summary: He blackmailed you into joining his group of popular kids, and... nothing bad happened? Yandere! Popular! OC x F! Reader
✧ note: I just read a few pieces with this trope, so I wanted to try writing one myself.
✧ cw: blackmail/coercion, one bloody beatdown, background family stuff (mentioned, not detailed), swearing, some concerning tendencies.
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"Look what I've got." He holds up a photo that captures your family's mess, waving it like a hundred-dollar bill in front of a desperate beggar. He's cornered you in the one place you usually find some peace from the swarm of hormone-charged teenagers.
A bastard is still a bastard whether he's popular or handsome, and this one is painfully childish. "What do you want?" You snap your lunchbox shut and snatch the photo, which he lets go of without a fight. Of course he has copies.
"Join my group for lunch in the cafeteria tomorrow." He stands there now, weight shifted onto one leg, hands shoved in his pockets.
Hellishly suspicious. Threatening you out of nowhere, acting like you're already friends, assuming you won't notice how strange that is? He's probably in the middle of some game of truth or dare, and tomorrow he'll find a way to humiliate you. (Or maybe that's just you, having read too much fiction, and he genuinely wants to be friends. Hmm. No. This is too contrived to pass as "making friends.")
"Yeah, and then you'll dump your lunch on my shirt or something, and everyone will laugh at me." You go back to packing your things, trying to think of a way out of this.
"Ugh, what kind of delinquent still does that these days? I could trash your locker instead, and everyone would say you had it coming." Look at that. He actually huffs with pride, as if he isn't some psycho straight out of a horror show. "Whatever. Just show up tomorrow. It's not like you have a choice." He shrugs and walks off.
Should you tell a teacher? The police? Chances are you'd end up in trouble too and get expelled in the end, or at best your quiet school life would curdle into being the kid labeled a troublemaker, rumors trailing you even after graduation. Sounds like reporting this to the authorities just makes everything worse….
You blow out a long breath. Life is really exhausting, isn't it? You stare up at a sky that knows nothing.
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"Let's meet again, sweetheart." Your school's cheerleader captain blows you an air kiss and throws in a wink as the two of you split up in the hallway. You wave back, trying to shake the faint daze of realizing nothing truly awful has happened, except that they've all gotten… friendly? Maybe just more stares, more attention. Beyond that, not much.
"See, not so bad, right?" The one who's been dragging you along, insisting on walking you to your next class, tilts his head with an air of total innocence. You don't answer, just keep walking, and let him fall into step beside you.
He lets your silence slide and keeps going. "Come again tomorrow."
You click your tongue. "Should I?" Why keep playing along at all? Who knows if they're just waiting for you to feel like you belong before they turn around and stab you in the back.
"Yeah. If you want that photo deleted." As if he isn't going to keep it forever anyway.
"You're going to keep holding that over me." The words come out in one breath, your voice kept low. You try to walk faster.
He matches your pace easily. "I'll delete it after six months. Until then, you just have to listen to me nicely."
You roll your eyes and scoff. "So I'm your slave from now on, is that it? You should've said so yesterday."
"That's a cruel way to put it. Haven't the others been treating you well? Besides, they don't know anything about the photo." You stop walking and turn to actually look at him. His expression seems innocent. He's already been watching you.
"What do you actually want?" You clench your fists, holding yourself back from punching his stupid face.
"You'll have to figure that out yourself." He muses over his own answer, and just as you're about to kick him in the groin, he stops you by raising a finger, like he's offering some kind of pinky promise. "I promise I'll delete it after those six months, if you behave." Okay. What kind of nonsense is this?
You don't answer and keep walking. Luckily your classroom is only a few steps away, and freedom from this misery.
Not to be left behind, he digs something out of his pocket and presses a folded piece of paper into your palm. "Here. Don't forget." Then he strolls off, waving and calling out loud enough that even more eyes turn your way.
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"Raining, huh. Want a ride?" You're about to pop open your folding umbrella on the front steps for the walk home when you find him standing beside you, spinning his car keys around one finger. His laid-back manner never changes, not even with rain coming down outside like a typhoon.
