Nero's breath came loose and even as he slipped back into himself. His fingers clenched against the wood of the hull, the creeping fatigue in his arms and legs pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and his jaw was stiff as he closed it. Sensation was a strange mistress, indeed, and his body forgot her kind touch as swiftly and surely as a gentle beam of sunlight or a good, stiff drink. As he drew air through his nose and released it slow and easy, the weight of the Foriegn Marshal prone against his back, limbs locked and senseless, he was left with only the fetid remnants of her attentions.

"Sir," Nero began, his voice was raw and uncooth and he flexed his jaw. His back was tight, and he contracted the muscles there. The movement reminded him of his position and the twinge of Ephram's listless fingers around his length sparked white pleasure up his spine. It was but an echo of a far grander thing, but it stole his breath nonetheless, left him gaping and silent again.