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Creep motherfucker.
Those were the only words circling Sergeant James Doakes’ mind as he sat on the rough hardwood floor. The wooden planks scraped his skin and a few loose rusty nails dug into his hips.
It was exhilarating.
Not only was it fucking sweltering in this cabin, but he was stuck here.
Solely dependent on a serial killer.
His fucking captor.
Dexter Morgan.
He always knew there was something messed up about him. Those doughnuts, that too-perfect grin, acting as if he’s everyone’s best friend— all too sweet for a man who spent his days wading through blood and death. It was almost unbelievable that no one else saw through his fake sweetness. But Doakes had seen behind that mask. He’d watched the way Dexter’s eyes lit up at crime scenes, how his pupils dilated when he stared at corpses, as if he was drinking it all in. He seemed to feed off the blood and carnage, like the only mantra running through his twisted mind was the bloodier, the better.
He cursed himself for not being more careful. Fuck! He’d known Morgan was dangerous from the start, known the bastard would fight back. Hell, he’d had a gun aimed right at him, but somehow, he was the one stuck in this damn cage now, not that psycho. At least he’d managed to shoot Dexter in the leg—that smug fucker deserved it. But it wasn’t enough. He should’ve finished the job; should’ve put a bullet between his eyes and ended it right there.
The thought brought a dark smirk to Doakes’ lips, his imagination sparking to life. Killing him would’ve felt fucking good. It wasn’t his usual style, but for Morgan, he would’ve made an exception. He could picture it now: Dexter’s face twisting in shock as he lay bleeding out, remembered for his handiwork that was dragged from the depths of the ocean and put on display for the world to see.
Morgan must’ve shit himself seeing his horrors laid bare. The motherfucker deserved to die for every one of those murders, even if some of those people had it coming.
But hunting killers like that? No, that wasn’t his job. He could catch them, sure, but playing judge, jury, and executioner? That wasn’t his role—he wasn’t a fucking lawyer.
As Doakes leaned his head against the wiring of his containment, a strong thud reverberated against the cabin walls. Doakes scrambled onto his feet, expecting either the worst or the best. He heard a click and another thud before the door swung open.
It was the worst.
The Bay Harbour Butcher in the flesh, once again.
“I see you're quite comfortable here, Sergeant.” That stupid fucking smile again, grinning from ear to ear. Doakes couldn't help but grit his teeth. He wanted- No. Needed it gone.
“Quit fucking around, Morgan. You better let me out soon. You already know there's only two ways to end this..” Doakes dryly spat out as the man cheekily looked down on him from outside the cage.
“Oh Sergeant, I know that pretty well. Which is why you're staying here.. But I got you some things, you are a hostage but you certainly don't deserve to suffer.” As he spoke, Dexter slid a plastic container under the cage gate.
A simple water bottle.
Doakes carefully inspected it. The lid was securely attached, the label wasn't tampered with, no holes, or anything. He took one more look at Morgan, trying to sniff out any trick he may have embarrassingly left in the open. But nothing. The air around them hung heavily, so silent you could hear the buzzing of the fragile bulb from above.
However, at the idea of something quenching his thirst, like a wild animal, he wasted no time opening the bottle and drinking from it. His throat ached as the cool liquid ran down his oesophagus, his tongue relished the crisp taste. He squeezed the bottle tight once he had finished, gazing back up at Dexter, who was smiling exactly as before.
“So what the fuck do you need me for?” Doakes’ voice was hoarse, he was so sick of Morgan's games. He yearned to strangle that motherfucker right there and then, permanently ridding him of that pretentious smirk.
“I like you, Sergeant. You are a really good man. I don't want you to go to waste. Plus.. you're fun to talk to.” Morgan brought up a cardboard box from behind as he spoke, cautiously squatting down on it. He looked up at him, being met with a grin he was oh so well acquainted with. Dexter knew that too, and Doakes had merely enough of it.
