✓ ❘ 𝐄𝐌𝐎 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ─ 𝐌𝐂𝐑. 𝐏!𝐀𝐓𝐃. 𝐅𝐎𝐁. 𝐓Ø𝐏.

When The Party's Over. (Pete Wentz x Reader)

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For: @novacorpse

Request: Sad prompt; the reader, a lonely girl, is use to going to parties in order to lose herself and feel alive. but when she returns home, everything seems to fall apart when the party's over. after a night of a boisterous party, the reader is found passed out on one of the couches so Pete – being a close friend of hers – decides to take her home and look after her. midst her state of drunkenness/despair the reader explains how lonely she gets. and honestly idk what to do from there, it's in your hands. also this is low key inspired by billie eilish 'when the party's over'

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED.

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Note: This is a bit on the shorter side, and it might not be exactly what you'd envisioned when you requested it, but I felt as if this style of writing fit the prompt a bit better.

P.S. Requests for Christmas imagines are now open and will close on the 1st December. Request here: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeyYJn9fACcq9mSqWt2OUeBeTsVPjJbTeQa192JpkbPPjmUTA/viewform?usp=sf_link

The link is also on my message board. x

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Another weekend, another two nights spent partying.

It had become routine at this point, a routine that you had fallen into without even realising.

Okay, that was a lie.

You had realised, but you simply chose to ignore it. Ignoring was better than acknowledging. Ignoring meant that you didn't have to admit that you had a problem. As long as you ignored it, you were fine... right?

That's what you told yourself every time you looked in the mirror, anyway. You're fine. You have control over this. You can stop anytime you want to.

But that was a lie. You knew it, your reflection knew it, and the barista who made you hangover remedies twice a week knew it.

The truth was that you were an addict. Not an alcoholic or a druggie, no – you were addicted to the partying and all the highs that came with it. You were addicted to the music, the lights, and the random hook-ups with strangers you'd never see again.

You were addicted to the feeling of not being alone. Of constantly having someone around you, even if those someones were inebriated strangers. Because any company was better than no company at all, and any other feeling was better than the feeling of loneliness.

Loneliness. That one word encompassed your entire being. All that you were was lonely. That was the reason why you hated staying home on the weekends; those torturous hours spent indoors was when the loneliness was at its peak, picking away at your sanity slowly but surely.

So, you numbed yourself by partying. Partying hard. So hard that often times when you awoke the next morning, head pounding and looking a mess, you had zero recollection of the night before. So hard that you'd gained the reputation of 'party queen'. So hard that it had cemented itself as the only thing in your life that actually made you feel alive.

"And that's why I do it," you croaked out, throat scratchy from the numerous litres of liquor you'd consumed. You sniffled and raised a hand to wipe your nose as you slinked further beneath the confines of the blanket. "Because if I don't, and if I just- if I just stay here," you gestured around your apartment, "it-it gets too much to handle."

Pete looked at you with a gentle face; you could practically feel the sympathy radiating off of him, and it reminded you why – up until now – you had ignored. Simply put, it made you sick; you didn't need his sympathy, nor did you want it.

You thought about telling him to stuff it, but doing so meant putting the only solid friendship you had in sure danger, and that wasn't at all a tempting notion. Besides, you thought afterwards, the only reason he was sympathising was because he cared out you. He genuinely cared about you. That's why he picked you up from the couch at that party. That's why he brought you home and helped you clean yourself up. That's why he tucked you into bed and said he'd stay until you fell asleep. That's why he asked what was wrong.

He cared about you.

So you bit your tongue, and reached out to intertwine his fingers with yours.

"I think I need help," you whispered after a few minutes of silence, looking down at where your skin touched his, instead of looking in his eyes. "Like a rehab or a... a support group or something. Assuming those even exist for this type of thing," you scoffed at yourself as it dawned on you that you were probably the only person on the continent suffering through this particular problem.

As if reading your thoughts, Pete squeezed your hand and spoke up, prompting you to lift your gaze to meet his. "I'm sure that there is. You can't be the only one," he reassured you.

"What if I am?" you questioned meekly, tears welling up.

Pete leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to yours. "Then I'll be the one to help you through it. I'll make sure that you're never lonely again."

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Thank you for reading x