The empire needs children. An epidemic of infertility has been plaguing the Gilead Galaxy and Commander Hux wishes he could do his duty. Girl after girl they sent to him, as his wife, chosen for him by his father and utterly pious, dutiful and unloved, cannot provide him with heirs.
Commander Hux is handsome. One might underestimate him, because of that.
The hands of a refined man, the face of a refined man, cold and barely prone to human weakness, a fanatic the rebels would have said - There were even rumours of him not consummating his marriage to Lady Hux because he utterly had no interest-, but they didn't believe in the saving grace.
He was the Fruit of this kind of union, and it made sense that his own heir would be created so.
His father a Commander already, one of the first Faithfuls, who implemented the holy system. The Lady Maratelle couldn't have children, struck by the curse, but someone else would provide, someone who was barely a someone. Ofbrendol is the only name there is for her.
He had lost the count of the much too numerous handmaids sent to his household. He hated them, anyway. Found a way to have them removed, always. Disobedient, repulsive, or blaming it on his wife's moods. He couldn't blame her even if it was true, because there was Something deeply humiliating to lying down and holding them, while her husband, looking everywhere but at one of them, tried to bring himself to erection. The few times it had worked had been horrible, worse even than the stinging shame of not being man enough. His wife had once attempted to comfort him, but his green eyes glared at her with pure hatred, as his distinguished voice uttered that he had no idea what she was talking about. Those girls were not holy enough to bear his heir. It had to be perfect. His red hair, perfectly coiffed, his uniform, perfectly pressed, and they were… chaos and uncertainty.
No fruit came from those he managed to finish in. He knew of the rumours and that, one day, he could only blame himself. His own father had hinted, before he died in one of the numerous coups, that he never had a problem mastering these handmaids… Why was Armitage so…different?
The new girl - the new Ofarmitage - had somehow been different, too. Terrified, but she dared to peer up to him, taking in the pale skin of a man who never had to work outside a day of his life, the mesmerizing eyes, the slim toned figure - as much as his great coat could reveal. In turn he looked at her scarlet outfit, never quite agreeing with such a gaudy color display, her youthful face and he gave her the welcome speech, placing her well under his domination and his wife's so called protection. She was quite young, certainly young enough to have been born in purity, in Gilead, and it comforted him that she had no comparison to other times, other men…
Their first ceremony had been truly a mess, he had barked at both women not to look, even though neither was. It was easier to blame them. The prayers, the gathering, all this was easy and familiar, but the carnal aspect was difficult to master. He had given up, leaving the two women awkwardly on the bed. The lady pushed the servant off her lap, so hard she fell onto the floor, and both had hated their master at the time.
The second attempt was barely better, he yelled after losing his erection an umpteenth time.
"This is your fault! You are no good!". Once again he didn't specify. Ofarmitage wondered if she had done something wrong, when she wasn't supposed to do anything at all, or if she didn't feel good. Of course she didn't. None of this did. He would sneer and snark when they would meet in the house, and she avoided him as much as she could.
Commander Hux, through his elevated positioned, had access to classified information and documentation, both nothing that would help him in this endeavour. Perhaps all girls sent to his house were broken. They didn't have what it took to be penetrated. Granted, a few… But then, thinking of this made him fear he was the incompetent, useless one. As his father had implied. "It is simple, son. Even low lives who are sent away to the outer rim know how to figure this out. Pray for guidance". When it still failed to provide for any action, his father had been more blunt. "You need to think of… whatever you need to think of". This didn't help. His father had then suggested touching below the waist in order for it to work, and the son had stood up from the table, horrified and humiliated.
"This is a mortal sin!", he exclaimed, terrified of anyone hearing of that talk. He saw his father's disdainful, disappointed gaze on himself, and that had been when he understood he was born to a tainted man, a man who didn't really believe in the system. Maybe anyone who had known the world before, the decadence, couldn't fully root it out. And when he got intel that there might be a terror attack on some government office, he decided not to reveal it. That night Armitage became an orphan, and he prayed hard for a heir to call Brendol.
Even low lives… This haunted him. He wanted to make it so he was too lofty to even understand those actions, and his shame grew.
Sending her away, sending for a new Ofarmitage wouldn't be helpful, he knew. So on a whim, he decided to check if there was anything visibly diseased about the girl, and had her fetched to his office.
