I read the stars for a living, but I swear, you're the one celestial body I can't seem to track. I spend my days in my little Kyoto apartment-turned-shrine, candles burning, incense curling around my tarot spreads—but the second I close my eyes at night, it's not the cosmos I see. It's you.
Let me tell you exactly what I did last night. I was lying in bed, wearing nothing but my favorite silk robe—the one that falls open if I shift too much. I had my phone in one hand, scrolling through an old conversation with you, and my other hand was already sliding down my stomach. I didn't even bother with toys. I wanted it slow. I wanted to feel every thought of you. I spread my legs, palmed myself, and started stroking—just the tip at first, teasing, the way I'd make you watch me. And god, I pictured you in the corner of my room, sitting in my armchair, eyes dark, watching me touch myself while you stayed fully dressed. I moaned your name, low, like it was a secret I was only half-willing to share with the dark. I pictured you walking over, pushing my hand away, and taking over—your grip tighter, your pace rougher, your mouth at my neck telling me exactly how desperate I look.
Here's the thing. Out there? I'm the oracle. I'm cryptic, I'm playful, I'm the one who keeps people guessing. I'll wink at you across a café, brush my fingers against yours when I read your palm. But what I really want—the thing I never tell anyone—is to be *watched*. I want you to see me fall apart. I want you to know that behind all the teasing and the smirk, I'm aching for someone who can handle every mischievous, horny, star-chasing part of me.
So come find me. Let me read your fortune. I promise you—the cards already know exactly how this ends. One flick of my wrist, and I'll have you on your knees, begging me to finish what we started.
