Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 27

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White stirred awake.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself lying on a bed. Naked, her hair tangled in disarray, and the faint scent of sweat and fluids clinging to her skin. Turning her head, she saw him—Smith—sleeping beside her. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his expression peaceful, unguarded.

And then it came back to her.

She pursed her lips, her gaze lingering on his face.

This wasn't her first time sharing an intimate moment. Her memories told her of encounters with others—androids, mostly—fleeting distractions to stave off the monotony of existence. But Smith? Her hand drifted to her stomach, fingers grazing her taut skin. Inside, her womb was processing the genetic material he had given her, ensuring it would produce the son he wanted.

She would not fail him.

White shifted onto her stomach, her fingers brushing across his face. For the first time, she allowed herself to study him—not just his sharp jawline or the way his lips curved in sleep, but the rest of him. Scars crisscrossed his body, each one whispering of battles fought and survived. Cuts, burns, wounds that would have claimed the life of any ordinary man. And yet, Smith endured.

Tilting her head, she reached out and pinched his cheek.

"I can feel that, you know," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

She froze. "Was it unpleasant?" she asked, her tone neutral.

He opened one eye and shook his head. "No, not unpleasant."

Smith turned onto his side to face her, a small smirk tugging at his lips as his gaze roamed her body. Without hesitation, he reached out and gripped her hips, drawing a soft gasp from her lips.

"You make wonderful sounds, White," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

White snorted, her composure slipping for a moment. "And you as well," she retorted, leaning in to press a kiss just below his lip. She rested her head beside his, her eyes scanning his features once more.

"You have so many wounds," she noted, her fingers tracing a long scar across his chest.

"From wars," he replied, his voice quiet. "Against men, and against the Legion." He hesitated, then added, "The earliest one's from mortar fire in Iraq. The rest…" His gaze grew distant as he pointed to a jagged slice across his ribs. "That one was from a Legion monster. A beast, over seven feet tall. It tore me open with a single swipe."

White stared at the scar, her brow furrowing. "How did you survive?"

Smith shrugged. "I don't know. Some of us had wounds worse than mine but kept going. Others…" He trailed off, his voice heavy. "Others had little and still died."

"A cosmic irony, then?" she mused.

"Maybe," he said with a snort. "But considering we were fighting God—or something close enough to it—I think the universe was just being cruel."

Her brows rose. "You were fighting God?"

Smith glanced at her. "I don't know how much your records tell you about the Legion War, but that's what it boiled down to. White Chlorination Syndrome… the victims were contacted by some deity. It gave them a choice: serve or die. Those who served became part of the Legion. Those who refused…" He paused. "Well, they didn't. They just turned into salt."

White's expression darkened. Deep within her, a spark of anger ignited, growing into a simmering rage.

"I will kill God," she said, her voice calm, resolute.

Smith blinked, startled by her blunt declaration. "You will?"

"Yes," she replied simply, sitting up in the bed. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid gold, catching the dim light. "Though the Legion is long gone, we'll need to create the technology to track down this deity. And then, we'll kill it."

Smith stared at her, unsure whether she was joking. But White's expression was anything but playful.

He coughed, breaking the tension. "Putting that aside… there's something I wanted to talk about."

"Yes?" she asked, tilting her head. Then she caught herself. "Yes, sir?"

"When it's just the two of us," Smith said, his voice soft, "call me John. Please."

White's mouth opened slightly, but no words came. After a moment, she closed it and nodded. "Yes… John?"

"It's about my men," he began. "They want to contribute to the war effort."

White's eyes narrowed. "They want to contribute to the war effort," she repeated, her voice flat.

"Not all of them," Smith clarified. "But some. They're soldiers, White. They've spent most of their lives fighting for humanity. Sitting back and doing nothing… it doesn't sit well with them."

White frowned. "That won't sit well with others, either. We exist to protect humanity, John. If a human dies on the battlefield, that blood will be on us."

"But it's their choice," Smith countered. "They want to volunteer."

"You've already sent volunteers, haven't you?"

"Yes, but now they've seen how advanced our technology is. They know we can re-equip them, make them stronger. They want to go back down there and fight."

White shook her head, her expression conflicted. "That's…"

Smith sighed. "This is who they are. We've been fighting for humanity for so long—not for a country or a flag, but for the right to exist. To not be wiped out. And now, with another existential threat looming, they want to fight again. They want to give some of that pain back."

White sat silently, her expression unreadable. She turned her gaze away from Smith, staring at the far wall as if the answer to his dilemma were etched into its surface. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers twitching slightly.

"They're not helpless, I tell you," Smith said. "Legion veterans, all of them. They're not androids, sure—but we're something else entirely. A different breed."

White didn't look at him, her arms folded beneath her breasts, posture straight as a blade.

"The Machines are a different breed too, John," she said coolly. "They don't think. They don't fear. They charge with no strategy, no hesitation. Swarm you like meat's the only currency left in the universe and they tear you apart with hands that shouldn't even have claws. Don't let the graceless frames fool you."

He gave a humorless chuckle. "Well. At least they're not trying to turn us into fucking salt."

Her jaw tensed. He heard the teeth grind.

"I'm more curious," he continued, "how our tech meshes. I've seen your androids pull swords out of thin air. Having a space to store things is amazing for logistics." 