“Fun? Let me out and I'll show you how fun I can be... bring it on, psycho.” Doakes was gripping onto the wiring of the cage, his tone thick and low. His fingers ached to touch the man in front of him, he felt half-sick with just how sinister Morgan was. He glared at Dexter, his mind going feral just at the idea of hurting him. He needed out, and he'd do anything.
Morgan's expression turned fond, tilting his head to the side, his tone much lighter and playful.
“Oh but Sergeant, I already brought it..”
What ?
“You just didn't know it.”
Morgan's irises travelled down the slender figure of the bottle, tight in Doakes’ grasp.
No.
A spike of adrenaline immediately coursed through Doakes' body. His eyes widened as he backed away from the wiring, his legs giving out as his back slammed towards the wall. He didn't know where to look. His trembling hands? The concerningly quick rise and fall of his chest? He went through many beyond fucked up situations but this was fucking personal.
“Motherfucker..” His throat ran dry, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes felt heavy, his heartbeat was like a drum. What the fuck was happening to him?
“Don't worry Sergeant. Everything is going to be just fine...” Doakes couldn't comprehend Morgan's last few words, but he didn't care. He'd rather die now than be around this psycho any longer. It's just so fucking embarrassing how easily Morgan got him. Maria would laugh if she saw him right now. All weak, drugged, manipulated. Nothing like what they taught him to be back at Special Ops.
With the last strength left in Doakes’ body, his arms hoisted his torso up, barely looking at Dexter, his pupils peering up from below his brows.
“I'm going to kill you... you fucker..”
Morgan grinned even wider, as if accepting his words as a promise.
“We'll see about that, Doakes.”
And just like that, he was out like a light.
Although he remembers exactly when he fell unconscious, he doesn't know when he woke up.
His fingers twitched as he noticed the pulsating pain in his head. Then, he heard the low beat of his heart, almost deafening to his ears. The sounds of nearby rummaging only made it more irritating. His lids sluggishly fluttered open, painfully so as his eyes adjusted to the light. Copper lingered on the tip of his tongue, hoarsely swallowing its remains as he scraped his teeth. Slowly, he turned his head in the direction of those previously annoying sounds. He didn't know what else to expect but it was nothing, or no one, other than Dexter Morgan.
Morgan hadn't noticed Doakes was awake yet as his back was turned against him. He desperately struggled to find something, but Doakes wasn't exactly sure what. All he hoped was that he was nowhere near involved in it. What time was it? Doakes’ senses blurred, mixing into an abstract painting of instinct and aggression.
He tried to stand up but a sharp ache stabbed at his shins, bringing his body weight down as he grabbed his ankle to ease himself. Like a hunting predator, the emerging wince from Doakes' mouth sparked something in the other man. In what seemed to be a blink of an eye, he was already over at Doakes' side.. or front, actually. He observed the Sergeant's struggling body, taking in every flinch of his trembling figure, feeding on it. Not even a single smidge of empathy behind those fucking eyes.
“You're awake.. For a brief moment, I was afraid I gave a much bigger dose than you could handle.” Doakes couldn't even focus on one point in his vision, yet the smirk was so distinct in that psycho’s voice. Dexter continued, “But I know you could. You're stronger than you look, Sergeant.”
Doakes weakly looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, his expression exhausted, “Don’t be a fucking flirt, Morgan.. What the fuck was that?”
“Nothing dangerous. I promise... I just needed some time to get my life under control again.” Morgan's eyes drifted away, his words trailing off as he began to focus on something unrelated.
“Fuck off with that bullshit.. I don't give a fuck how harmless that shit was, no way you're drugging me again..” He glared at him as he finished speaking, wishing he could burn the man alive with a look alone.
“Oh, we’ll see about that.” Dexter squatted next to Doakes, who was shakily gripping the wiring of the cage. “After all, it's you who's trapped here, not me. I could leave here, unharmed, back to work, my sister, my girlfriend, and her kids, whereas you..”
The man tilted his head slightly as he stared into Doakes' eyes, “You would be hunted down and arrested as the Bay Harbour Butcher.”
