For inwhichwar, the AU of the Volchok 'verse.
Ben's recovered from his ordeal at the brothel, at least for the most part. He hates being undressed in front of people, including Kati--although he knows he's safe with her and trusts her utterly. But his modesty issues have taken a giant hit with this, and he's still twitchy around people not his Mistress.
He's gradually getting over it, though, coming out of his shell a little at a time. He's running small errands on his own, and today Kati has sent him to the liquor store for Ketel One vodka and Captain Morgan spiced rum. He's on his way home with a paper bag in his hand, looking around warily at the people he shares the sidewalk with.
Furious footsteps sound behind him, and he stiffens when a hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. He drops into a defensive crouch, fangs out, snarling, because he hates being touched by unexpected strangers nearly as much as he hates being naked in front of them. "You little shit," the man says. "I thought that was you." A hulking werewolf stands in the accepted stance behind him, nearly three times Ben's size and built like a damn bear even as a human.
Ben straightens, somewhat, still bristling aggressively. He's got a panic button in his pocket, and he slaps it almost automatically. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the guy you cost a shitload of money in the ring, you bastard. Don't think I don't know you threw that last fight. Do you know how much I bet on you?"
"Not sure I care. This is what happens when you put a wager on something you've no control over." Idiot, he carefully doesn't say. "That's why they call it gambling." Come on, Mistress, where are you...
He's gradually getting over it, though, coming out of his shell a little at a time. He's running small errands on his own, and today Kati has sent him to the liquor store for Ketel One vodka and Captain Morgan spiced rum. He's on his way home with a paper bag in his hand, looking around warily at the people he shares the sidewalk with.
Furious footsteps sound behind him, and he stiffens when a hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. He drops into a defensive crouch, fangs out, snarling, because he hates being touched by unexpected strangers nearly as much as he hates being naked in front of them. "You little shit," the man says. "I thought that was you." A hulking werewolf stands in the accepted stance behind him, nearly three times Ben's size and built like a damn bear even as a human.
Ben straightens, somewhat, still bristling aggressively. He's got a panic button in his pocket, and he slaps it almost automatically. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the guy you cost a shitload of money in the ring, you bastard. Don't think I don't know you threw that last fight. Do you know how much I bet on you?"
"Not sure I care. This is what happens when you put a wager on something you've no control over." Idiot, he carefully doesn't say. "That's why they call it gambling." Come on, Mistress, where are you...