don't know why your ask box didn't show up before but... omg cashy for the kiss meme... 6 and 13 for young (happy, not bitter yet) Richard and Philip??
#that awkward moment when you reblog a meme just for the kiss descriptions because you’re feeling randy and romantic and then leo sends an ask #bonus points when it’s your top guilty pleasure ship
(also apologies for the second; I know they’re not young and happy but bitter!philchard is my jam)
6. lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up
Richard’s laughter, peppering the room like golden motes of sunlight dancing across the window pane. At least, that’s what he usually thinks when he hears Aquitaine’s favourite son laugh – his laugh, his personal, only-for-Philip laugh. Soft, just beneath the cusp of his voice, almost embarrassed; as if Richard can’t help but feel shy at such an intimate display of affection. So much more than that great booming show he puts on for the rest of the world. Sunlight and sips of wine along the banks of the Seine, that’s what he thinks of when Richard laughs.
Usually. Now, curled somewhere in the foetal position with a good half tun of Gascony wine working its hellish magic upon his abused head, Philip just contemplates regicide.
“You are,” he groans, makes some feeble attempt to bat away Richard’s clumsy lips. The beard tickles, (Despite his age, and his glory, Richard’s struggles to grow a beard means that he refuses to so much as trim what grows upon his chin, to Philip’s immense distress) “the son of a king, the heir to the greatest empire since that of the Romans. Surely the royal coffers stretch to you having your own bed.”
Richard just grins. (He can hear him grinning. That’s how well they know each other in these years, what will come to be their fabled summer-and-glory years. Philip seventeen, Richard twenty-five. Still bold, still wild; still young enough that the poison has not reached their hearts.) He rolls over and nuzzles a kiss to Philip’s lips but misses; slow and tender, and utterly clumsy. Philip wonders how the maidens of Aquitaine would react knowing this; the Coeur de Lion, the fabled Lionheart, unable even to kiss.
Probably not as wildly as they would react to other things.
“You can’t hold your wine,” he teases, tucking his head into the crook of Philip’s neck. (Philip will never grow to Richard’s great height, they both know it; and Philip loves it when Richard makes him feel tall like this. They are still in the place when Richard uses this knowledge to woo, rather than wound).
“You were singing,” Richard adds with glee, and a kiss to the ridge of Philip’s collar bone. “Such a beautiful voice as well. My father will praise you for it at dinner – when he surfaces, that is.”
Henry Plantagenet is probably the only man in Christendom to feel worse than Philip right now. The carols were in great spirits last night. Philip sighs and, thoughtfully, tucks an arm behind his head as they lie there. “Do you think we shall ever grow so old?”
Richard’s lips brush against his own. “God, I hope not.”
13. following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck
There are men whispering around him as he walks through the hallways, but Philip bares them no thought. His entire mind is aflame. Richard’s words are a brand against his heart: I cannot marry Alais, daughter of France. All know she was taken to my father’s bed and used as his concubine, for some ten years or so. How could I marry a woman who has been used so? Spoken loudly and with pride, before the whole court.
Alais. His sister; betrothed to Richard since they were children. The first time Richard had touched his lips to Philip’s the younger man had whispered, hoarse and afraid: what about Alais? She’d always been such a shy child, almost fey, prone to headaches and broken hearts. A scandal would ruin her. But Richard had shaken his head, even as he’d laid Philip down upon the bed. I promise, I’ll never, never hurt your sister.
Lies. Lies and more lies. The Plantagenet name is founded upon lies.
“Philip!” The man – a man grown now, passing six foot and broad in the shoulder, red hair spraying out like a nimbus of fire amidst the stars – hurries after him, smiling. Still smiling. “Where are you going?”
Philip turns stiffly. He’s a man grown too now, and so many miles away from the youth who’d groaned and twitched in Richard’s arms with a hangover stuffed with Gascony wine and the sunlight in his eyes, and so many years ahead of him. He knows Richard better now than he’d ever done then. Christ help them both.
“I thought the last thing you’d want to see tonight was more Capets.”
“Oh come,” Richard laughs, slipping a hand about his shoulder, “you must know it was the only thing I could do. I do not intend to wed your sister; that was a marriage my father intended to trap me by, and I will not dance to his tune now I am king.” His expression softens; he’s always had the knack for looking at people as though they were his whole world. “You know it was the only way to get out of the marriage.”
“You hurt my sister.”
“You are the one I love.”
A kiss: passionate and eager and so damn loving, there in the abandoned shadows of Mategrifon Castle. Richard cups Philip’s face in his broad hands, holding him safe. His back is pushed up against the wall; Richard knows how to make him feel treasured and overpowered all at once, to make him feel as though he is dancing upon the knife’s edge, and Richard’s arms the only ones that will catch him. Richard kisses him, and then dots kisses all the way down the royal throat. “Philip,” he urges clumsily, like a boy again, drunk on the taste of his skin, “come to me tonight. Let me make you forget all this.”
Forget. It would be the easiest thing in the world, to break in Richard’s arms and forget. He moans at the feel of it: Richard’s lips tracing a slow, warm rhythm over the curve of his throat, his surprisingly nimble hands plucking at the laces of his braies. The scrape of the royal teeth against his neck. He wants to sink into it, like getting drunk on a draft of the headiest Aquitaini wine.
Let me make you forget all this. Richard’s voice in his ear, the first time the French barons shouted him down and mocked him for capitulating to the English demands one too many times. Let me make you forget all this. Richard’s tongue at his skin, after he openly mocked Philip’s father, the sainted Louis, before the Angevin court. Let me make you forget all this. Richard’s hands at his cock, the day after Philip’s wife died in childbirth and Philip was half a world away, in Chinon, in Richard’s bed.
He pulls away sharply.
“No,” Philip says, voice rasping in his throat. “I don’t want to forget.” And then he walks away, to leave Richard alone in the emptiness of the halls.