The cogs of his mind sloppy, Doakes felt anger roar through him with zero self-control. How fucking dare he? Like a voice at the backdoor of his head, fury was knocking- No. Banging to be let in.
It was irritating. It was addictive.
His fingers clawed at the cage, nails scraping desperately as if hoping to rip it apart. Dexter was next in line.
"I'll get you for this, you son of a—”
Doakes broke off with a gasp as a sharp pain stabbed through his hand.
He looked down to see–
A jagged piece of metal wire embedded in his flesh. Blood seeped out as he pulled his hand back with a hiss. The pain was dull, but it jolted him enough to snap out of his rage.
Dexter, on the other hand, seemed fixated on the injury, his eyes locked on the wound with an unsettling intensity.
"Shit..." Doakes muttered, trying to steady himself on his knees. His thoughts were muddled, fighting through a fog of drugs as he searched for a way to staunch the bleeding. He yanked off his tank top, inspecting the gash. It was too deep to ignore; he needed gauze.
Dexter was gazing at the sergeant, carefully observing his movements, it was almost like a show to him.
Fucking creep.
Unexpectedly, Dexter got closer to Doakes, merely only an inch away from the cage. “Here, I'll help. I don't want you to bleed out in some silly accident.” The wounded man turned around, noticing a proper bandage in the brunette's hands. Struggling, he crawled as close as he could to Dexter, glaring at the man. "Give it to me," he demanded, his voice thick and low, yet tinged with a vulnerability that made his stomach churn. He despised how weak he sounded, having sworn he'd never let himself get drugged. This was more than a violation; it was a humiliation.
"No... I'll do it," Dexter replied smoothly. "It's only fair that I take care of you, right? You're my captive after all. You can't live without me." His lips curled into that insidious smile, the one he was all too familiar with, the one that sent chills down Doakes's spine. Evil didn't even begin to describe it. Morgan was a sadistic piece of shit, and the very sight of him filled Doakes with visceral disgust.
"Plus, I'll do a better job than you ever could. You've just woken up from being sedated, and I went to medical school. The choice is obvious." Dexter smirked cheekily, extending his hand, waiting for the sergeant to surrender his own. Doakes scoffed. Admitting defeat was one thing, but admitting helplessness? He'd rather die... just not here.
Gritting his teeth, he grunted painfully as he forced his palm through an opening in the cage. The drops of his bright blood contrasted sharply against the dull, aged floorboards. He swallowed hard, fighting back the bile rising in his throat as he watched Dexter's hands work meticulously on his wound.
Cautious, he unravelled a hefty piece of bandage around the knuckles of one of his hands, his other gently held the Sergeant's wounded palm. Each movement of Dexter's fingers was precise, almost tender, but it only made Doakes's revulsion grow.
Dexter's brows narrowed as he examined the cut, focused. The dim, flickering light cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his expression. “Quite deep, Sarge. You should be glad I’m here.” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. Almost. Doakes just couldn't believe a monster like him would be capable of it. The air in the room was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the musty smell of the old wooden floorboards. "Don't tell me how I should feel," he muttered, trying to control his temper. Dexter chuckled under his breath, the sound echoing off the cold walls.
Suddenly, his eyes looked.. Lost. As if he didn’t know what to do next. He was bleeding out at a faster rate, none of it seeming to clot. “Sergeant, the gauze isn't enough. I can’t do much from here.” His tone sounded genuine for a moment, just a moment, and that immediately worried Doakes.
He looked at his wound. It was a mess. Beads of blood dribbled down his cut and onto his wrist, the gauze was almost completely soaked through. He looked back up staring into Morgan’s empty eyes. This could’ve been another trick, another attempt at getting him vulnerable. But no matter how deeply he dove into the man’s pupils, nothing seemed to jump out as unusual to him.
“What can you fucking do then?”
