think of something you love but not too dearly

When things seemed too good to be true, they generally were.

And normally O'Brien did not like to take risks. He was a practical man who waited until the odds were tipped so far into his favor as to be certainty. He liked safe.

Perhaps something had changed in him that day, when he acted where he would normally watch and wait—when the Troupe had banded together to save ol' Cookie. Since then, he'd taken chances, talked to people he would normally avoid, tried to bring in more and more goods back home. He did most of it for them.

This led to now, with O'Brien contemplating the napping figure in the clearing, and the saddlebags full of goods resting propped against a nearby stone. The doggish Luperci was well-adorned with clothing and dangling jewelry, a sure sign of wealth; they wouldn't miss a few goods from their bag, the thief thought. It was tantalizing.

He crept forward, his ears swiveling, nose twitching. The bag smelled herbal, and its holster held an array of dangerous-looking darts. There could be poisons inside, or perhaps medicines; things his companions could trade.

One more glance at the napping shape. Another few steps. He leaned forward, his fingers beginning to open up the saddlebag, flitting over the contents, grabbing a bottle or two to pocket.

Someone was shuffling about. Hadn’t she told Mitra she was trying to nap? Not that he’d understand a word. A quick sniff around let her know that this was no turtle mucking about. Someone was stealing.

Oh hell no.

In a swift, trained movement, Thị Ánh lunged from the ground to tackle the intruder who dared mess with her goods. Thankfully, the man was wiry and thin— easily overpowered by the dingo’s boxy build. She pinned his arms above his head with a strong hand, using her other to unsheathe her kukri and press it to his throat.

Strangely, she didn’t seem to be too rattled by the situation. After all, thieves were nothing new— hell, she was a thief.

She glanced up at the bottles in his hand and grinned. Maybe a good scare would be more fun than killing him outright. Besides, she was wearing her nice dress.

I’d be careful with that if I were you. Strong stuff. Only take a few minutes ‘till you’re puking and shitting out your insides.

She gripped his wrists tighter, hoping to stop the blood flow.

Your limbs will stop working, your heart will start to slow, and then…

She leaned down until her chest was practically crushing his.

Your lungs will cave in until you die gasping for air that will never come. Best part is, there's no cure.

She hummed, eyeing the man beneath her like a cat would eye a captured mouse.

So, darling, I’d put it down. That is, unless…

She grinned sharply, pushing the kukri harder against his throat.

Were looking for a taste?

268 words. let me know if the pp is too much <3

()

And it was.

Too good to be true, that is.

The slumbering figure reanimated in a heartbeat, lunging toward him without the fog of sleep or indecision, and as O'Brien felt the impact of the ground, he thought: this is it— a thought that had crossed his mind a thousand times. His luck was bound to run out.

The Luperci who straddled him now was perhaps slightly shorter than him, but what they lacked in height, they more than made up for in muscle. One hand pinned his wrists over his head, where his fingers quickly lost circulation and let the bottles roll free, while a knife was pressed against his throat. His own dagger was uselessly sheathed, not that he could have hoped to best his victim-turned-assailant with it.

His narrow chest heaved with frightened breath, white rimming his wide eyes. A long, boxy muzzle leaned into his vision, and he received an impression of cream-colored hair and an intent green gaze.

The Luperci spoke—threatened, almost lazily, in a feminine voice. Described the poisons contained in the bottles he couldn't hope to grasp with that pressure on his veins. Described a death more miserable than it was quick, pressed the blade closer, until he thought it might rend him open if he swallowed.

O'Brien made an effort to relax his hands as much as he could, relinquishing the pilfered poison, though his fingers had already gone numb. He said nothing.

He didn't trust himself to speak.