#ch: wonka

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'And I believe this may call for a proper introduction--'

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CAPRICIOUS FAE AND WHERE TO FIND THEM; OR WHY WILLY WONKA IS THE WAY HE IS.

Ok I guess we're finally doing this lmao. My Wonka specifically is fae, which is why he acts as he does. Capricious. Lacking in empathy. Shifty. Along the same lines as Mary Poppins and Jareth, he also has rules he must follow. He has never harmed a child by his own hand, physically. And he wouldn't tbh. Instead, the rules dictate that instead he simply gives them an opportunity to stray and harm themselves.

If his instructions are followed-- especially the little throwaway ones that don't sound important-- then there is nothing to fear. So to speak, he just opens the door; they're the ones who walk through it and face the consequences. He also doesn't think like humans do, and can be entertained quite easily with clever games with smart enough adults. But it isn't unheard of him to subtly use those conversations to lead them astray; aka referencing the ability to wish a child away to the goblin king while in earshot of a disillusioned older sibling of a baby, so that they try it later and send the baby to Jareth etc.

Words and phrasing are extremely important to keep an eye on when talking to him, both yours and his. He is very adept at setting verbal traps and letting people misinterpret and end up paying for it later.

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Okay but Wonka's expressions in the background of this tantrum are a whole fuckin MOOD

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i made this for when wonka was gunna have his own blog but it goes here now lmao

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wonka, watching a child run full tilt towards a giant industrial rotating fan with no safety barriers, after repeatedly stressing to them not to run inside for exactly that reason:

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@wearenotthesameasyesterday // wonka & stephen

"Historically, goblins are much brighter than children." That wasn't much of a feat, but still, a mark in their favor. The comment framed with a kind of deadpan undercurrent that question whether he was sure he really wanted the latter back, considering. To each their own, he supposed.

"The Goblin King's reign over the labyrinth is absolute, and over all in it whom he owns." Head tilted, hands folded atop the cane in front of him; seemingly only fractionally listening as he watched oompa loompas scurry about across the river that wound through the factory like busy little bees.

But Jareth didn't own it yet, did he. Not until the chime of the clock sealed the contract and the transfer of ownership was irrevocable. Neither the child, nor the soon-to-be previous owner of said child, yet belonged to him. The latter simply need recognise the illusion of power to shatter it.

"Reality is but a product of unchallenged belief." A cryptic key could still turn a lock, if used correctly. Unlike his own very different machinations, Jareth's employment of the finer points of confirmation bias were as easily torn through as swiping a hand over a fogged window; hinged on the belief in his absolute power. It was just almost never realised in time.

Misplacing a child and then being given time to simply realise that all you need do to retrieve it was to tilt the mask instead of blindly accepting illusion for truth, made it a character flaw to lose the game and forfeit the child by default.

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tbh wonka only has to give children 'fair' warning. if ur an adult and click the Don't Show Me This Again pop up on the fae pop up box by either not listening or actively implying that u don't want to hear it, then that's ok and if u fall into a furnace or drown in the chocolate river, that's between u and god

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@thiingswelose (x)

An odd duck, he was, in this slightly tilted world. A presence instinctively accepted by people in the same way they accepted tricks of the light and the misplacing of objects, worthy perhaps of a double-take sometimes but otherwise brushed off as belonging. Wonka, the eccentric, who seemed to come and go as unpredictably but expectedly as the sun coming and going from behind cloud.

Easily assigned a box by minds that were content in their place in the world, or their idea of it.

"For the listener, who listens in the snow-- and, nothing himself, beholds-- Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is." The quote was low and far away, his eyes seeming to unfocus where they looked over the horizon; poetic cadence flawless in timing and pace over the borrowed forgotten phrase.

"The things we do for children." Hand adjusted on the handle of his cane, his attention returned as if it had never strayed. "What was the price?" He could be as easily asking of the coffee, or much more existentially, but either way at least it was a question threaded with light curiosity.