@gallowsjoker requested D: Drunk wolf Frankie and I couldn’t have had more fun with it! It’s not a scenario I’d have thought to write in a million years, but I laughed myself silly. Thank you for asking for it!
Frankie’s body isn’t affected by substances of any kind the way it used to. He has to eat and drink more on a daily basis to stay healthy. It takes twice as many beers to get him tipsy and he’s pretty much given up getting drunk. Medicine doesn’t work at all, although he thankfully no longer seems to need that.
That’s why neither of you think anything of it one autumn full moon when he decides to eat some old, fallen apples. You wrinkle your nose, knowing they’re rotting by now, but he seems to like them. His huge wolf mouth swallows them after only a couple bites.
“Don’t eat them all, you won’t have any room for your real meal,” you scold. He ignores you, enjoying their intense sweetness. In a matter of minutes, he’s eaten at least a dozen.
You whine about being cold and want him to get a move on. He finally tears himself away from them and begins walking towards the woods. His head feels woozy and he blinks hard, wondering what’s going on. It’s not unpleasant, but it does make it hard to concentrate.
It isn’t until he trips on a stick and lands flat on his face that you realize something’s amiss. He’s never done that before. “You okay?”
He thumps his tail, getting unsteadily to his feet, and grins dopily at you. His eyes are unfocused.
“Frankie?” You bend over slightly to look into his face. That’s when you notice his breath. The damn apples were fermented! You groan. “Are you drunk?”
Frankie’s only response is to pant lazily. You try to remember how much meat’s in the freezer. It’s probably enough, although you hadn’t budgeted that month to have to restock. He’ll have to take on an extra job next week.
“All right, you big jackass,” you grumble, “let’s go back to the house. You’d probably lose a fight with a chipmunk.”
He huffs, insulted, but then promptly stumbles again. He’s extremely intoxicated. So much so that you’re forced to hold onto his ruff to keep him from going down a third time.
“How the hell did this happen? You’re 350 pounds and they were just little apples!”
Frankie lets out a wheeze that almost sounds like a laugh. You slap his rump. His back end gives out. “Oh my god!” You yank it up until he’s got his footing again.
You’re exhausted and sweating by the time you get his drunk butt back to the house. “Stay!” you command when you reach the porch. You don’t trust him to go down the basement stairs without breaking his neck. He’ll have to eat out here.
You haul all the meat in the freezer to him and begin unwrapping it. You know it’s not his fault. He’s never been able to get drunk since being bitten, so he wouldn’t have expected this, but you’re still feeling pretty annoyed.
“Do not throw this up or I will murder you,” you warn as he scarfs down the meat.
After washing his face, you manage to get him to the bed, where he promptly passes out, snoring loudly. You finally laugh, resting your head on his side and pulling a blanket over the both of you. It’ll serve him right if he has a hangover in the morning.
Milestone Celebration HC Prompt List
