonka was on his knees, the boy laid out before him, watching him brightly from the chair.
Not once did they break eye contact. Not when gloved hands crept under Charlie's jumper and shirt, gliding along his chest and exposing his thin ribs. Not when milky white skin showed a flush of pink. Charlie just drew his breath in so sharply that it hissed through his teeth. He bit his lip when the smooth leather rubbed against his nipples. Again and again. Raising them to sensitive nubs that positively ached when the fingers moved on to torment his vulnerable sides and walk across his prominent ribs. He squirmed to help with the sliding down of his trousers and then because it tickled to have someone else touch the tender creases of his thighs.
Charlie imagined that Mr. Wonka must be tracing a recipe for some new and wonderful candy with such loving care.
Though Wonka longed to look down and devour the boy with his eyes just as his hands had done, and though Charlie wanted to study the flush of skin that crept down Mr. Wonka's collar (and he, who was always so pale!), their eyes did not wander. Charlie's eyes did flicker when those cool, immaculate hands had stroked him in a place he had never thought much of...until now, but he held fast.
Unable to resist, Wonka slid one glove off, gave a smooth stroke to the boy's responsive cock, and was as surprised as Charlie when Charlie had his first orgasm. Or something of the sort. Being bolder still, Wonka scooped up a bit of the white stuff on his finger and licked it off pensively.
A pause. "And you, my dear boy, taste like candy through and through."
Charlie gave a most delightful laugh. It made Wonka smile. I was one of his genuine smiles, too.
The day was chalked up to be a success and curiosity on both sides had been spectacularly fed.
There was a lurking suspicion that it'd need sating soon enough, but there was a general consensus that the pair concerned would not need prompting. Candy's an addiction, after all.