Chapter 3: Midnight Confession
The night was a long, slow bleed of silence. Merlin lay on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling where the headlights of occasional cars painted brief, sweeping arcs. He felt hollowed out. The taste of his father’s skin was a ghost on his tongue, a haunting. Every time he replayed the moment against the wall—the grip of Nathan’s hands, the stifled sound in his throat—his stomach clenched with a nauseating mix of triumph and terror.
He heard the back door open an hour later. The careful, heavy tread on the kitchen tiles. The pause. Then, the sound of Nathan’s bedroom door closing, not with a slam, but with a definitive, final click.
That click was a judgment. It locked Merlin out.
The hollowness filled then, not with remorse, but with a sharper, more frantic energy. The ‘no’ had been clear. But the ‘we’ in Nathan’s voice, the hesitation in his hands… those were seeds. Merlin watered them with a desperate, twisted hope. If he could just get past the shock, past the thinking. If Nathan could just feel it again, without the noise of the world in his head. Maybe then the door wouldn’t be locked.
He waited until the house was so quiet he could hear the low hum of the refrigerator compressor cycling off. He rose, his movements fluid and silent. In the dark of his own room, he stripped. The clothes pooled at his feet—the t-shirt, the jeans, the briefs. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin. He was already half-hard, just from the thought of what he was about to do, the audacity of it. His cock lay thick against his thigh, a physical truth his father couldn’t argue with.
He padded barefoot into the hallway. The wooden floor was cool under his soles. He stopped outside Nathan’s door. No light bled from underneath. He turned the knob. It was unlocked. The relief was so profound it weakened his knees for a second. Nathan hadn’t barred the way.
He slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a whisper of sound.
The room smelled of Nathan—that familiar blend of plain soap, clean cotton, and the faint, earthy scent of his skin. In the faint ambient light from the window, Merlin could see the shape of him in the bed, a large mound under the duvet, turned on his side facing away from the door.
Merlin’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum. This was a point of no return. Deeper than the kiss. This was an invasion. He didn’t care. The need was a fever.
He approached the bed. The floorboards were mercifully silent. He lifted the edge of the duvet and slid in. The warmth was immediate, enveloping him, saturated with his father’s smell. It was like being inside him. Nathan stirred, a deep sleep-mutter, and shifted onto his back.
Merlin held his breath, frozen, an inch away.
Nathan’s breathing evened out again, deep and slow.
Slowly, Merlin moved. He pressed the length of his naked body against Nathan’s side. Nathan wore soft flannel pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt. The roughness of the flannel against Merlin’s bare legs was a shocking contrast. He could feel the solid heat of his father’s thigh through the fabric. He curled an arm over Nathan’s chest, his hand splaying over the steady heartbeat. He buried his face in the space between Nathan’s neck and shoulder, inhaling.
He was rock hard now, his erection pressing insistently against Nathan’s hip. He began to move, a subtle, rolling grind of his hips. A soft, helpless sigh escaped him, muffled against Nathan’s shirt. This was everything. The heat, the smell, the solid reality of him. Merlin’s mind short-circuited, reduced to pure sensation. He rutted like an animal, seeking friction, his cock leaking pre-come onto the flannel.
Nathan’s breathing changed. It hitched, lost its deep sleep rhythm. A tremor went through his body. Merlin didn’t stop. He ground harder, faster, lost in the building pressure.
“Mmm… wha…?” Nathan’s voice was thick with sleep, confused.
Merlin just pressed closer, his hand sliding down from Nathan’s chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt, down to the waistband of his pajamas.
Nathan’s body went rigid. Full consciousness crashed into him. He jerked, a violent spasm of understanding. “Jesus Christ!”
He tried to sit up, but Merlin was on him, wrapped around him, holding him down with the weight of his need. “Please,” Merlin whispered, hot and desperate against his ear. “Please, just feel it. Don’t think.”
“Merlin, get the fuck off me!” Nathan’s voice was a raw, panicked scrape. He shoved at him, his hands finding bare, hot skin instead of fabric, and he flinched as if burned. “You’re naked. Oh, god. You’re naked.”
“I need you to feel me,” Merlin said, and in a brutal, decisive motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Nathan’s pajamas and tugged them down, just enough. He shoved his own hips forward, and this time, his bare, slick cock slid against the bare skin of his father’s thigh.
