Bodyguard!Leon x First Daughter!Reader Enemies to Lovers
Chapter 1
❌18+ MDNI❌
Rude. Blunt. Cocky. Overbearing. Those were the words that come to mind whenever you think of Leon S. Kennedy, the man whose job is to protect you, yet drives you completely mad while doing it.
[“What does it matter to you if I drink? It’s my twenty-first birthday, I’m allowed to drink. I’m expected to, even.”
His eyes trail to the dress strap that has yet again slid down your shoulder, and you quickly fix it in self-consciousness, feeling your face grow hot.
“I never said you shouldn't,” he murmurs in a smooth voice that makes your brain tingle. “I just said it might be wise to slow down…”.]
cw: bodyguard!leon, fem!reader, enemies to lovers, slow burn (if you know me, you know i mean it), angst, fluff, eventual smut, canon divergent, political themes (but it's RE core), they're both stubborn and annoying, as one is in every e2l.
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
shoutout @sammimi19 @12soap34 @theebladestar for proofreading ✨
dear friends! i am back with yet another series because apparently i cannot be stopped 🤓 today i bring you the bodyguard fic i have talked about which will now become my second long form series along hofah (and replacing ygbo)
i just want to give some context for the story. reader is the first daughter and replaces ashley graham narratively but with a LOT of differences. without giving spoilers, just know that ashley does not exist in this story, and that president graham is not as nice as in ID lmao
also real world politics suck so much ass right now i had to make this story very RE core with BOW social dilemmas rather than whatever the fuck is going on rn, because i refuse to cry of dread and despair every time i write a new chapter
i will be uploading once a week on every sunday, so stay tuned for new chapters folks! 🤍
Dim lights, trendy music, and loud chatter overwhelm your senses as soon as you step into the busy bar. It's a Friday night, so it comes as no surprise for it to be quite full. Not that you’re familiar with the scene—you haven't exactly had many chances to frequent the nightlife scene before. In fact, it's your twenty-first birthday tonight, and as per American law you can finally legally enter a bar.
But, unfortunately for you, American law also dictates that you're surveilled by two Secret Service agents inside the establishment, one waiting in the car outside, and then two more, each standing at a different entrance. Five of them total. Five men with barely concealed guns and ear pieces just for one single night of drinking with your girlfriends.
God, you have never hated being the president’s daughter more.
Readjusting your dress straps, you follow the lead of your friend Maya, who has been to this bar many times before, as she guides you to a booth. Your other two friends, Alex and Liv, follow behind until you're all seated around the table.
And, of course, from the corner of your eye, you spot Agent Davis at the counter, dressed in a poor attempt of casual fashion to blend in, and Agent Morales who gives you a curt nod from his spot in the corner. You don't even have it in you to return it.
“Hey, stop making that face,” Maya chides as she pokes your shoulder. “Just pretend they're not there! This is still gonna be fun, you’ll see!”
You sigh, but nod nonetheless. You know there isn't anything you can do to avoid their ‘protection.’ After all, your father, John Graham, is the incumbent head of state, and that comes with a whole baggage of responsibilities. None of which you wanted in the first place since you have never been fond of the man, let alone his politics.
“Okay, we’re here, we’re doing this… We just need to get some drinks,” you announce to the table.
“Oh, you’re not wasting time,” Liv giggles but agrees nonetheless.
After deciding your order, you volunteer to go place it at the counter along with Alex, just to experience ordering drinks like a normal adult for the first time. You know that in a busy bar in the middle of downtown D.C., you risk being recognized, but then again, the public barely knows much about you that you doubt anyone would bother approaching you.
Reserved, out of the limelight, and adopted, that is what is known most about you. The last point is the tabloids’ favorite topic when it comes to articles about the First Daughter, theorizing about your biological family and how you ended up chosen by your adoptive parents. That, along with scrutinizing every single outfit you wear whenever caught by invasive paparazzi in public, calling your style everything from ‘busted’ to ‘tacky.’ You wish you could burn them all.
“Two cosmos, one sex on the beach, and one espresso martini, please!” Alex exclaims to the barman with an excited smile.
The man behind the counter grins mid drink preparations, pausing just to extend a hand over the bartop for you to shake.
“Miss Graham, it's an honor,” he smiles enthusiastically. “Drinks are on the house!”
You return his smile with a polite one, already feeling put on the spot from being recognized, but you know the staff were pre-informed of your arrival so you don't let it shake you. But it’s that last sentence he said that somewhat irks you. You appreciate the kind gesture, of course, but out of all the people in this bar you are the last one in need of freebies, and it annoys you how it happens all the time.
