Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 26

+++

With the machine forces shattered in the desert, the balance of power shifted. The Androids seized the initiative, pushing out from their positions to capture territory long denied to them. But not just androids however.

Above the ruins of old Tokyo, war machines cut through the air. The Gotterdämmerungs thrived in the hands of veteran pilots, men and women who had once flown for nations that no longer existed. They pushed their machines to the limit, scanning the battlefield through digital overlays as the city flickered across their HUDs.

"YoRHa Command, this is Adonis. Do you read?"

Cruz's voice was calm, measured. This was going to technically be their first collaboration together. Might as well start on a good note.

Android frequencies carried his message, bouncing off an orbital relay that fed them real-time data. A second of silence. Then—

"C-Copy, sir," came the response, voice hesitant, nervous. "How may I assist?"

Cruz arched a brow. He wasn't sure what he expected from YoRHa's operators, but nerves weren't it.

6O bit her lip. The first time to talk to an actual human and she sounded like a nervous wreck. 2B and 9S were sidelined, their bodies too damaged to fight, which meant her temporary reassignment. The Commander, in her infinite wisdom, had put her in charge of coordinating both YoRHa and the human volunteers. To 6O, this was an honor beyond measure. Being assigned as an Operator for a human? It was a dream job.

A dream job that, as she was quickly realizing, was much harder than it looked.

"Relax, YoRHa," Cruz snorted, amusement creeping into his tone. "I'm not going to bite your head off. Requesting tasking in our AO. Over."

The words of the Lieutenant Colonel lingered in his mind—these Androids hadn't seen a human in years. Maybe decades. He'd have to take it easy on them.

6O, meanwhile, was fighting to keep herself together. The other Operators were casting sideways glances, whispering that they could handle this better. Maybe they were right. But they weren't the ones speaking to him. She was. And she'd be damned if she let herself fumble in front of a human.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders.

"Colonel Anemone is requesting immediate support in her sector. Sending coordinates now," she said, smoothly this time—no nervous stammer.

A grin flickered across her lips. Nailed it.

Cruz's HUD lit up with fresh data. "Adonis copies. Inform the Colonel we're en route. Wouldn't want them panicking and shooting us by mistake."

6O's face paled.

"They'd die before shooting a human!" she blurted out, almost scandalized.

Cruz exhaled through his nose. He believed their devotion was genuine—but in the chaos of battle, certainty was a luxury.

"Yes, well," he said dryly, "fog of war."

The comm line crackled as 6O hesitated, as if the very idea of an Android misidentifying a human in battle was too absurd to process. Cruz didn't push it. She'd learn soon enough—war had a way of making fools out of conviction. He checked his HUD, fingers tightening on the flight controls. The Gotterdämmerung hummed around him, a beast of steel and fire waiting to be unleashed. The coordinates flashed on-screen. Quickly, it told him everything he needed to know.

"That's a lot of red dots," he muttered. Colonel Anemone's forces were a miniscule blue facing an overwhelming sea of red.

"Adonis to..." He paused. "Parrot, do you read?"

"Parrot copies, Adonis."

Pilot callsigns were given to them out of irony. He was called Adonis because his TI found him ugly. Parrot got the callsign because they kept repeating things said to them.

"Colonel Anemone's up against a swarm. We punch through, or she's done. Full burn, weapons free," he muttered.

The flight tightened formation, engines roaring as they screamed toward the battlefield. The skeletal remains of Tokyo stretched beneath them—broken highways, rusted-out vehicles, shattered skyscrapers leaning against each other like drunks after a bar fight.

And then the machines saw them.

"Heavy ground fire," Parrot noted.

The sky came alive with enemy fire. Streaks of red lances going up. His HUD alerted him to their possible paths. He evaded it, the sky an orchestra of violence.

"Return fire!" Cruz declared.

The Gotterdämmerungs dove, their weapons coming to life

+++

The ramp lowered with a steady mechanical whir, the sound cutting through the quiet stillness of the docking bay.

The androids stood at attention, their glowing eyes fixed on the shuttle. 

Commander White waited at the base of the ramp, arms folded behind her back. It was her duty to greet them—it was the least she could do after their success. 

