Untitled: Riarkle Fic

Note: Okay I have a few prompts that I am still writing and totally blanking on but in the meantime I decided to post some Fics that I have in my Drafts/On my computer. You don’t have to like this, it’s more of a BroTP Riarkle so…Enjoy :)

[Sorry For The Mistakes]


Riley’s missing. That is what Farkle woke up to early one morning.

Topanga was on the phone with colleagues hoping there were some officers that would be able to help her. Cory was out looking, Lucas and Zay along with him. Auggie was searching her room look for any clue as to where she may have gone. Maya was scared. Of course, she hadn’t said so but to him, she was an easy read. Your best friend going missing is something you don’t take lightly,  

Farkle tried to help in any way he could. He helped Topanga make calls. He sat with Auggie while he cried. He got Maya moving and he made calls on his father’s behalf (His dad gladly offered up his helicopter to the Matthews).

Why would she do this? The question on everyone’s mind. No one knew. Not Lucas. Not Maya. Not Her Parents. Hell, he didn’t even know. That’s what worried him the most. Riley would never just run off without reason. Without telling or taking someone with her.


He gets the call a little after 3AM.

“Riley.” No response. Both Topanga and Auggie are looking over at him now. Their actions are long forgotten. “Riley. Are you okay?”

“Farkle.” She breathes out. “Farkle can you come pick me up.”

“Riley where are you?” He presses the speaker button so that they could hear her as well. Auggie is right beside him now and Topanga has her phone away from her ear. Even from where he’s standing Farkle could hear the sound of Mr.Matthews on the other line.

“Don’t tell anyone. You can’t tell anyone.  ”

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Cigarette Daydreams (Version 2)

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 827



A/N: Listen to Cigarette Daydreams here!

Y/E/C = Your Eye Color

Dean’s knuckles go white as his grip tightens around the leather of the steering wheel, the speed needle inching past the 85 mark as he races down the wet backroads, rain drops splattering on the windshield.
He was a fucking coward. He knew it, and now you would, too.

But when he pulled up to the restaurant–already ten minutes late because he practically dug a trench in the garage floor from pacing back and forth, his hand in his hair as he debated with himself if he should even go–he saw you sitting at a table next to the window, a yellow flower (your favorite color) stationed in the middle.

He just stood there, the sky misting around him as he watched as every time the door opened, you would turn in your seat, your eyes wide with hope that he had arrived before slumping back in defeat when he didn’t walk through the door.
He watched as you kept glancing at your watch, the minutes of loneliness ticking away.

Before he even knew what he was doing, his feet were carrying him back to the Impala, the keys in the ignition before he could turn back and see your disappointed face once more.

“Such a fucking coward!” He growls as he slams his hand against the steering wheel.

He faces monsters, ghouls and demons everyday, but he couldn’t face you.

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