Chapter 79: Bound by Breath and Silence
The evening crept in softly, barely noticed. As the sky
outside their windows turned lavender and dusk painted shadows across the
manor, the air inside grew warmer—not from the fireplace or soft-lit
chandeliers—but from the closeness of three bodies intertwined on the studio
rug. The silence wasn’t empty. It pulsed with comfort, full of unspoken words
and touches that spoke louder than any sentence ever could.
Jungkook lay between them now, half-draped across Taehyung’s
chest, one hand splayed lazily against the older twin’s bare sternum,
fingertips occasionally tracing idle, featherlight lines over warm skin. V lay
behind him, a long arm wrapped snug around his waist, palm spread possessively
low on Jungkook’s stomach, breath brushing his hair.
It should have been overwhelming—to be so wholly held. But
it wasn’t. It felt… right.
Safe.
“Do you hear that?” Jungkook whispered into the quiet, voice
muffled against Taehyung’s chest.
Taehyung blinked slowly. “What?”
“That,” he whispered again, turning his head slightly. “The
quiet… but not cold.”
V’s grip tightened around him, a small sound escaping his
throat—one of understanding.
“It used to be lonely,” Jungkook continued. “All the silence
in this house. I thought maybe the walls hated sound.”
“They didn’t hate it,” Taehyung murmured, his lips brushing
against the crown of Jungkook’s head. “They were just waiting for you to fill
them.”
Jungkook smiled then, lips pressing into the warmth of
Taehyung’s collarbone. “Even when I was annoying?”
“Especially then,” V said, leaning in to kiss the shell of
Jungkook’s ear, “because you made it impossible to stay cold.”
A moment passed, thick with breath and heartbeat. Then
Jungkook shifted slightly, turning in the twin embrace to look at both of them.
His eyes were wide and doe-like, but behind them flickered something more
playful.
“Can I paint you?”
The question landed like a dropped stone into still water.
Taehyung arched a brow. “Together?”
Jungkook nodded. “Only for us. No one else sees it.”
V tilted his head slightly, considering. “What would it look
like?”
Jungkook’s cheeks colored, fingers twining in the hem of his
oversized sweater. “I don’t know yet. Maybe… not your faces. But your hands.
The way you hold me. Or your backs, or how your shadows fall over me when we
lie like this.”
He gestured loosely, suddenly shy. “It’s just a feeling. I
want to keep it.”
Both twins remained silent for a beat, watching him with
something too soft to be named. Then Taehyung reached out, brushing a knuckle
over Jungkook’s flushed cheek.
“Then keep it,” he said simply. “Put it wherever you want.
On canvas. On walls. On skin.”
Jungkook looked up, surprised.
V smirked faintly. “We meant it. If you ever want to mark
us—do it. We’re yours.”
Jungkook’s lips parted, his breath caught somewhere between
awe and hunger. “Like a tattoo?”
Taehyung shrugged one shoulder, his gaze locked with
Jungkook’s. “Or something temporary. Ink, paint, blood, mouth… pick your
poison.”
The look on Jungkook’s face crumbled from bashful into
wicked in a single blink, like the switch of a flame. That sharp glint in his
eye—the naughty, dangerously playful spark—lit.
“I’ll use paint,” he whispered, crawling up slightly until
he was straddling Taehyung’s hips and leaning forward, his voice now a sultry,
kitten-soft purr. “Red. Maybe black. Something that’ll stain.”
Behind him, V’s fingers slid slowly along Jungkook’s thigh,
gripping just enough to ground him, to remind him he was not the only predator
in the room.
Taehyung grinned, head resting back against the floor. “Then
make us your canvas, sweetheart.”
That night, the studio floor saw more than sketches and oil.
It bore witness to a kind of intimacy not meant for paper. Brushes were dipped,
colors smeared, bodies warmed under the weight of worship and laughter.
Jungkook’s palms stained crimson as he painted abstract trails across their
backs, his giggles echoing through the halls as Taehyung playfully tugged at
his waistband and V’s voice dropped low in warning not to spill too much paint
on his slacks.
By the end, all three of them were marked. Literally and
otherwise. Hands stained, necks kissed raw, hearts pulled closer.
And as Jungkook collapsed between them on the rug, a
half-finished canvas drying behind them with three silhouetted bodies tangled
in gold and ink, he let his eyes close—smiling.
“This,” he whispered, “is going to ruin me.”
“No,” Taehyung said, brushing hair from his face. “This is
going to make you whole.”
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