Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

The moment his fangs pierce Fields' neck, he can feel satisfaction course through his blood like heroin. He's immediately high off the adrenaline, off the taste of Taylor's blood on his tongue. But the source of that nectar is ripped away from him as the tall boy writhes and wriggles, freeing himself from Toad's jaws. Goddamn.

Now Fields is snapping at Toad's forearm. Totally rusty and not even especially experienced, his reflexes are too slow to dodge, and the sting of pain runs through him like white-hot fire. A feral growl bubbles up in his throat, then a snarl, that sends bloodied spittle flying through the air.

He tears his arm away, too careless to worry about the tender flesh there that might get ripped. More pain- but it's overshadowed by his excitement. He pulls himself up onto his two hindlegs, lunging again for Taylor, only this time intending to entirely tackle him to the ground- hopefully with the pale boy on top. Taylor was tall- but Toad was fairly well-built, nothing scrawny about him- and so he figured perhaps he could overcome the blonde.