Her eyes found him quickly. Lieutenant-Colonel Smith stepped out, his uniform stained with dust and scorch marks. A communicator was still hooked over one ear, and his face bore the unmistakable signs of exhaustion. He looked worn down but steady, and most importantly, alive.

A part of her wanted to close the gap between them, to take his hand and embrace him. But she didn't. Propriety after all. 

"Present, arms!" called a battle model from the line. Lances were clasped to their shoulders in perfect unison, the sound sharp and precise.

Smith raised a hand. "At ease," he said simply. The androids lowered their weapons and stood at rest.

White stepped forward, keeping her expression neutral. "Lieutenant-Colonel," she greeted him. Her voice was steady, but her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. She caught the faint scent of sweat and metal on him.

"You did good work down there," she said. "The androids you rescued are moving to reinforce the city." 

Smith nodded, his face unreadable. "That's good," he said. "We'll have more than just a single victory today, then."

White glanced at the rest of his team as they disembarked. Their suits were bulky and grey. Despite their closed-faced helmets, she knew when someone was looking around in wonder. 

"We have facilities ready to service your men, sir. They must be tired," White spoke up. 

"Actually, they are asking when will be the next time they'll go planetside," Smith replied. "They're not exactly fans of sitting around while a war is going on." 

White's mouth threatened to slide open, to refuse that request but Smith cut her off.

"We'll deliberate on it later," he said. "Right now, my team needs rest. And so do I."

"Of course," White replied. "Follow me, then." 

+++

Fujikawa had done her work, no question. Smith could see it in every inch of the room.

It was nothing like the cold steel corridors they'd grown numb to. The space stretched wide, high ceilings and clean lines, built like an atrium instead of a barracks. Warm light poured from recessed panels overhead, a gentle gold that cast long shadows across polished floors. The air smelled faintly of citrus and ozone—synthetic, but better than coolant or sweat.

To the right, regulation cots stood in perfect rows—though calling them cots felt wrong. Padded, adjustable, draped in thermal blankets, they looked more like hospital recovery beds for the rich. Each had its own soft halo of light, its own climate bubble. On the far wall, a lounge had been carved out with surprising care. Thick chairs, tables without sharp edges. A central holo spun slowly, the Earth rotating in serene silence, clouds dragging over oceans.

And in the corner, almost modestly, a bar gleamed.

His soldiers didn't move right away. They stood just inside the threshold, like they didn't trust the floor not to swallow them. That kind of quiet said more than anything. They weren't built for softness.

A Tactical Unit appeared—black plating, silent servos—and motioned for them. One by one, the soldiers followed it away toward the armory, leaving dirty footprints on the pristine carpet.

"You'll want for nothing in here," White said from beside him. "This section of the station's being rebuilt from the bones up. Military-only. Manufacturing, design, recovery. Yours."

Smith gave a grunt as he stepped toward the lounge, already eyeing the couch. His spine ached. His shoulders burned. Piloting a Gotterdamerung suit left you hollowed out, like the machine had scooped something out of you just to make space for itself. He just wanted to drop—just for a second.

Then her voice stopped him.

"Sir, if you would follow me?"

He let out a dry click of his tongue. So close. But she was already moving, her eyes sharp with that look. Not a request.

He followed.

They took the lift. It was smooth and silent, the kind that didn't jolt or hum. Just motionless descent and then the doors slid open. The room beyond was larger than expected—clean, quiet, softly lit. A personal suite, no doubt. He stepped inside, scanning the walls, the bed, the low hum of active temperature control.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Your quarters," White said behind him.

He turned slightly, arching an eyebrow. "Bit much."

She didn't answer. Just silence, and then the faintest sound—fabric against skin.

He turned fully.

White stood before him, her uniform pooled around her ankles, her form wrapped in white lace. Not regulation white. Deliberate white. Her figure was built like a threat—tight stomach, strong thighs, curves shaped with precision, symmetry meant to distract and disable. Her skin glowed under the artificial light, smooth and flush with anticipation.

"You know I smell," Smith said, voice flat.

"And you know, sir," White answered, stepping toward him, "that I don't care."

