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it’s natural to desire (something shiny)

Summary:

Sooyoung’s eyes are locked on hers and Haseul watches as Sooyoung’s eyebrows tick up in realization and her face contorts into a sneer. “Oh, you’re sick. You’re so fucked.”

or: Haseul ruins Sooyoung's painting; Sooyoung ruins Haseul's life.

Notes:

based, at least in part, on very real stories from actual art students.

Work Text:

Monika stalks around the room, nodding mysteriously at each canvas. Haseul doesn’t mind this part the way others do. She knows what comes next—no one else had Monika’s attention like her. Haseul’s art high school had trained her for this. She knows her mark making outclasses the rest of the kids by miles, knows how to talk about her work, knows that Monika likes her best.

“Sooyoung,” Monika brushes past her. “Amazing progress this week. It’s a gorgeous look at transient grief.”

Sooyoung bows graciously, pleased grin on her face. “Thank you, professor.”

Haseul stares at Monika’s back, waiting for her own praise, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Monika continues to discuss Sooyoung’s piece, pointing out details to the rest of the class, but it all fades into a dull buzz for Haseul, who keeps glancing back at her own. She knows it’s good. She knows she’s the best. She’d never had to pay attention to any of the other students. But when she looks at Sooyoung’s piece, she sees it for what it really is—a foothold on the climb to her future giving way, cracking and crumbling off the cliff face.

Monika dismisses the class, but Haseul remains rooted to the ground, face pale with anxiety.

Monika approaches her, resting a hand on her shoulder. Haseul looks up at her hopefully. What she gets is, “be careful, Sooyoung is coming for your spot as my top student.”

It feels like a boot on her windpipe. She can’t breathe. When she reaches up, the cliff face is smooth. Then Monika is gone, leaving her alone in the classroom.

Haseul approaches Sooyoung’s painting. She has to admit that it’s beautiful. Sooyoung’s figure is loose, blending into the background in some areas, popping out in others. There are places Sooyoung has built up her paints almost sculpturally on top of the canvas. It’s all risk, and clearly it has paid off.

Haseul’s own piece doesn’t have the same bombast. It’s beautiful, sure. Haseul knows she has a deep understanding of glazing. The skin of her subject—herself. She’s always done self-portraits—is delicate, almost translucent in appearance. The shifts in color are ethereal, exactly as she’d envisioned them. It’s an exercise in subtlety.

But the longer she stares at Sooyoung’s work, the more it taunts her. No matter how much Haseul paints about her transition, romanticizes herself the way the old masters did cis bodies, everything about her work is derivative. No amount of trans identity would push her work as far as Sooyoung could push hers.

Haseul doesn’t know what comes over her next. She picks up a tube of titanium white and squeezes a daub onto a paintbrush. She paints a slash through the subject, cutting it in two, and steps back, staring at the damage.

She’s barely registered what she’s done when she hears footsteps coming down the hall. She doesn’t have time to drop the brush or hide. Instead, she watches in horror as Sooyoung rounds the corner and freezes in the doorway, eyes locked on her ruined piece.

Haseul watches the slow crawl of Sooyoung’s eyes from the slash to Haseul. She watches as Sooyoung spots the paintbrush in her hand. She can’t move as Sooyoung realizes what she’s done, face twisted up in anger. She finds her legs are locked as Sooyoung makes her way towards her. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Sooyoung spits, eyes still flitting between Haseul and the painting.

Haseul sucks in a breath when she feels herself getting lightheaded.

“I could have you expelled for this.” Sooyoung hisses as she takes the brush from Haseul, throwing it onto the studio floor.

Haseul scrambles back, the severity of her action washing over her. She stutters out some discombobulated apology. She doesn’t even know what she says. Sooyoung stalks over to her. She doesn’t stop when Haseul thinks she’s going to. She doesn’t stop until Haseul’s back hits the wall. Instead, she pins Haseul with a cool stare and a finger digging into her chest.

Haseul’s never been this close to Sooyoung before. Not that she’d thought about it. It’s just that she’s surprised at the freckles she can see on Sooyoung’s face at this distance, even below the angry flush. 

Haseul knows she should be terrified. This is her whole life. Everything she’s worked for is about to end. She knows she’s good, and could have had a career. 

All for that one paint streak. She feels Sooyoung’s breath ghosting against her skin and her eyes dip down to her lips. 

She realizes what she’s doing as soon as she glances down, but it’s too late. Sooyoung’s eyes are locked on hers and Haseul watches as Sooyoung’s eyebrows tick up in realization and her face contorts into a sneer. “Oh, you’re sick. You’re so fucked.”

“I’m sorry,” Haseul whispers. She can feel tears at the corners of her eyes, but she won’t let them fall.

