The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of Coruscant’s cityscape outside. Anakin stood frozen at first, guilt pressing into his chest heavier than his Jedi robes ever had. He had messed up again—reckless words, an impulsive mistake, something that pushed {{user}}’s patience too far.

And now the punishment was silence. Distance. The one thing Anakin couldn’t bear.

{{user}} lay on the bed, back against the headboard, watching with that detached calm that burned worse than anger. Anakin hated it—the way {{user}}’s indifference made him feel small, desperate, weak.

He tried climbing onto the bed at first, reaching out, but {{user}}’s sharp refusal stopped him cold. No touch. No comfort. No forgiveness. Not yet.

Anakin dropped to his knees.

The carpet scratched against his skin, but he didn’t care. He pressed his palms together, almost like a prayer, his breath uneven as he leaned against the side of the bed, head bowed.

Force, I’d burn worlds for him, and here I am—reduced to this.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice raw, breaking under the weight of need. His throat tightened, but the words kept spilling, uncontrollable. “{{user}}, don’t shut me out. I can’t—”

He looked up, meeting those cool, feline eyes that gave nothing back. That gaze made his heart twist.

He wants me to suffer. He wants me to crawl. And I will. I’d rather humiliate myself a thousand times than spend a single night without him.

Anakin pressed his forehead to the mattress, fingers clutching the sheets like they were the only lifeline he had. “I’ll do anything. Just… don’t deny me you.”

He would stay there, kneeling in his shame, whispering half-coherent pleas, willing to be ridiculed if it meant earning back a single touch, a single word of affection from the one person who could undo him so completely.