The Art Teacher's Project
Martin Wegner x fem!reader (teacher)
warning: kissing, fluff, mutual feelings, obsessive behaviour, no use of Y/N
Summary: In the sleepy little town of Monschau, where boredom was almost a way of life, not much ever happens. Well, she certainly wouldn’t have thought that her colleague Wegner was harbouring a little secret amongst his art supplies...something she shouldn’t have seen. Something that, however, doesn’t deter her feelings for her colleague but only strengthens them.
Word count: 2215
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Just another day in the small town; the alarm went off far too early, the smell of freshly brewed hot coffee wafting from her kitchen whilst she was still half-dressed, torn between her pyjamas and her everyday clothes, getting ready for the school day ahead.
The chaotic pile of worksheets for her class’s English lesson was half hanging out of her bag; she could deal with that later, as coffee and a sandwich were more important for now.
She shook off her tiredness as she took the time for breakfast; after all, the next few hours would mean dealing with grumpy teenagers who barely spoke English and were working on their assignments.
There were pros and cons to her job here: the pay was more than decent, and, being close to nature, it was equally peaceful – though, to be honest, a bit too boring, and there wasn’t much to do.
But she knew any doubts she had would fade away once she saw her colleagues again.
The man she’d had a crush on since she’d started here at the beginning of the school year, Martin Wegner.
Her colleague, just a few years older than her, a friendly loner who taught German and art and whose interest lay in the pupils’ well-being – at least those who were being bullied – unlike all the other teachers who were happy to turn a blind eye and sometimes even joined in themselves.
No matter how dreadful the mornings were, as soon as she locked her front door, the pleasant morning air reached her and she set off for school, a short walk of no more than 15 minutes that took her practically through the whole village.
A sleepy, quiet place, with a chemist’s, a baker’s and a butcher’s, and the rest somehow fell into place, surrounded by woods and a river.
Passing a few of her pupils, greeting neighbours and avoiding the tourists as much as possible, the large building came into view: old, stone-built, the Kafka Gymnasium still standing.
The first colleagues were standing outside or were already inside the school; here and there a few waves and greetings as she made her way inside, the chatter and bustle in the corridors now a familiar sight.
That didn’t matter, however, as she passed the art room on her way to her classroom, just as she did every day.
“Good morning, Martin” she knocked on the doorframe and leaned slightly into the room.
There was always a hint of the smell of wood and paint in the air, fitting for his subject; as the brown-haired man turned to her, he had just written the date on the blackboard.
Her joyful smile was contagious as he wore his glasses; his blue eyes looked at her.
“Good morning, nice to see you” he replied, and, having apparently finished writing, took off his glasses.
The thin silver frames suited him; his slightly tousled hair truly made him a chaotic, artistic genius, even if the word 'chaos' didn’t really fit him.
Blue eyes that lingered on her body for a moment; an inner thrill as she was glad that he seemed to like her too, looking at her as if she were one of his beloved works.
As if she were his muse and he her favourite artist.
A brief silence as the moment was interrupted when the first pupils entered the room.
“I’ll see you later” he said, his smile fading briefly, knowing he had to slip into his role as a teacher, and put his glasses back on as she, too, gave him a brief nod before heading back out into the corridor towards her classroom.
Like every morning, her students seemed to make the greatest effort to still be asleep, not to speak English, or simply not to have learnt the vocabulary.
At least she managed to get through the listening comprehension task before the lunch break.
“Don’t forget, we’ll continue in a moment!” she called after them, but they had all already rushed out, seeking the fresh air of the courtyard.
Sighing, she grabbed her cup, locked the classroom and made her way to the staff room, a small room with just enough space for half of them, the highlight being a coffee machine.
“Tiring?” someone suddenly appeared beside her, a voice she knew only too well, and she couldn’t help but smile a little.
“You’re getting more and more rude every time” she replied to Wegner, who nodded in agreement; she saw a cup in his hand too and knew they were all on the hunt for caffeine.
So close to him, his steps light and confident, the scent of his room still clinging to him slightly even though he’d taken off his glasses, which he wore only occasionally.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, and she looked away hastily; her staring was embarrassing, for goodness’ sake, they were both adults, not pubescent teenagers.
“Sorry...the look of your lesson” she stammered, pointing to the small traces of paint on his hand, and he followed her gaze.
Something flashed in Martin’s eyes - something she couldn’t quite grasp - as he stuffed at least one into his trouser pocket, as if she’d caught him red-handed, as if the art teacher wasn’t allowed to have any paint on him.
Yet it seemed to be something else—but what? “I’ll see you later” he said, and instead of going into the staff room, Martin headed towards the toilets.
She was left alone in front of the staff room.
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Usually she always enjoyed her hot fresh coffee and bread rolls, and the brief moment of peace before the final lessons of the morning began.
Today, knowing that she had alienated Martin – or so she thought – she had never seen him act so coldly towards her before.
He sometimes showed this coldness and aversion to his other colleagues, but he had never shown it to her...Wegner was always nice to her.
He was the sort of teacher who kept his private life strictly separate from his work, at least as far as his duties were concerned.
Trying to distract herself with the tasks of the last lesson, she handed out the worksheets, discussed grammar and found herself, like the pupils, waiting for the last few to arrive.