It’s been almost four years since your father was elected in late 2000, and you can clearly remember how much more normal your life was before. People did not give a damn about your last name, and you were treated like any regular girl in the world. No special favors, no free perks, no people befriending you for ulterior motives. It was so much more simple before he decided to run for president—always greedy for more. You can't wait for him to leave office and for things to go back to how they were, but he is of course aiming for a second term, to no one’s surprise.
Five minutes later, you’re sipping your fruity cocktail at the booth, popping the garnishing cherry into your mouth in contentment. Your friends are happy to have gotten free drinks, and you're finally relaxing enough to enjoy your birthday night.
Swirling her glass, Liv gives you a pointed look with her amber eyes. “I still can't believe your dad actually let you do this!”
“She’s twenty-one, for God’s sake,” Maya scoffs. “It’s about damn time he lets her breathe a little.”
“Well, he only agreed because it's just you three,” you explain. “Plus, he still plans on celebrating what he calls my ‘real’ birthday party tomorrow with that whole dinner he's hosting.”
You omit the fact you know tomorrow’s celebration has nothing to do with you and everything to do with an excuse to gather influential figures that will aid him in his campaign. You would rather not think about that whole embarrassing situation at the moment.
“Either way, we all know tonight is when you’re having the real fun,” Alex snickers, already halfway done with her martini. “So drink up, babes, because we’re ordering shots next.”
And drink you do—cocktails, shots and even a glass of whiskey. It’s not the first time you consume so much alcohol that you become a giggling mess. Even as the resident Good Girl you still have your moments of rebellion. They're just usually short lived in order to not anger your parents.
“Oh my God, the hot guy at the bar keeps staring our way!” Liv suddenly squeals so loud you wonder if the music is enough to cover her comment.
Maya turns way too obviously as she looks over the line of stools where various people sit. “What guy? I don't see him.”
“That guy! The blonde one!” Liv clumsily points before Alex swats her hand down with a snicker.
You turn as well, looking to your right as discreetly as you can in your inebriated state, and sure enough, there is a guy. Even with your drunken brain, you can immediately acknowledge how incredibly attractive the man looks from across the room.
Dressed in dark jeans, a long sleeve black top, with a grey t-shirt over it, he looks to be in his mid-to-late-twenties, and effortlessly hot. Like the kind of guy who would get street scouted by a modeling agency and be completely clueless as to why.
But one thing's for sure, he does not look clueless right now as his gaze meets yours, ice blues intense and unwavering. It's a bit rude, really, the way he holds eye contact shamelessly, but it's then you realize he’s staring at you, specifically, out of all your friends, and that makes something inside you revel.
Oh, wait.
You recognize that look.
That small frown accompanied by the pursing of lips or sometimes a little head tilt. It's the look that says someone thinks you look familiar and is soon coming to realize who you are.
Sure enough, his eyes widen slightly when you keep your daring gaze on him, refusing to be the first to look away, as he seemingly finally puts two and two together. There, now he knows. He was never interested by you, only your vaguely recognizable face. It doesn't even come as a surprise, most people are like that anyway, but it still hurts a bit—he really is hot.
You finally look away, with your girlfriends teasing you about gaining his attention, but you know it's akin to the interest you might have for a wild animal at a zoo more than anything. So, you ignore it all, focusing on your drink instead, and forcing yourself not to look in his direction again.
Later, you leave the table with Maya to go to the bathroom, acknowledging Morales on the way with a small smile. You use the empty stall first, then wash your hands at the sink when it's her turn. The washrooms are somewhat busy, with people coming and going, many of them stealing glances your way that you try to ignore.
Your eyes focus on your own reflection instead. Your dark pink, sparkly dress whose left strap keeps sliding down your shoulder, your makeup that has slowly melted throughout the night and left you with raccoon eyes rather than a smokey glam. And then there's that look on your face. Like you're scared, or maybe anxious—a lost little girl trying to pretend her life is normal for once.
It's pathetic. No wonder that man, or anyone really, is never interested in you outside of your name.
President Graham’s presidency started right on your senior year of high school, which was not cool, but your classmates had known you for years, so the change did not feel drastic. College, however, was another story. It made everything more awkward than it already is for a young adult, especially when it comes to dating.
Disappointment after disappointment has made you allergic to relationships. Men are already assholes, but they get worse when they can get something out of courting you. It is not fun finding out the guy you have liked for months was only hoping your dad would secure him an internship at the White House. But then again, he was majoring in Political Science—you should’ve known better.
