Sea Lion Shores comb my hair back, strike a match on a bathroom wall where your number is written

The monster tensed, ready for a fight. He was ready for it, confident that he could draw blood, though the thought of drinking from this man disgusted him. But one did not come. Instead laughter did, uncouth and wretched, just like the man. Athan's eyes rolled, scoffing. So he was trying to play it off? He did not care if his insults wounded; a rose did not mind if one passed unhindered by its thorns. They were thorns nonetheless. The wretched man wiped his eye, guffawing. Athan kept silent, tail curled around his feet, watching for any other spittle that might come out of the man's mouth.