Dexter stayed silent, but his eyes flickered with a strange light as he leaned closer, his breath warm against Doakes's skin. Without warning, he brought Doakes's wounded palm to his lips. The sergeant tensed, his muscles rigid as he processed the obscene display before him.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Doakes spat, trying to pull his hand back, but Dexter's grip was ironclad, nails digging into skin, desperate.
Dexter's tongue flicked out, tracing the edge of the cut, sending an involuntary shiver down Doakes' spine. The air around him was suffocating, as if crushing his lungs from the inside out. Each second stretched into eternity as the freak relished in his lifeblood, a predatory glint in his eyes becoming even more pronounced.
Doakes' mind raced, he could feel the wet heat of Dexter's mouth, the slow, deliberate way he licked and sucked at the wound. Despite it all, blood just seemed to spill everywhere. The floor, his palm, under his fingernails, on Morgan’s lips, chin, neck– It left him speechless for a moment.
"Stop it, you sick fuck," Doakes growled, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and something he couldn't quite name. Fear, maybe. But it was overwhelming, something he never experienced before. A disgusting feeling of wanting, like a whisper in his ear pleading, screaming for more more more…
Dexter finally pulled back, licking his lips clean with a satisfied sigh. "You taste... interesting, Sarge. There's something almost poetic about it, don't you think?" His smirk widened, wiping a stray drop of blood from the corner of his mouth with a casual swipe of his thumb, savouring the taste as if it were a fine wine.
"You know," Dexter began, his voice low and almost tender, "There's something fascinating about blood. How it connects us all, how it carries every part of who we are." He paused as he gazed up at Doakes, and the sergeant could feel his gaze drilling into his skull. "But it's also… fragile."
Doakes clenched his jaw, his heart pounding against his ribcage. The drug in his system dulled his strength but did nothing to quell the fire raging inside him. "You won't break me, Morgan. You think this—" he gestured weakly to his wounded hand, hissing silently, his palm still throbbing from Dexter’s ministrations, "—is going to make me submit? You’re more fucked up than I thought."
The man’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading into something more calculating. "Oh, I don’t need to break you, James. I just need you to realize that in here," he tapped his temple with a finger, "I've already won."
Before Doakes could react, Dexter grabbed his wounded hand with a sudden, brutal force, yanking it towards him. Then, with his thumb, thrust inside his open wound. The sergeant gasped, a guttural sound of pain escaping as fresh blood surged from his palm. His grip tightened around his wrist, nails digging into the almost torn flesh, coaxing more crimson to flow.
"You can feel that, can’t you ?" Dexter whispered, his voice sweetened with a mix of fascination and something darker. "How easily it spills. How quickly it can all slip away..."
Doakes’ breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring from the pain. He tried to pull his hand away, but Dexter’s hold was unrelenting, almost affectionate in its cruelty. The intimacy of it was sickening, a mockery of care as he pressed his thumb into the deepest part of the cut, forcing the blood to ooze out in thick, warm streams.
"Stop…" The sergeant whined, shaking with defiance, and a hint of desperation. "You fucking psycho, let go."
But Dexter only leaned in closer, digging his finger deeper into his palm. "Not yet, Sarge," he murmured. "We’re just getting started."
With a sudden, savage movement, he brought Doakes’ bleeding hand to his mouth once more, but this time, there was no pretense of gentleness. He bit down hard on the wound, his teeth sinking into flesh, drawing more blood with a ferocity that sent aching shockwaves through the sergeant’s entire body. He cried out, a deep mewl emerging from the back of his throat as Dexter drank deeply, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
His world narrowed to that one point of contact, the searing pain, the wet heat of Dexter’s mouth, and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He peered down, nausea settling at the tip of his tongue as he observed the man below him. He couldn’t even see his face, yet he knew that bastard was smiling.
Once he thought it couldn't get any worse, he felt hot saliva slowly stray away from his palm. His breath hitched as Dexter gradually began licking and kissing up from the cut, smearing warm blood up to his wrist. Doakes gritted his teeth, every nerve in his body screaming in revulsion as he felt teeth graze against his protruding veins, tracing a slow, deliberate path along his arm.
