Summary: This is the scene where Bobby beats Martens' ass but basically you take Bobby's place in this story and you use a more NSFW method to extract information.
Author's Note: I haven't actually watched The Expanse, I just watched his scenes and even then the only one I watched recently was this one so no doubt there's inaccuracies.
His room blurred as he slammed into the ground and rolled. He couldn't stifle a whimper when he dragged himself onto all-fours, feeling a searing pain in his collarbone where he knew it had likely been snapped by your palm.
“Your whole generation has forgotten what it means to sacrifice for the dream of Mars,” he spat. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue.
He cried out as you plucked him from the floor and bent him over the arm of his couch. He really couldn't put up a fight. With him being a chaplain, he never went through the training that had hardened you and the other Martian marines. He was pathetic. Even in your fury, seeing him like this stirred up desires that were getting more and more difficult to suppress with each whimper and whine that passed his wobbling lips. A thought crossed your mind. You shook it away. That kind of punishment would be… cruel and unusual.
Martens squirmed. His black spacesuit stretched snugly over a paunch that heaved as he gasped for air. He was soft, his build speaking to a life spent comfortably in the safety fought for by soldiers like you. You were sure he would talk with a little more coercion. A few hits to the face should loosen his jaw. But the other method… well, there was the added humiliation. The more you thought about it, the more the gentle throbbing between your legs became impossible to ignore.
You tightened your grip on the lapel of his spacesuit, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to worm away. Your other hand reached towards his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed at the brush of your fingers. He winced and threw his head, expecting you to choke him.
The huff of his breath was joined by the low, rolling sound of his zipper’s teeth parting one by one. The bewilderment on his face made you smirk. All at once he seemed to understand what was happening and he wiggled in a fruitless attempt to prevent his exposure. To prevent this humiliation.
The stretchy, black material peeled open, unveiling a patch of wiry chest hair. You paused to undo his belt and then trailed the zipper over his soft belly, over the dark button at its crest, down, down, hushing his feeble whines of protest until it reached the end of its path, just below a bush of grey curls.
Martens swallowed thickly. The air gently pricked his bare skin, cool but not cool enough to extinguish the heat of embarrassment. He had been beaten by a subordinate and now this. There was a tightness in his chest, different from the pain radiating from the injury you had inflicted. This wound was to his pride.
You raked your fingers through his chest hair. The darkness clouding his face lightened just slightly. He was very aware of how close you were to his injury. How easy it would be for you to thrust your hand and send an explosion of pain through his body. But soon you explored lower and he exhaled shakily.
You rubbed his soft stomach.
“I’ll ask again. What happened to my team?”
Martens eyed you and scoffed.
“You’ll get a firing squad for-“
Martens squealed. The sudden grip on his balls made his thighs quake and a churning nausea took hold of his gut. As he panted, you removed your hand from inside his suit. His small, soft cock flopped out and you rested his sack over his zipper.
“Oh God,” he moaned. “What are you doing?”
You hushed his whines of protest and fondled him. Even with fear chilling his blood, it didn’t take long until he was swelling in your palm. You spat in your hand until his pink length was glossy and slick.
Martens refused to meet your gaze. He was both utterly confused and humiliated at your method of interrogation. He expected that at any moment you would hurt him. Maybe squeeze too hard or target his vulnerable, twitching sack. But as his slippery cock squelched and smacked in your pumping fist, he felt his guard descending ever lower.
He sighed and his front teeth peeked out from beneath his top lip. Martens caught himself staring at where your breasts pushed against your uniform.
“What happened to my team?”
His eyes flicked up to yours. They were so blue. He had teared up when you threw him into his TV and a few drops were caught in his long, dark eyelashes. They caught the light just right and shimmered. But he gave no answer besides a moan and that wasn’t by choice. He was a touch-starved chaplain and his orgasm was building quickly.
Suddenly the realization of what he was about to do in front of you hit, and wanting to deny you the satisfaction of seeing him that way and himself the embarrassment of losing control, he thrashed in an attempt to loosen your hold. It was fruitless. You only sped up the pace.
His breath quickened. His flushed face twisted and a guttural grunt tore from his throat. Ribbons of white shot onto his soft belly.
You kept going. The last drop oozed out and you kept going still. The pleasure of his orgasm gave way to discomfort. He was too sensitive for this. Martens squirmed and tried to grab your hand but a quick smack to his collarbone sent a shockwave of pain through his shoulder and made him abandon his efforts.
“Tell me and I’ll stop. What happened to my team?”
Martens eyes widened. Oh, now he understood. His thighs twitched and his body jerked. There was no way he could outlast this. Still, he needed to try.
His poor, overstimulated cock bobbed in your unrelenting fist. You ignored his cries, staring down at him smugly.
“Please… please! Fuck, I can’t take it.”
Martens began to sob. He white-knuckled the couch and used every ounce of his waning strength to resist giving up any information. Again he felt the build-up, too soon, of another orgasm. His sweat-slicked body curled. White hot pain and pleasure wracked him as his cock was forced to spit out another string of cum.
Something was happening to him. Something that had never happened before and his mouth gaped in surprise as he started to squirt. It sprayed onto his chest and belly and you couldn’t help but smirk at the way he shuddered violently against you.
He couldn’t catch his breath. The edges of his vision blurred.
“The tablet! There,” he pointed frantically to the device on his coffee table. Your fist stilled. Finally, to Martens’ utmost relief you released your grip and reached for the tablet.
He didn’t need to be prompted. He breathlessly uttered the project name and that fateful field test was projected before your eyes.
