The thought of Sakura debuting instead of Anaya has always had me questioning from the start "What was Hybe thinking when they selected Sakura over Anaya?"
Anaya is just evidently more better than Sakura in every way possible, Sakura barely knows english, and she was visibly off key while dancing in PARTY b4 the PARTY and most clearly had terrible vocals. Even when she performed We Ride, her singing was shaky and out of breath.
Now while Anaya rather was out of breath too, she still brought more to the table than Sakura. Anaya in additon has had plenty of experience prior and after dream acedemy. For instance, Anaya was known as the youngest contestant in Girls Planet 999, and was an active member the japanese girl group RIRYDAY before she left in 2025.
That alone tells you how much better and experienced Anaya is compared to Sakura. Anaya had everything she needed to have in order debut in Saint Satine, but HYBE robbed Anaya of her hard work and took Sakura instead. Sure, Sakura may improve overtime like Wonhee did. But that will take way more time than it could've with Anaya.
This information alone makes me think something questionable happened between HYBE staff and Sakura that unfairly secured her spot in Saint Satine...
Pairing: Tucker Pillsbury (Role Model) x Reader
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Emotional manipulation, toxic codependency, sex with blurred emotional intent, possessive behavior, psychological distress.
Word Count: ~2.5k
Summary:
You go back because he needs you. Because it’s easier than trying to remember who you were before the breakdowns, before the threats whispered like love songs, before you started confusing being needed with being safe.
You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing.
The Uber ride to his place felt like guilt on autopilot. You didn’t cry. You didn’t rage. You just… moved, because the sound of his voice on the phone—hoarse, desperate, already breaking—triggered something you’ve been trying to kill for months.
He opens the door like he hasn’t slept. Eyes red, hands shaky, hoodie bunched wrong around his wrists. He doesn’t speak. Just pulls you into him like you’re salvation wearing shoes.
You let him. You always do.
It’s not romantic. It’s not cinematic. It’s habitual.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he whispers into your hair, like you owe him something for surviving another day.
You hate how your stomach twists at that. Not with guilt—with need.
Because loving him is a sickness. But leaving him feels worse.
He makes love to you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish beneath him.
You close your eyes and pretend this is about comfort. About care. About healing.
But it’s not.
It’s about control.
About reclaiming.
You know this because of the way he clutches your hips too hard. The way his voice cracks when he says your name but never says please. The way he always takes from you, even when you offer.
And still—you let him.
Because when he touches you like this, you can almost believe the version of him you fell for still exists. The boy with soft eyes and gentle hands and songs written at 3 AM just for you.
But now, every time he kisses your throat and tells you he needs you, it sounds more like a threat than a vow.
You don’t say anything.
You just hold him closer, like that might fix the rot underneath your ribs.
And when he finally drags through the cold and dark halls of his apartment until you're both hauled up in the familiar shadows of his bedroom, his hands are shaking when he pulls your shirt over your head, but not from hesitation. From need.
The kind of need that isn’t beautiful. The kind that gnaws at the walls of his ribs and claws through his throat when you step away. The kind of need that tastes like addiction.
You know this, even as you let him push you gently back onto the bed. Even as his mouth finds the curve of your collarbone and his fingers press bruises into the sides of your hips like he’s anchoring himself to your body. You know this.
But you don’t stop him.
You never do.
“Tucker,” you whisper, voice already raw.
“I need to feel you,” he breathes against your throat. “Need to be inside you. Please.”
And he says please like it’s a promise, like if you just give him this he won’t ask for anything else. But he always does. He always will.
You nod.
And that’s all it takes.
He undresses you like he’s memorized how—slow, reverent, borderline shaking as his palms drag over your skin. His eyes go glassy, wide, almost wet, as if he’s looking at something he doesn’t think he deserves.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers as he settles between your legs. “Not yet.”
You feel his breath on your thighs as he kisses them. Soft. Worshipful. Like you’re a shrine he’s defiled too many times but keeps crawling back to.