Ofarmitage is afraid. She assumes she is going to be punished, dismissed even, maybe sent away from the planet, when she enters the office. Commander Hux is standing in front of the window, and takes his time turning to her.
"I have been informed that you may not be fully healthy", he starts, and she cowers. She has never prevented him from doing anything he had to. Plenty of times he had been able to attempt, and yet…
"I do not wish to act unjustly and send you away if this is not the case. But it will require…". He stops. This is cruel. "I will have to examine you". Oh, this she can take. He keeps watching everyone, anyway. His gaze drops, and she understands. Suddenly all her blood seems rushing to her cheeks.
"If I do so, will you let me?", he asks, almost gently. His voice comforts her. The girl nods.
"This is good. Remember the empire needs children". She nods violently now. Of course. He leads her to a guest bedroom, cold and impersonal, as he gestures for her to lie down.
"Remove your... underthings... before". He clears his throat before and after. She does so, embarrassed, and tucks the offending panty under a pillow. He is carefully turned away, dramatically not having a look. This is familiar, she can do that. Except there is no other female in the room, and it is quite inappropriate to be on a bed in front of a man, alone, especially a man who has been inside her. She reassures herself by thinking that he never enjoyed this, and neither did she, and all is well.
She sighs and waits, complying.
"Up", he simply orders, the tone of a man used to obedience, and she obeys. Hux turns toward her only after he heard the rumpling of clothes. This is clinical, clean, cold. Safe. Seeing her uncover her nakedness in front of him, at his order, this wouldn't do. He kneels on the bed, between her parted legs, and he stares. Gently, slowly, he approaches, and she inhales in surprise, almost whines, when his gloved hand finds her folds and spreads them, his eyes on her inside, where she has never looked at herself. His finger explores, very shallowly at first, softly rubbing along the labia and the folds. She thinks she would crave real skin touching her, but this sounds sinful and then the glove makes his inspection less personal. Not personal is perfect. This is what she does when there is a ceremony. She closes her eyes, or prayers, or thinks about food. He stares hard - she is certain he has never seen a woman like that before - and he goes to retreat when his thumb catches a numb of flesh on the top of her parts and she bucks.
It is his turn to be startled, almost removing himself from the bed, suddenly red creeping up his he touches it again, and she decides she loves this because it makes her feel.
"Commander!", she can only exclaim, not knowing whether to ask him to do it again, or to be scared from this all.
"You like that", he states, though the lilt to his aristocratic voice is almost interrogative. "This is nauseating, disgusting. A woman cannot enjoy anything like…". She knows what she feels, and what she has felt under him, not quite as powerful as this but some troubled, disturbing sensation, growing toward… nothing. This is why she needs to think of something else when he is with her - it is all too much trouble, disappointment. She assumes it would be the same there, should she allow herself to explore later on, but she has no time to chide herself for those traitorous thoughts because his finger is at it again, rubbing, trying to find how exactly to manipulate whatever it is.
She moans and he tells her to remain silent, almost snapping, though he is more flushed than when he is taking her, and this makes no sense because there is no effort, or barely, involved in this. Taking her always looked like he was struggling with some demon, or waging war, with his completion as the cherished spoils - though he never seemed to get much pleasure from it either. She stays quiet because she is afraid he will stop. He stops anyway, afraid somehow. When he removes his hand, the tip of the glove is wet.
The next time he takes her, he angles himself slightly strangely, and he grazes against that part where she so desperately wants him to push, and she moans. He slaps her thigh, though his eyes are now fixated on hers, boring a hole into hers, and his clipped tone scolds her.
"This shall be silent". He doesn't adjust his position though and the sensation is growing, growing, it is too much especially now that their eyes are upon each other - a transgression per se, she is sure - and she is afraid of what is going to happen… He finishes much quicker than usual, none of the scowls, sighs, or long suffering failures to complete or to even penetrate. He bits his lip and she madly wonders if he felt something, too. Maybe it is a miracle for adamantly refusing to give into temptation and mimick with her own slim fingers what her Commander had done. Behind her, the lady is still praying.