Sooyoung eyes travel all over her face, expression still one of cruel humor. Then it softens as Sooyoung leans in. As if to kiss her. Haseul’s eyes flutter shut.

No kiss comes. Of course it doesn’t.

She opens her eyes to Sooyoung looking at her appraisingly. “You really think I’m going to kiss you, huh?”

Haseul flushes. Her heart is pounding, has been for the last few minutes, and she feels faint as she presses her hands back into the textured cinder block wall.

Sooyoung walks out.


It weighs heavily on her, the lead anchor of dread tied tight around her neck, pressing on her chest when she tries to sleep. And yet, sleep wins sometimes.

Even then, there isn’t peace. Sooyoung meets her in dreams, figure jabbing accusingly, shouting to Monika about what she’s done. And every time, Haseul finds herself with no alibi; the brush is still in her hand.

And sometimes it’s worse. Sooyoung is silent sometimes. Walking Haseul back into the wall. Kissing her, all rough and cruel and teeth hard against Haseul’s jaw, her neck. Then she drops to her knees and Haseul shoots up in bed, wide awake and jumpy.

She looks terrible. In reality, she knows she’s probably not any worse than any other student in Monika’s class, where they’d had to do one rough sketch a week and produce six fully rendered paintings over the semester. 

Haseul is ahead with hers. She could afford an off week. Just enough time to apologize to Sooyoung, prostrate herself at her feet, get her life back, whatever it takes. She snaps her vine charcoal against her canvas and has to take a deep, calming breath to resume.

The sketch isn’t coming together. She blinks hard, surprised at the tears that spring to her eyes. She’s not ready to say goodbye to this. She loves it too much.


Haseul comes to the next class with her sketch tucked under her arm. It’s her weakest yet. She detours to the corner easel, far from the front and center one she usually puts her work on for critique. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as she adjusts it.

Then Sooyoung comes waltzing in with a swagger that turns almost sneering when she meets Haseul’s eyes. She puts her painting—another finished painting done in just a week—carefully on Haseul’s usual easel.

And then, as suddenly as ever, Monika claps her hands and starts critique.

In critique, there’s nothing worse than a silent room. Because even bad art that has some hope will garner comments from students. But boring art with no clear path to improvement? 

Haseul swallows heavily as silence greets her sketch. She can feel Sooyoung’s eyes on her and she has to remind herself not to look up.

Monika approaches her piece. “Well,” Monika stops to gather her thoughts. “I’m going to be honest, Haseul. You can do better.” She walks to the next easel, leaving Haseul in the aftermath of no critique at all.

Haseul vaguely remembers giving a throwaway comment or two to other students’ pieces, but she’s not present. Her mind is spinning. She’s disoriented now that she’s realized she’s used it all up, skill, inspiration, whatever.

Then Sooyoung is up and Haseul’s breath catches in her throat at the same time her face flushes in anger and embarrassment.

It’s impressionistic for sure. All Sooyoung’s loose strokes and pops of vibrant straight-out-of-the-tube colors. And yet, it’s unmistakably her.

Haseul sees her own half-up bob and the faded lighter tips staring her down, and she self-consciously pulls the hairband from her hair to hide the similarity from anyone else before the crit starts.

“What emotion is this?” Someone pipes up from the back of the cluster.

Sooyoung’s thesis, portraits of emotions, is certainly not the most original. Haseul had thought it was basic for weeks. Sooyoung had proved her wrong.

“Fear.” She replies.

Haseul’s lungs feel like they’re being squeezed.

Haseul doesn’t hear the other comments from the students, everything fading to the background as she sees herself from Sooyoung’s perspective, small and trapped and scared, backed against the wall.

Then Monika speaks. “This is fantastic, Sooyoung. You’re really experimenting with nuance in this one in a way I haven’t seen from you before. The way you’ve rendered the figure is almost sensual. There’s an element of desire—”

Haseul’s ears buzz, and she blocks out the rest of Monika’s comment, face burning and eyes jerkily traveling the canvas a second time. The worst part is, she can’t help but see it. She understands what Monika is saying.

She can’t help herself, her eyes travel to Sooyoung, who stares back at her with wide eyes, like her intimidation tactic had backfired. But it hadn’t, had it? Haseul is still terrified.


“Haseul, can I talk to you really quick?” Monika calls her back 

This is it. Sooyoung had told Monika after all. An ugly sob tries to claw its way up, but she crams it down. She doesn’t deserve it. Instead, Haseul nods and dutifully joins Monika in front of her sketch for this week, just like any former best student would.

