Uuugh That Smile After He Says, "You *are* Beautiful," Just Makes Me Melt.

Uuugh that smile after he says, "You *are* beautiful," just makes me melt.

my babies 🤍

cr. IG the_goodfilms

Little pony!

Timmy things in movies (+in interviews) 15/x: the head thing

SAOIRSE RONAN, TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET Entertainment Weekley / 2019 › ph. Collier Schorr

poems, cherry pie, chocolate roses and teddy bears.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Reader

Word Count: 5,200

Warnings: Implied smut.

Summary: Willy Wonka and Reader share their first Valentine's Day together.

Author's Note: Sorry that this is a day late. I meant to have it posted yesterday, but I was at work until 4pm and was too tired to edit it for posting. There are some very specific and personal aspects to this fic, so don't let that throw you. I hope you enjoy<3

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

Love was in the air.

Outside, the sun had risen and bathed the landscape in liquid gold.

The sweet scent of chocolate and the much more understated perfume of fresh cut roses wafted through the private living quarters that you and Wonka shared inside the factory. 

It was Valentine's Day and your heart was outpouring the color of love as red as the roses Wonka had given you, bursting at the seams he had so lovingly sewn shut when he found you split open, wounded by hands which were meant to hold you, not rip you apart. 

This was your first Valentine's Day with a man who made you feel loved and desired, whose needs were no more or less important than your own; you had not experienced such a foreign concept in a romantic relationship.

You and Wonka were equals. 

This was not to say, on any given day, there were not times when one of you took or gave more than the other, but the gentle reciprocation made by two hearts which had found homes within each other’s chests assured that both of you knew that you would always be there for the other. 

The factory was awash in a sea of pink and red as last minute shipments were made to shops all across town. 

Wonka had given his Oompa Loompas the night off and once the last of the Valentine’s chocolates were out for delivery, he and his beloved workers would make merry with friends, family and lovers alike. 

Far too many years had Wonka spent Valentine’s Day alone; such a rare treat was it that this particular year, when he had finished with his work and was free to return to his private quarters, there would be a recipient for all the love he had yet to give. 

He was eager to be with his lover, a spring in his step as he strode through the halls on his way back to you. He had let you sleep in so that you would be lively and well-rested for tonight. 

It was within his usual habit to be gone to work by the time you woke and this morning had been no different. Only today before he left, he came back into the bedroom after he was dressed and sat on the bed beside you. He admired the peaceful expression on your face as you slept, leant down and pressed a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear,” he whispered lovingly in your ear, his gentle voice reaching the inner depths of your dreamworld and tinging it with its melody. 

You had cooed in your sleep, mumbling a tired reply that only he understood though the words were unintelligible. He stroked your hair and left you to your slumbering; he pulled the duvet up around you a bit more before he made his exit. 

Wonka left a gift for you to wake up to. 

On your nightstand, he carefully arranged a bouquet of red roses and a new chocolate bar he had created that was meant to be a limited edition specific to Valentine’s Day. Tucked in amongst the petals was a note: ‘If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.’ 

The last thing he had left for you to find was a love note that you spent the first few moments of your day reading and rereading because his soul was so breathtaking—his thoughts flourished like a beautiful garden dedicated to his love for you.  

His words transported you to the garden inside his imagination and, if his chocolate room was any indication of the raw beauty living inside his mind that had already been sifted out of him, then the thoughtful flowers that grew in his head bloomed in colors not even you could possibly dream up even though you were the only one who knew his mind at least half as well as he did. 

You took his words to heart as you took the bouquet with you to the kitchen to find a vase and a prominent spot in your living area so that you would be able to always see them when you were home.

Home.

When had you determinedly made a home with him?

It was a concept far too vast and all-encompassing for you to make sense of it on its own. 

You and Wonka had lived together for a while, yet it shocked you to imagine that this was now what you considered your home. 

