the size difference between the master chief and little ole you is absolutely crazy.
he's six foot something and pure man meat. you are so fucking small compared to him, his hands dwarf your waist no matter the size. skinny, thick, curvy or lean. chief would still wrap both hi hands around your body and sit you so pretty like on his cock in such a satisfying way; that no matter what you look like? you feel fucking fantastic on the inside to him.
you're a fleshlight. something that the mjolnir armor and any crappy gag gift fred had given chief couldn't even be compared to your pussy. sure, the master chief looks like the clean, pure, business only kind of soldier that's halsey's gift to the universe. but he's a nasty devil when he's in your quarters, testing the thin bedframe you were forced to sleep on every night.
the bedframe has long since broken, the springs have yet to be fixed every since they broke some weeks back. you don't have the time to put in a request, nor the need to since chief would only obliterate it with his thick scar riddled hips.
his weight behind his bullying thrusts are enough to turn the rebar bedframe into scrap metal with how precise and underlying desperately timed pace. your moans in his ear, fingers blindly carving hot paths along the wide expanse of his back spurs the man enough to keep fucking like its his mission to make you cum.
John-117 being unfamiliar with arousal and awkward when he's horny is something I need to see. Considering the enhancements suppress sexual desire, he most likely has a medium to low libido. Being repressed for so long and knowing little about his body (having little autonomy) doesn't help either.
So yandere John having a darling and getting hard around them would be an interesting experience to say the least.
He doesn't even understand what's happened. All he knows is that his groin is uncomfortably hard but the rubbing against his suit feels nice. His mind tells him not to chase the friction but his body instinctually responds to it.
Cortana is informing him on what is happening. A normal person would be embarrassed. He isn't. He takes this as confirmation that he does indeed hold romantic and sexual feelings for his darling.
All the while they are instructing him on something and is assuming he is listening. When they ask him a question his head pops up and he apologizes for getting distracted. Only, his breath is heavier. You can't see his eyes through his visor but you can feel his piercing gaze. It's more than simply the norm of Spartan staring. It's suffocating and predatory.
He'll most likely getting chastised for it by someone. Cortana is worried, and a bit jealous, so she sends the suits vital report (and John popping a boner) to some top brass official.
They try to pump John full of more emotional suppressing drugs and remove you from any mission he works on.
It doesn't go well. He spirals because the added emotional suppressants make everything feel so foreign. It has the opposite effect because now he wants to seek you out to regain the fluttery feeling he had.
Summary: Taking out the pellet made John realize that going back to being numb is simply not an option. Not when you push all five of his senses to the absolute limit and beyond.
Pairing: John 117 x f!reader.
Warnings: MDNI, smut, oral (f), fluff.
Notes: or if you prefer the ao3 version. feel free to look out for chapters that come out early.
Some days, John is unsure if having emotions is a good thing. He finds himself learning things about himself he never would've known if he hadn't taken the pellet out.
He went from feeling almost nothing to feeling everything at once. It's a broken dam pouring out an ocean of all the things he wasn't allowed to feel since he was taken as a child.
It's worse with you. Or… better, in the sense that he likes feeling the way he does when he's around you. But worse in a way that he can't stop it all from flooding in. Can't control what comes in or what goes out. Can't control how his thoughts play out where you're involved.
His five senses are on overdrive. So small things are a problem.
Sight. Watching you. Biting your pen in concentration. Dropping your chin on your hand as you write something in your notes. His eyes dropping a bit lower than they should when you take off your jacket, revealing a compression shirt that clings to your skin and perfectly outlines the shape of your frame.
Tracking where your pretty eyes move, how they widen or narrow. Memorizing the shape of your mouth when you don't notice him looking. Even a simple smile almost has him spiralling.
Smell. You forgot your jacket in John's quarters once and he finds himself pressing it to his nose every night before he sleeps. He stands close to you to catch a whiff of your shampoo, of whatever body wash you use.
It's soothing and maddening at the same time. Whether you're in the room or not, he swears you're everywhere because he can't get you out of his head.
Hearing. He's glad he hears more than the average human does. Listening to you speak from the other side of the room. Cortana says his heartbeat elevates every time he hears your sweet laughter.
He can't stand to hear your voice filling up with sadness or worry. Any time he hears it, something inside him just switches and he focuses on you like there's no one else in the world. Focuses on fixing whatever problem is bothering you. To make it go away so you don't sound like everything is on the verge of falling apart anymore.
Months went by with him trying to understand what it all meant. In between those months were spent researching if they were signs of something amiss. A condition that went undetected by medics. A sickness that he wasn't made aware of.
Every book and every file diagnosed him with only one;
“You have a crush.”
John blinks rapidly. “A what?”
Dr Keyes stifles a chuckle and shakes her head as she puts away her stethoscope. As much as John hated admitting weakness and defaulting to a medical professional, he had to go see someone for whatever was wrong for him. Miranda ran all sorts of tests and scans on him when he came in before she told him that nothing was wrong with him, a truth he was relieved to hear, before he told her what was really bothering him.
“Relax.” she says. “It's not terminal… yet.”
“Yet?” he parrots, eyebrows raising.
“It won't kill you, don't worry. It'll feel like you're dying sometimes… but…” she pauses, her lips pursing. Then smiles softly. “You'll understand once the rest of the symptoms set in.”
She's mocking him.
