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.”
Sypnosis- Stinger is all energy, all excitement, the kind of person who throws himself into battle without hesitation. You? You’d rather keep things quiet, steady, and slow. Somehow, though, he always finds himself gravitating toward you, as if your calm presence is the only thing keeping him from burning out.
Word Count: 4k+ (because I can’t hold back when it’s fluff)
MOON 🌑 AND SUN ☀️
♡ The first time Stinger noticed you, it wasn’t in a fight or a dramatic moment. It wasn’t anything exciting, actually.
You were napping.
Right in the middle of the Hero Association’s break room, curled up on a bench like the world's softest looking cat. Your arms were folded under your head, and the faint rise and fall of your shoulders told him you were either asleep or about to be.
Meanwhile, he had just finished beating a Deep Sea monster, his pulse still racing, adrenaline thrumming through his veins like electricity.
"Man, I need to move," he muttered, bouncing slightly on his heels. That fight had been insane, and his body wasn’t done riding the high.
That’s when his eyes landed on you again.
Completely still. Absolutely unbothered. A direct contrast to the mess of energy vibrating in his limbs.
Before he even realized it, he was walking toward you.
"Yo."
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He tilted his head. How the hell were you sleeping through this? The room was packed heroes moving around, people yelling, and yet, you looked like you hadn’t been conscious for years.
Stinger knelt next to the bench and poked your arm. "Hey, you good?"
Your eyes fluttered open, the laziest blink he’d ever seen. "You’re loud," you mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep.
Stinger grinned. "And you’re half-dead. You sleep here now?"
"Only when my bed feels too far away," you murmured, shifting slightly. You didn’t exactly invite him to sit, but you didn’t tell him to go away either.
So, naturally, he took that as permission and plopped down beside you.
And in hours, he felt his heartbeat settle.
♡ Stinger learned something very quickly about you.
You weren’t the type to say things outright.
You wouldn’t run into his arms after a mission. You wouldn’t tell him you missed him. You wouldn’t text him first, wouldn’t cling to him in a traditional sense.
But your love was in the details.
It was in the way you always waited for him to sit down before leaning into his space. It was in the way your fingers brushed against his, hesitating for half a second before curling around his wrist. It was in the way you reached for the fabric of his sleeve absentmindedly, as if just making sure he was there.
And for a guy like Stinger, who had spent most of his life running headfirst into danger, that kind of quiet, subtle love? It destroyed him.
One evening, after a long mission, he stumbled into your apartment.
Normally, Stinger was all grins, all noise, never letting exhaustion show. But tonight, his shoulders ached, his ribs were bruised, and the weight of being a hero felt just a little heavier than usual.
He expected you to ask what happened.
Instead, you just… reached for his wrist and pulled him toward the couch.
No words. No questions. Just a simple tug, guiding him down until his head rested on your lap.
"Stay?" he muttered, already half-asleep.
You hummed, running your fingers through his messy hair. "Always."
And that was enough.
♡ "You ever wonder how we work?" Stinger asked one lazy afternoon, arms wrapped around your waist while the two of you lay tangled on the couch.
"You mean how you’re a walking explosion, and I prefer existing at two miles per hour?"
"Yeah, that." He grinned, shifting slightly so his chin rested on your shoulder. "How does that work?"
You thought for a moment. "You chased me."
Stinger scoffed. "I did not chase you."
You raised a brow. "Oh? Who followed me around for a whole week, bringing me snacks and asking if I wanted to ‘hang out’?"
"Okay, maybe I chased you a little," he admitted, laughing against your skin. "Worth it, though."
"Mm." You leaned back against him. "I think you needed someone to slow you down."
He paused.
And maybe you were right.
Because before you, he had never really stopped moving.
He had always been running, always rushing into the next fight, always burning through life at full speed without stopping to breathe.
But with you?
With you, he could be still.
Home wasn’t a place.
Not for Stinger, at least. He had moved around too much, fought too many battles, to really consider anywhere permanent.