The contact was electric. Nathan cried out—a strangled, shocked sound. His hands, which had been pushing, faltered. The sensation was too direct, too visceral to immediately deny. Merlin’s cock was hard and hot and real, grinding against him.
“See?” Merlin panted, fucking the crease of his father’s thigh. “See how good it is? How right?”
“Stop… this is insane…” But Nathan’s protest was breathless. His body was betraying him. Merlin could feel the response against his own stomach—the thickening, hardening length trapped in Nathan’s pajamas. The proof was undeniable.
Fueled by it, Merlin grew bolder. He let go of Nathan’s waistband and reached down, his fingers fumbling until they closed around Nathan through the soft cotton. He was fully hard, a heavy, hot weight in Merlin’s hand.
Nathan gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily into the touch. “Don’t…”
“You want it,” Merlin hissed, squeezing. “Your fucking body wants it. Just let it.”
He wrestled with the remaining fabric, tugging fiercely until Nathan’s cock sprang free, thick and urgent in the dark. The moment it was out, Nathan seemed to shatter. A low, broken groan tore from his throat. His head fell back against the pillow.
Merlin wrapped his hand around them both, his own cock sliding alongside his father’s. The feeling was obscenely perfect—the dual heat, the different textures, the shared, frantic pulse. He began to stroke, a rough, messy rhythm.
“Fuck,” Nathan breathed, the word a prayer and a curse. His hands came up, not to stop, but to clutch at Merlin’s back, his fingers digging into the skin. His eyes were wide open, staring blindly at the ceiling, seeing nothing but the ruin of his own morality.
“Yeah, fuck,” Merlin echoed, driving against him. The slide of skin on skin was wet, loud in the quiet room. “Just like this. Just us.”
Nathan’s resistance was gone, burned away by a hunger he’d never allowed himself to name. His hips began to move, meeting Merlin’s strokes with a desperate, grinding urgency. His breath came in harsh, ragged pants. One of his hands slid down, over the curve of Merlin’s ass, gripping hard, pulling him closer, deeper into the frantic junction of their bodies.
“Oh, god… son…” The word was a ruined thing, destroyed by pleasure.
“Don’t talk,” Merlin moaned, his forehead pressed to Nathan’s temple. “Just come. Come with me.”
It was a fast, brutal climb. There was no tenderness, no technique. It was raw, frantic release after years of suppression. Merlin’s strokes became jerky, uncontrolled. Nathan’s whole body tightened, a bowstring pulled to its breaking point.
With a choked, guttural cry that sounded like it was ripped from his soul, Nathan came. Hot stripes spurted between them, coating Merlin’s hand, their stomachs. The sensation, the feel of his father pulsing in his grip, the animal sound he made—it was too much. Merlin’s own orgasm slammed into him, a wave of blinding white heat that pulled a sharp, loud shout from his lips. He spilled over his own fist, mixing with Nathan’s release, a filthy, perfect union.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths in the dark. The smell of sex and sweat and shame filled the room, thick and cloying.
Merlin, spent, collapsed against him, their sticky skin glued together.
Nathan did not hold him. His arms fell to his sides, limp. He was utterly still. The silence that followed was heavier, more profound than the night before. It was the silence of a line crossed, obliterated.
Merlin, in the haze of his fulfillment, nuzzled again at his father’s neck. “See?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Nathan said nothing. He just stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wet and unblinking. When he finally moved, it was to slowly, mechanically, push Merlin off of him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back a tense, pale curve in the gloom. He sat there, head in his hands, the evidence of what they’d done cooling on his skin.
Merlin watched him, the hollow feeling returning, colder now. He had gotten what he wanted. All of it.
Nathan finally spoke, his voice flat and dead. “Get out.”
“Dad…”
“Get out of my room.”
Merlin slid from the bed, his body feeling used and suddenly frail. He stood naked and trembling in the middle of the room. Nathan did not look at him.
He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. The hallway air was chilling on his soiled skin. He heard the sound of Nathan’s muffled weeping, a dry, heaving sound of pure despair, through the door.
He had wanted Nathan to feel him. Now, he understood. He had. And the feeling had broken something between them that Merlin, in his desperate wanting, had never considered might need to remain whole.
