#cod rorke

Def noncon/dubcon. Post brainwash Rorke is a monster, a broken man. He wouldn't treat you nice.

The floorboards groaned under Gabriel Rorke’s boots, a rhythmic, grating protest that filled the oppressive silence of the building they've camped out in. Outside, the Venezuelan jungle was a wall of wet, black tangled limbs, but inside, the air was stagnant and thick. A single bulb dangled from a frayed wire in the center of the room, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the peeling wallpaper every time he paced past it.

He stopped at a scarred wooden table, his large hands flat against the surface. The wood splintered under his palms as he leaned his weight forward, his shoulders bunching beneath his tactical vest. The intel was bad. The Ghosts were a heartbeat away, closing a circle he had spent years trying to break. The pressure in his skull was a physical weight, a coiled spring of pure, unadulterated fury that had no outlet.

Rorke swung his arm in a sudden, violent arc, backhanding a ceramic mug across the room. It shattered against the far wall with a sharp, explosive crack that echoed in the hollow space.

“Almagro.”

His voice didn't rise in volume, but it held a jagged edge that sliced through the quiet. The door at the end of the hall opened with a cautious click. Almagro stepped into the sliver of light, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on the ceramic shards littering the floor. He knew better than to speak first when Rorke was in this state.

“The Ghost’s trail is getting hot,” Rorke said, his back still turned. He looked like a mountain of shadow against the dim light. “I can feel them breathing down my neck.”

Almagro cleared his throat, his hand resting tentatively on the doorframe. “We have the scouts out, sir. We can move the extraction up to-”

“I don’t want a briefing,” Rorke interrupted, finally turning. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a manic, restless energy that made the air in the room feel thin. “I want a distraction. I want something to put my hands on that isn’t a rifle or a map.”

He stepped toward Almagro, the light catching the deep scars on his face, making them look like fresh welts.

“Bring me a woman. Now.”

Almagro hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the dark windows. “Sir, the security risk of bringing a local into the perimeter during an active-”

Rorke was across the room before Almagro could finish the sentence. He grabbed the smaller man by the throat, his gloved fingers squeezing just enough to make the air whistle in Almagro's lungs. He slammed him into the doorframe, the wood cracking behind his head.

“Do I look like I am concerned with the local population’s opinion of our security, Almagro?” Rorke hissed, his face inches away. “I am telling you to find a whore and bring her here. I need to clear my head, or I am going to start clearing this room. Do you understand?”

Almagro nodded as best he could within that iron grip. Rorke shoved him back into the hallway and kicked the door shut with a heavy thud.

He waited in the dimness, the only sound the frantic thrumming of his own pulse. When the lock eventually clicked again, he didn't move. He listened to the soft, terrified scuff of shoes on the floorboards as you were ushered inside. The door shut, the bolt sliding home with a finality that made the small room feel like a tomb.

Rorke turned slowly. He didn't look at your face; he looked at the way your hands shook as you clutched your shirt. He walked toward you, his heavy footfalls making the floor vibrate. He stopped just inches away, his shadow completely swallowing you.

“You will be quiet,” he said, his voice a low, terrifying rasp. “You will do exactly what I say.”

He didn't wait for a response. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck. His grip was wide and punishing, his thumb pressing into the base of your skull as he forced you toward the low, sagging bed. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the springs shrieking in protest.

There was no grace in how he moved. He stripped off his gear with a frantic, selfish impatience, tossing his vest and holsters to the floor with heavy thuds. When he climbed over you, the sheer mass of him was suffocating. He pinned your wrists together above your head, his single hand large enough to encircle both of them, locking them against the headboard with a strength that made your bones ache.

He didn't want your names or your stories. He entered your cunt with a brutal, singular drive, his body a weapon he was using to beat back his own demons. Every thrust was a demand for silence, for submission, for a momentary lapse in the war raging in his head. His breathing was a series of harsh, guttural rasps against the side of your neck, his jaw locked so tight the muscles in his face jumped.

You stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling, feeling the raw, unchanneled power of him as he moved. He was rough and detached, treating your body like a piece of equipment that needed to be worn down. There was no warmth, only the hot, slick friction and the overwhelming weight of a man who had forgotten how to be human.

He wasn't looking for a partner; he was looking for a place to put his rage. He used his free hand to shove your chin up, forcing you to look at him, but his eyes were empty, focused on a point far beyond the walls of this room.

​Everything he did was for him. He didn't adjust his weight when you gasped, and he didn't slow his pace when your body reached its limit. He was a landslide of muscle and cold intent, grinding into you with a relentless, selfish rhythm that made the iron bedframe rattle against the floor.

​When he finally came, it was with a sharp, animalistic growl of frustration that vibrated through your entire frame. He stayed heavy on top of you for only a second before rolling off, leaving the bed with a sudden, jarring coldness.

Rorke stood up immediately, pulling his trousers back on with mechanical efficiency. He didn't look back at you as you lay there, breathing hard and trying to pull yourself together. He reached into his pocket and threw a roll of bills onto the bed; it landed with a soft thud near your hip.

“Get dressed,” he said, his voice returning to a cold, flat monotone.

He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter revealing the hollow, exhausted look in his eyes for a split second before he retreated into the smoke. He walked to the door and pulled it open, the light from the hall cutting a sharp line across the room.

“Almagro is waiting,” Rorke said, staring out into the dark hallway. “Go back to the village. If I ever hear you mentioned a word of this, I will kill you.”