WW&tCF (OC) - FR: Class War - 'Mr. Pratt'

WW&tCF (OC) - FR: Class War - 'Mr. Pratt'

Meet Mr. Cornelius Twat Pratt: teacher of the 'Class for Excellence' (it's just the upper set), Mr. Turkentine's long-standing rival, and avid John Lennon kinnie. also he's designed after matt berry.

There are two things that piss this man off more than anything: 1) That the Beatles split up (of which he is in a support group for) & 2) That Charlie Bucket, a member of Mr. Turkentine's class, won a Golden Ticket and the entire bloody Wonka factory.

Also, Mini-fic for the art:

Pratt stood at the front of his pristinely perfect classroom, nothing out of place but the slightly unkempt children sitting in front of him. His shorter-than-average bulky frame was far more apparent when measured up to the height of the blackboard, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for with a presence that took up more space than it had right to. "Good morning, Class. And Congratulations." His words had an odd cadence to them, almost like they weren't being pronounced correctly... "You are the chosen ones. Those deemed worthy enough for a chance to be the best. And if you're in my class, you Will be the best." His lips unfurled into a toothy, smug grin. "Why?" The mentor stretched out an arm, equipped- oddly- with a conductor's baton instead of the usual pointer or ruler. With a loud clack, Pratt slammed it against the blackboard, the words 'Win.' written gorgeously in cursive chalk. "Because you have one purpose in life: to Win."

Pratt lowered his baton, mouth forming an almost pout, eyebrow raised. "Failure is not on the curriculum. Perhaps for other classes- 7A, 7C, and damn well sure 7B" a slight growl slipped into tone for the last, but very quickly dissipated. "Never 7S."

In his white turtleneck and light blue-grey suit, he looked more like a fancy CEO giving a pep-talk than the teacher of a rather lower-tier comprehensive school. Pratt closed his eyes, and broke into an almost mocking tone. " 'How am I, a small weakly child, to raise to such ranks' you may sing out in desperation. Follow me, and you. will. find. your. answer." His grin dropped, a serious tone, and outstretched his arms, "So long as you are in this class, I am your God. Your Messiah. And if you fail me, you'll surmount to nothing. Understand?" As he looked out at the children he would teach for the forthcoming years, a chant of 'yes, sir' perfectly in tandem- likely out of intimidation, albeit- he could only feel power coursing through his body. Turkentine stood no chance.

CatCFember - Day 18 - Only the Stars Turkentine/Bill - (written to this song)

'England, October 8th 1971. Two men share a silent moment in the dead of night, just to be.'

The night was dark, and bitterly cold. It often was in their humble town; the winters felt like they grew harsher each year, draining colour the streets could barely afford…

But not this year. This year felt different.

Perhaps he was still recovering in the wake of recent commotion- a candyman can only take so much- but he could have sworn the nights had grown warmer since October 1st. Like something had changed in preparation for a new era, like the streets were less dreary, the frost less numbing on his skin.

But there, then, as he sat in the middle of a pitch-black field, on the most remote hill, Bill did not care whether it was freezing ice nor scorching heat. There, then, as he sat under a sky with no moon, with a man deemed his sun: nothing else mattered.

David rested his head softly against his partner’s shoulder, a tired silence shared between the two. As they stared upon the horizon, both were lost more in their own thoughts than the silhouette sea of barely-legible houses. Other than the factory that never slept, no one in their right mind would be up that late; at least, no one with nothing to hide. No one like them.

The two older men were each other's secret, and only there, only then, in the dead of night on a pitch-black hill, could they find a moment’s safety in eachother’s cold embrace.

No. Out there, only the stars knew.

there are two other asks in our inbox, and i promise we're not ignoring them, we just like doodle or fic replying to Factory Rejects asks.

Have some Turkentines. Because his face is really fun to draw.

Biblically Accurate Oompa Loompa.

me, joking about a shitpost ship of the math teacher / the sweetshop owner from Willy Wonka: haha that's funny.

me, thinking about it: Yeah, but... Mr. Turkentine- a man who dislikes kids and sweets- complaining about his schoolkids to his partner. Bill- a man who adores kids and runs a sweetshop- softly teasing in response because everything he's saying is amusingly ironic, and he's heard the same complaints a million times before yet doesn't care because he loves him and that's just a part of it.

me, really thinking about it: Having to pretend they're 'good friends' because this is the dawn of the 70s, and being gay had only just been decriminalised, it was 2 years from being stricken as a disorder, and was still considered a 'deviation'. Two men who work primarily around children, would have to be so incredibly secretive about their love, only seeing eachother when there are believable excuses present, meeting only when the shop is closed for the night, but doing it anyway because that's just how it had to be.

me: ... fuck I think I ship it unironically.