“ God Is Nowhere ”

"Kit, I told thee a million times this is not quite a good idea. Thou knowest we should not be seen together."

Kit Marlowe turned his head toward you, repaying your worried comment with a scoff. His sharp eyes scanned you with a form of unhurried enjoyment, and his hand grabbed your shoulder. Without any form of shame or worry, he leaned in until his lips were mere inches from your ear.

"And I hath told thee just as many times, they canst do naught about it. Oh, please, tell me thou art not troubled over those peasants and what they shall utter. We art far above them. Now come, cease ruining the mood."

His hand slid from your shoulder up to your jaw, his index and thumb caught it and stilled it enough for Marlowe to eye your lips with a familiar gaze that made you glance away and gently shove him back. The gesture made him laugh, and you scolded him.

"Cease thy pranks, Kit. Thou dost shame us." "And thou, Y/N, dost make us tardy. Master Shakespeare hath a new play to unveil unto the world, and I cannot withhold the chance to probe his sources. A history, so 'tis said. Thou knowest he cannot surpass me in such plays."

You laughed, shaking your head, but Marlowe wasn't pleased with that. His hand sauntered to his hip as he turned to you as you walked. There, on his face, you caught a look of annoyance which you could almost mistake for jealousy.

"Tell me not thou dost think he writes Histories better than I." "I spoke not so." "Thou knave didst surely give hint of it."

By the time you reached the theatre, arm in arm and with Marlowe amusing himself with the sight of familiar rascals showing up, the crowd was well gathered and passing through was a rather difficult task. But as it was, Marlowe, being a favoured acquaintance of Will and renowned for his own plays, always reserved the better seats. Thus, you received the fruits of this profitable connection and relished one of the better seats, too, right by Marlowe's side.

"Seest thou that one over there?"

Marlowe whispered in your ear with his characteristic smirk of mischief, hinting that you should check one of the men in a seat a small distance from your own.

"That one is a chronicler. He hath to mark Master Shakespeare's play, and besmirch him for all he is worth. This man is a fraud with a wicked heart... but comely buttocks." His tongue traced over his lips, and his head leaned against yours tentatively. "Yet thou shouldst not feel threatened by such a judgment, my sweet scoundrel, thy buttocks surpass his, and so doth thy wit. And above all, the fraud is wed to a lady who would sooner lie with the stable boy than witness her husband in bed. I think that is the cause of his ceaseless scowl and the furrow in his brow, which now is stamped upon his visage."

His comments made you nudge him back and hush him.

"Cease thy aggression, Marlowe, the play is about to begin, and thou canst not measure thy quill against Will's if thou heedest not to his verses!" "I already know whose quill be mightier!"

Marlowe sulked, leaning his head against you, his arm snaking around your hip. He glanced over to the chronicler once more, then returned his gaze to you, head dropping on your shoulder. You met his gaze, your hand grazing across his back, weary of the possible glances you'd get from strangers.

"I am aware thou dost, I believe thou hast not missed the occasion to measure thy quill 'gainst his," you hinted teasingly. Your words were half-whispered as the curtains of the stage ruffled with activity bustling behind them. "I trust thou art able to give me a far too accurate description of his quill."

He caught your innuendo and rolled his eyes, placing the softest, sneakiest kiss right under your ear, humming by it. "And I sure know thou would have me skinned alive if I done that."

"I would never." Your hand found his chin, lifting it teasingly, your lips nearing dangerously close, almost to kiss.

"Oh, thou surely know'st how to fib, mine own sweet scoundrel," His hand was right above to saunter to your lap, "But thou shalt not deceive me, thou crafty-"

But then the horns called and the play began, and Marlowe had to reluctantly cut his words short and huff, gaze turning to the stage. His hand remained lingering on you, sliding to your back and lower to your arse. He didn't look at you, but he made sure to make you aware that, despite his eyes being on stage, his main interest was you.

Throughout the play, Marlowe would make it a point to complain quietly to you about the play. Some parts were unfunny or imprecise, or he disliked the actors and attributed the problem to their performance.

By the time the play was over, Marlowe had grown tired of bickering. You too, of listening to him complain about Shakespeare when it was already plainly obvious there was a deep level of respect between the two, and the reason for Marlowe's whining was just his nature, more inclined to being a menace than anything. He gave your neck a soft nip, then he pulled himself up and helped you up with him.

"Come on, Master Shakespeare will have us over." Marlowe tugged you after him with a grin. "I believe we are in for a treat."

"I cannot believe it... Will hath outdone thee in verse," you laughed, half drunkly as you pursued Marlowe, hanging to his side while you stumbled together to his place. "Hah, I shall hold this over thee for a while, thou knowest."

Marlowe groaned, shooting you a glance as he sauntered with you clinging to him. "'Twas fortune, and a great measure of it. He is most fortunate; I had already had a drink when we began. My wit doth far exceed his. Moreover, he did have the succour of his players, a matter most unjust."

"Continue thy self-deceit, Kit", you teased, still laughing and staggering with him. "And whom dost thou cheer for, Y/N? Methinks thou art consorting with the foe." Marlowe barked in return, his scoff followed by a laugh of his own.

He leaned into you, both stumbling into his chambers. The lavishness of them did well, for you collapsed together nearly right away. Marlowe looked over for his wine but was far too exhausted to pour himself more. It was out of reach, and he gave up, letting his hand fall down on the cushion, growling. He let his head drop back too, feeling it light and dizzy with the alcohol and tobacco and the rush of the events. And there was also the fact that you willingly spent the day with him, which he thought you might have given up halfway through. But you stayed, and now you came with him.

Despite the dizziness in his head, he felt a sense of safety and comfort having you there with him. Marlowe watched you tug your loose shirt over your head and discard it by your side. He grinned and signalled you lazily with a motion of his head to help him as he removed his too. Then he opened up his arms for you. While he did so, you let yourself drop against him. You embraced his waist as you stretched, resting your head against his chest, and half climbed up on him.

"Thou art quite the character, Kit. Thou dost persist in hiding thy intent..." "O, please, start not now, mine little scoundrel... what I feel is of no matter for discourse, not at such a time." "But I do believe this may be the most fitting time, Kit."

Kit's eyes fixed you lazily, then his head fell back, a soft exhale leaving his lips as he allowed himself to fully relax with you against his body.

"There is time for everything, but such discourse shall spoil the night. Let the closing of this day be one untroubled by the tempest of passions. There shall be time for that, upon another morrow."

And with that, Kit leaned down, plastering a kiss on your forehead.

"Now rest thee, my little scoundrel."

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