He stared. A beat passed. Then he reached for the collar of his uniform and began to unbutton. One by one, each clasp clicked free. The fabric fell off him like shed armor, landing in a heap by the bed. His skin was marked—bruises, cuts, old scars—but alive.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, spine straight, hands resting on his knees.

"Come, then."

White crossed the floor in a slow, deliberate walk, each step designed to be watched. Her hips moved with the kind of rhythm that didn't need music.

"Am I pleasing to you, sir?" she asked.

She didn't wait for the answer. She saw it—pressing against the front of his boxers, taut and unmistakable. She laughed softly, low in her throat. 

"I see," she murmured.

She dropped to her knees between his legs, hands in tight white gloves hovering just over his skin. She paused, waiting.

He gave a nod.

Her palms met his thighs, slow, reverent. She inhaled sharply as she touched him—there it was. His scent. Oil, sweat, war. Something raw and dark and male. It hit her like a trigger.

Her fingers slipped under the band of his boxers and drew them down with steady care. His cock sprang free, flushed, thick, heavy with blood. She stared—taking in every line, every vein.

Smith arched an eyebrow. "Problem?"

White bit her lip. She looked up. "Just... thinking about the logistics."

"We don't have to now," he said. No pressure, but no pullback either.

White scoffed. "And let Anemone beat me to it?" Her hand wrapped around the base, firm and possessive. "Not a chance."

Smith shifted his legs wider, just enough.

White took a slow breath, recalling every byte of information she'd downloaded on male pleasure. Angles. Pressure. Timing. She leaned forward, lips parted, breath warm against the tip. She kissed it once—soft. Testing.

Then she opened wider.

And began to take him in.

Her lips brushed the tip again—bare, reverent—before she parted them fully, inching forward. Slow. No rush. She wanted him to feel everything. The warmth of her mouth, the slick glide of her tongue as it curled along the underside, the way her lips sealed tight as she drew him in.

Smith exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. His hand rested on the back of her head, fingers tangled in the sleek dark of her hair, not pushing—just there. A weight. A claim.

White took more of him, her lips stretched around his thickness, jaw working as her gloved hands slid up his thighs, anchoring herself. She moved with careful rhythm—forward, then back—testing, adjusting. The wet sounds echoed against the sterile walls, indecent and sharp, a raw contrast to the calm lighting and clean floor.

She looked up—eyes locked on his. A line of spit trailed from the corner of her mouth, her lips already glossy and reddened. His eyes were half-lidded, watching her with something unreadable. Not lust. Not just. Something heavier.

White pressed deeper, feeling his cock push against the back of her throat. She gagged, just once—but didn't break eye contact. Didn't stop. She eased back slowly, breathing through her nose, saliva thick on her chin.

Smith groaned, voice rough, low.

She smirked around him, lips curled as she let his cock fall from her mouth with a wet pop. Her hand gripped him again, pumping slowly, deliberately as she spoke.

"All that combat, and this is what you grunt at?" she teased, voice hoarse, flushed. "I expected more poetry, sir."

He reached forward, hand on her jaw, thumb dragging across her slick lower lip.

"I'm saving the poetry," he said, "for when I'm inside you."

Her breath hitched—just slightly. Her pupils widened.

"Then stop wasting time," she said.

He didn't need a second invitation.

Smith stood, forcing her back with the pressure of his body, and she let herself fall with him—onto the bed, onto her back, legs parting as his weight pressed down. She still wore the lingerie, but not for long.

He peeled the lace from her like a man unwrapping a gift built for ruin. Her breasts spilled free, pink nipples hard, her thighs slick and trembling. Her eyes never left his.

She reached for him, nails dragging down his back.

They shared a look.

She nodded.

He slid inside.

Her mouth parted in a sharp gasp as he entered—slow, unrelenting. No warning, no teasing. Just the hot, stretching slide of him filling her, inch by inch, until she felt the burn of him at her deepest point. White's back arched, the muscles of her stomach tightening beneath his chest, her breath catching in her throat.

Smith moved with the same rhythm he'd used in the cockpit—measured, brutal, efficient. His hands gripped her thighs and pushed them wider, angling her hips until he could sink in deeper. She felt every grind of his pelvis against hers, every raw, merciless thrust as he set the pace.

