Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

When Toad's teeth pierce his neck again, he doesn't scream, but his lungs betray him and he gasps. Searing pain shoots through him. Where he's bleeding from, it feels impossibly hot.
He swallows blood and blinks through the sweat. Get off of me, please. His voice is smooth and polite, if not, a bit breathless— he could be talking through the phone to you and you wouldn't know how much pain he's in. How much hair-trigger rage is souring his organs. Burning him up from the inside.
Toad's breath is heavy and damp in his face. Shimmering in heat. We see Taylor, cinematic, disconnected and feral. Music playing in his head. Pure primal id.