But she wasn't wrong.
It didn't feel like a sickness. Although it felt more like something was growing in his chest. Taking root, spreading out like a parasite, John didn't feel the urgency to stop it from spreading.
If anything, he nestled the thing closer to his chest and let it grow further and further into him. Seeking you out in every crowd, sniffing your scent like a fucking dog, hanging onto every word you say.
It didn't stop there.
You made it worse. You poured fuel on the fire.
You let him touch your hands, let him place his at the small of your back to led you anywhere.
You let him trace your cheek with his bare knuckles. It caught you off guard, even made you flinch and made him doubt that he did something wrong. But you don't back away. You don't deny him his need to feel your skin. Your eyes look up and see him, see the vulnerability in him, see everything he's trying to convey when words fail him.
You let him… You let him taste your lips. The surprised noise you make slips into his mouth. He pulls you closer, your arms slip around his shoulders as he cradles your head.
You feel so soft, so fragile compared to him. He almost doesn't want to hold you, afraid that he might break you, afraid that whatever's rotten inside of him might taint you.
But you cling to him now. Unwilling to let go of him when he shows the barest hint of pulling away. His hands trace your back, your hips, your mouth parting wider for him to explore with his tongue. He barely catches his breath in between kisses, his heart pounding in his ears when his mouth presses more against your neck.
All his life, he thought he'd been dead. But you light him up from a place he thought was ripped away from him. You burn his skin with the mere touch of your hands, you scorch his soul when you whimper his name.
It's only then that he pulls his mouth away.
“I don't…” he rasps, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “I don't know much about this. I didn’t get to do this very often.”
He didn't have time to explore things like this. Wasn't even given a chance until now. Until the artifact turned his entire life upside down.
Before that, they were briefed on sexual intercourse and how it works. It was all clinical. All another small lesson in knowing about humanity but they weren’t exactly encouraged on taking part in that aspect. After, Dr Keyes gave him and the others room for that sort of exploration. Gave each of them their own living quarters, gave each of them more time to gather their bearings after they'd taken out their pellets too. Told them to seek out the world in their brand new perspective.
Which now leads John all the way to you. The one he sought out. As you were his world now and he's seeing you in a whole different light.
“How much do you know?”
The question makes him shrink. This isn't his area of expertise.
Not knowing things is not what he is known for. He's good at many things. He can count a thousand and one ways to kill a human. Yet this, to touch without harming is not what he's been taught.
And he hates not knowing things, not knowing what the plan is. Walking blind into a room, into a battlefield without a solid path has never ended well for him.
But you don't look at him with disappointment or anything malignant. You wait patiently for his answer as you sit down on his bed.
“Enough.” he takes a small step back with his eyes on the floor.
“Do you want me to help you learn more?” comes your soft voice.
“I want–” he chokes on his breath and clears his throat. “There's one thing I haven't gotten to try.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.” Finally, he looks at you.
You smile. “Like what?”
The shock on your face is worth it when he kneels. You don't stop him from pulling down your trousers along with your undergarments. He lifts your leg over his shoulder and then the other. He follows what he saw once in a hologram, his movements guided by a searing need.
From there, John is torn between which one might be his favorite. Touch and taste are melded together when he puts his mouth on you.
“You don't– John, you don't have t– ah!”
Touch can be without taste.
But taste can't be without touch.
Every other sense overloads and mixes with the other. You gasp his name, your nails scratch his scalp, he watches your head tipping back. The scent of you fills his mouth as your thighs dent under his fingertips. He couldn't get the taste of your sweet cunt out of his memory if he tried.
John has never understood the difference between the terms ‘eat’ and ‘devour’. They've always meant the same thing but now he sees. Now he knows that those two things are not the same.
His tongue parts your sodden folds and swirls around the bud at your apex. Your thighs tremble when he kisses it, lavishing it with affection, marking you with the fire that you sparked within him.
“John, please–” he pries your legs apart when they threaten to close on him, pinning one against the bed while his hand stays on your stomach.
Whatever you beg for, he gives it to you tenfold.
Pressing his mouth on your inner thighs, sucking a mark and three more to leave evidence of this occurrence. He wanted you to remember that this is real, that he was here, that he will come back to make sure this happens again. He sucks your swollen clit in his mouth, drawing out more of your desperation, your shaky mewls ringing in his ears.
You're sensitive here, responsive. Giving him more than he was prepared for. Your essence pouring into his mouth like ichor while he nudges your clit against his nose. He's lapping up your slick, humming into your pussy because he's never tasted anything so good in his entire miserable life.
Your hands are all over the place. You can't decide if you want to grip the sheets, his head or try to cover your mouth when you start to sob. Eventually, when your spine arches, both hands choose the arm that had slipped between your legs, one hanging onto his wrist while the other clinging to his fingers. His tongue licking inside of you now while you gasp out his name, arching your hips more against him than away from him.
He's never known a prayer that sounded like his name. Never known it could sound so good. Never knew a god until he knelt at your altar of your thighs.
John has never placed faith in anything until you. And he doubts he'll have faith in anything or anyone else ever again. He forgets the life he’s known before he met you and can’t imagine one without you.
He treats your cunt like a religion rather than a mission. Worshipping you, offering nothing less than his iron-clad devotion and sacrificing all else. And he’s rewarded with the sweet nectar of your warmth, your acceptance, blooming under his reverence with tear stricken eyes and shaky drawls of his name.
