#day9

You don’t think much of it when the hot sauce bottle cracks. It’s just a thin fracture along the side, enough to leak if tilted the wrong way. You don’t have any spare condiment bottles, so you pour it into a jar without thinking twice. You wipe the rim clean, screw the lid on tight, and place it in the fridge beside the leftover spaghetti sauce.

I’ll remember to label it, you tell yourself.

You do not remember.

.

Dinner is quiet. Levi sets his plate of spaghetti on the table across from you while you pick at your food—something separate you’d whipped up quickly for yourself, because Levi insisted on finishing the leftovers—half-distracted and half-content in the stillness.

You don’t notice when he enters the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs the jar of spaghetti sauce. It’s identical to the jar beside it. Levi doesn’t bother asking what it is. He just notices that it’s the same size, same color, and it’s in the same place.

You only realize something is wrong when he sits back down, twists the lid open, and pours a generous amount over his pasta. You glance up briefly, then pause. Your brain lags a second too long. That is not spaghetti sauce.

You open your mouth to speak, but he takes a bite before you can say anything. He chews and swallows, then takes another bite. 

Then, his eyes go wide and he shouts your name. 

His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands up so abruptly it startles you. His expression twists into discomfort and disbelief as he turns toward the trash, opens it with his foot, and spits the bite out without hesitation.

You blink at him, and then it clicks.

“Oh—oh my god—” you say, clapping a hand over your mouth. Laughter already surges before you can stop it, the realization hitting all at once as Levi pours a glass of milk and drinks it down in irritated gulps.

“What the hell is wrong with the sauce?” he demands, eyes narrowing at you.

You really try to keep it together, but you don’t succeed. “That’s not—” you gasp, laughing now, shoulders shaking as you point weakly toward the fridge. “That’s not spaghetti sauce—”

Levi freezes and slowly lowers his glass. “What?”

“It’s the hot sauce,” you manage between breaths, wiping at your eyes. “The bottle cracked so I put it in a jar and I forgot to label it—”

Levi stares at you. You’re still practically cackling. “You think this is funny?”

That’s when it hits you. You get out of your chair and take one step back, then another. You’re still smiling, still breathless, but you finally notice the way he’s looking at you now—something just this side of revenge.

“...Lee,” you say carefully.

He takes a step forward. You turn and run. Your laughter echoes down the hallway, your footsteps quick as you dart toward the bedroom. You’re fully aware that this is a terrible idea and you’re still doing it anyway.

“Get back here,” he calls after you. You can hear the amusement beneath the irritation.

“No way!” you shout.

You barely make it to the bed before he catches up, his hand closing around your wrist just enough to pull you back, momentum carrying you both forward as he tackles you down onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

“Levi!” you gasp, still giggling as you try—and fail—to push him off.

“This is your fault,” he mutters, pinning you easily, one hand braced beside your head as he leans over you. His expression is hardened but not nearly as serious as he wants it to be.

“I didn’t know you’d—” you start, cutting yourself off with another laugh.

“You didn’t label it.”

“I said I forgot!”

“That’s a pathetic excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse!”

He huffs gently. Then his gaze flicks to your mouth. There’s a pause. You barely have time to react before he leans in, closing the distance in one smooth motion, his lips pressing against yours. His tongue delves into your mouth, twisting with yours. 

It takes you half a second to realize what he’s doing.

“Oh my god!” you pull back, laughing and coughing lightly as the lingering heat hits your tongue, swatting at his shoulder. “Levi!”

He leans back just enough to look at you, completely and utterly satisfied. “Now it’s even,” he says.

“You’re evil.”

“You started it.”

“I did not—”

“You did.”

You open your mouth to argue, then stop, because he’s still hovering over you, still looking at you like you’re his entire world, and despite everything—the chaos, the spice, the absolute disaster of a dinner—you realize it’s totally worth it.

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tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil

divider by: sweetmelodygraphics

When you accidentally pollenate your bf and he becomes your most loyal drone servant thing.

Look if Bobby has to live in a stupid beehive at least give her the power to control bees. Otherwise I have no idea why I drew this.