One Shots (Every Centric)

What Happens In Rome...

That clang,

That metallic clang reverberates through the cold, damp cell, a sound that pierces the stillness and echoes in Haerin's mind. The rhythmic drag of a baton against the unforgiving cell rails, a cruel reminder of her confined existence. A groan escapes her lips, and the pain in her head intensifies.

"Could you not do that? It's maddening," Haerin calls out, her voice bearing the weight of both irritation and fatigue. The shiny, clean leather shoes of her captor come into her blurred vision, but she doesn't bother to lift her eyes or head to meet the face. Plastered on the ground, she struggles against the fever that courses through her weakened body, a secret she guards with stubborn tenacity.

"Slave," Danielle's voice cuts through the stagnant air. Haerin's response is a languid drawl, "Yes."

An expectant pause lingers, and Haerin senses the probing gaze of the aristocratic senator, though she refuses to acknowledge it. Danielle, with an air of authority, addresses her directly, "You don't address me?"

In that moment, Haerin bites back a smart remark, the edge of rebellion tempered by the harsh reality of her captivity. The cell, a place that has become her reluctant abode, witnesses the silent struggle of a spirit unbroken. Her eyes remain fixed on the cold, unforgiving floor.

"Forgive me," Haerin finally says, her voice carrying a bitter edge. "I'm in a... 'state.'"

The admission is as much a vulnerability as it is a defiance. In the dimly lit cell, the dance between captor and captive unfolds – a silent battleground where pride and submission collide, and Haerin guards the secret of her fevered state with a stubborn resilience that hints at the untamed spirit within.

The stifling air within the cell bore the weight of unspoken tension, cocooning Danielle, a senator draped in opulence, as she observed Haerin with a deliberate detachment. Shadows danced in a macabre ballet, mirroring the intricate power dynamics at play within the confined space.

Danielle's words sliced through the stillness, her voice resonating with a cold authority that left no room for empathy. "You may be in a 'state,' but that doesn't excuse insolence, slave." The deliberate clinking of her shiny leather shoes against the unforgiving stone floor accentuated the quiet dominance she asserted in the stark, dim-lit surroundings.

Haerin, still prostrate on the ground, grappled with the relentless onslaught of fever that threatened to engulf her. Each breath carried the stale scent of desperation, but she clung to a tenacious refusal to surrender her spirit to the physical chains that bound her.

"As my slave, you should be vigilant, regardless of your 'state,'" Danielle continued, the unyielding tone cutting through the stagnant air. "You're not above reproach, Haerin."

Within the cold embrace of the dim cell, Haerin's eyes, glazed with the fever's haze, finally rose to meet Danielle's gaze. In those flickering shadows, a silent rebellion unfolded—a defiance that shimmered in the depths of Haerin's eyes, challenging the senator's composed facade.

"You're a spirited one, Haerin," Danielle remarked, a glimmer of curiosity dancing in her eyes. "Your defiance, though misplaced, is admirable. Perhaps you've forgotten your place in this world."

Haerin's jaw clenched, suppressing the sharp retort that yearned to escape her lips. The silence, thick and oppressive, became a canvas upon which their unspoken battle painted nuanced shades of resentment and resistance.

As Danielle turned to leave the cell, her clean leather shoes echoed against the cold stone, creating a haunting melody. A parting glance, charged with a reminder, was cast at Haerin. "Remember, defiance has its consequences."