"Morgan...," Doakes managed to rasp, his voice thick, barely a whisper. "What the fuck are you doing?"
But Dexter didn’t answer. His mouth continued its gruesome journey, moving past his wrist, his parted lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his forearm. Sometimes he felt sharp canines scratch against his scars, as if threatening to tear him apart if he even attempted to escape his physical attention.
And all Doakes could do was take in the sensations; the warmth of his breath, the wetness of his tongue, the sound of muffled gasps for air—it was all too much, too close, too personal. Doakes wanted to pull away, to fight, but his body felt sluggish, weighed down, almost hypnotised by the sight before him.
Then there was a pause. Dexter slowly lifted his gaze to meet the sergeant’s, his own dark and unreadable. "I’m just... savouring the moment," he murmured, his voice low and disturbingly soft. "You should too. We don’t often get to experience life this... intensely ."
“You’re fucking sick,” His throat burned as he choked out his words, his voice barely audible. He could feel the heat of Dexter’s mouth lingering on his flesh, a brand that stung with more than just physical pain.
Morgan smiled, kissing Doakes' arm like a lover's. "I know." he replied simply, before continuing his leisurely, blood-slicked ascent. As he reached the bend of his elbow, his tongue flicked out, tracing the thin skin with a deliberate slowness that sent a new wave of nausea straight to the sergeant’s stomach.
No matter how much Doakes internally begged, and prayed for this to be over, he kept moving up, pressing soft kisses up the length of his bicep, each touch leaving a trail of sticky red warmth in its wake. It was mesmerising; almost as if that bastard knew his body better than his own, as if his tongue just couldn’t get enough of the taste of his flesh, and the smell of fear radiating off of him.
And then, as if the metal cage itself was guiding him, Dexter’s lips met the cold, unyielding wire of the enclosure separating them. He halted there momentarily, his breath heavy and warm against the steel. Doakes’ body was tense, sweat dripping off every inch of his skin, ready to be washed with relief. Right when he thought it was over, the freak in front of him did the unthinkable—
Doakes barely had time to react before Morgan’s lips found his own through the small space between the wires. The first contact was electric, a sharp jolt that sent every nerve in his organism into overdrive. But Dexter didn’t pull away; instead, he pressed closer, tilting his head, deepening the kiss in a way that felt both so possessive and so predatory .
His mind blanked as he felt the man’s tongue intrude his mouth, the copper scent and taste of his own blood so pungent. The hot temperature of their saliva starkly contrasted with the cold metal biting into their lips, threatening to nick them with every hungry push forward. Dexter was relentless, like a desperate beast, his body straining against the cage as if trying to fuse them together through the barrier.
A sharp pain in Doakes’ hand pulled him back to reality— He glared at the man as his calloused fingers had found his wounded palm, deliberately pressing into the cut, edging it open with each brutal push and pull of their grotesque embrace The sergeant gasped against the assault, but each groan was hungrily swallowed by Dexter’s mouth, turning his pain into something twisted, something raw.
“Fuck… you… Morgan,” He managed to growl between gasps, the bass of his words vibrating against the psycho’s lips. Yet, his defiance only seemed to fuel him, darkness blew out his pupils as the kiss suddenly became rougher, more invasive, as if trying to claim every last bit of air, of life, from Doakes’ lungs.
Just as a rush of adrenaline coursed through his arm, attempting to struggle, Dexter’s teeth grazed his lower lip, nipping hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang mixed with the saliva already coating their mouths, and the coppery warmth trickled down Doakes’s chin, dripping onto Dexter's shirt, staining the cage bars between them.
And as if a switch was flipped, Doakes couldn't resist anymore. His tongue dove deep into the taller man's mouth, licking and sucking at the bloody wires separating them. His lungs expanded just as fast as his mouth did, biting, begging to rip the barrier between them apart. It was like the voice in the back of his mind finally took control, overwhelming his senses and rational thinking. He couldn't even tell if he was doing this for the sake of escape, or if it was something much more impulsive.
