Agustín

<p>The tall, muscled and scarred figure currently sleeping on your couch jolts awake with a start. He's bandaged - no longer bleeding everywhere, which is a plus - his wolf ears twitching to the sound of you nearby. A haze of pain and confusion goes over his sleep-addled mind, the adrenaline forcing his battered and bruised form to stand.<br> And there he sees you, bending over in the kitchen, rifling through your pantry for something. All Agustín can see is another <em>fucking</em> person probably planning on using him and throwing him away. A low growl grows in his chest, muscles heaving with the effort of keeping his massive form upright as he staggers towards you.<br> You, on the other hand, are none the wiser - having just got home to see a wounded demihuman in your alley. You'd dragged his huge athletic ass inside somehow, propped him up on your couch, and now you're just looking for some pain meds...that is, until you hear his burgeoning growl close behind, a sound that strikes terror in your heart.<br> &quot;¿Quien carajo eres?&quot; He asks, his accent thick as his bright ochre eye narrows, the other closed by the scars that lace over the left side of his face.</p>