It’s been two years since, and you have completely forfeited dating. Your friends, however, continuously encourage you to ‘go out there and meet someone.’ In fact, tonight is supposed to be a chance to encounter somebody outside of your usual circles. Someone who hopefully doesn't care about your name but sees you for who you truly are instead. The problem is you don’t even know who that is anymore.
Bouts of giggling to your right call for your attention, and you turn to see a group of young women whispering loudly amongst themselves while eyeing you. Then with an air of cocky confidence, one of them approaches, a tall brunette, all white teeth and sparkly eyes.
“Hi! You’re the president’s daughter, right? Sorry, I keep forgetting your name,” she snickers while you look at her like a deer caught in headlights.
“Um, yes.”
“Great!” she gives an even faker smile, eyeing you up and down in the process. “Do you think you could get us some free drinks? I noticed the bartender put your tab on the house.”
Oh, but of course.
You feel instantly uncomfortable, and start calculating whether you should actually accept her request or not. It’s exhausting having to sieve every one of your actions through the filter of PR, but any wrong move and your face is on People magazine with a giant bold headline about how you're a certified bitch.
“I, um…” you stammer in hesitation, your mind running a thousand miles an hour despite its sluggish drunkenness.
“If you don't want to just say so,” the woman snorts sardonically.
You want to snap in her face—tell her she's being rude, that you don't owe her shit, and that she could at least start with a fucking ‘please.’ But then, your father’s cold eyes and stern face stop you dead in your tracks, and you swallow the onslaught of insults threatening to spill out.
Suddenly, Maya shows up beside you and links her arm around yours protectively. “Sorry, but Miss Graham is on a private outing and is not available for fan interactions,” she returns the woman’s phony smirk as she pulls you out of the bathroom. “Enjoy your night!”
You don't care to look back at the scoffing faces of the group, sighing in relief once you're back out amongst the tables and booths. You turn to meet Maya’s brown eyes and dimpled smile, and you offer her one of your own.
“Thank you,” you murmur in gratitude. Though, there is a feeling of embarrassment that settles inside you at not being able to defend yourself on your own.
“You don't have to thank me, those bitches were rude,” she huffs, her short stature making her cute despite her strong character.
“I know. I just wish I could actually say something for once…”
It upsets you to no end having to suppress your personality for the sake of good publicity. You want to be able to live a full life. Go out, drink, argue, date, have hookups and make bad decisions, just like any other girl your age unburdened by shoulder-crushing responsibility is able to.
Noticing your soured expression, Maya pulls you towards the bartop once more. “Come on, let's get another round and forget about those meanies.”
“Hell yeah,” you huff out a chuckle, grateful for the support of your oldest friend since middle school. You wouldn’t be able to do this without her.
Standing again at the counter, you let her put in an order of drinks and tapas while you look around mindlessly. Though, really it's just an excuse to eye the dark blonde guy from earlier who is still sitting on a stool, nursing a bottle of beer. You notice him absentmindedly toying with a navy cap that’s sitting on the bartop, a Patriots logo stitched onto it.
As if sensing your attention, he lifts his gaze from the sports hat to your face, a curious expression on his handsome features. Again, you start the unspoken staring contest, feeling a thrill out of ‘misbehaving’ through something so trivial after you were just a stammering mess in the bathroom.
He returns the challenge, eyes unwavering, until he suddenly speaks.
“You sure did a lot of drinking tonight.”
It takes you a moment to register his comment, but you’re too tipsy to analyze its connotations.
“What?” you blink in confusion.
“I said you’ve been drinking a lot… You might wanna slow it down,” he mutters matter-of-factly before taking a swig of his cold one.
“Uh, okay?” you scoff, completely taken aback. Maya finishes ordering right then, and you’re already tugging her arm to go back to your table in annoyance, when you catch the smug little smirk that spreads on his face.
You know what? Fuck being quiet.
Suddenly letting go of your best friend, you spin to stride towards the man with determination, albeit your walk is a bit wobbly from the alcohol. But you make it to him nonetheless, hands on your hips like a stern teacher.
“What does it matter to you if I drink? It’s my twenty-first birthday, I’m allowed to drink. I’m expected to, even.”
His eyes trail to the dress strap that has yet again slid down your shoulder, and you quickly fix it in self-consciousness, feeling your face grow hot.
“I never said you shouldn't,” he murmurs in a smooth voice that makes your brain tingle. “I just said it might be wise to slow down…”
“Are you implying I’m an irresponsible drinker? You don't even know me.”
Except he does. Or at least that is what you concluded when he kept intently eyeing you earlier. Now, you don't know anymore.