You remembered how many nights you had returned to your empty house, before you had met your beloved chocolatier, and walked through the door only to be met with deafening silence. A silence brought about by loneliness you had not wanted to admit you were feeling. 

You had not been actively looking for a partner to share a life with, but on nights like those, you often wondered what it must feel like to return home after a long day and be met by the warm smile and then open arms of a lover. 

It never failed to bring a tear to your eye—past the tears, you could not envision it ever becoming your reality. 

You had never been so relieved to have been proven wrong.

The end of your days were now spent with Willy Wonka, instead of sitting by yourself in a space too big for one person and thinking about how long your days seemed when you were solely responsible for getting yourself through them. 

Wonka was not there to solve all your problems, but the single fact that you knew you could rely on him for advice on major life decisions, comfort, reassurance and the fulfillment of romantic love helped immensely.

You had grown so tired of being on your own; you wanted a love that celebrated your individuality yet did not leave you with a gaping hole in your chest that should have been occupied by another. 

You did not know when you started believing in soulmates, or if you ever had. 

All you knew was that Wonka was the only person whom you had never felt alone with while he was standing right beside you and that was enough to convince you that you had made the right decision.

When Wonka returned to your living space, the first thing his eyes landed on was the rose bouquet now sitting on the coffee table, housed in a crystal vase with fresh water. 

A pleased smile creased his face as he hung up his coat and hat, “oh, darling~!” he sing-songed, “where are you, my love?” 

You came around the corner as soon as you heard his voice, “Willy!” 

You ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck as he leant forward and kissed your cheek, hugging you to him in the warmest embrace that had ever held you. 

“There’s my love bug,” he chuckled as you peppered his face with kisses, “what have you been up to?”

When you finally let him go, he saw your smirk before you took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen, “I made you something.”

“Is that a fact? Hm, well, what is it that you’ve made for me, my dear?”

Once inside the kitchen, you grabbed your oven mitts and opened the oven door, reaching in and carefully extracting your creation. Wonka stood at your side, gazing over your shoulder as you placed a cherry pie aside so that it would have plenty of time to cool before serving after dinner. 

The handmade latticework crust was golden, flaky and baked to perfection; the smell of warm cherry filling made his mouth water. 

“Oh, darling,” Wonka wrapped his arms around your midsection, embracing you gently from behind, “I can’t wait to try a slice. It smells divine. Thank you, my dear.”

Another lingering kiss was left, this time behind your ear and your smile grew, “you’re welcome. I thought I’d take it upon myself to make dessert, since you’ve been adamant all week about cooking for us both tonight.”

“It’s the very least I could do, dearest,” he crooned into your ear with a glint in his eye that he knew you could not see from your current position, “even though I do still have a few more surprises for you.”

You suppressed a shudder of excitement as your mind began to conjure ideas of what he might have in store. There was no telling what else he had put together and you were thrilled by the very thought; you had your own secrets to keep and so you stowed your excitement for the time being. 

You had put plenty of careful forethought into your plans for the holiday, but deep down, your fear of falling short had begun to simmer. It had been years since you last celebrated the day of love and you were uncertain if your heart was ready to love like this again. 

‘A heart’s only job is to beat,’ Willy used to say to you when you felt afraid to love him, ‘if not for love, then for what? A life without love, in any capacity, is merely an existence.’ 

He was right and you knew it well. 

Rarely was your Wonka ever wrong about love and yet you couldn’t help but wonder why he had let himself lose his way, locking himself away from the rest of the world for so many years. 

You would not judge him; it would have been wrong for you to do since you yourself were no stranger to self-isolation. You felt that you functioned better in solitude and you had eased yourself into your little protective cocoon, shielded from the outside, safe within yourself. 

Every little step brought you further and further out of your shell; you had settled gradually into a domestic little life with Wonka and you felt as comfortable in his company as you did in your own. 