When the bell finally rang, the pupils jumped up and left their papers lying there; she thought to herself, Finally, the day’s over and rose from her chair.
Yet a sigh escaped her once the pupils had left. She could leave the papers there now and sort them out at home later, or she could collect them now.
Summoning her last reserves of motivation, she began to walk down the row and collect the papers, placing them in the pocket of her coat before she could finally lock the room.
A certain calm had slowly settled over the school; most of the pupils were gone, the teachers scattered in the corridors or had already left themselves, and she could hear the jingle of the headmaster’s keys in the distance.
Making her way down the corridor, she couldn’t help but pass the door to the art room every time, and normally it would always be locked – but not today.
She stopped abruptly now that she was already in the corridor; feeling slightly odd, she peeked inside.
“Martin? Are you still there?” she asked as she took her first steps inside, the door slightly ajar.
Hardly anything had changed; it was a bit tidier, the chairs at the tables and the windows closed, everything as usual.
Perhaps he’d forgotten to lock up… but a glance at the desk revealed something else.
Next to his leather shoulder bag, which was on the chair, there was an art portfolio on the table itself.
His work the thought flashed through her mind.
She looked around to make sure he wasn’t there, then ventured towards the portfolio, her heart pounding, the silence oppressive as guilt washed over her.
There was a reason he’d kept it in a portfolio; only he was working on it and didn’t want others to see it.
She should simply have walked away, just out the door and back to her home, and forgotten all of this.
Curiosity overcame her shame as she opened the portfolio; good-quality drawing paper beneath her fingers, she gently turned the pages to see the solitary pictures.
The first was a pastel landscape of a house in the woods by a river, with beautiful details rendered in fine lines. The second was a small acrylic painting of a fish, reddish-blue, swimming by a plant, almost moving with life.
Two beautiful pictures, different styles, a talent that suited him, spoke for him. It could have ended there, but when she held up the third picture, she paused.
The third picture was a delicate, elegant pencil drawing: a woman sitting on a table, her upper body covered by a blouse which was, however, unbuttoned so that one could see her breasts.
Her right leg was draped over her left, yet with a small visible gap that still left her sex exposed.
Her delicate eyes were alive, with an almost expectant expression, as if she had surrendered herself entirely to her artist.
It seemed so lifelike, as if the artwork, the individual pencil strokes, were about to start speaking to her; a beautiful piece – yet the face, the eyes, the hair, even the faintly suggested birthmarks – all of it was her.
Anyone who saw the drawing could have seen it on her body just like that...Martin had drawn her.
Questions swirled around inside her – uncertainty, but also hope and flattery.
The fact that he had painted her like this, imagined her like this, as intimately as possible, went far beyond a simple model for a picture.
Lost in the picture, in the realisation of what he might feel for her, of how he saw her, she flinched in fright when a hand had wrapped itself around her and roughly pulled her hand away from the paper.
“You shouldn’t have seen that!” Martin had appeared behind her, something raging in his blue eyes; she hadn’t heard him come in, and his steps were quick and silent.
“I’m sorry-I’d called you...I didn’t want to look” she replied hastily.
Wegner had taken off his glasses; his blue eyes looked up at her, and a sigh escaped his lips as he tried, no doubt, to calm himself.
The fact that she had discovered his things was highly problematic, yet Martin did not let go of her hand; his grip was firm, not letting her escape.
“These are beautiful pictures” she began, turning back to the drawings.
Martin gave her a slight opening, pressing himself lightly against her; he was still standing behind her, pressing himself just a touch tighter against her.
“It wasn’t meant for your eyes” his voice cold, his breath warm behind her as his other hand rested on the desk, enclosing her even more.
“My own likeness?” she hesitated to ask, her fingers gliding back over the drawing, and the dark-haired man averted his gaze when she caught him looking.
Martin pulled away slightly; she turned towards him, took his fingers from her, and saw that he had washed the paint off.
Her heart, full of excitement, beat as she took his hand instead; knowing he could pull away at any moment, she stroked his fingers.
“Don’t be ashamed of your talent...it moves me to know that you see me this way” she confessed, feeling the heat, the closeness between them, his gaze shifting from the drawing to her, lightly over her body, her eyes and lips.
“You...don’t you find it repulsive, sick?” Martin asked the question hesitantly; in his expression lay that something again, that mystery, that peculiarity he carried with him when he drove home and was never seen in the village.
As she shook her head, her heart beat faster than his; he began to smile, a breathless laugh escaping him as he shook his head slightly and murmured something before his hands cupped her face, ecstasy flashing in his gaze before Martin drew her into a passionate kiss.
The artist, at last, had his muse, his obsession, who haunted his thoughts.
How could she ever have shied away from him when he was so perfect?
Her own fingers clung to his shirt, unwilling to let go of the one to whom her heart had been lost; she sighed as he pulled her towards him, her body pressing against his, and she could feel his thrill.
His fingers traced lightly over her body.
“My work of art” he murmured, slightly breathless, as they broke from the kiss. It was on this day that something finally seemed to happen in the village as the two teachers left the school, two beating hearts.
Two full of love, hers full of joy and his full of excitement.
Who could have guessed what an intense passion the two of them might reach, now that the artist was united with his muse.
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