Pete, The Asshole (Pete Wentz X Reader)

Fuming (part one)

((Pete's POV**))
"C'mon, You're Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz! You can do this!" I said to myself, looking in the mirror. I was getting dressed for school today but it was no ordinary day. No, it was the day I would ask Y/n out on a date. It's been a few days since we kissed and she's ignored me ever since then. Not being mean, just ignoring me.

I wore a red flannel and a beanie, still having my fringe hang out. Eyeliner was a must. Y/n said she hated it but deep down, she knows she loves it.

RING RING RING!

First period, fuck. I ran up the stairs with a coffee in hand, trying to get to my English class. Halfway up the steps, I saw Y/n. Gosh, she looked pretty today. She had flowers in her (h/c) hair. She wore high waisted pants and a crop top that had tiny radios on it. It hugged her body in all of the right places. She was talking to a Patrick?

But it didn't look like they were just talking, they were hugging. Y/n was smiling and flirting. My heart sank a little as I stood from a distance, watching them. Patrick, that little fucker...

The bell was about to ring so I pushed pass them, rudely. Y/n scoffed and grabbed my wrist, pulling me back to face her

"You pushed Patrick, don't you think you should apologize or at least say excuse me?" She said, narrowing her eyes.

"No, I think I should get to class," I pulled my arm from her grasp.

I looked at Patrick once more. He was looking down, pushing his thumbs into the sleeves of his jacket. I looked at Y/n who was balling up her fist.

"You should really consider apologizing, Pete."

I snickered and walked into my English class. As soon as I say in my desk, which was in the corner of the very back, I sunk in my chair.

I can't believe she likes Patrick. I can't believe she had the audacity to try and make me apologize. Can't she see what I feel for her? Can't she tell I want her?

YAY, LUNCH TIME SKIP, YAY.

I sat alone in the courtyard, taking a sip of my cold tea. How could I ask her out now? She hates me.

Just as I looked up, I saw Y/n. She was walking, not noticing me. Her face was crimson, her (e/c) eyes were narrowed under her furrowed eyebrows. She was gripping tightly on the strap of her messenger backpack that laid horizontally across her chest. I could see a fresh set of scratches on one of her arms and that's when I decided I didn't care if she was mad. She needed someone. Maybe that someone was me.