Hi! Hope you’re doing well!! I was wondering if I could request an Elijah Mikaelson x Reader enemies to lovers slow burn? Hit me with the angst and tension and feel free to add in the classic tropes like “who did this to you” for bonus points lol.
🩶 Title: Blood & Promises (Elijah X F!Reader)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers | Angst | Slow Burn | Tension | Hurt/Comfort | TVD Universe
Summary:
You and Elijah Mikaelson were never supposed to be allies. You hunted his kind for years. But when a common enemy rises from the shadows of Mystic Falls, you’re forced to work together. Hatred turns into something far more dangerous—something that feels too much like love. Between blood, betrayal, and bruised hearts, the lines between monster and man blur until all that’s left is fire and longing.
Author’s Note:
Hi @lonelyghosts-stuff! Thank you so much for your request 💌 This one’s packed with angst, tension, and all the slow-burn chaos Elijah deserves. I included the “Who did this to you” moment, emotional wreckage, and reluctant tenderness that builds into something real. Enjoy the bite and the burn 💔🕯️
Darkness hummed before dawn in Mystic Falls, where monsters and hunters bled in equal measure, and trust was rarer than mercy.
It begins with a scream.
You’d heard plenty of them before—they were part of your work. But this one was different. This one came from someone you thought untouchable.
The alley behind the Grill was slick with rain and blood when you found him. Elijah Mikaelson, the ever-composed Original, was slumped against the wall, his once-perfect suit torn and darkened with crimson. His eyes flicked up to you, even as he clutched his side where a white oak dagger had nearly found its mark.
“Y/N,” he rasped, voice steady despite the pain. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You knelt, pressing a hand to his wound before you could think better of it. “And let you bleed out? Tempting, but I still need answers.”
He gave a faint smirk. “How delightfully human of you.”
“And how typically arrogant of you to think I’m helping you out of kindness.”
You hated how close you were. How his breath ghosted against your cheek. How even now, bruised and bloodied, he carried that same damnable composure that made your heart tighten with something dangerously close to respect.
You tore a strip of fabric from your jacket and pressed it to his wound. He winced, and you whispered, almost mockingly, “Who did this to you, Mikaelson?”
His eyes darkened, something old and furious flashing there. “Someone who will regret it.”
Thunder cracked through the night, as if the heavens themselves answered his rage. For a brief moment, you both just stayed there—your hand against his chest, feeling the unnatural heartbeat of a man who had lived a thousand years. You should have walked away. But you didn’t.
The next few days blurred into a strange alliance—filled with sharp arguments and quieter moments where suspicion gave way to uneasy trust. One night, while patching a map together, you teased, “You’re not as insufferable when you’re quiet,” earning a rare smirk from him. The truce began to feel less like tolerance and more like reluctant respect.
You told yourself it was temporary—that you only worked with him to uncover whoever had dared attack an Original. But the more time you spent around him, the less you believed that. Elijah moved like poetry written in blood—controlled, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
You watched him handle ancient texts in the dim light of his study, each gesture precise. His jaw tensed whenever you ran into danger; his voice softened when he spoke your name. And yet, he was infuriating—lecturing on morality and honor, even as he slaughtered without hesitation when provoked.
Another night, while studying the map together, your fingers brushed his. The contact was fleeting, accidental, yet the way his gaze locked with yours made the air electric.
“You should rest,” he said quietly.
“I’ll rest when the bastard who came after you is ash,” you replied.
“Your loyalty is… unexpected.” His tone carried a weight you couldn’t name.
“Don’t mistake it for loyalty. I just want this over with.”
He smiled faintly. “Of course you do.”
By the end of the week, you often caught yourself reflecting on how strange the partnership had become—two enemies moving in rhythm. Between clashes, there were lingering glances, words unspoken, and a dawning sense that something irreversible was happening.
You had saved each other’s lives twice. Once, when a witch ambushed you in the woods—Elijah took the hit meant for you, his hand closing around your wrist as he muttered, “Run.” The second time, you returned the favor, driving a stake into a vampire’s heart before it could pierce his.
He stared afterward, something unspoken burning in his eyes. “You could have let it hurt me.”
“I could have,” you said simply. “But I didn’t.”
A quiet tension grew between you after that—charged, dangerous. You’d catch him looking at you from across the room, expression unreadable. When you finally confronted him, he only said, “I’m trying to decide if you’re my salvation or my ruin.”
“You’re assuming I can’t be both,” you shot back.
The night you finally snapped, the tension between you had stretched thin as a blade. Every glance, every argument, every unspoken word crackled in the air like lightning before a storm. You could feel your pulse in your throat—anger tangled with something dangerously close to longing. The rain outside mirrored the chaos inside the Mikaelson mansion.
