Ethan Dolan fanfics

You taste like candy

I'M BACK! It's been a hot minute since I posted on this book and I wanted to give you Ethan lovers  some good smut content hahaha! Hope you are all staying safe and are healthy and taking the necessary precautions to keep yourself and others safe as well.

Credits to @persistence-ofmemories on tumblr and edited by me.

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See the thing is you're usually a completely rational thinker, so you'd never put yourself in a compromising position like this, let alone in a compromising position with Ethan Dolan.

Ethan, who you'd been in love with since you were seventeen. Who made you feel like a goddess one night months ago before ghosting you for two weeks. Ethan, who you'd vowed never to get involved with because he was such an arrogant, crazy asshole that cared about nobody other than himself— And who's eyes were running chills up and down your spine as he looked at you across the kitchen island with that goddamn smirk of his.

You just glare at him. "Stop."

He chuckles, gazing up at you. "Stop what?"

"Looking at me."

"Why?"

"Cause' it's annoying," you huff, refusing to admit it's because the way he was staring at you and biting his lip was ensuring your need to buy some new panties tomorrow.

He doesn't listen, watching as you hunt around the kitchen for a clean cup. You're starting to feel the buzz from the shots you had been knocking back all night to try to avoid his stare, but it was time for some water, or anything to clear your head. You needed to sober up, especially with him being this close to you. Looking at you like that.

Once you open a cabinet and realize the cups are at the top, you groan, trying your best to scramble onto the counter to reach. "These fucking—"

You completely freeze when you feel a large, warm hand on the small of your back. You can smell the familiar scent of his cologne— the cologne you bought him back in senior year before prom, and it's making you dizzier than the alcohol in your system.

"Let's not do that," he husks, reaching up easily to grab the pack of solo cups for you. "We've gotten enough warnings because of drunk girls like you are climbing things."

You squint your eyes at him, taking the pack with a very mature "Hmph!" And turning back towards the island. You then embark on a three-minute mission of trying to untie the plastic knot to release the cups. Ethan counts them.

The first minute, you fumble around with a soft whine, your brows coming together and making you look like an adorable child as you struggle.

The second, you ravish the stubborn material with your teeth, growling in determination and stomping your foot, as if that'll somehow help. And the third, your shoulders slump, you take a breather, and you just hold the packet out to your left. Ethan takes it with a snicker, opening it easily and winking at you when he returns it to your shocked hands.

"This is rigged."

"I can't rig a bag of cups, babe."

"Ah!" You point your finger at him. "Don't call me that."

He holds up his hands in defeat. "Alright, alright...."

His eyes are still on you as you open a nearby cooler for some ice. "But can you tell me why?" You slam—literally, slam— the cooler shut so hard it makes you flinch, but you shake it off to stand your ground and clearly communicate your frustration with him.

"Why?" You repeat. You step closer to him, and to you, you're walking in a confident straight line. To him, and whoever else could have been around to watch this shit show, you're stumbling. Because you're so fucking drunk that no amount of water or crackers or coffee will save you. "I'll take you why, Ethan. I," you point at yourself. "Am not, nor have I ever been, your babe. You have no rights here, to any of this." He raises an eyebrow as you flail your hand up and down to refer to your body. Which he admits, he wishes he had "rights" to. Especially in those jeans. And that low-cut top.