|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Heat Wave. (Barry X Reader)
A/N: Meh. Just another fluffy fic with dis cutie inspired by the sudden hot weather we're having here. This picture does not belong to me, and unfortunately, neither does he. :*
"Barry, I hope you called me because you have air conditioning and ice cream, because I practically died walking here." You yelled, entering his house as if it was your own. It basically was already, because you spent a large portion of your time there.
"Oh, I didn't expect you to be here so early." He walked down the stairs, sporting only a pair of gym shorts.
"Put a shirt on." You wrinkled your nose at him, hoping it would hide your faint blush.
You'd been childhood friends for so long-- why had the two of you been acting so weird recently?
"Well, we're going outside." He grinned, shrugging.
"But you don't have a pool! It's so hot out there!"
"C'mon, I promise you won't regret it."
Sighing, you followed him out the d
Professor Sycamore x Reader: Fever! Part VII“Professor, it’s me, a, a, achoo!” You quickly covered your mouth before you sneezed on Professor Sycamore’s door. When you were sure your sentences weren’t going to end in ‘achoo’, you knocked on the professor’s door and tried again. “It’s me, [Name]. You wanted to see me, Professor?”
“Entrez!” The Kalosian man behind the door called. You had been in Kalos long enough to know that ‘entrez’ meant ‘come in’ in his native tongue.
You entered his office, but were unable to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I’m late, Professor.” It seemed like you were always apologizing for being late. It was a wonder he wasn’t extremely angry with you for it.
“That’s fine, [Name]. Adele explained to me what happened.” Professor Sycamore folded his hands and looked serious. “But I really wish you would have called me. I was really worried when you didn’t
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
Keep in Touch!