look who's coming to dinner

birthday fic for july!

title: stay with me

pairing: levi/hanji

rating: t for themes of child neglect

words: 1305

a/n: i wrote this today for julystorms for her birthday!! technically it’s tomorrow, but i was really on a roll with this! i hope y'all enjoy it (even though it’s a little darker than i thought it would be lol)!

ao3

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Levi Ackerman is exactly two years, eight months, and eleven days old when Hanji Zoe is born. His mother and hers are friends; or, at least as friendly as Mrs. Ackerman is towards anyone. She wakes him up at four in the morning to go to the hospital. Apparently it’s important for the two year old to meet a newborn.

(Levi’s mom doesn’t make the best parenting choices.)

The hospital is cold when they get there and Levi cries. He can barely toddle through the stark white halls on his own, but his mother carries an array of balloons, so he’s left to try and keep up with her. At some point, a few feet from the door to Mrs. Zoe’s room, Levi lets out a little wail. His mom doesn’t pay attention.

(She doesn’t notice him a lot.)

He makes it into the hospital room only to find a sleeping woman and a sleeping baby. Hanji, his mother says, is the baby’s name. It’s weird–his little mouth can’t make the right sounds, so he just peers up at her and whispers, “Hi, Han-y.”

His mother rolls her eyes.

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Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner… Last year I watched this with my daddy. One of his favourites and now one of mine. I fell in love with Sidney Poitier at the age of 14 when I discovered him and his story during my own personal research of Black History (wasn’t taught in my school). 

I was immediately drawn to his story and what he had done for black actors/actresses today. Poitier changed history and paved the way for greats like Denzel, Idris and even Halle Berry to be respected in what was then, an all white dominated film industry… 

This is a great movie and was re-made in 2005 starring Bernie Mac, Zoë Saldaña and Ashton Kutcher in ‘Guess Who’

I pray the day comes when I can meet Sidney and ask him the endless list of questions I have… *sigh* #Legend 

For those who don’t know… Sidney Poitier became the first black person to win an Academy Award for Best Actor in 1963

Drunken Dancing

Because I couldn’t just stop at one Drunken Kisses fic, and because @sherlocks-freebitch is a wretched enabler, here’s another, decidedly more porny submission for the #DrunkenKissesChallenge. Have some post-A Great and Gruesome Height, unrepentant fluffy Hannigram PWP… (Also on AO3)


Hannibal’s out getting the ingredients for a stuffed loin roast, and Will’s gotten better at picking wines, but he still has no idea whether Hannibal would prefer Chianti, Rioja, or Cab Sauv, so he just brings them all up from the cellar.

Then, of course, he figures he should let them breathe, or whatever. He picks the most likely, or maybe it’s just that he likes the label for the Cabernet, with a woman in a toga holding up a bunch of grapes like she’s offering a toast.

The cork smells of cigars and vanilla when he opens it, and Will pours himself a small glass. It’s silky smooth and chocolatey on the palate, and he pours a little more. By the time Hannibal arrives home, he’s halfway through the bottle.

Will meets him at the door with arms thrown around his neck, face in his throat, and a rumbling hum of greeting. “Welcome home.”

“Indeed.” Hannibal is indulgently amused, maneuvering Will under one arm to lay down the groceries. When his eyes light on the wine bottle, he says, “I see I have some catching up to do.”

Will dutifully fills Hannibal’s glass, and tops his own off, both quite generous pours. “I thought it would go well with dinner.”

“And indeed it would have,” Hannibal grins, when Will clinks the crystal together. “Though the Viña el Pisón will go quite nicely.”

Will hoists himself up on the countertop to watch as Hannibal scrubs down the potatoes, skins them, and begins to slice them in thin sticks. “Are you making fries?” His incredulous tone is pitched a bit higher than usual. He’s blaming it on the wine.

“They’re pomme frites,” Hannibal says, unruffled, and takes a long sip of his wine.

“Fries.” Will grins and leans in to hiss the word in Hannibal’s ear.

Hannibal swats at him with the flat of his knife and goes back to work. “Can I trust you to prepare the spinach without maiming yourself?”

