Cage Match

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Dexter, or any of the characters associated with the novels or with the Showtime TV series. I do not condone serial-killing, non-or-semi-consensual sex, and I most certainly do NOT condone keeping people in cages.

This is set in S2, with a possible “what if” hate-sex scenario that in a distant universe might have happened offscreen with Doakes and Dexter.

Cage Match
- medea42 2008

Miami in springtime meant heat. For Doakes, it meant that he was locked up on top of pure swelter; the Florida swamp oozed its humidity through the log walls, and despite the psycho’s attempts to make him “comfortable” there was no room for both the air and for his clothing. All he could do was sit or stand inside Dexter’s cage, naked, dripping in swamp air.

It wasn’t just the weather that was combusting around Doakes. While he managed to put aside most of his anger at Dexter in an effort not to get killed, being locked in the cage combined with all the other bullshit was also starting to come out of his pores. That asshole had actually screwed up bloodwork to set him up. He was also staring down 20 years on the force going to shit, because this son of a bitch couldn’t resist the urge to chop up a few bodies. He backed up, focused his rage, and kicked at the cage with as much force as he could muster.

His timing was, as with all things lately, shit. Dexter opened the door, rope in his hands, to observe Doakes attacking the cage. “I see we’re having a bad day today,” he said, his voice the infuriating calm of a man with only two emotions: void and rage. Right then Doakes didn’t care; if Dexter killed him right then, that was just fine – whatever the hell got him out of this heat.

“So that rope there – is that to kill me?” he demanded.

Dexter looked at the rope in his hands, contemplative. “No, I hadn’t thought of that, but creating a suicide – that is one possible solution.”

Doakes reached through his cage as Dexter approached, gripping his throat and slamming his face into the bars. “Here’s another solution, asshole!” He felt the throb of Dexter’s pulse beneath his hands. He saw the flare of his nostrils, as a trickle of blood fell to the man’s lips.

Doakes kept talking, screaming, no real control or thought. All he wanted was rage to match his rage, pain to match his pain, and then, hopefully, an ending – cool and calm, preferably without his remains released into the bay in a black garbage bag.
“So what you sick bastard, are you planning on fucking your sister? Did you off your Dad? You lying asshole, you probably killed all those people for having your sicko ideas first.” He’d already recognized that Dexter’s rage triggers were attached to his family, and that he took criticism of his “work” very personally. Doakes didn’t care why. All that mattered was that they worked, that they were buttons he knew how to push to get what he wanted, and what he wanted right then was a fight.

The raging worked. Dexter was on the other side of the cage door as though it never had a lock, rope in his hands and around Doakes’ neck. The burn, the cutting off of oxygen, felt good. Too good, as though pain and pleasure were somehow reversed and Doakes’ rage became a hard-on. He used his superior weight and conditioning to push back on the rope, and in a moment, the rope was slack as Dexter wash pushed against a wall.

Doakes pressed his lips onto Dexter’s; it was not a kiss so much as it was an assertion of dominance. Teeth behind lips ground into teeth behind lips, and Dexter’s body responded in symmetry with Doakes’ own response. It was fury against fury, each man rubbing flesh hot with uncontrollable anger, each Dark Passenger riding the men home in a bloody battle that was the next best thing to murder. Sexual release might be the ending, but it was not the story – the story was about dominance, who was really in control, and who was really more powerful.

In moments, Doakes had ripped open the bowling shirt, the popping of buttons making a distant noise over the blood pounding in his ears. This wasn’t foreplay, this was an attack – his lips ground into the throat and bit down the chest, leaving bloody marks along the way. A grim smile formed on the lips of Doakes’ Passenger, picturing the way Dear Dexter explaining to that sweet girlfriend of his why he had bite marks leading down to his dick.

Doakes smiled grimly at the view of the belt-line; Dexter’s erection raged as hard as his own. He slipped his hand into the shorter man’s pants and yanked, eliciting a yelp of surprise and humiliation from Dexter. Then, as he had him backed into a wall, he began to handle Dexter rapidly. A cock was a cock, and Doakes knew exactly how to get Dexter to shoot off – the explosion of the orgasm, completely beyond Dexter’s control, seemed to anger him even as it deflated him. He pushed his victim’s pants down the rest of the way and had him facing the wall in seconds; he had used this maneuver fully clothed with perps many times – he just hadn’t realized that it could come in so handy when horny, angry, and kept in a cage.

He shoved himself into Dexter, not bothering to be slow or gentle. This wasn’t La Guerta giving him a stress-relieving favor. He didn’t need to show courtesy, and he was just fine using rectal blood as a lubricant. The explosion came more swiftly than he expected, and his knees buckled at the final release. He allowed himself to drop to the ground.

The only sound in the cabin was the two men breathing heavily, as Doakes lay on the ground, and Dexter still faced the wall. Dexter’s calm voice asserted itself. “I came a second time.” He coolly pulled up his trousers and reassembled his shirt a second time. He then picked up the rope, stepping over Doakes’ prone form.

“Fortunately I keep a change of clothing in my van.” He locked the cage door behind him, pausing to inspect Doakes naked form. “I’ll bring a fan tomorrow. It’s the least I can do.”

The next day, Dexter also brought fresh fruit. It really was the least he could do for keeping Doakes locked up in a cabin.