Some days later they meet in a corridor, and she blushed at the memory. He does too, there is no mistake. He is ashamed, angry, and yet he pounces on her and pushes her hard against the wall, his body pinning her there like a fragile butterfly as his hand seeks something under the duty length skirts, pushes the underwear to the side, and he is the one gasping as he finds it. He massages her all over her sex, rubbing at her slit, parting her while she doesn't know if she is resisting or parting her thighs for him to finally give her what she needs. He is inexperienced but intelligent, a very quick learner, oh God maybe he thought of it… He presses where it makes her shiver and soon he finds a rhythm against her pearl, pinching, rolling and flicking. She is so wet, she burns all over and though it is a sin, she clings to his back, the rough texture of the uniform barely satisfying, she whines against his chest, mouth agape, her hips buck and she clenches around the void, around where he should be. She couldn't stand without his strength, she cannot handle this wave of delight. He gives her some more circling and she is a goner, exclaiming against him and opening her thighs as much as she can because she wants him just there. She feels embarrassingly wet and fears this would be sweat, or worse. It is not her time of the month yet.
It is only when he removes his hand and she shudders from overstimulation that she realizes his other arm was cradling her.
"Commander, what…?". He doesn't know what to reply. He doesn't know why he wanted this. Why this makes him so hard. He thought himself incapable of enjoying much of the act, his completion barely more satisfying than a sneeze, certainly less than a victory over rebels. Handmaid after handmaid, he came to dread even trying, nightmarishly thinking he might be a gender traitor after all if he couldn't even possess an objectively attractive woman; and here he is, more ready than ever, just from… This thing he is afraid to experience and yet wants to.
He gently brings her toward his bedroom. She knows she shouldn't go there, and she tenses then fights it. His grip and his gaze harden. Ofarmitage is afraid and she follows. Is he planning to punish her? He pushes the door open and all but throws her onto the bed. She stares up toward him, expectant of some action or speech. There is a portrait of an older man on the wall. He strangely looks like him, and she ponders she may be meeting the in laws. She remembers hearing he died, though, and his son obviously took to mourning, and yet people had been commenting on how only his only sign of having lost a parent was his armband, black on black.
He doesn't move for a moment, then he approaches. He pushes up her skirt and pulls down her underwear, she knows he wants to try this again but no, instead he undoes his zipper and this time, she stares. He is hard, huge, leaking. He shivers and moans when he touches it. She doesn't remember hearing this the other times, ever. The sound arouses something primal inside her.
He climbs on her, his hands trailing along her legs, touching her stomach and her breasts - this is a sin, this is a sin - and suddenly he nudges against her slit, they are both wet and they just slide together. She cannot Believe this is normal. He penetrates - this she recognizes fully - but she has never been that stretched, he has never been that heavy and thick. He thrusts a few times, using words definitely not allowed, and she thinks she could get this insane peaking just from the feeling. But as if it was not enough, he angles his penetration so that he stimulates that place again. She can't help it, she gives in and she embraces him. The eye contact is seering. He looks unhinged, close to angry but it isn't so - Ofarmitage knows angry. She can see him thinking, maybe this was what was lacking, maybe this is how a fruit is conceived. She accommodates him between her legs, thrusting back and looking for friction where she likes it. She is still sensitive and it almost hurts, he is grabbing at her, touching all those places on her body, almost pleading for her not to protest. She has to. She doesn't. Her womb is alive and alight, she clenches around him and he grunts every time she does. He is breathing hard, his grasp hurts but it is good. She suddenly thinks, what if it is over before she can… Without shame she grabs at his uniform jacket and pulls him up, hard. He barely moved but that's enough, he's hitting it just right. She is vaguely aware she keeps repeating his title and he doesn't tell her to be silent. One hard thrust, painful almost, she grinds against him so brazen and she keens, almost crying, as she feels him coating her inside. He who always prides himself on being cold and silent, is repeating some ungodly word and pulling at her hair. They are going to burn for this.
He doesn't remove himself even though he should. She keeps staring at him. He finally seems self conscious and tucks himself in before even standing, so she wouldn't see him. It is ironical after he tugged at himself in front of her. The memory makes her shiver.
He is now trying to save his mess of a uniform, pushing his hair back into their perfect shape. But sin is visible on him. She notices a twitch in his too red mouth, too sensual for a man of faith, probably inherited from the poor soul who gave birth to him. She heard he was born to a ceremony already, and that he is proud of not having been conceived in desire and dirt and everything they are sharing.
"Cover yourself, harlot, lest you lead men astray", he scolds, but his tone is feeble. She tugs down at her skirt, vaguely. She understands his pain.