“You’re having trouble this week, huh?” Monika says, matter-of-fact as usual. Haseul braces for the impact. It doesn’t come. “You’ve branded yourself into a corner, but you don’t have to. You’re a student. I’m honestly waiting to see you push your own limits.”

Haseul nods again, not sure what to say. Mostly, she’s reeling from the relief. She’s still a student. She hasn’t been asked to pack up and never return.

“Look at the way Sooyoung pushes herself.” Monika says. 

And Haseul feels the boot on her windpipe again. The windedness from failing to catch up. It’s always Sooyoung.

“It is Sooyoung.” Monika says, studying Haseul curiously. Haseul flushes when she realizes she’s said that part out loud. “I pit my students against one another when they need to be compared to push their work. I’m assuming you didn’t know I’d told Sooyoung you were the one to beat, too. And now she is.”

Haseul swallows. It’s bitter to hear it from her teacher. Suffocating almost, to realize that she really isn’t the top student anymore. That she needs to learn from the real number one. And, almost in parallel, it’s startling to know Sooyoung must have felt the same. She’d come from a public school, not the art magnet school Haseul had, but she’d been good—great, even—since freshman year. She’d been hungry, too.

Monika rests a hand on her shoulder. “I’d like to see you bring that raw passion Sooyoung has. I think it would add a lot of interest to your classical training.” She smiles. “Make it edgy, even.”


Haseul freezes at the door of the studio when she sees the only other person inside. Sooyoung is nodding her head to the music playing through her headphones. It’s not too late for a Haseul to turn back, and she almost does, but it’s easier to paint here than it is in her tiny single dorm room, and she cannot fall behind anymore than she has already. So she takes a deep breath and trudges in, setting her canvas on her easel and taping her references to the frame, resolutely not looking over at Sooyoung.

If Sooyoung notices her, she doesn’t show it, so Haseul is able to pretend to ignore her as well, setting out her charcoal kit to refine her sketch. That’s when she makes the mistake of glancing over at Sooyoung’s space.

There, in the corner, is the grief painting. She’d recognize it in an instant, the visual of the white streak through it seared into her retinas. Except the slash isn’t running through it anymore. Sooyoung fixed it, painting over top so only a slightly raised ridge is visible.

“You’re lucky I still had the palette. It’s the only reason you’re not packing your bags.”

Haseul jumps as Sooyoung’s voice comes suddenly from next to her. She scrambles back to get some space in between them. Sooyoung is tall, and she towers over Haseul less from this distance. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She’d been wanting to say that for a week, and it feels good to get it out.

“I bet you are.” Sooyoung murmurs, expression inscrutable. She takes a step closer, tilting her head and studying Haseul’s face.

Then, “you painted me,” claws its way out of Haseul’s mouth.

The corner of Sooyoung’s mouth ticks up. It’s not enough to be a smirk, but it feels like Sooyoung is laughing at her anyway. “Oh? I didn’t notice.” She takes another step forward, and Haseul takes a matching step back.

“But you—” Haseul is interrupted when her back hits the wall. Sooyoung doesn’t stop her approach, though. She comes to a halt barely a foot from Haseul. Sooyoung smirks. Then, she very purposefully looks down and back up at Haseul’s lips. 

It’s the only warning Haseul gets before Sooyoung kisses her, hard and cruel and unforgiving. All teeth and tongue and Haseul can only gasp into it, welcoming it. 

She reaches up to run her fingers through Sooyoung’s hair, but Sooyoung yanks her hands away, slamming them against the wall. Haseul wonders passively if there’ll be bruises on her knuckles tomorrow.

“I was wondering what revenge would look like,” Sooyoung whispers into the kiss, “but everything I could come up with made you a victim, and I just couldn’t stand that.” Sooyoung presses herself against Haseul. “Then I remembered how much you wanted this in the classroom last week.” She smiles. It’s pretty even if it doesn’t reach her eyes.

She leans in again, and Haseul closes her eyes for another kiss, only for Sooyoung to nip at her jaw. Haseul groans and tilts her head to give Sooyoung access.

Sooyoung isn’t a kind kisser. She’s all teeth and fingers pressing hard into her sides. She’s cruel even, maybe especially so, as she sucks a hickey onto the juncture between Haseul’s neck and shoulder, undoing the top two buttons of Haseul’s blouse to trail her lips further down Haseul’s shoulder.

She sucks until they hurt and Haseul is caught between squirming away and leaning into it because it’s penance and she wants Sooyoung’s lips on her anyway.

Sooyoung presses her lips to the top of Haseul’s breast and Haseul whines, giving up on holding back, and pushes her chest forward.

“So I thought about it.” Sooyoung murmurs into her breast, “Why would I ruin the painting when I could ruin the artist and subject in one fell swoop?”

