Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

A small muscle twitches under the crepe of his eyelid. He feels his eyes on him. He might as well have smudged fox blood all over Taylor. Eye contact was an aircraft that refused to be identified.
The combination of his red mouth, his laughter, his dark eyes, strike Taylor as appealing. If you don't mind, he says, uncertain, before placing his nose on what remained of the fox. He had eaten it indiscriminately. A bite from there, a bite from here.
This boy was clearly the most wolf out of anyone he had met so far.
Thanks for the lunch. Half-joking, he smiles halfway at him before tearing at a vague space between the pelvis and the ribcage. His teeth clink and grate on the bone. Have you lived here long?