You both were well out of your comfort zones, trusting one another in ways you had not trusted another soul since you had each learned to guard your hearts rather than offer them willingly. You and Wonka had both learned from painful experience to protect your weak spots and show them only once you had verified that who you showed them to was not a threat and, in this day, proving such was a near impossibility. 

That was why Wonka developed “tests” of reassurance; rather than words, he wanted a person’s actions to follow through with the words they used. 

You never minded him testing you. 

Where you needed verbal reassurance that you were loved, he needed physical examples.

You were closer to understanding yourselves just by understanding your different needs and what each stemmed from, but for now, you did not let your mind linger on it for too long. 

You tried to be careful, to protect your heart because it would not sustain another fracture, could not continue to beat as it once did if it were to lose any more little pieces. 

For Wonka you would have carved your heart right out of your chest and given it to him if he asked. 

That kind of love was dangerous if the wrong person received it, but nothing about Wonka could have been more right. 

The love you shared sometimes took your breath away and it was all you could do to refill your lungs again with precious air once you recovered enough to remember how to breathe after looking in his direction a bit longer than necessary. He filled you with emotions, sometimes ones you would rather not feel if you could avoid them. He had become special to you gradually, the same way a seedling sprouts from the ground and grow up towards the sun, but unlike the flower whose petals will wilt and die, waiting until spring to germinate once more, your love for Wonka was eternal and bloomed in vibrant colors even in the coldest and darkest of days. 

***

Wonka had such a keen eye for detail. 

He put his entire heart into his creations, no matter what they were, and the fruits of his labor were sweet with success. 

Fortunately for him, Willy Wonka was a lover of love itself; he had no trouble devoting himself and his love to you wholeheartedly.

“I had created these in the greatest of secrecy,” he began, “just for you.”

Dinner had long since been finished. 

As promised, Willy had cooked a meal for the two of you. 

Afterward, you helped him clean up and gave him a hand with the dishes, then the two of you retired to the living room to let the food in your bellies settle while you snuggled up together on the couch and exchanged gifts. 

Wonka sat to your right; his left arm was draped around your shoulders as he gently guided you into the security of his embrace. He watched over your shoulder as you unboxed the gift he had seemingly materialized out of thin air and placed into your hands the second you had sat down. 

You stripped off the golden ribbon which had secured the packages’ contents and maintained the privacy of the gift. You lifted the lid on the dark plum box and revealed three chocolate rose blooms, each approximately the size of your palm. The petals were made of the finest and highest quality chocolate, rich with the decadence and love that Wonka poured into them. 

A small gasp left your parted lips as you gazed at the edible roses; they were far too beautiful to eat. 

“My god…you actually made these?” 

Your reaction filled him with pride. 

He nodded in reply, letting out a little chuckle as he spoke with a much humbler tone than his internal monologue, “of course, darling.”

You had not meant the question literally—you were well beyond shocked by his capabilities, even though you knew without a doubt that he was a mastermind. He was an artist whose medium is chocolate, sugar and sweets of all kinds. If he were to choose not to make a special treat for his beloved on Valentine’s Day, then what a waste of talent that would be. 

At least, that was what he would have told you. 

“Go ahead,” he whispered in your ear, sending another little tingle down your spine as his warm breath tickled your sensitive skin, “try it.”

You scoffed, “but I want to savor it! Don’t rush me.”

“If that’s what you want, dear. But I can always make some more.”

Wonka leaned a little closer and kissed your cheek, his actions getting a little giggle out of you. 

A warm, pleased smile lit up his face at the sound as you voiced your happiness. He adored the sound of your laughter and would try to make you laugh as much as he could, but right now all it was telling him was how happy you were to be thought of for once. 

He had put his time, energy and love into each gift. It did not matter what he got you or what was made—you would treasure anything if it came from him. 

To you, Valentine’s Day wasn’t about who got the biggest or most expensive gift. It was about the consideration one had for their partner and their desire to show it. 

Wonka went the extra mile for you because he wanted to and that was what made it special, not the gifts themselves. 