“You think you’re better than everyone else,” you hissed, stepping close enough that your breath brushed his collar. “That you’re untouchable. But you’re just a monster dressed in manners.”
He moved faster than you could blink, pinning you against the wall. His breath was warm against your ear. “And you,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, “are a liar. Because if you truly hated me, you wouldn’t look at me the way you do.”
Your pulse betrayed you. You should have shoved him away. You didn’t.
“Elijah—”
He leaned in, lips almost brushing yours. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I will stop.”
But you couldn’t. The words died on your tongue. You closed the distance instead.
The kiss was fire meeting storm—violent, inevitable. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as though afraid you’d vanish. You tasted blood and rain and centuries of restrained hunger. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours for regret. There was none.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you breathed.
“Then don’t give me a reason to,” he murmured.
The battle erupted without warning, chaos tearing through the night like shattering glass. Heat, smoke, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air, every sound sharp and disorienting. The coven responsible for the attacks had surfaced, and the fight was brutal. Spells cracked, fire licked through the trees, and exhaustion clawed at your bones.
When one of them got the jump on you, Elijah tore through the chaos, ripping the witch away before she could finish her curse.
He caught you as you fell, blood staining his hands again. “Stay with me,” Elijah commanded, voice breaking as he pressed a hand over your wound. “You do not get to die on me, do you hear?”
You smiled weakly. “And here I thought you didn’t care.”
His eyes burned red for a moment before softening into something heartbreakingly human. “I have never cared for anyone more.”
You reached up, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. “You’re supposed to be the noble one, remember?”
He gave a strangled laugh that wasn’t quite humor. “Then let me be selfish this once.”
Your vision blurred, but you reached for him anyway. The same man you swore you’d never trust. The same monster who had somehow become your home.
“Then don’t let go,” you whispered.
He didn’t.
Later, when the dust settled, he stood at your bedside, his hands still trembling though he’d deny it. “You risked your life for me again,” he said softly.
“I guess I’m a slow learner.”
He smiled, faint and fleeting. “Or perhaps you’ve learned faster than you think.”
“Meaning?”
“That hatred, when tested long enough, becomes something far more binding.”
You looked up at him, exhaustion fading under the weight of what lingered between you. “Then what are we now, Elijah?”
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, eyes filled with something dangerously close to devotion. “Something neither of us were ready for.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
There was something almost cruel about routine, the way it lulled people into thinking time healed everything.
The days had grown familiar again, full of sponsors, circuits, press obligations, and ever-growing expectations. Between sim sessions and flights, Lando had tucked away the ache. He’d taught himself how to walk past the memory of her name, how to nod and smile like nothing had changed. As far as the world knew, he was fine.
He had to be.
So, when Zak strolled into the hospitality unit with two black garment bags slung over his shoulder and a devilish grin on his face, Lando already knew what was coming.
“Another gala,” Zak said without preamble, tossing one of the bags to Oscar. “You’re both on the guest list. High-profile event. We want you looking like the face of McLaren, not two exhausted twenty-somethings with helmet hair.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “So… back to Madam Cho again?”
Zak nodded. “She’s expecting you tomorrow. And be nice this time, don’t mess up her carpet with those trainers.”
Lando forced a chuckle, fingers curling tightly around the armrest of his seat. The name hit like a stray pebble to the ribs—not enough to break, but enough to sting. He hadn’t thought about Madam Cho in weeks, hadn’t stepped foot in her atelier since the last time.
Since she was there.
But he nodded. “Sure. We’ll go.”
The following afternoon, they found themselves back at the towering building tucked away in one of London’s quieter streets. The entrance still smelled of expensive fabric and soft florals. The grand piano still stood in the middle of the marble-floored lobby, polished to a mirror-like sheen.
But this time, no music floated through the air.
This time, no melody wrapped around Lando’s ribcage like a memory come alive.
He stepped inside with Oscar, his pace even, his face unreadable. He didn’t scan the room. He didn’t look for her.
But she was there.
(Y/n) stood near the back of the lobby, her frame slightly thinner than before, draped in a soft beige knit and slacks that hung a little looser at the waist. Her hair was tied up in a practical bun, face bare of makeup, eyes focused on the fabric samples in her hands.
Still her.
Still her.
But something was different.
There was a slowness to her movements, a kind of caution in the way she stood, as if her bones remembered pain her voice refused to acknowledge.
And when she looked up—when their eyes met, just for a flicker—she smiled. Just barely.
But Lando didn’t smile back.
He looked away.
And just like that, the air shifted.
(Y/n) swallowed, quickly turning her attention to Oscar instead. She greeted him warmly, even teased him about how quickly his shoulders had bulked since their last visit. Oscar laughed, playfully flexing for effect.