When he presses into you, it’s slow—agonizingly so—and he buries his face in your neck as he does it, muffling a sound that borders on a sob.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, like he’s done something wrong. Like he knows that even this—especially this—is another way of holding you hostage.
You dig your nails into his shoulder blades.
Not to stop him.
To feel him.
To remember why you keep doing this.
His rhythm is gentle at first, careful. Too careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll break. But it’s not about you breaking. It’s about him not breaking first.
And when he starts moving faster—deeper—you feel the shift. His hands grip your wrists and press them above your head. His mouth moves from your neck to your jaw, to your lips, to your chest, and every kiss is claiming, not loving.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, and you almost cry—not because it hurts.
Because you want to believe him.
Because some dark part of you likes being owned if it means being needed this much.
You feel his breath stutter against your skin as he starts to fall apart, hips erratic, voice hoarse.
“I can’t lose you,” he says. “You’re all I have.”
Your heart clenches in an overly familiar way because you’ve heard this before. In voicemails. In whispers. In threats made to himself that he wraps in sweetness so you won’t call them what they are..., but you still whisper, “I’m here.”
And when he comes inside you, it’s not with a groan or a gasp. It’s with a whimper—like relief, like surrender, like something inside him just gave up.
He doesn’t pull out.
He just collapses on top of you, holding your wrists still, breathing heavy and frantic like he just survived something. Or like he just won something.
Opposing him in every single way: you don’t speak, nor cry. You just stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, body aching in ways that aren’t physical.
Making the conscience decision to break the physical tie between the two of you he rolls off of you--but quickly pulls you to his chest, curling around you like a man who doesn’t know how to be alone. You let him.
Because he’ll "break without you."
And somewhere deep inside, you’re afraid you might break without him, too.
--\\\--
The air is too still afterward. Not peaceful—tense, like a held breath.
Tucker hasn’t said anything in several minutes, just lies curled against you, breathing through his nose like if he exhales too hard, you’ll slip through his fingers.
Your limbs are sore. Skin sticky with sweat and the remnants of his love cum.
It's impossible to ignore the way your throat tightens as the silence stretches out. Eyes blurred by an unknown feeling or substance you stare up at the ceiling fan that doesn’t work, listening to the way your heartbeat echoes in the hollow of your chest.
And whether it's the way your skin feels or how your bones itch the urge to move--to disentangle yourself from this oh too familiar scene, eventually, you shift.
He doesn’t react at first. Just murmurs something unintelligible as your legs untangle from his. You slide gently out of the bed, feet hitting the cold floor. His arm reaches for where your body used to be, hand grazing the sheets with a quiet desperation.
You lean down, grabbing your underwear off the floor, pulling it up with practiced grace. The hem of one of his old shirts is next. You slip it over your head without thinking.
It’s only when you turn toward the door that you hear the mattress shift sharply behind you.
“Where are you going?”
His voice cracks like something brittle. Alarmed. Small.
You freeze, hand still half-lifted to push your hair back.
“Bathroom,” you say gently, tilting your head toward the hallway.
But it’s too late.
He’s sitting up now, hair a mess, eyes wild and blinking too fast.
“No, wait—don’t—” He’s already reaching for you, stumbling out of the sheets like he might physically stop you from walking out.
Your stomach twists.
“I’m just—Tucker, I’m not leaving,” you say softly in near surrender, but he doesn’t hear it. Or maybe he doesn’t believe it.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters, stepping into your space. His hand catches your wrist not rough, but firm. His eyes flicker with something unspoken, urgent. “Don’t just… get up like that.”
“I didn’t mean—” you start, but the words dissolve. “I just wanted to pee. Maybe get some water. I was gonna come back.”
He stares at you. You can see the war in his head, the thoughts sprinting ahead of logic. You wonder how long he lay there after sex imagining you walking out the door. Imagining you gone.
His breathing is shallow.
“Say you’re not leaving.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Say it again.”
“…I’m not leaving.”
That’s when he lets go. Not like he believes you—but like he’s tired of fighting what he can’t name.
