Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

Blood and hair fills his mouth. Taylor bites down, hard, while he still has the chance, but Toad is already tearing away, and he's left with nothing but a scrap of skin. Breathing hard, he turns and spits to the side. A smear of red saliva on the grass.
There's no time to assess his surroundings— Toad is rearing up, so close and so big he's obscuring his vision, casting an unnaturally large shadow over him. His weight crashes against him, supported by gravity, and he crumples against the mass of the heavier boy. Physics. What a bitch.
Where bruises would appear in a day or two, the skin is pulsing with a deep ache. Like he had so many little heartbeats. Taylor tries to slip out from under once, twice, bucking and writhing, like a bull in pain in the middle of a spectator ring, taunted by the matador.
Hatred, for himself and Toad, curls itself around his heart in a cold grip. He's shaking with anger, frustration, adrenaline, but he doesn't speak.
Defeat tasted a hundred, no, a thousand times worse than fox meat.