He lets you drown him between his thighs when you cum with a sharp cry.
He didn’t stop there. Not when he didn’t get enough of you. And he didn’t think he ever would.
John’s room smells like you. His sheets are going to smell like you long after he escorts you back to your place and he knows he’s going to have to either mourn when the scent fades or he’ll have to keep bringing you back here to renew it.
“I learned a lot today.” he murmurs into your hair as he rubs your back. “Thank you.”
Your shift, glassy eyes blinking up at him. Exhaustion weighed down on you and he almost feels bad for it if it weren’t for the fact that you agreed to stay with him for the time being. It’s only fair, considering he had your eyes rolling back while your whole body tremored with the force of one orgasm followed by another.
“Shouldn't I be saying that?” you lazily replied.
He shakes his head, softly smiling. “No.”
Your eyes flutter and close when he presses a kiss on your forehead. He can’t find the words to describe how it felt to know that you felt this safe with him or what it means to him to know that there’s someone out there who didn’t see him for what was projected for the benefit of an organisation or a few group of people whose only objective is numbers and self-serving motives.
For a long time, he’s questioned whether or not he was right to remove his pellet. But after today, after seeing what it means to have you in his arms, he knows that going back to a life of being an empty shell is just not possible. It’s not going to cut it. No ‘higher purpose’ of being a soldier is ever going to be as fulfilling as being yours.
Because John would rather die feeling too much than live feeling nothing at all.
“You know,” your voice cuts right through his thoughts like plasma. “I genuinely don’t believe that was the first time you did that with your tongue. You had to have learned it somewhere.”
He says your name in warning, cheeks burning red. “Drop it.”
Like the merciful deity you are, you do. Only for a little while, though.
John learned another thing that day. The condition Miranda spoke of earlier did become terminal. There was no stopping it, there was no cure. It was a warning sign; it morphed into something much more than just a crush.
Something that had John thinking that the only lifelong treatment that can stabilize his symptoms… is you.
Forewarning: This fic is based off the games and books, not the show. It will also follow the events of the games closely.
❝ 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. ❞
— 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧
𝘀𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟵𝘁𝗵, 𝟮𝟱𝟱𝟮 | 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝟎𝟒
CHIEF EXHALED, the sound faint beneath the weight of his helmet, and leaned back into the Pelican’s worn seat. The day had been long—brutally so. The mission to rescue the Pillar of Autumn’s survivors had ended in blood and smoke, a relentless push through waves of Covenant resistance. Sixty-three Marines and naval personnel had made it out alive. A small victory, given the carnage they’d walked through.
But as the adrenaline faded, the numbers gnawed at him. Hundreds had served aboard that ship. By his estimate, barely a quarter remained—more than expected after witnessing the devastation the Covenant had inflicted on the Autumn but still the number felt painfully small. The rest were just…gone. Most of them killed, some taken, or lost to the void of space.
Outside, the sky shifted from scorched orange to dusky violet as the Pelican angled back toward their forward base. Inside the cabin, silence settled—a heavy, contemplative quiet broken only by the low hum of the engines.
They were just nearing the halfway point to the temporary base of operations, when silence was broken by Cortana’s voice. “Hold on, I’m picking up another distress signal…”
The Pelican slowed, its engines flaring in protest as Foehammer eased back on the throttle. Chief’s posture straightened, the hum of tension creeping back into his muscles. His helmet tilted slightly, the Spartan equivalent of a raised brow.
“That’s… impossible.” Her muttered voice was hushed, confused but when she spoke again it was clearer and determined. “We need to retrieve her immediately.”
His brow furrowed beneath the helmet’s visor. The lack of explanation set him on edge. “Cortana,” he said evenly, though the demand was clear. “Find who?”
“No time to explain,” she snapped, her tone clipped and urgent. “I’m locking on the location now… Got it!”
Coordinates flashed across his HUD a heartbeat later. Foehammer gave a grunt of acknowledgment and veered the Pelican sharply, banking hard toward the new heading.
Chief said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Knowing his stubborn AI wouldn’t give up anything more, he leaned back, exhaling slowly. It seemed his day was far from over.
Despite his questions, Cortana remained maddeningly evasive about who they were retrieving. Her refusal to elaborate wore on the Spartan’s patience, but from what little he could infer, the AI deemed this mysterious individual valuable enough to justify an all-out assault on a heavily fortified Covenant forward operating base—alone, without backup, and armed with little more than instinct and firepower.
“There’s no time to return to base and coordinate a proper extraction,” Cortana had said. “It’s now or never.”
“Drop us here,” she ordered as the Pelican hovered over a ridge. “Then head back for reinforcements.”
“You got it, Cortana,” Foehammer replied, adjusting altitude just enough for the Spartan to jump.
Master Chief hit the ground hard and fast, rolling into cover with the practiced ease of a veteran. The distant hum of the Pelican faded behind him, as his attention focused on what laid ahead.
His voice was low, rough with suspicion. “Are you going to tell me who we’re rescuing?”
“It’s a surprise,” Cortana answered breezily. He couldn’t currently see her, but Chief could hear the smirk in her tone.
“I don’t like surprises,” he muttered.