He sinks back onto the bed, rubbing his hand over his face, dragging it down like he wants to peel himself apart.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
You don’t answer right away because you’re not sure if he means for panicking or for needing you this much. Or for everything else he’ll never admit to doing just to keep you here.
You glance at the door again.
Then, slowly, wordlessly, you sit back down on the edge of the bed.
Just until he falls asleep, you tell yourself.
Just until the storm behind his eyes fades.
Just until you can breathe again.
-/-/-/-
The bathroom light is too white. It hums like it’s mocking you.
You close the door behind you and twist the lock even though he’s asleep. Or at least—you hope he is.
The floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your legs are shaky, but you’re not sure it’s from what just happened or everything that led up to it.
You catch your reflection in the mirror above the sink and stop.
His shirt hangs off one shoulder. There’s a red mark just below your collarbone. You press your fingers to it, and the tenderness beneath your skin blooms like a bruise. It almost feels good.
You look… used. Not abused. Not violated. Just… emptied.
You turn the faucet on just to fill the silence, cupping water in your palms, splashing your face. You press the towel to your mouth. You don’t cry. You just breathe. And whisper to your reflection, “You chose this.”
But your reflection doesn’t look convinced.
Bitterly your stomach churns and through a tight chest you huff another sigh, hand weakly flicking the light off and cracking the bathroom door back open into the void of semi silence and dark of the night.
From where you stand you can see the glow of Tucker's bedside lamp, the orange-yellow glow cranes its neck out the doorway as if illuminating the pathway back. In a sick way it feels like the bulb knows it's calling you back—it knows you have nowhere else you want to be.
So you do just as expected even as your knees crush under the weight and drift back down the corridor until your met with the sight of the brunette boy laid amongst the strewn sheets.
You don’t go back to bed right away.
Instead, you sit on the edge, scrolling your phone in the dark. Your notifications are a graveyard. People asking if you’re okay. Friends you stopped answering.
Your thumb swipes mindlessly until you land on a voice memo. Dated three weeks ago. You don’t remember saving it.
You press play.
It’s Tucker’s voice. Breaking. Whispering:
“I’m nothing without you.”
“Please just come home.”
“I’ll do anything, I swear.”
And suddenly you remember: it was another night like this. Another voicemail. Another breakdown. Another body ache disguised as intimacy.
The same script. The same cadence.
You listen again.
And again.
And this time, when you hear his voice shake, it sounds like something rehearsed.
You press your phone to your chest and lie back down.
You stare at the ceiling.
You wonder how long you’ve been living in a loop.
He stirs beside you. Instinctively, you freeze.
He rolls toward you slowly, lashes heavy, face boyish with sleep. He presses his forehead to your shoulder and hums low in his throat like a child curling into a parent.
You don’t move.
His voice is a whisper, cracked and slurred by exhaustion, “If you ever left… I don’t think I’d survive it.” The words are soft or shaky, like something sacred. But your stomach knots.
Because he isn’t saying I love you.
He’s saying You owe me.
You lie perfectly still as his arms wrap around you.
You don’t say a word.
-\-\-\-
He doesn’t open his eyes. Just listens to her breathe. She’s still. Warm. Here.
He lets the weight of her body lull him, lets her presence do what pills and therapy never could—quiet the screaming.
He told her he’d die without her. He meant it.
Or maybe he didn’t..., he doesn’t know anymore. He just knows she came back again and that has to mean something.
He tightens his arms around her waist, just a little. Enough to feel her bones. Enough to remind her—and himself—that she’s his. And in the heavy quiet of pre-dawn, he whispers
“You’re not going anywhere, right?”
There’s a pause. Then
“No.”
He exhales.
But part of him hears the way she didn’t say of course not. Part of him knows.
So he holds her tighter. Not hard. Just enough. Enough to keep her still. Because if she leaves again, he doesn’t think he’ll come back from it. But she’s here. For now. So he lets the lie settle over both of them like a blanket.