The bed creaked beneath them, the station's silence shattered by the wet slap of skin on skin, the sharp gasp of her breath, the low, guttural growl he gave each time her body clenched around him.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in.

He drove in harder, making her cry out, the sound muffled as his hand slid over her mouth—pinning her voice down like a secret.

Her eyes fluttered, glassy, overwhelmed. The feel of him—hot, solid, relentless—sent a tremor through her, the edges of control breaking. She clawed at his back, not to pull him closer—he was already buried to the hilt—but just to do something. Anything.

Smith leaned down, lips brushing her ear.

"You want to come, Commander?"

She nodded against his hand, breath coming fast through her nose.

"Then hold on."

He pulled out—almost completely—then slammed back in. Her body jolted. Again. Again. Each thrust angled to drag across that swollen, aching spot inside her, until her eyes rolled back and her nails dug blood.

She came fast, with a muffled scream into his palm, her body writhing beneath his as everything inside her tightened, then shattered. Her pussy clenched so hard around him it almost forced him out.

Almost.

He didn't stop. Just gritted his teeth, riding out her orgasm with punishing strokes, pushing her past it—into that sweet, overstimulated haze where pain and pleasure blurred, where breath was just noise and the body was nothing but a vessel for want.

She was still shaking when he grabbed her hips, pulled her to the edge of the bed, and flipped her onto her stomach. Nevermind that she weighed a full 166 kilograms.

White barely had time to catch her breath before he shoved her knees apart and thrust back in from behind—deeper now, crueler, the angle brutal and perfect. Her moan turned into a guttural sob as her cheek hit the sheets, her fingers twisting in the blanket.

And still—he didn't stop.

Her breath hit the sheets in broken stutters, mouth open, eyes unfocused—tears slipping from the corners as the overstimulation turned molten. Each thrust hit like a hammer to her core, spine jolting with every impact as Smith's hands gripped her hips like handles, dragging her back into him over and over.

No hesitation now. No restraint.

The sound of their bodies—wet, frantic, obscene—echoed off the walls like a war drum. Her slickness coated him, made the rhythm slick and fast, a brutal cadence that sent fresh tremors up her thighs. He leaned over her, his chest to her back, the heat of his breath falling into the crook of her neck, his growling breath against her ears. 

"You love this?" 

She whimpered, nodded—barely—face mashed into the sheets, hair clinging to sweat-slick cheeks. Her knees started to buckle, muscles burning.

But Smith wasn't done.

One hand snaked around her throat, pulled her up, back flush to his chest. His cock still buried in her, dragging delicious pressure every time she moved, even slightly. The other hand slid down between her legs, fingers ruthless as they rubbed her clit, tight and fast, knowing exactly what would break her again.

"Sir—" she choked out, voice trembling, "I—"

"Give me another," he demanded, breath hot in her ear. "Come on, White. Come again."

Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up—legs trembling, hips bucking, her cunt clenching around him so hard he groaned low, almost animal. She screamed this time, no chance to bite it down, just raw sound spilling from her lips as the orgasm tore through her.

And he finally let go.

He drove in once, twice more, hard enough to lift her to her toes—and then with a guttural snarl, he buried himself to the root and spilled deep inside her. Hot, thick pulses flooding her, making her cry out again, still twitching around him.

They stayed like that, bodies locked, breath tangled.

Seconds dragged long. Neither moved.

Then—Smith pulled out slow, a sticky, wet sound between them. She collapsed forward, boneless, the sheets beneath her soaked in sweat. He watched the mess between her thighs, the way she quivered even now. His lips parted as a satisfied huff left him. He collapsed next to her. 

She stirred first.

Barely moving, just shifting her weight with a soft, shaky inhale as her muscles remembered how to obey. Her body ached—inside, out—but it was the good kind. The kind that lingered under the skin like smoke. She rolled onto her side, eyes trailing over Smith where he lay beside her, chest rising slow, cock still half-hard, smeared with the mess of everything they'd just done.

White licked her lips.

Then pushed herself up.

He cracked one eye open as she moved, the faintest edge of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "You trying to walk already?"

