"Art thou done?"

Kit's hand found the nape of your neck, confidently rubbing the skin with the pad of his thumb, making you arch slightly and turn your head to him. He snickered, the massage continuing as he hovered over your back, glancing down at the barren sheet of paper before you. His brow furrowed, but his hand remained on your nape, his nails tracing little patterns now, coaxing you to close your eyes and submit to the treatment.

"Hast thou not begun?" "I have, Master Marlowe, yet inspiration is a wanton muse, and is passing hard to seize." "Thou speakest true…"

Kit felt the disappointment in your voice over your lack of writing. He knew better than anyone that dreadful disappointment when no words felt right and combining them in lines felt like a kind of sorcery one didn't possess. Forcing oneself would do no good in enhancing your writing, so he got a soft grip on your nape. It was time to look for inspiration elsewhere.

"Rise, rise… no more of this. I require thee for another matter." "But Master Marlowe, I had not yet-" "No more of that. Our patrons may bide another day… I must school thee… a lesson."

Kit grinned, pulling you up by your nape confidently. Once up, he released it and draped his lanky arm over your shoulder, smirking at you as he pulled you with him outside of the chambers. Inspiration, you had to learn, might come upon you, but sometimes you had to go looking for it.

"…A tavern?" "Why, yes, no fitter place to study the humours of man," Kit smiled slyly, hand patting your back as he helped you in.

All heads turned to Marlowe. He was Kit Marlowe, and he had a reputation for both his writing and his deeds, which made a few men snicker. Marlowe didn't care, his facade of confidence preceding him as he leaned over the counter asking for drinks for himself and you. Having been ignored, the men returned to their deeds, leaving you and Marlowe to enjoy your time alone. With your drink in hand and Marlowe puffing at his pipe, the opioids making him loose, he arched his finger out, pointing at a man in the tavern.

"Knowest thou who that lad is?" "No." "Nor I."

You snickered, occupied with your drink. Marlowe grinned, offering you his pipe. When you glanced curiously at it but didn't take it, he cocked his head to the side and put it to your lips, having you puff once.

"We shall discover what man he be… and what he can do."

You caughed at the hazelnutty, slightly bitter roasted sensation the opium left on your tongue and nostrils as Marlowe crossed his legs, eyes locked on the lad who, perhaps sensing the eyes on him, had turned to face the two of you.

Marlowe grinned, leaning into your ear.

"When inspiration cometh not from otherwhere… thou shalt learn to seek it in the flesh."

Almost concerned, you turned to Marlowe, and upon seeing the flustered touch on your cheeks, he laughed.

"O, fret not, my most precious. This time, I will join in the revels. To guide thee, as befitteth a Master and his prentice," teased Marlowe, with a playful grin, giving your cheek a cheerful pinch. "I hope thy body is apt to receive the lesson… to be inspired."