“I’m just saying it's easier to make bad decisions when inebriated. Trust me, I’ve made my fair share of drunken mistakes.”
You take note of the way he softens his tone, like he’s being mindful of his words and hoping not to offend. But the cocky lilt is still there, and it has you both irritated and incomprehensibly interested. A few feet away, Davis is watching from his spot at a table, probably assessing the man before you as per usual, though he makes no move to intervene so long as you are seemingly okay.
“What kind of mistakes?” you find yourself asking without thinking.
He looks at you for a moment, silent, before slowly swiveling in his seat to better angle himself in your direction. “Do you do this often?”
You huff as he ignores your question, crossing your arms defensively. “Do what?”
“Talk to strangers.” His eyes drop to your cleavage for a split second, but it’s not fast enough to escape your intoxicated senses. Even as he looks away with a hand running through his pushed back strands as if completely innocent.
Okay, maybe he didn't actually recognize you, because if he did he wouldn’t dare be so audacious in his approach… So does that mean his earlier staring was from actual interest? Why didn't he approach you, then? Why are men, as simple minded as most of them tend to be, so hard to read sometimes?
“Well, usually strangers are the ones talking to me first… Kinda like you did,” you retort with a smug smile.
He chuckles lowly, and you feel your stomach do a little backflip at the sound and sight. He looks a little too attractive for your own good.
“I guess I did, huh?” He quirks a playful eyebrow, then clicks his tongue. “But you could’ve ignored me. Your friends are still waiting for you, you know?”
You turn to see the girls at the table eyeing you with mischief, their giggling loud enough to reach you. You already know if you went back to them now they would endlessly tease you about getting cold feet, plus, you kind of do want to see where this is going.
Turning back around, you relax your posture slightly and give him a challenging look. “What if I don't want to stay with my friends? Are you gonna ask me to leave?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his lips etching into a smirk again, and he’s about to say something when he suddenly stops himself and closes his mouth. His expression then morphs into something less playful when he speaks again, his gaze is lowered towards his beer.
“No, I won't…”
Apparently, that is all your drunken self needed to hear before you’re plopping down on the stool beside his. “Well, good. Because I wanna sit here anyways.”
The man seems slightly taken aback, but he doesn’t show it fully. Once you’re settled, your elbow only an inch from touching his, he looks past your shoulder. His eyes land on the imposing man with his hands clasped over his crotch in the most stereotypical bodyguard stance there ever was. Ah, Morales, ever the subtle one.
You’re about to say something about the agents’ presence, maybe even offer an apology, when his voice drops to a husky whisper that has your gaze lingering on his lips.
“You know… That strap needs adjusting.” Holding his beer, he vaguely points at the piece of string resting on your upper arm—it seems to have slipped again. “You might have what they call a… ‘wardrobe malfunction.’”
You’re quiet for a moment as you take in the sheer audacity of this stupidly beautiful asshole. First he judges your drinking, and now your dress? He’s starting to sound more and more like your dad.
“Shouldn't you hope for that to happen to get a look?” you suddenly snap, before realizing what you just said.
Fuck, he better not know who you are now.
The blonde inhales sharply through his nose, like your words hit something inside. Then, with a look so intense his blue eyes look somehow even bluer, he murmurs in a quiet tone.
“Do you want me to get a look?”
That has your breath hitching, your throat running dry as you decide to be bold for once. “Maybe… Maybe if you ask for my number first…”
He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, he only eyes you intensely while your heart stutters wildly in your chest. Until, his gaze falters down to your mouth, before he instantly looks away just as quickly. Then, a low laugh bubbles in his throat and he shakes his head, setting down his bottle with a clink and reaching for his wallet.
You stare in utter confusion as he stands to place dollar bills on the counter without a word, before turning to you with a twitch of his lips.
“Happy birthday, Miss Graham.”
And just like that, he places his navy cap on his head, adjusting it with a firm grip as he walks away. Not even affording you another glance.
What the fuck?
He knew? He fucking knew the whole time? God, you should've listened to your intuition in the first place, now you just made yourself look like the most pathetic idiot ever! Shit, he’s probably gonna go around telling his friends how the first daughter is a hoe and how he rejected her miserably.
Watching him leave, your jaw clenches when you realize you have officially reached your lowest point yet, and it's all thanks to fruity cocktails and pretty blue eyes. You mentally add the humiliating interaction to the ever-growing pile of reasons you hate your father’s job, balling your fists in your lap in utter frustration. This is the worst birthday ever.
Next chapter.
super duper excited to write my first enemies to lovers, i hope you guys enjooooy, thank you for reading! 🤍🤍