“I got you something too,” you began and your voice had taken on a sheepish tone when you spoke these words to him. 

Your timidity amused him and he tilted his head, “have you?”

“Well, actually, I made you something,” you corrected yourself, “I decided that might be best since, you know…it might be more special.”

What do you get for someone who already has everything he could ever want?

The words almost left his lips, but Wonka stopped himself. 

His gaze lingered on you as you shifted into a different position, facing him now rather than leaning into him. He wondered what it was that was making you so nervous, but he chalked it up to the experience itself. 

The last time you had given yourself wholeheartedly to someone on this day, you were taken advantage of. 

Wonka had known you long enough that you had felt comfortable divulging these painful details to him and his heart ached at the thought of how much it had hurt you to put on a brave face. 

You did not have to do that with him; he could see everything that you were and he loved you, for better or for worse. Your honesty meant the world to him and even if you ever crossed paths with someone who did not, Wonka always would. You could say anything to him and it would not have changed a thing about how he felt—true love was never conditional.

His hand tentatively reached out and rested on your knee, a comforting gesture of reassurance that he knew you appreciated. 

“I wrote you a poem,” you said with uncertainty.

“A poem? You mean…you wrote me something?”

At first, you were afraid you had said something wrong, but you pushed through the initial discomfort to ask, “is that alright?”

“Darling, that’s more than alright!” he exclaimed, “that’s perfect! Now, let’s hear this poem of yours.”

His positive reaction was enough to put you at ease long enough for you to take a small piece of paper out of your pocket and unfold it. You cleared your throat and decided you wouldn’t look at him until you were done reading. 

Your face grew hot and you could feel his eyes on you, but you pushed through your discomfort because he deserved this. 

He deserved your words—he deserved to know that he influenced your creativity as much as you influenced his. 

‘My head is a garden of

chocolate roses and dream water

and the waxing moon is a pink goddess

whispering deliriously 

how in love you are

with me.’

You spoke again to fill the silence after you were finished, “I know that’s only one, but I…there’s more. I just—”

“Darling, that was delightful. Almost as delightful as you are,” Wonka gently lifted his hand and brought it to your cheek as his thumb swiped lovingly across your skin, “the only thing that I can think of that I want any more of right now…is you.”

He coaxed you into him, his arm winding its way around your shoulders again as you leaned into him. 

Hot tears pricked your eyelids, but both you and Wonka chose to let the emotion be. 

“I had no idea you were such a poet,” he whispered to you, one hand massaging your back while the other stroked your hair, “I have to say I am quite eager to hear what else you’ve written about me.”

He was starting to feel inadequate, as silly as it would have been for him to admit, because you had just unwittingly given him the greatest gift he ever could have hoped for. 

To learn that he had become your muse was almost too much for him to handle. 

Your words were tattooed on his heart and in his mind where he would never forget them. 

“I’m happy you liked it.”

Relieved. 

You were relieved that he liked it. 

You had wanted to do so much more for him, but what could you do that would encompass everything you felt for this man who had captured your heart and kept it safe right next to his own? 

What price could be put on the love you shared?

Your love was priceless, so what better means of devotion was there other than your own creativity? 

After all, Willy Wonka was who he was because he dared to dream his creations to life. 

The very least you could do was follow his example, but instead of using your craft to speak to the rest of the world, for now, the only ears these words were meant for were his. 

***

A quiet evening together was all you had wanted—nothing could have been more perfect. 

After the gift exchange, you cut two slices of cherry pie and the two of you enjoyed the dessert together before tidying up your space a little before having a shower. 

You had successfully coaxed him into joining you in the bathroom. 

You and Wonka rarely had time to share your personal care routines, but you had decided to take the day at a much slower pace than what was typical. You wanted to savor every extra moment you had together because after tonight you’d be back to the usual busy schedule you each maintained. 

It bothered you to wake up to an empty bed every morning, but Wonka had a factory to run. 