Moving silently through the tree line, he surveyed the base sprawled below. Four Elite Minors. Two Majors. A pair of Jackal snipers stationed on high ledges, and a heavy spread of Grunts and infantry-level Jackals. Far more resistance than he’d faced earlier—this wasn’t a standard unit of patrol. This was a protection team.
Whoever they were after was important but Chief still couldn’t figure out which of the Autumn survivors would warrant this.
“I think you’ll like this one,” Cortana teased.
Chief didn’t answer. He raised his sidearm, and with two precise shots, the Jackal snipers crumpled where they stood, purple blood misting the air as their bodies fell limp.
That was the cue. Alarms blared. The Covenant force surged into motion.
Chief didn’t hesitate.
Switching to his assault rifle, he barreled through the chaos, prioritizing the Elite Majors. His AR’s roar echoed through the clearing, shredding energy shields and alien bodies alike. The Minors followed, then the rest—Grunts shrieking, Jackals scrambling in fractured formations. Without leadership, they broke. Without mercy, Chief finished the job.
“Find the entrance,” Cortana said sharply. “She’s being held on the lowest level.”
He swept through the aftermath, boots crunching over shattered armor and spent casings. It didn’t take long to find the hatch embedded in a sloping platform, half-concealed behind a holographic barrier. Once inside, the descent began.
Cortana hadn’t lied—the resistance was thick. Room after room, level after level, every inch was contested. The deeper he went, the heavier the presence. Whoever this prisoner was, the Covenant were treating her like a relic of war.
Not many people warranted this kind of protection. Keyes? Unlikely. A rogue AI? No. He didn’t know of anyone who fit.
“The hall to your left,” Cortana guided.
The corridor twisted around into another fight. Covenant troops surged from doorways and shadowed alcoves, but Chief pressed forward, relentless. The structure was strange—narrow halls carved from a smooth, metallic stone. The walls were etched with fine glowing veins, pale blue energy pulsing beneath the surface like a heartbeat. Lights flickered from overhead fixtures, casting a cold, sterile gleam across the blood-slicked floors.
It all blurred together: motion, fire, the scent of plasma and gunpowder. He moved like a storm through the complex, precise and unstoppable.
Until at last, he reached the final door.
It stood at the end of a long corridor, an imposing slab of dark alloy. Geometric patterns shimmered faintly across its surface, etched in lines of dull crimson that converged at the center—a single, alien glyph glowing with an erratic pulse.
“One moment, please,” Cortana said, almost cheerfully.
A deep chime resonated through the corridor. The crimson lines faded into green, and with a low hiss, the door slid open.
Beyond it lay a larger chamber, dimly lit and silent. The Spartan stepped through.
When Cortana had first tasked him with rescuing this mysterious individual, Chief hadn’t fully grasped the urgency. Of course, he would follow orders—he always did—but the weight behind her insistence hadn’t quite settled in. Not until now.
The moment his eyes landed on her, everything clicked into place.
She was a Spartan.
The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. She wore no armor, no identifying insignia—only the thin, worn layers of an undersuit meant for something far more protective. But what she was… was unmistakable. No normal human was built like that. The sheer size of her, the way she held herself even in stillness, even in chains—it all spoke to what she had been made to be.
And though she wasn’t one of his Spartans, that hardly mattered. She was still a Spartan.
For a fleeting second, something surged in him—something dangerously close to hope. After Reach, after the radio silence and the ghosts left behind, he’d started to accept the unbearable possibility: that he might be the last. But she changed that.
He buried the feeling as quickly as it came. There would be time for that later. Right now, there was only the mission.
She was kneeling in the center of the room, head bowed, arms outstretched, wrists bound in glowing manacles that hummed faintly of energy. Strands of dark hair clung to her face, hiding her features, but the steady rise and fall of her chest confirmed she was conscious—if barely.
“There’s a panel on your left,” Cortana said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Get me there, and I’ll unlock her restraints.”
Chief moved quickly, boots crunching softly over the bloodstained floor. He reached the panel, inserted Cortana into the system, and stepped back as she began hacking through the alien tech.
“They didn’t take any chances with her,” Cortana murmured, her tone growing sharper as she worked. “Their encryption is complex, they’re good but not as good as—”
Her words cut off.
Suddenly, the room went black. Not dim, not flickering—black. A suffocating darkness fell like a curtain, swallowing sound and light alike.
Then the emergency systems kicked in.
A low hum preceded the slow return of visibility. Crimson lights pulsed to life along the walls, casting a blood-colored glow across the chamber. It wasn’t enough to see clearly, but just enough to make out the silhouette of the woman still kneeling.
“We don’t have much time,” Cortana warned. “The Covenant will notice the breach and send reinforcements soon.”
A electrical zap broke the tension as the manacles disengaged. They dropped with a loud clatter, the energy flickering out as they struck the floor.
The woman sagged forward, her arms falling slack. But she didn’t collapse. She didn’t move from her position.
Chief took a step closer, unsure if she was conscious or simply too drained to respond. He could hear her breathing—shallow, but steady.
“Spartan,” he called, his voice low, firm. “Can you move?”
Still, no answer.
He shifted his weapon, one hand reaching slowly for her shoulder, prepared to catch her if she fell.
“I have her,” Chief reported over comms, not realizing his external speakers were still off—a small oversight, one he should’ve caught, but missed in the moment.
She remained kneeling, head bowed, unmoving.
Frowning beneath his visor, Chief took a cautious step forward. She hadn’t so much as twitched since the restraints fell. He approached, posture relaxed but ready, and crouched to check on her.
