Scaramouche had always had a sort of talent.. The rare ability to read another person’s mind, hear their deepest thoughts - a psychic. Just like he could hear yours today at the bus stop, cold rain pouring over you both as you await the vehicle’s arrival.

Scaramouche’s jaw tightens, his indigo-eyes flicking to you for a mere second. Your thoughts were.. incredibly lewd.

“Hmph.” The pale boy turns away, tipping his hat over his face to hide the flush that settles.