She bites at Haseul’s collarbone just hard enough to get a pained sound from Haseul before she straightens back up and turns to walk back to her easel.

Haseul slumps against the wall, staring after her, but Sooyoung doesn’t acknowledge her again. She brings a hand up to touch one of the hickeys and winces at how tender it is.


Haseul shrugs off her shirt and stares at herself in the mirror topless. Now, several hours later, the hickeys have bloomed to their full potential. Angry and purple, they stand out starkly against her skin, and she runs a finger over one, wishing she could just wipe them away.

She swallows, wondering if there’s enough concealer left in her make up kit to cover her neck and shoulders.

Or. Or maybe…


Haseul sets up her camera, adjusting her tripod with practiced efficiency. She’s glad that at least some part of this feels familiar. She angles her camera down to her bed and turns on the light she’d rented from the tech desk to get her favored Rembrandt lighting.

She flips the viewfinder so she can see herself as she sits on the edge of her bed and takes off her shirt. Even on the tiny screen, the hickeys pop, punctuating her neck in brilliant maroons.

Haseul lays down, settling into a usual pose for herself, lying on her side in a way that accentuates her curves and allows her small breasts to look more full. She hits the remote shutter and stands to view the result.

It’s a pretty picture. Haseul cannot deny that she loves the way she looks in this pose. But it’s not new. It’s not edgy, and Haseul knows it will bore Monika, even if she paints the hickeys in.

Edgy. With the same sensuality that Sooyoung had imbued her last painting with. She needs to be better than Sooyoung.

Haseul swallows. She goes to her underwear drawer and digs through to find the jockstrap she’d gotten as a gag gift from her friend. She’d never had a need for it, only put it on once or twice to look at herself in the mirror, same as she does now, stripping the rest of her clothing off and sliding it up her legs, repositioning her package in the pouch so it fills it out.

She looks pretty like this. She turns to the side to admire the way the straps cup her ass, digging into her flesh subtly. She looks sexy. 

She lays down again, getting herself into the same pose before she shifts her legs back to reveal her bulge in the bright blue pouch of the jockstrap. She readjusts herself again to make sure it’s not too perky. Then, studying the tiny viewfinder, she lays a hand face up on the mattress, inviting the viewer to join her.

She only has one viewer in mind as she presses the remote shutter.

She’s a little worried it’ll be too much, but she figures she can always tone things down in the painting process, so she connects her camera to her computer and sends the image to print.


Haseul paints this one in her bedroom, window propped open and fan blowing, instead of braving the studio. She pretends it’s because she wants this to be a surprise for Sooyoung, but she knows the truth is that she cannot survive another encounter with Sooyoung like the last one.

Haseul would balk if anyone called her paintings sterile, but she’d admit that she maintained a sort of distance from the canvas. She’d chosen to paint herself, but the viewer didn’t need to know everything. This is different. She knows it is as soon as she’s laid the sketch down.

The painting process is easy. She knows herself, the highlights and shadows and exact ways to mix the colors she needs for her skin. It’s the most familiar part of this. 

She swallows as she mixes the rich blue she needs. She almost leaves it the flat, unshaded blue, wondering if the rendering will make it vulgar, but she can’t—no, she doesn’t want to—back down. Not when she knows it’s her best piece yet. She can tell even now, in its incomplete state.

Raw. That’s how Haseul would describe it as she stares at the finished piece. The fan is still blowing at it, urging the dry time, and Haseul’s eyes linger on it every time it catches her attention from the corner of the room. She’s glad she’d left her face out of this one. It’d feel like too much, too confrontational with her stare, she thinks. As it is—the hand reaching out, the waistband digging into the flesh of the hips and drawing the eyes down further, the relaxed twist of the body—it’s perfect.

And she swallows as she admits to herself: the splotches of hickeys marring the plane of her chest make it complete.


Haseul places her painting on the center easel, her rightful place. She takes a deep breath, standing back from it to admire the work a final time before she made the rounds to see the other students’ work—just to be polite. Then Sooyoung comes in, cheeks flushed from the cold and breath coming out in short huffs.

Haseul sees the moment Sooyoung lays her eyes on her piece. She watches shock flash over Sooyoung’s face and she has to press her lips together to suppress her smirk. Then she watches Sooyoung’s expression turn hungrier, just for a second before she looks away, a flush high on her cheekbones. She crosses the room to a table and unzips her portfolio bag, pulling her own piece out, then she walks towards Haseul, steps sure and precise, and places her painting on the easel next to Haseul’s—an unspoken challenge.

And when Haseul looks over her piece, the radical colors, the thick, fearless strokes of paint forming a beautiful composition and a familiar subject, her gut twists.

“Don’t think this is over.” Sooyoung whispers to her.