Yet the second his hand touched her arm, that was when she moved.
In a blur of motion, she exploded upward, knocking him flat on his back with a force that momentarily stunned even him. A guttural snarl tore from her throat—feral, instinctive. Her eyes blazed, not just with recognition but pure survival instinct, twin shards of ice-blue that glowed unnaturally in the red emergency light. She straddled him, muscles coiled with tension, her breath ragged and uneven. His pistol, now in her hand, was pressed squarely between his eyes.
She didn’t see a Spartan. She didn’t see an ally.
She saw a threat.
“It’s really her,” Cortana breathed, awe slipping into her tone. “Spartan B312… Lieutenant… Noble Six! Stand down!”
Cortana’s voice erupted through Chief’s external speakers—sharp, commanding, undeniable.
The woman froze.
Her wild expression flickered, breaking apart as confusion bled into it. Her grip on the pistol loosened slightly, her lips parting just enough to speak.
“…Cortana?” she whispered, as though speaking the name might shatter whatever illusion she thought she was in.
“As much as I’d love to have a heartfelt reunion,” Cortana quipped dryly, “we’ve got a problem. The Covenant just realized I cut the power. We’ve got multiple hostiles inbound.”
Chief cleared his throat—a subtle sound, but enough to draw her attention. Elise blinked, suddenly aware that she was still straddling him. Another Spartan.
Her hand was braced against his chest, the other still holding his pistol, aimed directly at the center of his visor. Slowly, deliberately, her thumb brushed over a small raised marking on his chest plate—Braille identifiers. She traced it for just a second.
117.
She knew that number. Recognized it. But she filed the realization away for later.
Without a word, she shifted her weight and smoothly climbed off him.
The moment she straightened, a wave of dizziness surged through her, blurring her vision and forcing her to catch herself before she stumbled. Her body was running on fumes. Pain flared—sharp and familiar—but she gritted her teeth and pushed through it.
Chief noticed. He caught the way she winced when she moved. Judging by the state she was in, the Sangheili interrogators hadn’t gone easy on her. Still, she didn’t make a sound. Spartans rarely did.
“We need to move,” they said at the same time.
They both paused, heads snapping toward one another at the echo.
Elise raised an eyebrow, a subtle flicker of amusement crossing her face. Chief’s own reaction remained hidden behind his reflective visor—silent and unreadable, as always.
“My armor,” she said, voice steady despite the exhaustion dragging at her limbs. “I need to retrieve it.”
The statement was firm—non-negotiable. Officially, it was a matter of security protocol. Her Mjolnir suit in enemy hands was a threat. Unofficially, she hated being without it. Out here, in an active combat zone crawling with Covenant, she felt exposed. Vulnerable.
And Spartans did not do vulnerable.
“I’ll send an extraction team,” Cortana replied, all practicality. “But first, we need to get you out of here.”
Chief noticed her jaw tighten, the muscle flexing in resistance. He understood. Spartan armor was the greater half to a whole—it was identity, protection, strength. A second skin. But instead of arguing, Elise gave a curt nod. Silent agreement, even if it clearly cost her.
Then, as if just remembering, she glanced down at the weapon in her hand—his pistol.
“Mind if I borrow this?” she asked, casually lifting it in offering.
Chief gave a slight shake of his head. Permission granted.
Without another word, he turned and moved forward, rifle at the ready, each step measured and silent. Elise followed, pistol in hand, the two Spartans cutting through the blood-red shadows like twin wraiths—silent, focused, and moving as one.
He was hyper aware of her body behind him—close, silent, precise. His pistol raised and ready in her grip.
The pair jogged down the dim corridor in lockstep, their boots thudding softly against the floor, their breathing steady but measured. Then Chief abruptly halted, raising a clenched fist.
She stopped instantly, eyes burning into his back in silent anticipation as he raised four fingers in the air.
A few paces ahead, the faint, garbled chatter of Grunts reached Elise’s ears. She didn’t need more than a glance—she gave a single nod, subtle and sharp.
Chief began the silent countdown.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
They struck as one.
Suppressors hissed, and two Grunts dropped in rapid succession under precise headshots. Then two more. The others didn’t even have time to react before the Spartans slipped past their corpses and continued forward.
Though she wasn’t one of his, the way Elise moved had the distinct edge of a Spartan—sharp, decisive, trained. It tugged at something deep in Chief’s memory. She reminded him of his team… but not quite. They didn’t share the unspoken bond of trust built over the years of growing up together. Not yet. He could feel the difference in the way they both kept glancing, double-checking corners, watching not just the enemy—but each other.
Still, she was good. Damn good.
They stopped again.
Up ahead, an Elite stood with his back turned, holding position at the far end of the corridor. Chief shifted, adjusting his rifle and preparing for a clean shot—but stopped when a hand pressed against his armored thigh.
He tensed at the unfamiliar contact but didn’t speak. Elise was already in motion.
In silence, she drew his tactical knife from its sheath.
Chief watched.
She moved like liquid shadow—low, quick, purposeful. She used the wall, then his leg, to propel herself upward. In one smooth, practiced motion, she slipped the blade across the Elite’s throat. His shields flared briefly, then died with a soft crackle. A wet, choking gurgle followed as he collapsed in a heap, never having seen her coming.