"I said you'd want for nothing, didn't I?" Her voice was husky, wrecked, but still laced with command. She lowered herself between his legs without another word.

Her hands were gentle this time. Reverent. She traced along his thighs, watching his cock twitch slightly in response. Still flushed, still glistening with the slick mix of their sex and sweat and everything else she'd taken deep inside.

She bent in slowly, lips barely brushing the tip.

His breath caught.

White flattened her tongue and dragged it up the length, slow and patient, like she was savoring the aftertaste of a battle well-won. Her mouth opened wider, and she slid him past her lips again—not all the way, just enough to swirl her tongue and hum around him. Soft. Warm. Careful.

Smith's hand drifted back into her hair, less commanding now. Just touching. Just feeling.

She worked methodically, licking him clean in slow, teasing sweeps. Taking her time. Letting her mouth memorize the shape of him all over again. His cum. Her slick. Salt and heat and the metallic tang of exertion. She swallowed it all like a soldier finishing the mission.

When she pulled back, she kissed the tip one last time.

A quiet, satisfied smirk played on her lips as she looked up at him.

"Now," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "that's done."

Smith's laugh was low, hoarse. "You're a menace."

White stretched like a cat, crawling back up his body until she could rest against his chest, breath still ragged.

"I know," she murmured. "That's why you'll keep coming back."

White didn't stay curled against his chest for long.

She rose—slowly, deliberately—like a shadow unfolding across his body. Her legs slid over him, straddling his hips, her palms pressed flat to his chest. She sat up straight, fully nude, hair a wild mess around her face, skin flushed with the afterglow and a fresh, hungry heat beneath it.

Smith's eyes opened wider as she settled onto him.

"Already?" he asked, voice rough, lips twitching into something halfway between surprise and awe.

Her hips rolled forward just enough for him to feel her heat press against him—wet, ready. His cock twitched up against her slick folds, and she let it, sliding along the length of him without taking him in.

She smirked. "Sir, I'm not finished with you, either."

Her hands braced on his stomach as she rocked her hips again, slower now, letting the head of his cock slip through her folds, teasing her clit just right. He groaned, hands finding her thighs, but she pushed them back to the bed.

"Ah ah. You had your turn. Now..." Her eyes burned into his, daring him. "...you ride my pace."

She shifted her hips forward—just enough to guide him where she wanted—and then, inch by inch, she sank down onto him. Her head tilted back as she let out a soft, shaky breath, her walls stretching around him all over again, slower this time. Deeper.

Smith growled, low and visceral. "White—fuck—"

"I know," she whispered, planting her hands on his chest and beginning to move.

Her rhythm was tight, purposeful. Every rise and fall of her hips sent him deeper into her, her thighs flexing with control, back arched as she ground down on him. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't rushed. It was dominant. Her breath hitched each time she bottomed out, riding the edge between pain and bliss with that same focused violence she brought to the battlefield.

Smith reached for her again. She grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the mattress.

"No," she hissed, biting her lower lip. "You're going to lay there and take it."

And he did.

She rode him like she owned him.

No desperation. No pleading. Just the raw, calculated control of a woman who knew the effect she had—knew how to grind her hips in tight, perfect circles that made his jaw clench, his breath catch, his cock throb inside her like it was begging.

Her hands held his wrists down, nails digging into his skin as she rocked forward, slow and deep. Every movement was surgical—each downward slide sinking him to the hilt, each upward lift leaving just enough to make him ache. Her thighs clenched around his hips, muscles taut and trembling as her tempo built, not with speed but with precision.

Smith growled again, hips bucking reflexively—trying to take control, push deeper, harder.

White didn't let him.

She slammed herself down and stayed there, burying him completely inside her as she leaned in, face inches from his. Her breath hit his lips, hot and harsh.

"I said…" she whispered, grinding her hips in tight circles, milking him slow, "…you don't move."

He twitched beneath her—helpless, hard, barely holding on.

She kissed him—hard, biting—and pulled back just enough to let her tongue drag over his lower lip.

"You feel that, sir?" she breathed, voice trembling with arousal. "That's what a woman does when she wants to claim you."

