This is an idea by LoLman290:

"a bratty student messes with the art teacher after school time, shit goes bad real fast because the techear turns the kid into a drawing or art piece."

Part One:

Part Two:

Her transformed victim stumbled to his feet within the reproduction of Whistler's Mother on the far wall, staring out at her in panic. She swung her brush, hurling an arc of wet varnish towards the painting. John dived to the left, vanishing out of the frame and tumbling into the still life that hung beside it. His pink, peachy ass scattered the peaches in the fruit bowl, and he sent a carefully posed vase of sunflowers flying as he raced along the table and out the other edge of the painted tableau.

His nubile body was fast, dextrously leaping over whatever obstacle presented itself with each subsequent image. He was always one step ahead of her brush. She pursued her prey along the walls in growing anger, tearing aside desks to get at him, while he dipped from image to image with the ease of a man darting between rooms.

He squeezed through a life drawing, three men she'd repainted into a trio of obese, female nudes in a surrealist style. Their trapped voices echoed up from their frozen bodies, cheering him on as he fumbled between their mangled limbs and cubist curves, urging him to run faster. Enraged, she hurled the tin of varnish. It splattered against the canvas a moment too late. Her victim was gone.

She looked this way and that, scanning the many paintings and photographs that lined the walls of her classroom. They were varied, many of them replicas of great classics into which she'd worked the poor, unfortunate souls of any who annoyed or challenged her over the years. As a teacher, there had never been a shortage of such unfortunates. Nothing moved within those frames, their occupants long ago sealed and immobilized. But there were few places a fat-breasted Goddess could hide within the stuffy subject matter of the old masters.

"Where did you go, John?" she called. "Where do you think you can go? I'm the only one who can make you real again. Are you going to spend the rest of your existence hiding out in paintings, hm?"

A minuscule movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Beside the door leading to the hallway hung a replica of an old Parisian landscape, the Boulevard of Capucines. It depicted a broad Parisian boulevard, so crowded that the people were rendered in generous dollops of paint that blurred together. She squinted. There. In the very background, caught in the center of the scene, was a pea-sized glob of skin-colored paint. It looked for all the world as if it had always been there, just a dried stipple. But then it twitched. It was him! The dried glob slid sluggishly across the canvas, pushing its way through the crowd in desperation to reach the rightmost border. One more jump would put him beyond the boundary of her classroom. But it would take a long minute for him to reach freedom.

She tapped a fingernail against the pathetic, helpless dribble of dried paint as a sadistic smile split her face. "Varnish is too kind for you," she whispered, setting aside her paintbrush. "Let's see how you like paint thinner."

She quickly gathered a beaker of acetone from her teaching supplies, and a spatula to scrape him off the canvas. She turned back just as the school janitor entered, throwing the door back to obscure the painting. "Don't mind me, just emptying the garbage," he said jovially, blocking her way.

"Move!"

"No need for that, I'm just doing my job," he replied, startled, reaching for the garbage can with infuriating slowness.

She ducked under his arm. The animate pink blob was gone from the canvas. She darted into the corridor. Stretching in both directions, the walls were hung with student artwork, photos of past college football teams, and portraits of old principals. He could be in any of them. She knew he'd escaped.