Kurama's hair drapes over his thigh, curling softly like vines, bright as showy flowers, red as blood. Briar strokes his fingers through it as he speaks roughly, in the street-patter that is his native language, and Kurama responds with delicate licks and cool smiles before closing his mouth over Briar's cock.
Briar sighs a single word, a foul curse made an endearment, and as his fingers twine and grip in Kurama's hair their magics meet and tangle together. Roses twine around their naked bodies, dance with Briar's ever-shifting tattoos, half-obscure Kurama's eyes. They bloom in ridiculous profusion when Briar comes.