spinea corona || rosamona

spinea corona

it was always late into the night when mona's mind began to wander.

it usually happened when she was halfway through her constellation column in the steambird. sometimes it would happen earlier, sometimes later, and sometimes not at all. she can't tell if she prefers the wandering thoughts or not.

sometimes, when she looks out her window and rests her hand upon her cheek and takes a good, long look at the stars, she sees her constellation. and then her mouth runs dry and her skin is set on fire and her mouth hangs open in a little "o". remembrance is a warm emotion.

sometimes, all she gets is a cold wash of desire. sometimes, her body will tense and her fists will clench and her lips will be pursed. she'll twirl her hair between her fingers like a schoolgirl with a crush. and she'll feel lonely.

desire is a cold emotion.

today, mona begins thinking later than usual. the moon is high into the sky, and the candle she uses for light is burnt halfway. today, her thinking begins with a bitten lip and pulled hair.

writing the column this time has proven to be particularly frustrating. she's explained numerous times that only constellations attached to a vision have names, yet people still don't seem to understand that simple concept. but, at least she's almost finished. hopefully she'll come up with the rest in the morning.

and, as it sometimes does, her gaze turns towards the sky. she's very aware of where her constellation rests in the sky this time of night, so she pointedly avoids looking in that area. for a time. eventually, her eyes stare at it against her will.

tonight, mona rests her hand upon her cheek, and her mouth runs a little dry and she purses her lips. it's a cruel mix of warm and cold. she shivers.

if she closes her eyes, she can almost feel her hot breath against her neck. can almost feel cold claws running through her hair and she sighs dreamily. she feels the ghost of those claws on her thighs, and bites her lip.

gorgeous, says the ghost of her memory.

mona frowns.

the memory of rosaria continues across mona's skin. she almost feels the featherlight touches dragged slowly down her forearms. almost feels her mouth – warm – against her stomach. the light peppering of kisses that leave her giggling and breathless by the end. and she can perfectly picture the image she'd burned into her mind in that moment – rosaria's fond smile as she gazed down on her.

huffing and snapping herself out of her daze, mona tidies up her area. she tucks her quill away with her inkwell and lays out her scroll to dry by her bed, on her nightstand. and then, she blows out her candle.

(470 words)