Jonathan Sims

John grins outright at being dubbed a maniac. That's a new one, and not a term he ever would have imagined as being applicable, but Martin has a way of making it sound like a badge of honor. He hums, pleased and a little smug, his eyes briefly drifting shut as Martin cards through his hair. Their current arrangement might not be conducive for an extended cuddle — Martin will want to get cleaned up sooner or later (probably sooner), and the distant awareness that this angle is playing merry hell with his back is already starting to elbow its way towards the forefront of his mind — but he intends to enjoy it while it lasts.

"I love you," he replies in a low murmur, as if it's a wholly separate thought. He'd let go Martin's chest in his earlier shock, and now he resettles his hand closer to Martin's sternum, his fingers gently circling the exposed skin just beneath his undershirt. One eyebrow quirks, and he adds a playfully pointed, "Lest ye forget."