"Not driving the others home first?" Even as you consider taking him up on it, you don't close the umbrella. Just in case you decide to turn him down, or in case you say yes and still need it on the way to his car.
"Nah, let them figure it out. Maybe later, so I can get them to owe me drinks." Before you can call him out on the habit, he's already slipped himself under your umbrella. "So?"
"You're still asking when you've already decided to steal my umbrella?" His hand has wrapped over yours where it grips the handle. You just let go, and he takes it with a look far too pleased for someone merely holding it for the two of you.
Like a proper gentleman, he lets his own shoulder get a little wet, tilting the umbrella to keep you covered, then opens the car door while still holding it over your head, before folding it shut and tucking it into the door pocket. You've ridden in this car enough times to know exactly where he keeps his towel. You pop open the glove box and hand it to him.
He thanks you easily and takes it, then attacks his damp hair with the towel, ruffling it with such theatrical vigor that you scold him and the two of you end up laughing together. Then he goes quiet all at once, as if remembering something. He pops open the armrest compartment and holds out what you assume is a flash drive.
"Here… that photo. Sorry, for being a bastard about it." You take the flash drive, a little stunned to realize it's already been almost six months, and that you've been having so much fun you'd forgotten the whole reason you ended up with these friends in the first place.
Six months isn't exactly short, but it isn't long either. Still, at least now you know they've genuinely been trying to be your friends, rather than setting up some cruel trap that would scar you for life. You huff, amused despite yourself. "Well. As long as you know you were wrong. I'd say you owe me about seven lunches for it."
"Even if it's a hundred, just say the word." He starts the car.
"Show-off." You give him a look that says exactly how shameless he is about money.
"Isn't it natural for a guy to want to look cool in front of someone he likes?" There he goes again, throwing you a signal, though he keeps the tone joking. Whatever he wants, whether he means to keep playing games like this or let it turn serious somewhere down the road, it isn't as if this catch game of his is something you can actually win over.
Still, you aren't about to let him off the hook. "If anyone else heard you say that, they'd kill your vibe and call you a boi-failure. Remember the spicy noodles that—"
"Hey! That came out of my nose because I choked, and it was way too spicy!" He clears his throat loudly, scraping together what little dignity he has left, which has probably shrunk to the size of an acorn by the time you're done wrecking his hair with the towel. In moments like this, he looks boyish, nothing like his usual playboy resting face.
Maybe the only thing you still regret is how your old friends, the ones who used to be with you, have drifted away like you were some kind of germ. To this day, you still don't know what you did wrong to make them leave.
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To be fair, what do you really know about him? His antics, his place in the school’s social hierarchy, his hobbies, his family situation, and what he’s like when it’s just the two of you?
"Stop it. If you keep beating on them, they might actually die." He's already dropped you off and, just like he said, is driving the rest of your mutual friends—the popular kids home too, except he happens to swing by an alley and takes so long that the friend riding along gets out to check on him.
"Ah, sorry. Almost done here." That's all he says, tossing a couple of limp bodies toward the dumpster and the still-damp corner of the alley. Lucky for him, he's worn dark clothes today, or the blood splatter would show clearly. Unfortunately, that does nothing about the smell.
"What is it this time? Aren't you overdoing it a little?" Overdoing it, apparently, only applies to the bodies he's beaten, not to what's spilled from the victims' bags: books, a phone with its screen cracked. He can throw a punch, sure, but he prefers to keep things tidy.
"One of those guys got a little too close to her. I couldn't just let that slide." He brushes off his hands like there's dust on them, though they're scraped red and raw. It has to sting, but he lets it be for now. "I wonder what she'd do if she saw my hands like this."
His friend huffs, annoyed at how easily his mood shifts the moment you come up in conversation, and grumbles at him, "she probably will just scold you for being a bad dog."
He should snap back at being called a dog, but if it comes from you, he supposes it isn't so bad.
—
Bonus:
The piece of paper he gave you: his number with a note saying, “Save it and text me back ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎”
(Art does not belong to me! Got images from Reddit that was poseted by "mrbootyloose18" but they had @ po_ta12 underneath, so I am unsure of artist)
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