He wasn’t not around because he didn’t want to be and occasionally you had to remind yourself of that. 

He would remind you as well, especially on nights like this.

He held you close in the shower, the heat rising between your bodies as you pressed together under the water while droplets clung to and condensed upon the glass. 

Sharing this little life with him was enough to satisfy you.

You didn’t need fancy things, gifts or opulence to bring you joy. Wonka was your happiness and you clung to that as much as you clung to him, steadfast and tightfisted, afraid to let go. 

He didn’t mind. 

Wonka was elated to be loved so deeply by someone he valued above most. He did so much for you because he wanted to show that he cared as much as he said it. 

Speaking of love was only just enough to open the door; Wonka intended to step over the threshold. 

You both took your time with your nighttime routine, spending as much time in as close proximity as you could; you could never have enough of him. The gentle brush of lingering touches as you each carried out your routine side by side made the longing bubble up inside of your chest. You felt overwhelmed by it at times, when you could feel the need surfacing again, and all you wanted was to lose yourself in him. 

Time did not allow for it very often, but when you had the chance to sink into him, you fully submerged yourself in that love.

After your shower, you and Wonka retired to the bedroom.

For once, you weren’t feeling worn out or exhausted and you were looking forward to resting in your lover’s arms. The chance to talk to him for an extended period warmed your heart and left you buzzing with excitement. You day did not often allow for you to be so candid with your lover, to talk to him privately for as long as you wanted. You were both busy, but this holiday was for and because of the love you shared and there was nothing that was going to stand in your way, not even the ever-present need for sleep. 

Wonka cradled you, your head resting in the crook of his arm as you spooned against him. His other hand caressed you, rubbing up and down your side or lovingly tracing his fingers over your arm, watching with an amused grin as goosebumps rose upon every inch of your flesh that he touched. You were so sensitive to him, your body swaying with the waves of his love that crashed upon your shores, undulating ripples that lured you into the deep wild ocean until he caught you up in a riptide and you were swept away in the current. 

Your love was not always like that: rough and frenzied like that of the ocean. 

You wanted a love like the lazy river, face upturned towards the sun, floating through life with him in soft currents of blue that mirrored the hues in his eyes. 

He nuzzled you, his nose trailing along the curve of your jaw; he adored holding you like this. 

Everything about this moment was perfect—he wouldn’t change a thing. 

“Did you enjoy your special day?” Wonka asked, his velvet voice cloaking you the same way that you imagined his plum coat did to him and made you feel safe and warm on the inside.

“It was our special day,” you gently corrected him, “and of course. The best part was getting you all to myself, at least, earlier in the day than I normally do.”

“I apologize for being absent, my dear,” his words were emphasized with a kiss to your temple, “I promise to find more time for you. You know as well as I that we both want that.”

You nodded, feeling the tears beginning to well up in your eyes and the lump forming in your throat that you had learned to speak around as if it were a part of your dialect and speech pattern, “We do. I need you, Willy. Now, perhaps, more than ever.”

Your words resonated within him. You were right and he would do his best to give you what you needed. 

“My heart has always needed yours, my dear. I just didn’t know it.”

His words pulled you in and you kissed him, full-blooded and passionate as the air inside your bedroom climbed several degrees. 

You dug your fingers into him, pulling his heart apart like plump fruit flesh you intended to devour. 

In a flurry of blankets and pillows, you were on top of him.

You eased into his embrace, breathing him in like spring air after the wild heart of winter had claimed you for far too long; it was his summer sunshine gaze that was enough to thaw the ice inside your chest and make room for you to open up, a sweet, fresh blossom whose petals have yet to touch sunlight, to him. 

***

Your passionate lovemaking continued throughout the night, several strenuous sessions stretching across the span of a few hours were broken up by warm conversation that connected you to him more than than feeling of having him deep inside you. 

It was now reaching nearly 2am.

Valentine’s Day was over, but true love did not exist for just one day. 