She landed in a crouch—but stumbled, just barely. Her limbs shook with the effort. Chief could see it—the fatigue in her muscles, the strain behind her movements. Whatever strength she had left was sheer willpower.
She cursed under her breath but rose quickly, locking eyes with him.
He nodded. She returned it, stepping close to silently slide the knife back into its sheath at his side.
Then they moved—no words exchanged. Chief took point, rifle up. Elise fell in behind him, close but careful.
His armor could take the hits. She couldn’t.
And they both knew it.
Their journey back to the rendezvous point was going surprisingly well—almost too well. Sparse resistance met them in the narrow corridors, and the halls gave way to silence as they reached the final exit. But the moment their boots hit open terrain, the illusion shattered.
Plasma rounds screamed through the air.
They came from every direction—trees, rocks, high ground. In an instant, Chief shifted, placing himself between the fire and Elise, absorbing the brunt of it with his Mjolnir armor. She moved in tandem, weapon up, returning fire with practiced precision despite the exposed vulnerability of her unarmored frame.
They worked as one.
No words, no wasted movement. The Covenant line buckled under the pressure as they advanced, slowly carving a path to clear an LZ for the Pelican.
It was just within reach when Elise caught it.
A flicker. A faint shimmer in the air, like heat off pavement. Her eyes snapped toward it—and the Sangheili appeared.
Camouflaged no longer, the Elite deactivated its cloak and drew close behind the Chief, its energy sword igniting with a hiss of death. Chief didn’t see it—locked in combat with two others, too focused to sense the fatal strike closing in.
Panic gripped Elise’s chest. The image of another Emile—killed only a week ago—cut down by that very weapon surged into her mind.
She didn’t think. There was no time.
A curse slipped from her lips as she realized her magazine was empty. She moved anyway.
With a burst of speed, she lunged between them, her hand shooting up to seize the Elite’s thick, scaled wrist mid-strike.
The energy sword stopped—inches from Chief’s back.
The heat was immediate and searing. The plasma blade thrummed with power, its crackling edge so close she could smell her own skin beginning to burn.
The Elite snarled, mandibles flaring as its eyes locked onto her. It pushed forward, towering and powerful, and Elise gritted her teeth, digging her heels into the ground. Her arms trembled with the effort, her entire body shaking from the strain. She was holding him back—but only just.
Her enhanced strength wasn’t enough.
Sweat trickled down her face. Her breath came in short, desperate bursts. The blade inched closer.
Closer.
A flash of agony tore through her as the sword’s tip kissed her shoulder. She screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, but refused to let go.
Her legs buckled. The ground tilted.
And then the Elite staggered.
Chief slammed into him from the side like a battering ram, the full weight of his armor driving his combat knife deep into the Elite’s exposed neck. The creature howled in fury and pain, jerking away with the sword still in its hand as it shimmered and vanished into cloaking once again.
Elise swayed, her vision swimming. Blood ran down her arm in hot rivers. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her.
Chief didn’t hesitate.
He slung his rifle, scooped her into his arms, and sprinted toward a rocky outcrop. Plasma fire chased after them, sizzling across his shield and flashing bright warnings on his HUD.
He dove behind the rocks and hit the ground hard, rolling to protect her with his body. His armor absorbed the blow, but Elise groaned beneath the weight, the impact jolting her wounded shoulder. Still, she clenched her jaw, refusing to cry out. Instead, her fingers fumbled discreetly at his belt, tugging a fresh pistol magazine from one of his pouches.
She wasn’t done yet.
There weren’t many Covenant troops left, but enough that a single start plasma round could end everything for her.
Chief gently propped her up against the stone, scanning her condition with a glance.
She winced, biting back another groan. Her body trembled, the burn searing through her nerves like fire.
“Stay here,” he said, voice firm through his comms as he reloaded his assault rifle. His shields were already humming back to life.
“Watch your six,” she rasped, breath catching as she pushed herself upright against the rock.
He hesitated.
His visor gave nothing away, but she could feel the weight of his stare.
Then—after a beat too long—he nodded once.
And without another word, Chief moved out.
He made quick work of the remaining Covenant—Grunts dropped with precision shots, Jackals fell in quick bursts of suppressed fire. It was methodical. Efficient.
Only one remained.
The Sangheili with the energy sword.
It had cloaked again, its form blending seamlessly into the smoky air, casting warped ripples that shifted like heat haze. Chief turned slowly, scanning for the faintest shimmer. His finger hovered over the trigger. Every step he took was measured, controlled. His shields were up, but they wouldn’t save him from a clean strike to the neck or back. Not from a blade like that.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose—instinct screaming.
Behind him.
He spun, but too late.
The Elite was already mid-strike, sword raised for the kill.
Then a shot rang out.
A single, clean, echoing crack.
The Elite shimmered into view for a heartbeat before collapsing forward, a neat bullet wound punched through the back of its skull. Its sword hissed out and powered down as the body slumped at Chief’s feet.
Chief looked over.
Elise stood a few meters away, trembling where she leaned against the rock, his pistol still smoking in her hand.
“I… told you to watch… your six,” she rasped, a weak smirk ghosting across her lips.
Then her eyes rolled back. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed without a sound.
Chief was at her side in seconds.
She was unconscious before she hit the ground, her body limp from the weight of exhaustion, pain, and the brutal pace she had forced herself to maintain. The wound on her shoulder still sizzled faintly, plasma-burnt and raw. Her breathing was shallow, but steady.