But one night, after a long mission, he went into your apartment and found you half-asleep on the couch, curled up under a blanket with your fingers loosely grasping the edge of his jacket.
You had been waiting for him.
Even in sleep, you had been waiting.
And for the first time in his life, he felt it.
That quiet, unshakable warmth. That anchor pulling him back to solid ground. That certainty in his bones that no matter how far he ran, no matter how much energy he burned, he’d always have somewhere to return to.
He bent down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before whispering, "I’m home."
And even though you were half-asleep, your fingers curled tighter around his sleeve, voice barely above a murmur as you mumbled,
"Welcome back."
Extra Notes
💌 Softest boy ever → Stinger is a himbo with too much energy, but he melts the second you touch him.
💌 Reader is his safe place → You’re the one person who can get him to sit still, slow down, and breathe.
silly idea, re2 leon meets and makes friends with nemesis
leon isnt stars so nemesis has no reason to hurt leon
long as he doesnt touch that stars badge of course :}
Buddy Cop Apocalypse (Leon and Nemesis)
🧟♂️✨ CRACKFIC SPOTLIGHT ✨🧟♂️
LEON & NEMESIS: BUDDY COP APOCALYPSE - A Resident Evil One-Shot
What if Leon S. Kennedy’s first day in Raccoon City meant making friends with the city’s scariest bioweapon? Chaos, comedy, and unexpected bromance await!
Author’s Note:
Big thanks to the anonymous requester for this adorable, chaotic prompt—this one’s for you! Hope you enjoy Leon and Nemesis causing mayhem and redefining the meaning of “first day jitters.” If you have more ideas or want a sequel (Jill cameo, anyone?), drop your suggestions below!
Leon S. Kennedy’s first day on the job wasn’t just hell—it was, frankly, stupid. Raccoon City had lost its mind. The police radio was all static, the sky glowed red with fire and sirens, and zombies moaned behind every door. The air stank of rot and fear. Most people would’ve found a closet, locked the door, and cried. Leon, unfortunately, was not most people. He was out of ammo, out of hope, and sprinting for his life down a dark alley that—thanks to fate and Umbrella’s questionable urban planning—led straight into a brick wall.
He spun around, expecting to see a slow, groaning corpse. Instead, he saw a mountain—a leather-clad behemoth stitched together like a kid’s failed sewing project. Shoulders as wide as a car. In one massive hand, it carried a rocket launcher like it was a baguette fresh from the bakery. The thing’s head swiveled, its mouth split open, and it exhaled in a guttural rumble: “STAAAAAARS…”
Leon’s hands shot up, badge raised like a cross to a vampire. “I’m not S.T.A.R.S.! I’m just a—rookie! Leon! Please?”
The monster’s red eyes flickered, scanning the badge, then Leon. It grunted, unimpressed. An awkward silence stretched between them. Leon’s brain short-circuited. Was he going to die? Be launched through a building? Or…?
Nemesis—because, obviously, it was Nemesis—looked past Leon at the growing herd of zombies behind them. With zero warning, he stomped forward, seized Leon by the collar, and flung him—remarkably gently, for an 8-foot death machine—behind a dumpster. Then Nemesis waded into the undead crowd with the subtlety of a bulldozer, scattering limbs and torsos like he was mowing the lawn. Leon watched in slack-jawed awe, heart hammering. Nemesis moved with brutal, monstrous grace. It was terrifying… but also, if Leon was honest, kind of impressive.
A minute later, Nemesis plodded back through the gore. He reached into his belt, produced a first-aid spray, and pressed it into Leon’s shaking hands. “Uh. Thanks?” Leon managed, blinking at the green canister. He was so confused.
Nemesis grunted, the sound vibrating in his chest. Leon was pretty sure that was Nemesis for “Don’t mention it.”