Wonka was exhausted; what he lacked in stamina, he made up for in passion and charisma. 

You curled in against his body, your back curved and tucked in against his side as he caught his breath for the third time that night. 

You both had been vulnerable with each other in ways neither of you could have ever imagined with anyone else. It was enough to say that just by sleeping in the same room, you trusted Wonka more than perhaps any other man you had ever met. 

Wonka’s standard gentle voice, albeit a bit strained now, filled your ears, “I believe it is time we called it a night, my dear.”

You could not have agreed more. 

Your reply came in the form of a tired yawn and you gave a long, full-bodied stretch as you settled in next to him more solidly. 

You could have sworn you heard him chuckle before his hands pulled you in and spooned you against his front. A few more kisses were laid lovingly upon your arm and shoulder as he got comfortable in this position. One of his forearms wrapped around your middle, his shirtsleeve riding up to reveal the faintest dusting of fine sand-colored hair. 

Wonka held you to him, listening to your breathing even itself out as you slowly drifted off into a deep, comfortable slumber. 

Once he was certain you were asleep was when he got himself out of bed. 

He crossed the room to the closet, opened it and reached in for something. 

He brought the item back to bed with him, circled the bed till he was at your side and gently lifted your arm off the mattress so that he could place a teddy bear in your grasp while you slept. 

You would awaken at some point the next morning and find it cuddled close to your chest; he was excited to watch your reaction to the plush teddy once you realized it was there. 

The teddy bear was dressed in matching attire to Wonka’s signature outfit and was even clutching a golden ticket in its paws. 

He smiled at the sight of you snuggling up to the stuffed toy, nuzzling into its fur and even in your unconscious state he knew you could tell that it smelled like him. 

“Something for you to snuggle with while I am away,” he whispered as he leant over you at the same time and tenderly stroked your hair.

He went back to his side of the bed and climbed in, pulling the duvet up to your chins as he settled back into his spot. 

His arm wrapped around you again, mindful of the teddy bear in your arms. 

He would be here when you woke up so that he could see your reaction, but for now, he was ready to sleep. 

Wonka hoped you had had as good of a Valentine’s Day as he had. 

You deserved even more than Wonka could give you, but he would stop at nothing just to try. 

He had to try for you, as much as you tried for him, because it was enough. You were enough for him and even though he knew who he was and was proud of that fact, he still felt inadequate from time to time. He wanted to be the best version of himself that he could be, because you deserved nothing but the best. 

Though no amount of wishing made things a reality, Wonka had learned that even simply trying was enough to create something beautiful, even if it was not what was initially intended. 

You came as much of a surprise to him as did his beloved creations; he had gotten lucky and built something beautiful with you and he would treasure you and your companionship for the rest of his life. 

He was content to spend quiet days like this next to you. 

Neither of you needed fancy things; you needed each other, like the sun needs the moon or like flowers need water. 

One could not survive without the other and as cliché as it sounded, Wonka still believed it because he had never stopped believing in what his mind told him. 

After all, who would he have been without the thoughts in his head?

He did not have to think too hard anymore.

With you in his life, inspiration was abundant. 

You were his muse and his world was painted with colors he could never have seen before meeting you. 

Cupped gently in your hands was where his heart was meant to be. 

Lulled by thoughts of his beloved, the sweet scent of you filling his nostrils and your gentle snores reaching his ears, Wonka closed his eyes and finally allowed sleep to wash over him like the tide.  

Little Women (2019) dir. by Greta Gerwig

HELPPP I SAW AN EDIT WHERE ITS PAUL ATREIDES SAYING "SILENCE!" AND IT CUTS TO ANAKIN LAUGHING AND SAYING "no" HELPPPP WHY IS THAT SO CANON LIKE I COULD SEE HIS SASSY ASS SAYING THAT LMFAOOOO

I FOUND IT - HERE 😭😭😭😭😭

hELPPPPPP his laugh HES SO UNSERIOUS