Lando stood by in silence, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes carefully trained on anything but her.
“Madam Cho will be with you shortly,” (Y/n) said, gesturing toward the hallway. “If you’d both follow me, the fitting room’s already set.”
Her voice was even. Smooth. Practiced.
Not once did she falter.
She led them down the corridor with the same grace she always had. Inside the fitting room, she adjusted the lights, fluffed the cushions, poured glasses of water, and made sure every pin and measuring tape was in place.
She didn’t ask how he’d been.
She didn’t mention the silence.
She didn’t explain.
Because he hadn’t asked.
Because he hadn’t cared to hear it.
Not anymore.
Madam Cho entered moments later, her presence as commanding as ever. She greeted the boys with her usual no-nonsense tone, immediately moving to take their measurements.
Oscar chatted easily with both women, unaware of the undercurrent that had settled between Lando and (Y/n) like dust on an untouched shelf.
(Y/n) moved around the room quietly, assisting Madam Cho, fetching fabrics, holding sketch pads. She never stood too close. Never lingered near Lando. Her fingers were steady. Her steps precise.
But her eyes were tired.
Lando noticed.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
She was a stranger now.
And if she wanted to disappear, then return as if nothing had happened, then so be it. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking why.
He wouldn’t let her see that he still thought about her. That he’d waited.
He kept his gaze elsewhere. Let Oscar fill the space with jokes. Let the silence between them grow roots.
And (Y/n)? She didn’t break either.
Even when her chest tightened. Even when she wanted nothing more than to explain—to tell him about the hospital, the IVs, the fluorescent lights that never dimmed. About Madam Cho sitting by her bed, about the fear that had gripped her when her body betrayed her again.
But she had begged Cho to say nothing.
Because if she was going to face Lando again, she wanted it on her terms. Strong. Composed. Professional.
Not as a ghost of the girl who once pulled him from the edge.
Eventually, the fitting wrapped. Madam Cho clapped her hands, satisfied, and said the final alterations would be ready in two days.
Oscar high-fived (Y/n), thanking her with that bright, easy grin of his. She returned it.
Lando didn’t say goodbye.
He turned and walked out the door.
And (Y/n), standing in the quiet aftermath, let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Not the sharp, sudden kind that follows a fight, nor the muffled quiet of someone too busy to reply. This was different. It was the kind that stretched long and thin across days, heavy with unanswered questions, until it no longer felt like waiting—it felt like grieving.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Over two hundred hours.
Lando had counted them all, even when he told himself he wasn’t. Even when he promised he had let it go.
At first, he kept looking for signs. Maybe she’d post something—an Instagram story, even just a reposted quote. Maybe Madam Cho’s studio would drop a teaser from one of their new collections, and he’d see (Y/n) in the background, hunched over a design table, alive and well.
But there was nothing.
Her feed went dark. Her profile stayed untouched. Her inbox sat quiet. It was as if the world had swallowed her whole.
He tried not to spiral.
He filled his time with everything else. He buried himself in simulator sessions, media shoots, interviews, sponsorship events. Zak noticed the extra polish in his answers, the extra focus during meetings. He even scored a podium in Bahrain.
Everyone thought he was doing better.
But Lando was just performing—smiling on cue, laughing when required, nodding when expected. At night, when the noise faded and the rooms emptied, he found himself returning to the same thought.
She’s gone.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
Oscar tried to lift his mood, cracking jokes and dragging him out for dinner more often. The team praised his form, unaware that the clarity came not from joy—but from heartbreak.
And one morning, in a hotel room that smelled like fresh linen and nothing else, he sat at the edge of his bed and stared at her name one last time.
Still no replies.
No updates.
No ghost of her lingering in the void.
So he exhaled. A long, shallow breath. The kind people take before a plunge. Or a surrender.
Then, slowly, he did it.
He pressed down on her thread. Held it until the menu appeared.
Muted.
Archived.
He didn’t delete her. He couldn’t. That would feel cruel, final. But he needed to breathe again. He needed to stop waiting for something that wasn’t coming.
It hurt. More than he expected. Like losing something he never even had a name for.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t shatter.
He simply closed his phone, set it aside, and told himself that it was okay. That she must’ve had her reasons. That maybe she found someone else, or simply outgrew what they had.
People move on. That’s life.
That’s what he told himself.
And outside the walls of that hotel room, life did go on.
The world kept spinning. The season marched forward—Saudi Arabia, Australia, Japan. Flights blurred into each other. Circuits blended. He racked up points, nodded through press conferences, and posed beside Oscar, who was quietly dominating the championship again.
And through it all, (Y/n) remained a ghost in the back of his mind. A question left unanswered. A melody that no longer played.