Dexter pulled back just enough to let their eyes meet through the narrow gap, his breath hot and ragged against Doakes’ cheek. There was a wildness in his gaze, a feral hunger that sent a shudder down Doakes’ spine.
And the worst part of it all, Doakes found himself wanting more of that look. More of that disorganised breathing. More of that relentless gripping and pulling as if edging to tear flesh. More biting and less barking.
More of the real Dexter Morgan that's in front of him.
Dexter finally pulled back, just enough to speak, but the sergeant could still feel the hot, rough breaths that ripped through him, “Finally decided to fight back, Sergeant?" His voice was a low mocking murmur, dripping with amusement. He had to admit, he needed that tone gone.
"Shut the fuck up." Before Morgan could make another one of his smart remarks, pushing himself to his limits, Doakes harshly pressed his wounded palm against the rough denim of the forensic's jeans. He hissed as he felt the man's hips involuntarily jerk into his hand, a barely hushed gasp emerging from his lips. He chuckled, pride bubbling up inside him, feeling somewhat in control.
“Oh, you're fucking disgusting..” Doakes snarled, his voice thick with revulsion, but there was an edge to it, something that made him hate himself even more. He wanted to yank his hand away just then, just to keep Morgan on his toes, but a tight grip forced his palm to stay in place, pressing harder against his cut as he ground against him.
“Oh, you have no idea..” Dexter whispered, his breath hot against Doakes’ face as he continued to move, his rhythm slow, teasing. Each thrust sent a stinging wave of pain through Doakes’ arm, the reopened cut bleeding freely, mixing with the heat from his body, soaking into the jeans' fabric. But there was something else, something that made his heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with fear—
Doakes clenched his teeth, trying to focus on the pain, on the anger, anything to drown out the unwanted sensation creeping up on him. But Dexter’s body was relentless, the pressure of his hips, the heat of his breath, the insidious pace of his grind—all of it was pushing Doakes toward a line he didn’t want to cross. He could feel the sickening knot in his stomach, a mixture of disgust and... desire.
“You into this sick shit? Look at yourself.. You're pathetic.” Doakes spat again, growling, but even he could hear the wavering edge in it. If only he could put his hands around Morgan's neck, straddle him, watch the light disappear from his eyes, and destroy him into nothing. Not the Bay Harbour Butcher, not the blood spatter analyst, but the real Dexter Morgan that so desperately tries to appear tough, dominant, in control.
In the background, the sergeant could hear the bastard's hitched breathing, low, guttural sounds, his hips and legs shuddering against Doakes' rough grip, blood spilling everywhere. The denim cut deeper into his wound as the rhythm grew more insistent, more depraved. His other hand reached out, grasping the wiring of the cage desperately.
“You… you like this, don’t you?” Dexter’s voice was quiet, barely more than a whine, but it cut through Doakes like a knife. “You can’t deny it, Sergeant. You want this… want to see me like this. You want me.” There was that cockiness in his words again, like a dark triumph that always sent a surge of rage through Doakes’ veins.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Doakes snarled, but the threat was hollow, lost beneath the rawness of his voice. He wanted to mean it, he did mean it. But his irises couldn't help but follow the movement of the lab geek's thrusts. How he brutally pressed up against his hand that pulsed in pain, feeling his hard-on throb as more blood soaked into his jeans, his breathing shallow and moist, as if the only words at the tip of his tongue were please, more, please Sergeant—
And he wanted to laugh, to humiliate, he really did. Yet his throat remained dry, hypnotised by the sight, the obscene smell of sweat and blood clouding his senses. He didn't even care about his hand anymore; he could bleed out right here and now.
His lips curled into a mischievous smirk, his tone venomous as he spat out, “You’re fucking pathetic, Morgan. Look at you—getting off on this like a damn animal."
Morgan’s eyes flashed with something dark, but Doakes didn’t stop, pushing harder, his words sharp and cutting. “If I knew you were nothing but a sad, control freak like this, I would've left your ass alone this sooner. You can’t even get off without hurting someone, can you?”