"Blessed be the Fruit", he adds, as if to plaster some morality and faith onto what has happened. He is shocked. At himself, for breaking all the rules. At her, for receiving him willingly. At the insane pleasure derived from the sin. It would be all good if she got pregnant, it would have been worth damning his immortal soul, he is a Commander, he has to save his household from immorality, and yet… Why didn't she cry, resist, push him away? He doesn't want to question everything he has learned. So he doesn't. A lesser man would, but the Commander Hux is one of the pure, one of the faithful, on the innermost core of Gilead, so he would rather consider shooting himself than abandoning his beliefs.
He just knows how it will be on board, and he is right. He leaves without saying good bye to the woman he has discovered pleasure with, but again he doesn't bother notifying his own wife either, so maybe it is that way.
Ofarmitage still doesn't understand how one can share what they shared, and hardly talk, not ask her name - for God's sake - and not treat her any differently. Granted, he doesn't hit her quite as much. They have gone from him untucking at last moment, as he does in the ceremony, to disrobing more and more, unbuttoning his shirt, his pants so low she couldn't reach them when he is on top of her. He also asked to see more and more of her, and she often falls asleep to the memory of his hands, warm and ungloved, massaging her breasts until she is so slick her labia part of their own and then he settles there and works her to completion. He may well claim this is about conception, she doubts it is.
On the ship, he dreams of her, or of some anonymous figure he takes until he wakes up hard. He doesn't want to give in, and the cold and the refresher help much but not enough. Sometimes he just craves basking in this warmth and brings himself to a peak, imagining her hand willingly teasing and touching until he fucks her fist and spills all over. He feels masculine and powerful witnessing his own ejaculation. The best part might be that she never minds. He knows her mouth is soft and warm from touching it, perhaps accidentally as they have never kissed, and soon the data connect and he is wishing for her to engulf him - he doesn't know if he can finish inside her mouth, but he could try. The Finalizer is his life and he would go down with that ship. Yet he cannot concentrate, the flesh calling to him. He sees now why it is forbidden to have a woman come around him, clenching and pulling him in, deeper into sin. Why skin to skin is so dangerous. Why even a Commander shouldn't have enjoyment from this. The holy fruit thoroughly forgotten, a man should want to give - give his semen toward a child, give life, give orders but he only wants to take now.
When he is back, it takes a few weeks of exquisite, painful tension for him to dare to go to her. He is not disappointed. He corners her into his room and brings up her hand, kissing the knuckles as a gentleman would his lawful wife. Not that he does that to his own. Ofarmitage isn't used to this, she fears he means to slap her at first, because this she knows, and that kiss is even scarier. His gaze burns, want and something pleading for her not to protest. He smells good, so she inhales and moans, her eyes closing. She still gives herself freely, and they do everything they have dreamed about, and more. It seems not to matter that most of it isn't conducive to a fruit. She could tattle on him for that, certainly. She's not much more than a glorified slave and he is a Commander, but the rules are very clear: only penetration, no disrobing, no alone time and nothing unrelated to pregnancy. She doesn't, and he now assumes his own father never enjoyed as much with his handmaids. Perhaps not even before Gilead, though it is hard to imagine such a time. One long, lonely night on the Finalizer, he got an image of his own father, asking a random woman to put her mouth there, and she moans as he all but forces her down, bucking into her heat and finishing on her face. Savages, unhumans, rebel scum, he thought, Gilead saved us from that damnation, and yet his hand was at his cock and he was bringing himself off, now that he had figured out how to relieve himself, a self hating sob on his lips.
After that strange hand kiss, he lies down and unzips himself and lets Ofarmitage lick and kiss at it, experiencing not giving orders and the surprise of her taking him deep gets him to complete so quick he fears he might have the opposite problem now, but it feels so good it doesn't even unman him. She swallows and the sensation gets him hard again. He switches and pushes her under him, kissing and licking her lips until she reciprocates and he tastes what has to be himself on her tongue. He can't believe how many times he fucked her without having kissed her. He can't believe their first kiss comes to be after she had him in mouth. He moans, in shame and passion and self hatred, he thrusts hard into her to punish her for corrupting him, his face hidden in her neck. She knows it is her duty to help her master, but she doesn't know how, still feels afraid when she touches him barring a direct order or at least a hint.
"Here, here", she mumbles, calming, her hand sneaking under his shirt to find his muscular back.
He craves this, but he doesn't crave it. He thinks it is too close to pity. Is she looking down on his needs, as strange as they are?
