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In their sophomore year, MJ starts wearing makeup to school.
Eyeliner, at first, goopy and runny and too thick at the start but she gets better at it, a steadier hand, paints her strawberry blonde eyelashes thick and lines her eyes like a cat. Then eyeshadow, pale golds and pinks and silvers to match her swishy skirts, and blush to color the apple of her cheeks and hide the freckles she’s often embarrassed by. Foundation, mascara, other things that leave her glossy and colorful and too perfect to look at for more than a heart-stopping second; she spends her allowance and the money she earns waitressing on nice products, spends hours watching make-up tutorials online. Gwen hears her when she laughs about it in the halls, when her friends ask her where she got that nail polish, that eyeshadow.
It makes little difference, at first. MJ’s always been the Pretty Girl, the one that turns heads left and right anywhere she goes, and Gwen, for the most part, hasn’t cared one way or another. It’s a stupid cliche, that Pretty Girls should be hated or loved just because they’re pretty; MJ’s smart and funny and nice and fiery, who cares if she’s pretty with or without makeup? There are a thousand more important things in life than what color your eyelids are.
But then -
Well.
It’s the lipstick that does Gwen in.
When Mary Jane Watson walks into their science period with her mouth painted pale pink, the same pearly color as her nails, Gwen’s breath catches in her freaking throat, and she thinks oh no, oh no, oh no, RED ALERT and has a moment of total, dreadful panic when her heart starts to race when MJ glances over her way. Oh no.
Because she’s not going to be that lesbian, okay, the one obsessed with the straight girl. MJ’s got Flash, Peter, any boy she wants. Gwen’s got... vigilantism, in her after hours. A 3.8 GPA. That cute girl who flirts with Spider-Woman whenever she swings by the hot dog stand on the way home from school. She’s too busy to be an idiot, even if MJ is amazing.
But she can’t stop staring at MJ’s lips. Can’t stop imagining what it might be like to lick that lipstick off of her mouth, smudge it, bite the color into the column of her throat while MJ laughs and clings to Gwen’s shoulders as Gwen pushes her up against the door of the science lab. It gets so bad that Gwen thinks she’s going to have a minor heart attack every time MJ even looks at her, all pink and yellow and gold. And the pink is bad enough, especially when MJ nibbles at her lower lip in the front row of class, her red hair flowing like a banner in the wind where it cascades over her shoulders, her French-tipped nails tapping lightly at the cover of her textbook. Gwen likes the pink, likes the way it brings out the sparkle in her green eyes, the flush of color in her cheeks that brightens whenever she laughs.
But then she starts wearing red, bright red, and Gwen nearly dies on the spot when MJ leans over and says something with her mouth ruby-red and pulled into a smile, and Gwen is only a (spider) human, okay, she can’t be blamed for staring at MJ’s mouth when it’s so red and inviting and soft looking, bright against her white teeth, red like roses and red like Gwen’s favorite sneakers and red like MJ’s curls.
“What?” she asks, her mouth dry, and MJ laughs. There’s a spot of lipstick on her front tooth. Gwen wants to lick it out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you?”
MJ laughs again. “I asked if you had a pen,” she grins.
Gwen’s face burns. “Ah,” she says, “that is - yes, I mean, I do. I - I think. Hold on.” She sticks her hand into her book bag, praying for a miracle, and nearly wilts in relief when she comes up with two pens. “Red or black?” she asks breathlessly, looking at MJ.
Red, she thinks. You’re a red, red girl. I’ve always liked that about you.
“Red,” MJ says, and smiles, a dimple popping in her left cheek.
Gwen swallows heavily and hands it over, blushing clumsily when their fingers touch. She drops the pen in MJ’s palm, watches her painted nails curl around it, slender and dainty. Gwen can feel her heartbeat in her throat, fast and thready.
“Thanks, Stacey,” MJ smiles.
“You’re welcome,” she mumbles, her ears hot, wishing she was half as smooth as Gwen as she is when she’s Spider-Woman.
MJ spends the entire class with the end of the pen stuck between her pursed lips. Gwen has no idea what their lecture is about, or if there even is a lecture; she spends the entire time daydreaming about smudging lipstick.
If MJ ever notices the attention, she never says a thing. But sometimes -
Well, call her crazy, but sometimes Gwen almost thinks she sees MJ looking back.