Dexter’s breath hitched, his movements faltering for a split second, gazing at the sergeant with a calculating squint, "Is that the best you got to say, Sarge? Need.. Need I remind you who's- hah.. caged up like an animal here, like prey." His gasps became unsteady, tumbling between his words, as the other man teased him through the fabric of his pants.
“Well, you’re definitely no predator, Morgan,” Doakes growled, a teasing, harsh rasp. “You’re the prey. You’re just as weak as every other piece of shit I’ve put down. Pathetic… desperate… and scared.”
The words seemed to hit their mark, the effect immediate. The taller man's breathing grew more erratic, his thrusts more frantic, as if he was trying to drown out Doakes’s voice with sheer physicality. But he wouldn’t let him escape—No, no. Not when he had him right where he liked.
“You know what's fucking ridiculous about this? It's the fact you like this, don’t you?” Doakes sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, pressing his palm harder into Dexter's clothed cock. “You like being degraded, like having someone like me put you in your place. That’s why you need to do this sick shit, isn’t it? Because deep down, you know you’re nothing but a fucking loser.” With every word, the man in front of him groaned ever so slightly louder, starved for release as his hips jerked violently against bleeding flesh.
Dex’s face twisted into a mixture of anger and desperation, his entire body trembling as if on the edge of breaking down. But Doakes wasn’t done; he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“You’ll never be in control, Morgan. You’re just a freak, a worthless piece of shit who’ll never be anything more. And when I get out of here, I’ll make sure you know exactly how fucking worthless you are.” The words cut deep, striking at the core of the man's psyche, and Doakes knew it was enough to push him over the edge.
With a guttural moan, his body tensed, shuddering stubbornly as he reached his climax, his nails digging into not just the metal wires of the cage but into the tender flesh of the sergeant's wrist; the sounds release mixing with the harsh, ragged breaths that tore from his throat.
The sergeant watched him with cold, calculating eyes, a fucked up sense of satisfaction creeping into his chest as he saw the momentary vulnerability in Dexter’s expression—the fleeting realisation that he had been right all along. Morgan looked up at him through lidded eyes and wet, sweaty hair, his chest rapidly rising and falling. A silence between them stretched into eternity, the hum of the lightbulb and the scent of blood and sweat hung heavy around them.
For a moment, it seemed like neither of them would break the tense stillness, as if they were both caught in the aftermath of the brutal intimacy they had just shared. But then, Dexter’s gaze shifted, the familiar mask of cold detachment sliding back into place. His breath steadied, and he slowly pushed himself away from the cage, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the last traces of blood and saliva across his lips.
“Guess you’re tougher than you look, Sergeant.” Dexter muttered, his voice low and hoarse, but the bravado in his tone was thin, barely masking the unease that still lingered in his eyes. He took a step back, his movements slower, more measured, as if forcing himself to maintain control.
Doakes smirked, a dark satisfaction blooming in his chest as he watched Dexter try to pull himself together. “Yeah, and you’d better remember that,” he cooed, his voice gravelly but steady. “You better get back to your girlfriend, hmm? I bet she's worried sick where you have been all evening...”
The man paused, his eyes flicking back to meet Doakes’ pinning stare, and for a brief moment, an unreadable edge in his expression. Yet, he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned away, heading for the door, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floorboards. As Dexter reached the doorway, he hesitated, one hand gripping the frame as if he was about to say something. But whatever it was, he swallowed it down, shaking his head slightly before stepping outside into the night. The door creaked shut behind him, the sound echoing in the silence that followed, leaving Doakes alone in the dimly lit cabin.
The sergeant exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in his muscles begin to unwind. His hand throbbed painfully, the wound still oozing blood, but it was a small price to pay. Despite the disgust and the pain, despite everything that had happened, he couldn’t shake the odd sense of satisfaction that lingered in his stomach. He’d seen the crack in Dexter’s armor, the brief flash of vulnerability, and it was enough.
And that night, a forest grew.