“Maaaaaybe.” Will hops off the counter, busking his cheek against Hannibal’s as he passes. “I’m not sure the finished product is going to be up to your standards, but…”

Despite his concerns, the spinach turns out fine. Not as pretty as Hannibal would have done it, but it still tastes amazing, with the onion and butter and heavy cream. The pomme frites crispy and carmalised in honey tossed in at the last minute.

True to his word, Hannibal has done is best attain Will’s level of intoxication, finishing the rest of the Cab Sauv in one huge glass while they prepare dinner, then starting in on the Rioja. Whether it’s because he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed or it’s just a good pairing, it tastes amazing with the tenderloin. It’s berry sweet with an oaky spice, and mineral tang that cuts through the richness of the meal.

Will can’t stop drinking it, great mouthfuls after every bite, moaning in pleasure. He catches Hannibal smiling absently at him, looking thoroughly smitten, and blushes at his plate, snapping, “What?”

“Just look at how far you’ve come, from the man who showed up at a dinner party with the most expensive bottle of wine he could find, labouring under the misapprehension that exorbitant cost was indicative of quality.”

Will flips him off and mutters blow me around his mouthful of tenderloin.

Hannibal gives him a look of smouldering promise and continues on, “And now, selecting three excellent pairings for this evening’s meal.”

“Did I?” Will asks, leaning towards the island, chair tipped precariously as he snags the final bottle. “Guess I’ll just have to taste for myself.”

Peppery and faintly acidic, the chianti brings out a whole different flavour profile, enhancing the herbs Hannibal used to season the tenderloin and a lingering floral note. Or maybe he’s just drunk. He laughs once and at Hannibal’s smitten and slightly unfocussed smile, dissolves into giggles.

Will gets to his feet, taking both Hannibal’s hands in his own and pulling him to his feet. “And look how far you’ve come,” he says, “getting drunk on three bottles of your precious wine collection like throwing back shots.”

“A small price to pay, for your happiness.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a sap,” Will says, but he’s grinning. Out of all the ridiculous gestures Hannibal has made, three bottles of wine is easily the least of them, the most mundane, and still it warms Will to the tips of his toes.

“The dishes,” Hannibal protests, when Will leads him into the living room. His iPod has been playing all night, louder here close to the speakers. It’s some grandiose folksie, indie thing with strings and trumpets, and Will doesn’t think it’s in English, but he can’t say for sure the way the vocalist just mumbles through the lyrics.

But it’s nice, slow and soothing with a sort of irrepressible, incongruous cheerfulness to it, and Will’s feeling magnanimous tonight, so he doesn’t give Hannibal any shit over his pretentious taste in music for once.

“I’ll take care of them in the morning,” Will says. He steps closer, bringing Hannibal’s arms around his waist and lifting his own to drape them over Hannibal’s shoulders. Hannibal catches on quickly, arms tightening until there’s no space left between them, Will’s head rested on his chest as they begin to move together in a slow, shuffling turn around the room.

Is it possible they’ve never done this before? Will considers what pleasure it would bring Hannibal to dress him up in one of his fancy suits and parade him around the dance floor. What once might have terrified him now makes him smile in pleasant anticipation–not for the pleasure he’ll get from it, but that which Hannibal will.

Will sighs and relaxes into Hannibal’s hold as the song changes. Hannibal makes no effort to change the pace of their meandering dance and Will loses himself in the rhythm of it, in time with the alcohol-sluggish beat of his heart.

The diffused light and the dreamy music along with the wine makes him feel like they’re floating. Beneath his cheek, Hannibal’s chest rises and falls. Will slides his hands up into the long hair at the back of his neck, lifting his head as his fingertips press gently against the base of Hannibal’s skull, urging him down.

They meet in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Hannibal’s lips are slick and taste of honey and the dark pit fruits of the wine. He sucks Will’s bottom lip between his own, teeth snagging on the sensitive skin of the inside, tingling hot from the pain. Will sweeps his own tongue across the same spot to keep the sharp edge of it.

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