Their partnership was the stuff of fever dreams. Leon, half-dead and covered in grime, trailed after his massive new friend through the ruined city, mind spinning. Was this really happening? Was he honestly following a B.O.W. through zombie hell because it seemed safer than going it alone? The absurdity didn’t escape him, but every time he glanced at Nemesis, the monster just grunted, and Leon somehow felt a little less doomed. The rules became clear fast:
Don’t mention S.T.A.R.S.
Don’t touch the S.T.A.R.S. badge Nemesis kept on a chain like a childhood trophy.
Always accept healing items—even if it’s the weird blue herb that tastes like grass clippings.
Don’t ask questions about the rocket launcher.
If Leon tripped or lagged behind, Nemesis would grunt and gesture him forward. Once, when a flaming zombie staggered into their path, Nemesis simply picked it up by the head and yeeted it through a squad car window. The resulting explosion almost set Leon’s eyebrows on fire. Another time, Leon found a soda machine jammed and smacked it in frustration. Nemesis lumbered over, punched the machine once, and a cold can rolled out. Leon offered him the drink in gratitude. Nemesis stared at it, then crushed the can effortlessly, a faint look of confusion on his monstrous face. Leon tried not to laugh.
Between chaos, Leon sometimes attempted small talk, even as his mind reeled at the madness of it all:
Leon: “So, uh… do you have a name? Or just ‘Nemesis’?”
Nemesis: “…STARS.”
Leon: “Yeah, figured. That’s a no.”
Other times, he rambled just to fill the silence:
Leon: “You know, I thought my worst day would involve a parking ticket. Not, uh, bio-weapons and undead chihuahuas.”
Nemesis: (grunts, hurls a zombie dog into a dumpster)
Leon (nervous laugh): “Yeah, you get it.”
They crossed Raccoon City’s hellscape together: fighting through back alleys littered with bodies, ducking under burning debris, climbing over overturned buses. At one point, a group of zombie dogs cornered Leon. Before he could even draw his empty pistol, Nemesis stomped forward, roared, and sent the entire pack fleeing, tails between their legs. Leon had never been so grateful for unethical science in his life.
They even stumbled across an abandoned news van, radio blaring static. Leon fiddled with the dials, hoping for help. Nemesis watched, curious, until a faint voice crackled through: “…S.T.A.R.S. sighted near…” The radio was promptly crushed by a giant hand. Leon sighed and shrugged. “Not a radio guy, I get it.”
As the night dragged on, they took shelter in a ruined convenience store. Nemesis blocked the door with a shelf, then settled in the corner, ever-watchful. Leon sat on a crate, patched up his arm, and munched on a suspiciously unexpired protein bar. Occasionally, Nemesis would glance at the chain around his neck, the S.T.A.R.S. badge glinting in the firelight. Leon didn’t ask—he’d learned his lesson.
Leon glanced over, mustering a tired smile. “You know, for a bio-weapon, you’re not so bad. Kinda wish you were around during training.”
Nemesis let out a deep, thoughtful grunt.
Leon shifted, feeling awkward. “…Or not. Got it.”
By the time dawn crept over the carnage, Leon was limping, caked in mystery goo, but alive. Nemesis, apparently satisfied with his non-S.T.A.R.S. companion, got to his feet, gave Leon a last, solemn nod, and lumbered away into the smoldering city. At the alley’s end, he paused, turned, and flicked a spent first-aid spray can at Leon—a casual salute from one survivor to another.
“Good luck out there, big guy,” Leon called, genuinely meaning it. He watched Nemesis’s massive silhouette fade into the smoky light.
Somewhere in the ruins, Jill Valentine shivered, sensing a disturbance in the force—Nemesis was supposed to hunt S.T.A.R.S., not make friends with rookie cops.
Leon’s first day was still hell. But at least he had a story no one would ever believe. As sirens wailed in the distance and sunlight crept over the ruins, Leon took a deep breath and realized that surviving alongside Nemesis had changed him. Maybe, he thought, finding hope in this nightmare meant trusting even the unlikeliest of allies. Raccoon City wasn’t completely hopeless after all.
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