The broken thing hung in the air between them for three days. It was in the silence at breakfast, a loud, screaming void where the easy chatter about work or school used to live. It was in the way Nathan’s eyes would fix on a point just over Merlin’s shoulder, refusing to land, his face a closed door. The house became a museum of their shame, every room a gallery of that night’s transgression.
Merlin moved through it like a ghost, aching. The triumph had curdled, leaving only the metallic taste of fear. He had miscalculated. He had wanted to shatter Nathan’s denial, but he hadn’t planned for the resulting vacuum, this cold, pragmatic silence. Nathan wasn’t weeping anymore; he was thinking. And that was far more dangerous.
On the fourth evening, Nathan finally spoke. He was washing a single plate at the sink, his back to Merlin. “We can’t ever talk about it,” he said, his voice flat, rinsed of all emotion.
The water from the faucet roared, a meaningless white noise. Merlin stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, the words not a resolution but a sentence. "We have to," Merlin whispered, the sound swallowed by the water. "We have to talk. We did that."
Nathan shut the water off. The silence was absolute. He placed the clean plate carefully on the drying rack, aligning it with precision. "We didn't do anything. It was a mistake. A chemical… glitch." He finally turned, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. "It’s over."
"It’s not over." Merlin took a step forward, his own voice gaining a desperate strength. "You came. In my hand. You held onto me."
"Shut up." Nathan’s flat tone sharpened into a blade. "Don’t you ever describe it. You will not say those words in this house."
"Or what?" The challenge hung in the air, fragile and dangerous.
Nathan’s jaw worked. He had no answer. The ‘or what’ was the unexplored continent between them, fraught with legal and emotional ruin. He pushed off the counter and walked out, leaving Merlin in the kitchen with the ghost of his own recklessness.
Three more days passed. The silence calcified. Nathan started sleeping on the couch. Merlin would hear him out there, the low mumble of late-night television, a barrier of artificial noise and worn upholstery. The tactic was clear: remove the opportunity. Make the memory abstract. Merlin lay in his own bed, the hollow ache in his gut transforming into a cold, focused anger. Nathan was trying to erase it. To pretend the heat, the sweat, the broken sound he’d made was nothing.
He wouldn’t allow it.
He waited until just past two in the morning. The TV was off. The house was a tomb. Merlin didn’t bother with stealth this time. He walked naked down the hall, his bare feet slapping softly on the wood. The living room was lit only by the faint blue glow of a digital clock.
Nathan was asleep on his back on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, a blanket pooled at his waist. He wore only his pajama bottoms.
Merlin didn’t hesitate. He knelt on the floor beside the couch. He could smell the sleep on him, the faint staleness of the day. He leaned in and put his mouth on Nathan’s cock through the thin flannel.
Nathan jolted awake with a choked gasp, his body arching. "What the—! Merlin, goddamn it—!" His hands flew down, tangling in Merlin’s hair, not to pull him away but clutching instinctively at the sensation.
Merlin yanked the waistband down, freeing him. Nathan was already half-hard, sleep-warm and heavy. Merlin took him fully into his mouth, swallowing him down to the root in one wet, practiced motion. He’d read about this, fantasized about it in the dark for years. The reality was salt and skin and a power so immense it made him lightheaded.
"Oh, fuck." The words were punched out of Nathan, all pretense of control gone. His hips stuttered off the couch cushions. "Stop… you have to stop…" But his hands were pressing Merlin’s head down, holding him there. His thighs trembled.
Merlin pulled off with a slick pop, his own breath ragged. "You don’t want me to stop." He spat the words, a filthy truth in the dark. He looked up, meeting his father’s wide, horrified eyes. "Your fucking hands are telling me the truth. Your body is." He stroked him with a firm, knowing grip, his thumb smearing the pre-come beading at the tip.
Nathan stared, his chest heaving. The conflict was a visible war on his face—disgust, shame, and a hunger so deep it was swallowing him whole. He opened his mouth, but no denial came out. Just a ragged breath.
"See?" Merlin whispered, triumphant and vicious. He lowered his head again, sucking him deep, using his tongue in a way he knew would unravel any last thought.
Nathan’s head slammed back against the arm of the couch. A long, broken moan tore from his throat, utterly surrendered. "Jesus… oh, Jesus Christ…" His fingers tightened convulsively in Merlin’s hair, setting a brutal, demanding rhythm. He fucked up into the wet heat of his son’s mouth, his hips pistoning, the couch springs squeaking in protest. "Suck it… just… fuck, suck your dad’s cock…"
The obscenity, coming from Nathan’s own lips, was the final permission. Merlin moaned around him, the vibration making Nathan shout. He worked him with a desperate, sloppy fervor, saliva slicking his chin. He could feel the tension coiling, the telltale pulse against his tongue.
