Summary: Strange bedrooms and even stranger bedfellows.
Disclaimer: I don't own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and I do not own Johnny Depp, but I would be willing to buy him if he's for sale.
Author notes: I'm sorry.
The old house had been brought to the factory for the sole purpose of making the four old people happy. The Bucket's had always been so very poor, and so, when it came time to pack, they realized that they had nothing at all to take with them. Except, of course, the house. It had been a bit embarrassing for Mr. and Mrs. Bucket to approach the renowned chocolatier with such an odd request…well, they'd thought it an odd request. Mr. Wonka had greeted their timid question with full blueprints for where the house would be situated. The old one's had been delighted with it afterwards. Well who wouldn't be? A view of a chocolate waterfall right outside your window, the smell of melted chocolate…
Of course they'd been given more rooms in the factory. In fact, every room in the factory had been given to Charlie, but the sheer enormity of that fact had left most of the family scrambling for something smaller to latch onto, and they'd instinctively declared a handful of the rooms "theirs", thus preserving sanity and a small space for normality. A thing which had, of late, been in short supply for the Bucket's.
Of course, in the domain of Willie Wonka, chocolatier extraordinaire, normalcy was relative. Especially when he'd put the Oompa Loompas in charge of the interior decorating, with him managing the overall operations. One room had been decorated in yellow. Everything in yellow. The bed, the dresser, the wallpaper, the paint… the light bulbs had been covered in a fireproof yellow plastic sheath. There was a rainbow room, which looked like a normal room, done in a pale blues, until you flipped on the special overhead lights, which sent streams of light down through hanging prisms and turned the room into the very picture of the sky after a storm. There was a Brownie Room, which seemed to be completely normal, and was never used by anyone for fear of finding out why it wasn't. Then there was the Buttercup Room, which had prompted Mr. Bucket to say, "Oh, but I thought we already had a yellow room?" Mr. Wonka had given him one of his strange, considering smiles, and then silently push the door open to reveal (of course) furniture made of nothing but living buttercups that seemed to be planted into the walls and floor. There were several more rooms like this, some perfectly amazing, and some perfectly insane. But none of them were quite as beautiful as the Peacock Room.
The Peacock Room had been found by Mrs. Bucket, whose initial hesitation at exploring it was probably based on her rather unusual experience with the Buttercup Room, however the Peacock Room turned out to be one of the most amazing, rather than distractingly impossible, rooms in the factory. Inside was a shadowed and bejeweled paradise, probably inspired by Mr. Wonka's travels to the Far East to build for Prince Pondicherry. Gauzy curtains seemed to separate as you came in and enclose you in a sweet smelling haven from the world. Small twinkling charms and wind chimes occasionally flashed or sounded as flowing cloths were pushed aside to bring you further into the room. The name for the room appeared to come from the two gigantic carved Peacocks that guarded the base of the large, plush, four poster bed that seemed to dominate the floor. Rich, silken, amethyst colored sheets were obscured at first by the lilac colored curtains hanging from the top of the bed to the floor. A quick pull on a satiny cord drew the curtains back like magic, with the sound of silk sliding on silk that had caused Mrs. Bucket to shiver even in the heat of the factory.
The room was made for just one thing, so it shouldn't be any surprise at the tangle of limbs that had fallen onto it weeks later, and many times since then. Even now a breathless moan escapes from behind the lavender shade, where butterfly kisses flit over pale skin, and soft caresses ghost over heated flesh. Lips are following those hands pressing soft here, and hard there, stopping for a nibble occasionally before moving ever downward. Hands seem to be everywhere. On backs pulling up, on stomachs pushing down, twisting into hair, and crammed into their owners mouths to stop the moans from escaping. Hands here and there and everywhere lips were pressing into sweet flesh, until, like heat seeking missiles one pair found its mark and then…bliss.
Some time later, when breathless moans still trembled in the air, a pair of dark and still unsated eyes looked up from its steady task and watched with interest the reaction every stroke of his pink tongue caused.
"Here's an idea," he murmured, in that happy, almost effeminate tone, "Helena flavored Hot Chocolate mix." He started slithering up the sweat slicked flesh, trying ineffectually to lick his lips clean when another pair met his own and began to help. Stubble scrapped his chin as a pressing mouth and tongue cleaned all traces of the sticky fluid away and left him breathless and even more desperate.
"I'd certainly buy it," said Mr. Bucket, and then the tangle of hands and lips begins again.