Some nights, he still thought about her. The way she had looked that first evening—standing on that hill, fire in her voice, fury in her hands as she pulled him back from the edge. The way she spoke like she knew pain. Like she had danced with despair and lived to tell the tale.
And maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because she had saved him when he was at his lowest. And he would’ve done the same for her, without hesitation.
But she didn’t let him.
She left without a word.
So, he let her go.
At least, that’s what he told himself when he stood before a crowd in Melbourne, champagne drying on his race suit, flashes from cameras burning bright in his periphery. He smiled. He answered questions. He laughed.
And when he returned to his hotel that evening, he scrolled past her name like it didn’t matter anymore.
Then a day passed without a reply. Then two. Then four.
At first, Lando didn’t think much of it. (Y/n) had mentioned her schedule tightening, something about fittings and fabric shipments arriving earlier than expected. It wasn’t unlike her to go silent during peak stress—when the work piled high, when deadlines pressed too close to breathe. She was meticulous, tireless, deeply woven into every detail of the clothes she helped bring to life. He understood that. He respected it.
But when the fifth day slipped past with no word—not a text, not a voice note, not even a like on the meme he sent at three in the morning—he began to wonder.
By the seventh day, concern rooted deeper.
He scrolled through their message thread, looking for signs, anything she might’ve said that he’d missed. Had she hinted at a trip? A campaign? A creative retreat? No, nothing. The last message was his: a blurry photo of a dog he saw in Monaco with eyes as wide as dinner plates. Looks like me when DRS fails, he’d written.
No response. Just read. Or maybe not even that.
Oscar noticed.
“Mate,” he said, throwing a towel over his shoulder after debrief. “You’ve been weird all week. You keep checking your phone like it owes you money.”
Lando brushed it off with a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was good at being casual, at hiding nerves beneath sarcasm. But inside, a quiet panic was taking root.
Was she okay?
Did she… lose interest?
The thought tasted bitter.
He knew what it was like to be forgotten, left behind. F1 was a world that demanded your soul and offered little in return unless you won. He’d built walls to protect what little of himself existed outside the sport. But (Y/n) had slipped past them. With her soft laughs and clever comebacks. With her sketches and silly piano videos. With her stubborn refusal to treat him like a superstar.
And now, she was gone.
Unreachable.
Across the continent, in a quiet hospital tucked behind the hills of Provence, (Y/n) Hwang lay still beneath sterile sheets.
The machines around her blinked and hummed in rhythm with her heart—irregular, strained. The doctors said it was a flare, that her heart had been quietly struggling for months. The long hours, the caffeine-fueled nights, the endless deadlines—her body had warned her. She didn’t listen.
Madam Cho had.
She noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the tremble in her fingers, the way she clutched her chest on bad mornings. Cho had seen her collapse once—years ago, back when (Y/n) was still a student barely surviving on instant school and ambition. She’d sworn then that she would protect the girl like her own blood ever since she adopted her when she was still little.
So, when (Y/n) failed to show up for the Monday meeting without a word, Cho didn’t call. She drove. And when she found her unconscious in her flat, pale as porcelain, lips tinged blue, she didn’t scream.
She carried her. Wrapped her in wool and fury.
In the hospital, the doctors told her the truth she already feared: (Y/n)’s heart was faltering again. It needed rest, recovery, and quiet. No screens. No stress. No overwork. Not even a phone. Complete digital silence.
“She’s not going to like this,” Cho muttered, crossing her arms.
“She’ll be fine,” the nurse assured. “If she stays off her feet and follows the plan.”
So, the days passed slowly. The windows bathed the room in soft sunlight. The nurses played classical music in the mornings. Cho brought her magazines, peeled oranges, and spoon-fed soup like a mother hen.
But (Y/n)?
She hated it.
Not the food. Not the quiet.
But the not-knowing. The not-telling.
She tried, the first day, to ask for her phone. Just a few minutes. Just to send one message. Just to let him know she hadn’t disappeared. That she wasn’t ignoring him. That she hadn’t forgotten him.
But the nurses refused. Firmly. Sweetly. “No, dear. You’ll thank us later.”
So, she lay in bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling, guilt a stone pressing against her ribcage.
She could picture him, Lando, wherever he was. Sitting in a hotel room, maybe. Drinking bad coffee before a briefing. Looking at his phone. Waiting.
She missed him.
More than she wanted to admit.
But she had to rest. Had to live. The doctors said this wasn’t just a pause, it was a warning. One more episode like this, and her heart might not forgive her again.
Back in Monaco, Lando sat alone on a balcony, the city glittering below, his phone cold in his palm.
He thought about texting one last time. Just something simple. Not demanding. Just a check-in.
Hope everything’s alright. No pressure. Just thinking of you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