Nathan’s warnings became a frantic, slurred chant. "Gonna come… I’m gonna… Merlin, get off, I’m—"
Merlin didn’t get off. He pushed down, taking him deeper, inviting it.
With a strangled cry that was part sob, Nathan came. He spasmed, his back bowing off the couch, his release flooding Merlin’s throat in hot, bitter spurts. Merlin swallowed, every convulsion a victory, until Nathan collapsed, spent and trembling.
Merlin pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at his father, who was staring at the ceiling, utterly blank, utterly conquered.
The silence returned, but it was different now. Charged with a new and terrible understanding. Nathan slowly pulled his pajamas up, his movements those of an old man. He wouldn’t look at Merlin.
"Go to bed," he said, his voice hollow.
Merlin stood. His knees ached from the floor. He looked down at the ruin of his father, the evidence of his victory cooling in his own throat. "You can’t sleep on the couch forever."
Nathan turned his face away, toward the back of the couch. A silent dismissal.
Merlin walked back to his room. The hollow ache was gone. It was replaced by a solid, cold certainty. He had won. He had made Nathan participate, made him speak his desire aloud. The line was not just crossed; it was paved over.
The next morning, Nathan was making coffee. He didn’t jump when Merlin entered. He just nodded, a stiff, tiny motion. His eyes were dead.
"Pass the sugar," Merlin said. His voice was normal. Casual.
Nathan passed it. Their fingers did not touch.
The new routine was established without a word. The silence was no longer a wall. It was a contract. An agreement of what would, and would not, be acknowledged. Nathan stopped sleeping on the couch two nights later. He returned to his bed, leaving his door unlocked.
Merlin understood. The invitation was not for conversation. It was for something else entirely. A week after the incident on the couch, Merlin went to him. He didn’t slink in. He simply opened the door and stood there, naked again, erect.
Nathan was reading a book. He looked up. His eyes tracked down Merlin’s body and back to his face. No surprise. No outrage. Just a weary, grim acceptance. He closed the book and set it on the nightstand. He didn’t speak.
He shifted over in the bed, making space.
Merlin got in. The sheets were cool. He turned to Nathan, who lay rigidly on his back, staring up. Merlin moved his hand, placing it on Nathan’s chest, over his t-shirt. He felt the frantic heartbeat beneath. Slowly, he pushed the fabric up. Nathan lifted his arms, allowing it to be pulled over his head and discarded. His compliance was a form of violence.
Merlin kissed him then, not a desperate lunge but a slow, claiming press of lips. Nathan’s mouth was slack, unresponsive for a moment. Then, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his being, he opened. His tongue met Merlin’s. His hands came up, not to clutch, but to rest, heavy and final, on Merlin’s bare hips.
There was no romance in it. It was a transaction of need and defeat. Merlin shifted, mounting him, their cocks aligning. He reached between them, taking them both in hand, and began to move.
Nathan watched him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His hips began to move in time, a slow, deep grind. "Just get what you want," he whispered, his voice raw.
"I am," Merlin breathed, speeding his strokes, the friction building into a familiar, devastating heat.
This time, when Nathan came, it was silent. A sharp intake of breath, a tightening of every muscle, and a hot flood over Merlin’s fist. He followed seconds after, his own release mixing, marking. He collapsed onto Nathan’s chest, their skin sticking together with sweat and spend.
Nathan’s arms came around him. Not an embrace. A containment. He held Merlin there, as if trying to physically compress the reality of what they were into something manageable. His breath was warm against Merlin’s temple.
After a long time, he spoke, his voice barely audible. "This is all there is. Do you understand? There is no before. There is no after. There is just this room. This bed."
Merlin listened to the steady beat of the heart beneath his ear. He had wanted a connection. He had forged a confinement. He nodded against Nathan’s skin.
"Okay," he said.
It was not a concession. It was a vow. The walls of the room felt closer than ever, but for the first time, they didn’t feel like they were closing in on him. They felt like they were holding everything else at bay. He had his father, in the only way left possible. It was a dark, quiet place, and it was entirely theirs.