He scooped her up, arms cradling her with surprising gentleness for someone encased in powered armor.
“Echo-419,” he called over comms, voice taut with urgency. “We need immediate evac. Package secured. LZ is clear.”
“Acknowledged. On my way,” came Foehammer’s reply, her voice crackling through the comm.
Chief looked down at the Spartan in his arms—pale, unconscious, bloodied. She was still gripping the empty pistol loosely in one hand.
He exhaled through his nose, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders just enough for a gruff murmur to escape.
Master Chief requests??? I need Chief x reader where reader tells her new friend John that she has a massive crush on the hero in green not knowing she’s just confessed to said man. Later ends up fighting beside him and after the battle Chief removes his helmet for whatever reason, rest, rehydration, etc. and reader has an existential crisis…with a cute ending…🥺
once again, so sorry for the delay on this!!! i love the concept of this and it was so fun to write!!! hope you enjoy :) <3
---
You could say that it was a predisposition that you were going to join the UNSC ever since you were a little girl. It ran in the family: Your dad was a marine, and mom a pilot. So of course as a little girl, you wanted to live up to their expectations and be just like them.
That leads you to where you are today, a soldier within the UNSC Navy Fleet Command (FLEETCOM). You like the work and it always keeps you busy. This work also, for the majority of the time, has you stationed on the infinity, and not so much in the heat of combat. But you wish you could be involved in the action one day. In fact, you were kind of obsessed with the Spartans and the program in general. They seemed off-worldly to you and you really wished you could see them in action.
In fact, you're currently telling your new friend John about your not so secret crush on the famous green Spartan, Master Chief. You met John about six months ago during a training and you have been friends ever since.
"I mean, come on! Who isn't curious about the famous 'demon'?"
You excitedly bang your hands on the table as you're ranting to your friend, who just sits there with a smirk on his face. You don't know why he finds it that amusing. Doesn't everyone have a crush?
His eyes light up as you keep gushing over the Spartan.
"I can only imagine what his face would look like; handsome no doubt." You stare off dreamily.
You sigh, "I wish I could meet him."
John shrugs, "Maybe one day you will."
You pout and then rest your head on your now crossed arms that rest on the table. You let out a puff, "My job doesn't allow me to be in combat. We always direct from up here." You gesture to the ship.
John continues eating his sandwich, which by the way, looks much more appetizing than the food on your plate. You wonder where he got the delicious looking food. In fact, you just now realize that John's food always seems to be gourmet, and much better than yours. You mentally shake your head, thinking it doesn't matter and you go back to thinking of your crush that you're never going to meet.
John reassures you again, "You never know when a special mission will come up anyways. They can always pull you into combat under special circumstances."
You hum, still bummed about your current position and reply, "Yeah, I guess."
You and John finish up your lunches then go your separate ways.
---
About a week later, you're being pulled into a conference room with your team and upper management. It's odd because usually upper management doesn't attend team meetings like this, so you figure something is happening or about to.
Your guess is right when your boss, Davidson, starts the meeting.
"Thank you all for being here today, we have been assigned to a special mission, which we will be deployed to planet Concord, where an outer human colony resides."
Davidson continues her assessment of the colony's climate and the reason for your team going.
"We will be assisting a covert operation, lead by the Spartans, specifically Blue Team. But this will require a ground operation team, so that is why we are being deployed with the Spartans."
Your stomach erupts with butterflies. Blue Team? You immediately know who's on that team and it's hard for you to contain your excitement.
Davidson continues with her presentation, but you find it hard to focus. However, you do catch that the reason for this covert mission is that there's been alien chatter in the quadrant Concord is in. It's unclear whether the Covenant has found the human colony or not. It is also sometimes hard to communicate with the outer colonies since they are a long way from Reach.
Your thoughts drift away again. Your first mission! You're itching with anticipation.
---
The day has come where you leave for Concord. you have been so busy the past week that you haven't had a chance to see your friend John and share the exciting new. Oh well, you think. I'll catch up with him once I'm back.
Travel to the outer colonies takes about a day or so from Reach and before you know it, you've reached Concord. You were hoping to catch a glimpse of the Spartans on the ship, but you guess your luck ran out because you didn't see a single one.
It was decided that you all would land on the outskirts of the region Corsica. This region had a dense population and would be a prime spot for the Covenant to attack.
You finally see the Spartans emerge from the ship, but they are already in their armor.
You all get to work in setting up your outpost, and surprisingly, the Spartans help with a lot of the set up.
Huh, guess they aren't better than that.
Once your networks are up and running, you and your team immediately get to work on analyzing the different comms channels for any chatter that isn't your own. The Spartans have left to search the perimeter and scout the area.
Day one and two, nothing happens. You're not picking anything up on the networks and Blue Team hasn't reported seeing anything.
However, on day three, things start to get interesting.
You just had your morning coffee when you hear it. it was so brief,. but you would recognize Sangheili anywhere. You immediately notify your team and Blue Team. You really hadn't had any interaction with the Spartans, but now they stand before you, waiting to hear your report.
You stand tall and say, "This morning at 0600 hours, we picked up Sangheili chatter. We only caught a snippet of it before they switched to another channel, but we could make out "Concord" from the discussion."