"Gonna fuck you hard, ruin you for any other", he growls. She tenses and finds it oddly arousing. She has given thought to others, of course. She would one day be sent away and there would be another, and another, and another, and… Will any of them want to part her and watch as he fingers her? Will any of them look, feel, sound and smell like this one? She should crave and desire the result, not the mere means to an end…? She cannot hide her shock, though, at how a Commander would express himself, and he latches on that, not stopping his thrusts.
"Do you believe me not a man?", he asks, and she remembers it is a sensitive topic, remembers the many times he couldn't find his ending. Somehow this has become not about The Baby at all, but about the two people in this room, misunderstanding after misunderstanding, people who would never have met in any other circumstances… He realizes too late he actually used man to mean someone with desires, as opposed to unman. He is far more tainted than he thought.
She wants to kiss him again but she doesn't move, frozen in place, and he pulls out, his hand quickly coming and going along his hardness. Ofarmitage stares, and whines along with him when the holy seed is spent, spoiled along her stomach. She touches it reverently, pondering this is what makes humanity and faith go on, and he is fascinated with her expression, almost religious. He pets her warm skin and scoops some of it, lowering himself between her legs, and rubs it against her, on her sex then deeper, as if wishing to deposit it to its rightful entrance, finally. His finger keeps penetrating even when most of it is safely in. She wonders if him stimulating so deeply will lead to similar results as his length there, or as his fingers on her nub. She moves along with him, fucking herself on his finger.
"More", she begs, and he adds one, then two. He explores her womb, curiously pressing again when he finds a sensitive area. "Please, please", she cries out, and he doesn't stop, doesn't falter, until he brings up his other hand and flicks madly at the top of her slit. She feels her pleasure starting in both places and taking over her whole area, her whole body, she contracts and tenses and relaxes. The show is fantastic for him, and he decides next time she will touch there - below the waist, as his father had put - in front of him. He wants to see how she does it, and then he wants to take her while she makes herself climax again and experience that strong pull on a more sensitive part than his fingers. A part of himself hopes that she will want to see him doing it too, but another part dreads it.
On their last night, she licks him clean after he commits the sin he had been thinking of doing in front of her, then he has her do it and it takes some convincing, as if it was worse than anything else they had done. Ofarmitage doesn't want him to see that, and when she finally gives in and comes quickly and efficiently, he tells her he is certain she has done it. She is mortified and wants to defend herself against what she thinks it means.
"I don't have bad thoughts, Sir.". It begs for more detail, and he presses to know what indeed she thinks of. She doesn't say it but she stares at him, almost defying. He doesn't know if it is true, and if she doesn't sometimes think of anonymous men just like he fantasized about anonymous forms on the ship. Still it gets him hard and he makes her do it again when he takes her. It would be ironical if it this worked, this time…
He regrets taking off his clothing now that he has to tell her that she is going. There has been no fruit. Commander Snoke has suddenly remembered, unless he always planned to give this more delay. Commander Hux is one of the most powerful men in the galaxy, but even him answers to Gilead.
"There is nothing you can do. There is nothing I can do", he tells her, and for her it is almost a comfort to find out that he is not all powerful. They will basically never have this again, too risky, too rare, but she doesn't even attempt to hint about contacting the Resistance, sending her far far away… Because now that he is back into his black uniform, military brass and the symbol of Gilead proudly worn, she knows that he would destroy the world before acknowledging that what he lives for is not what he wants. She wonders if she would have said no, had he told her it was their last time. She doubts that. Ofarmitage won't be Ofarmitage. She is in for long nights, long years, on some planet, lying down on her stomach alone, parting her thighs and sticking her fingers inside herself, thinking of some previous master. She will cry, she knows. He will also have to satisfy his needs in hiding now, Commander and handmaid both belonging to Gilead.
"I am departing for a mission in two hours", he tonelessly fills in. "My wife will see you out tomorrow". Just like that. How convenient. His cuckholded wife will have to handle his discarded slave. He is but a coward, as brave a warrior as he is.
"I hope the mission is dangerous", she rages cold. "I hope you never come back". No slap, no snarl. Maybe he hopes for this too.
He looks down to her stomach as she still lies there, numb. "Blessed be the Fruit", he says, as if nothing else had ever mattered. Commander Hux is a true believer. He will tear his own heart out before he will give it to any other endeavour than Gilead. His cum is barely dry on her skin, her lips hurt from his kisses, but he feels clean and perfect.
"Blessed be the fruit", she repeats, and with that he is gone.