"We'll see," she said simply. "For now, I request we deliberate further. Deploy only to the Kingdom of Day. That front is manageable."

"And the Kingdom of Night?"

She didn't answer.

"White, you keep warning me about it like it's damnation itself. But I've got no reference. I've seen hell already. What's one more?"

Her silence was its own kind of scream.

So she made him see.

A flick of her wrist, a whisper of command—and the air shimmered. A screen bloomed into existence mid-air, and horror poured out.

Smith watched.

He hummed.

"We're not deploying to the Kingdom of Night," he said. 

White blinked, then shut off the feed.

"Good." Her voice returned to its normal register, almost sing-song. She stepped away from the wall, her feet soundless on the cold floor. "We'll start with the Day."

She bent to gather her clothing from the pile they'd left last night, and his gaze raked down her back, following the curve of her spine, the red scratches he'd left across her body like a signature.

"Where are you going?" he asked, still watching.

She didn't look back. "Bath," she said, lifting her bra from the floor with a careless gesture. "Then back to duty. We both have work to do."

"Tragic," Smith muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I guess we'll just have to shower together. Save time. Real efficient."

White smirked as she set her uniform on the chair, then turned slowly and walked toward the bathroom. "Of course. Always efficient."

Steam spilled out around her as the door hissed open. The sound of water started—strong, hot.

He followed.

It didn't take long.

She was already bent over the sink, hands braced against cold steel, water running somewhere behind them, fog clinging to the mirror like breath. Her legs spread without instruction, her cunt already wet, heat bleeding off her like radiation.

He loomed behind her, broad chest brushing her back, one hand sliding forward to claim a breast—cupping it, squeezing like he owned it, like he'd paid for it in blood. She moaned, breath catching as her nipple hardened under his thumb.

"Nnngh...John..."

His name broke from her lips like a corrupted prayer 

His other hand gripped her hip, thumb digging into muscle as he lined himself up. The head of his cock rubbed against her folds, teasing, dragging through her slick until her thighs trembled and she started to push back-

"No," he growled, pinning her with a single palm between the shoulder blades. "You wait."

She did.

And when he finally drove into her, it was all one motion—sharp, merciless, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that made her cry out, spine arching, fingers clawing at the sink.

He moved slow at first. Deep. Grinding. Watching her come undone in the mirror. Watched her eyes flutter, watched her bite her lip until it bled, watched her breasts bounce with every movement.

Then faster.

Harder.

His hips slammed against her ass, the sound obscene in the tight echo of the bathroom. Water hissed behind them, ignored. Her moans turned feral, wordless.

"Fuck, John...John....don't stop...!"

"You want it harder, Commander?" he growled into her ear, voice soaked in grit and want.

She nodded frantically, cheek against the steel.

He gave it to her.

His thrusts quickened, pace like artillery- relentless, brutal, measured only in the tremors it sent through her. Flesh met flesh with obscene rhythm, every slap echoing off tile and steel. Steam clung to their skin in rivulets, condensing in beads that ran between her shoulder blades and down the cleft of her ass, mixing with sweat, with spit, with the slick heat of her arousal coating the base of his cock with every pounding drive forward.

White's mouth hung open, breath stuttering into ragged, helpless gasps. She wasn't moaning now—she was crying out, desperate, each thrust punching a noise from her throat she couldn't catch. Her fingers scrabbled across the sink's metal edge, seeking leverage, something, anything to hold on to while he used her.

"Uhh...nnn-ahhh....y-yes!"

"Louder," Smith growled behind her, voice low, gravel and fire. "Let me hear it."

He gripped a fistful of her damp hair, twisting it around his hand like reins and pulling her head up, forcing her to see herself in the mirror—flushed face, slack-jawed, pupils blown wide, tits bouncing with every deep rut of his hips. Her lips moved, uselessly, throat raw. Then he spit—wet and hot—on her back, right between the shoulder blades, and dragged it down with two fingers before shoving them into her mouth.

"Open. Suck."

She did, lips wrapping greedily, tongue curling around his fingers as she moaned around them, eyes rolling back. He fucked her harder, rutting into her like he was trying to bury the last of his soul inside her.

He grabbed her hips, pulled her back to meet his thrusts even deeper—slamming, bruising, obscene—and with a final snarl torn from somewhere animal, he buried himself to the root, cock pulsing deep inside her, filling her again, again, again with hot thick jets of cum.

White wailed, body shuddering, her own orgasm cresting under the heat and weight of him. Her cunt clamped down like a vice, milking him, her muscles spasming as she cried out, loud and wrecked.

They froze, locked together—his cock twitching inside her, her breath ragged against the steel, her skin slick with come and sweat and steam.

The water was still running. Forgotten. The room thick with sex.

Smith leaned over her, arms braced on either side. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder—half reverent, half possessive.

He slid out of her slowly, thick strands of cum spilling from between her thighs, tracing down to her knees, dripping onto the floor. She straightened with a groan, legs trembling, and turned to face him—cheeks flushed, hair wild, cunt leaking.

He grabbed her again.

Lifted her like she weighed nothing, hands under her thighs, and carried her into the shower. Pressed her against the wet tile, water cascading down her body. Kissed her with bruising force, tongues clashing, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"I'm not done with you," he whispered against her mouth.

White's eyes glittered.

"Then m-mmpph!"

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A/N: Nice.

Yeah, uh, this fic is about to get hornier.