Master Chief is the first to ask a question, "Is it safe to assume they are on Concord?"
You clear your throat and respond, "While, we cannot confirm that they are on the planet, we can confirm that they know of its existence, and therefore, know the location of it."
You see Master Chief nod, his orange-yellow visor glinting in the morning sun. "Okay, what is our mission?"
This is where Davidson steps up to explain the game plan, now that there is credible intelligence that the Covenant know about Concord. FLEETCOM has been preparing for this for years, but its still surreal putting the procedures into place.
However, before Davidson can report on the procedures, a large blast hits near your outpost. You shriek and crouch down, covering your head with your hands. Another blast deposits close to the outpost, but with this blast, you can feel the warmth from the plasma. Covenant.
The outpost erupts into chaos and you snap back to reality, ready to follow your attack procedures that you know so well. But before you can stand, a green hand reaches down to you. You take it without any thought. It's only when the hand pull you up that you are face to face with Chief.
You take a step back, and mutter a thanks under your breath. Chief nods slightly, and then says, "You need a weapon."
Oh right, we're under attack. He leads you to the armory and you thank him again before he leaves you to get ready. you meet your team back at command and then you are split into groups to engage the Covenant. Each Spartan takes a squadron of soldiers, and lucky you, you're in Chief's unit.
You all disperse out to your combat areas, and you're immediately met with grunt troops. Easy enough you think.
You watch Chief ahead of you, easily taking out the grunts while you and your squadron take out the weakened ones. You see him take out his sniper and easily pick off the Jackals that were hiding up in the rock formations.
Strangely enough, it gets quiet after that, and you hear through your comms from the other units that combat has paused for them as well.
Chief runs back to your unit and says, "Let's climb up those rocks to get to higher ground. I'm sure that wasn't the last of the Covenant troops."
You all hike up the steep hill littered in rock formations until you reach the top. It does provide a good advantage, but you're also hoping for some rest.
You see the rest of your unit start to sit, drink water, and assess any injuries, so you decide to do the same. You luckily remained unscathed, and when you're drinking your water, Chief comes up to sit beside you and before you can say anything, he starts to take off his helmet.
You must being seeing things, because you are met with the familiar face of your friend John.
"I'm sorry, I must be seeing things, because what the fuck?!"
John, your friend John, sits besides you in a fucking Spartan suit, none other than the Master Chief himself.
"Guilty," he responds. He tries to give you a small smile, but all he is met with is a glare.
You're still shell-shocked and you are trying not to cause a scene in front of everyone, but seriously, what the actual fuck?
"Are you fucking serious? Why didn't you tell me?" You're honestly more hurt that he didn't tell you, than the fact that for almost the entirety of your friendship you've been gushing to him about your crush on, well, HIM.
Before he can get a word out though, you say, "What strings did you pull for me to be here?"
He just says, "Don't worry about it." you feel steam coming out of your ears.
Of course. Of course. It's all coming together now.
"Was this even a real mission?" your voice raises.
"Of course it was! We did just fight the Covenant, no?"
You hate to admit it but he makes a good point.
He gives you a small shrug, "I may have pulled a few strings to get your team assigned-" he looks over to you and you give him your hardest glare. You cross your arms, and shift your position so you're facing him head on.
"-but you and your team were well over-qualified! So it worked out anyways."
"WHY?!" You throw your hands up in the air, now feeling the embarrassment of your confession you've one too many times admitted.
"Look, Y/N," He places his gloved hand on your shoulder and you fight the urge to smack it away.
"i don't know if you noticed but everywhere I go, people just gawk at me and don't even treat me as a human. So, when I'm out of my armor, I feel a certain freedom I don't usually feel. And when I met you, well, I wanted to keep feeling that."
His thumb starts to rub circles into your shoulder.
"I was going to tell you, I was. But I started loving the feeling of just being normal, and you always provided that space for me. I'm sorry."
You sigh at his explanation, and while you're still mad at him, you do understand his point of view.
"You weren't creeped out by my crush, borderline obsession, with you?" You can't even look at him when you ask this and instead train your eyes to Concord's two moons up in the sky.
"Y/N, look at me." You do.
He smiles at you, the creases by his eyes crinkling and says, "I thought it was endearing, okay?"
"Ugh, you must get that all the time from women though, as you literally just said." You bring up your hands and rub your face and you feel your cheeks warm.
"Well, they aren't you."
"What?" You must have heard him wrong and you look at him to catch any kind of lie in his confession. But a small smile still rests on his lips and his eyes are still looking into yours with honesty.
He brings his hand that was on your shoulder to rest on your jaw, his thumb now stroking your cheek. You imagined the texture of his techsuit to be rougher, but you find his hand feels like silk against your skin.
"You mean to tell me you didn't know?"
You roll your eyes, "No, I did not know that my friend John of six months liked me. Clearly I don't pick up on things easily." You gesture between the two of you.
"Mhmm, then I'll have to do better." John closes the space between you and captures your lips with his. You kiss him back and rest your hand on top of his that still lies on your jaw.
You pull away for a brief second, "Wait! Now I understand why you have so much better food than me. You ass!" You smack his shoulder.
He shuts you up with another kiss.
---
You're so engrossed in all things John that you fail to notice that Kelly and her squadron met up with yours.
You have an audience behind you and you don't even notice it. Kelly mutters, "About time. He wouldn't shut up about her."
