Benedict Bridgerton Modern AU Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Truth or Dare

"Truth or Dare," he offers.

You are both lying on the rug of your living room floor, drunk. It's around 1 am. Just a couple of side lamps providing the room with a faint glow, strains of jazz music leaking through the wall from the flat next door. A few too many drinks were consumed at a workmate's wedding and now even more at yours. You made it back here, at least, but the Uber driver refused to drive Benedict to his place after you messed up the rideshare ordering. He came in for one nightcap with the plan to order another ride home. That was more than an hour ago.

"Urghhh Truth," you choose, slurring a little.

"Have you ever woken up to someone eating you out?" His voice is mellow but drunken; he stares at the ceiling as he asks.

"What the fuck?" Even with this much alcohol coursing through your veins, your voice betrays how scandalised you are by that one. He's a work colleague, a casual friend at best. While your vibe has always been decidedly flirty, he hasn't earned the right to be that flagrant.

"Answer the question, y/n, truthfully," he challenges with no hint of embarrassment, his head flopping over to look at you.

"Not that it's any of your business, but no," you shrug, your cheeks aflame, although that could be at least a partial glow from the alcohol.

He rolls onto his side to face you, a little wobbly. "Would you like to be?" He raises an eyebrow; it's a blatant flirtation.

You finally meet his gaze and feel something hot slide down your skin.

"You can't ask a secondary question; that's cheating," you deflect, belatedly releasing the lip you didn't realise you were biting. The thought about how much you would enjoy such a wake-up haunts your thoughts.

"That's not a no," he smirks, your gaze lingering on his rather luscious-looking bottom lip, "I'd be happy to," he adds in a barely audible whisper.

"Yes, okay, it's a yes," you admit on an exhale. Then give a twisted pout and clear your throat. "Truth or Dare," you throw back pointedly, moving off the topic.

He chuckles and sits up to pour another shot for you both.

——

You crack open an eye, and everything hurts. How can your eyelids hurt?!? Oh god, your mouth is like sandpaper. Your head is like cotton wool. Every fibre of you somehow feels nauseated, like your legs want to throw up of their own accord.

That's it. You are never drinking again. This is a hangover from hell.

You stare listlessly at the sliver of daylight across your bedroom ceiling for what seems like ages, glad the blackout curtains are pulled and that you at least made it to bed before passing out. The nausea passes, thank goodness, but otherwise, you still feel delicate. A glance down makes you realise you are still in the dress you wore to the wedding last night. You find your phone wedged against your hip and flick on the screen—the brightness makes you wince. It takes a second for your eyes to focus then it tells you it's around 10 am.

There's a soft groan next to you, and you startle, whipping around to see Benedict laying face down on your duvet, drooling a little. Clearly, as smashed out as you were, he's also in the suit he wore last night, well, the shirt and trousers, but it's all a little dishevelled, like his hair. His socked feet hang off the end of your bed. It appears you both passed out over your bedding, fully clothed. You don't remember permitting him to stay; you also don't remember asking him to leave either.

All the drinking comes flooding back. And wait, did you play a game? God, except for the booze, it's all such a blur.

"Get up," you grouse after struggling up to a seated position, smacking the back of your hand lightly between his shoulder blades.