Her rhythm picked up then. Not wild, not frantic. Just relentless. She rode him with locked eyes, her body slapping down against his with wet, obscene rhythm. The sound of it filled the room—the slap of flesh, her gasps, his grunts, her cunt dripping around him as he pushed to the brink.

And she didn't stop.

Not when her thighs started to burn. Not when her breath broke into little sobs. Not even when her own orgasm started to coil low in her stomach like fire.

She just held his wrists harder, stared into his face, and whispered, "Come inside me, Smith."

And when he did—shuddering, cursing, twitching beneath her—then she let herself fall apart.

She came with him. Back arched. Mouth open. Her body clenching down around his as he filled her again, warmth flooding up into her deep and thick, her hips twitching through it, drawing out every last drop.

Then, silence. Just the sound of their breathing, ragged and uneven.

She finally let go of his wrists.

Smith's hands rose, slow and reverent, and rested on her hips. She was still impaled on him, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down between her breasts.

Her body trembled with aftershocks, but she didn't move—not yet. The stretch of him still inside her, the press of their bodies locked flush, gave her the kind of satisfaction she never admitted aloud. Her fingers splayed over his chest, nails tracing lazy patterns into his skin as her head tilted forward, forehead resting against his.

Smith's breathing was low, steadying. His eyes—half-lidded, dark, unreadable—didn't leave her. The kind of stare that held weight. That said everything.

Neither of them spoke.

Then White shifted—slowly, carefully—drawing herself off him with a long, wet pull, sensitive and slick, and winced as his cock slid free. The mess between them followed: sticky, warm, a quiet claim she'd carry for hours. She collapsed next to him, rolling onto her side with a groan and dragging one of his arms with her.

Smith let himself be pulled.

They settled together like puzzle pieces. Her head tucked under his chin, one leg draped over his thigh, his arm wrapping around her shoulders like armor worn soft. Her fingers found his hand and wove through it. His lips brushed her temple, barely a whisper of a kiss.

"I'll be sore tomorrow," she mumbled into his chest.

"You'll walk like you earned it."

Her laugh was a puff of air, tired and pleased. She didn't answer, just burrowed closer, her breath warm against his skin. The room was quiet now, the hum of station systems faint behind the thrum of their pulse and shared body heat. Outside the viewport, Earth turned slow beneath them—blue and wide and distant.

"I'm..." White paused. "...I will be out of action for the coming months." 

Smith stilled. His body, wrapped around hers, didn't tense—just stilled. A breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. He understood.

"I see," he said, voice level.

She glanced up at him from where her head rested against his shoulder, something raw flickering in her eyes.

"I now possess new equipment, sir," she said, clinical and cold, like if she defaulted to protocol she could keep control. "Whatever modifications you wish for me to make upon the life in my womb, I can do it."

His brow furrowed. "You're not a machine."

"I am what you need me to be."

Smith went quiet.

He looked past her for a moment—past the sweat-damp tangle of sheets, past the faintly glowing lights of the room. He was calculating. 

"…Can you give me a son?"

White nodded, slow. No hesitation. 

"Anything else?"

He reached up, callused hand cupping her cheek like she was glass and he was tired of breaking things. He held her gaze, and the intensity in his eyes softened—not weakened, softened like iron bent for the first time.

"I want him to have your eyes."

Her mouth parted—no words. Just the slack-jawed stillness of someone who'd expected war and been handed worship.

He smiled. Just a little.

And for the first time since she'd been made, assembled, and forged in secret operations and hard decisions, White blushed. Not just a flush. Not heat from sex or adrenaline. A real, human pink crept into her cheeks like warmth had finally breached her walls.

"…I see," she whispered, trying not to shake.

He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to hers. She calmed immediately. His voice dropped, soft as worn leather. "I want him to be named Alexander."

The name lodged in her system like a new directive. Alexander. Her lips parted, and the words came out quieter than breath.

"Defender of Men."

She liked the taste of it. Strong. Ancient. 

"It suits him," she whispered. 

Smith's fingers curled around the nape of her neck, thumb stroking slowly up her spine. He didn't speak, just breathed her in.

She closed her eyes.

They kissed.

+++

A/N: In my experience, blondes tend to be semen demons. So here White is. Feast, you frickers. Feast.

​The breeding begins.