Otter Creek This Was No Accident, This Was a Therapeutic Chain of Events

The white wolf from before had left, and with him, most of Daighre’s dignity. Now, he stalked the foothills, rivers, and forests. Restless. Pacing. Angry. Today was no different, the sound of rushing water loud in his ears, the moisture of the river wet inside his nostrils and lungs.
 
A tree—several—had fallen onto the rushing waters. To Daighre it was a bridge, an easy way to pass over a river that had yet to freeze in the approaching winter.
 
He stepped onto the log from off the water leaden banks.
 
It creaked and shifted under his weight, protested his very presence.
 
He paid it no mind, the balance and footwork that came with crossing over rivers using fallen trees second nature.
 
The wood beneath his paws creaked.
 
And groaned.
 
Then bent.
 
And eventually, it splintered.
 
He fell in.

note to self: set a week from now

A distant splash pulls his attention from his hunt, and he curses as he loses sight of the rabbit, slowing to a stop with ears pricked. His focus quickly switches as he realizes that splash had been loud — maybe even wolf-sized. After a moment of indecision, he turns toward the source, finding the river after a short search.
And, coincidentally, a muted gold figure struggling within. The male is easily recognizable among the dingy brown of the debris tangled around him, clinging to his limbs as he fights for the shoreline. Zephyr slows, feeling a cold, cruel delight rise up within him. Looks like you need help, He calls when he's near enough, stopping at the water's edge near the debris. He glances pointedly at a large branch jutting out onto the land, then back to the golden stranger. What'll it be?

The water rushed up to meet him, and Daighre met it. It was cold, was the first thing he noticed, the first thing he felt, when he went under, the temperature stealing his breath and letting water burn his lungs, his nose, his eyes.
 
He fought. Kicked. Spluttered.
 
And eventually—
 
He made it to the surface, the river carrying him further downstream, and with it, into trouble.
 
He slipped back under, unintentional, his lungs a racking cough and his head dizzy, disorientated. When he resurfaced, his head collided with something solid. It scraped against his neck, his shoulders, his back. And when he pushed through the debris, he found himself stuck.
 
He grappled with his forelegs, found himself unable to pull himself up from between the branches and thorns and debris he was tangled in.
 
Fuck.
 
Shit—
 
It was moments before he was about to force himself back under, see if he could resurface elsewhere, did he hear her.
 
‘Looks like you need help,’
 
“Fuck you.” He snarled, snapped, instinctual rather than thought out. His fur was matted down against his skull, against his shoulders, heavy cold and water leaden, and his ears rolled back, his teeth on display as his eyes found her on the shore.
 
He didn’t need her fucking help, didn’t need her fucking pity—
 
He tried once more to dislodge himself from the nest of waterlogged debris he found himself in, front paws braced and shoulders shaking, as he tried to pull himself up and out and onto what was truly nature’s shittiest raft.

Again, a bristling response — but it holds less bite from the man's current position. He considers leaving him to die; it would make the most sense, take the least effort, and perhaps it'd even give him some satisfaction. But... it seems like a waste, especially when he remembers that unwanted yet exhilarating flush of heat at the first river they'd met at, though he'd never admit that part to himself or anyone else. So he lingers, wondering how exactly he might find the satisfaction he craves without leaving the stranger to die —
And then it hits him, as he watches the man struggle fruitlessly. I'll help you... if you agree to follow me afterward. Go wherever I go, and do what I say, until I tell you that you can leave, He smirks, taking a step forward in anticipation of an agreement. The alternative is death, after all. Surely even this level of humiliation would be preferable.

His front paws scraped uselessly on the debris around him, blunt nails scrabbling and scrambling for any form of purchase, leaving dull rivets in their wake. He didn’t find any.
 
His muscles ached, and his lungs burned, his back legs kicking uselessly at the underside of the makeshift raft he found himself in.
 
“Fuck off.” He spat, once more, his breathing laboured and his shoulders and legs shaking, burning as he struggled to keep holding himself upright. “I don’t need your shitty fucking help, you crazy fucking bitch—”
 
It was then his front legs gave out from under him and he was plunged back under the water’s surface for a dizzying, disorienting, frightful second.

The insults might have set him off in another situation, short as his temper is — but he's too pleased with the situation to be angry. Instead, he ignores it, moving closer until he's looming over the water and he can feel it lapping at his toes. You'll die in there, He says lightly, as if observing the weather. He might as well be, for all the investment he has in the outcome of this. Maybe you're the crazy one — denying help when you obviously need it. His smirk widens for a moment, then fades as he glances back to the log he'd looked to before. I bet if I pull on this, the debris would break up. Look, it's holding it all together. He gestures with his nose, tone still eerily conversational; likely not helping the crazy bitch case.

Like a scene out of a goddamn horror movie, when Daighre resurfaced, she was closer to the water’s edge. A stone throw’s away, and the one holding all the power.
 
His legs trembled and shook, and his body shivered. It was getting harder and harder, pushing himself to the surface and staying there. His movements sluggish and sloppy. The weight of his wet fur felt like someone dragging and holding him down every time he resurfaced.
 
He followed the gesture of her nose; saw the log she spoke about.
 
And—
 
Fuck this.
 
Fuck her.
 
“Hurry up and fucking do it.” He snapped, finally, at long last. She was fucking crazy. Batshit insane. He would deal with it later.

It doesn't take long for him to change his tune, but it isn't quite enough for Zephyr. First, I want you to swear to follow my terms for helping you — and that you won't attack me, or call me a bitch ever again, He steps forward one more pace, grasping the largest chunk of splintering wood he can find on the end of the log, and braces to pull it — waiting only for agreement.

“Fine.” He barked, his voice cracking on the syllable. His back legs paddled uselessly in the murky depths below, and his forelegs sat perched on the edge of the debris.
 
“Fucking fine!"
 
Let him go, let him go, let him go—

bit of pp, let me know if i should change it!

As soon as he hears the words, he puts all of his strength into a sharp tug on the end of the branch. It dislodges with a loud crack and a series of splashes and shifting as the debris breaks free and starts to fly down the river. He plunges into the water without a second thought, straight into the path he's certain the golden stranger will follow. After such a long struggle, he doubts he'll be able to fight against the sudden onslaught. When he finds his target, the impact knocks the breath out of him, but he quickly gets his teeth into the other male's scruff and starts to pull him toward the shore. He's surprised he can still manage something like this, after all he's been through; it seems his long months of training paid off.

She moved the branch, and with it, the debris.
 
The weight around him moved, and not long after, her teeth found his scruff. He half swam—was half pulled—out of the river.
 
His paws touched land, and he pulled away from her touch, falling—stumbling—onto the riverbank. His legs trembled and shook, shivers and exhausting racking his body. And somehow, he still found time to be a flaming asshole.
 
“Don’t fucking touch me.” He snarled, snapped, his fur soggy and wet, and his body trembling like a wet puppy.

He lets him pull away, but only for a few moments. I have to, The wraith explains quietly when he appears at the man's side, legs folding under him as he tucks himself against the wet figure. You'll get too cold if I don't. I'll stop when you're dry. With that, he starts preening the water from golden fur, a little rough but not unnecessarily so.

She settled beside him, her touch on the wrong side of rough—
 
“Whatever.” He huffed.
 
He was too damn tired to fight. He was cold. He was exhausted. And she wasn’t much, but she was warm, and her touch dried him with every pass.
 
He let her settle against his side, and with only the faintest of growls, rested his head on his forelegs, ears plastered back against his head and his tail curled close as she groomed him.