#the chocolate stain uhh well. it was more cleaned? still some of my worst work

[hopeheartfilia]

theese pants truly cant catch a break

[lifesabe-ch]

this means war - billy r. and frank c. (part 7)

summary: this is a spin off from a movie (can anyone find the title? ;) starring Billy Russo and Frank Castle. In this AU, Billy isn’t a psycho, Frank’s family is alive, and they both really like coffee. And, y’know, Y/N.

pairings: Frank Castle x Reader, Billy Russo x Reader (actually both of them, i promise)

warnings: fragile male ego and sass

a/n: this was the most fun we’ve had writing dialogue in a part so far :) hope you guys enjoy (written by @pitaparka​)

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6   

“Why do you own this apron?” He asks, examining it in his hands. It’s a novelty apron of course, probably something along the lines of an impulse purchase.

You put down the recipe, old and stained and used graciously up your family line. You glare at the apron.

“It was a gift, actually,” you say, pulling down the chocolate chips.

Billy ties it around his neck loosely, but has trouble with the one behind his back.

“Tie this for me?” he says, and you turn around. Billy has the strings in his hands behind his back, and you take them from him

“It fits you better than it fits me. You look like a... a grill dad.” You say, stifling laughter.

“I mean, hot grills do love my sausage.” He emphasizes, reading the apron once over.

“She should’ve just gotten me like a normal apron. Who even uses aprons? I don’t think I’ve ever used that.” You mused, counting the ingredients in front of you.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Billy says, sizing himself up next to you with a smile. In the soft light from the kitchen window, Billy is much less intimidating than normal. His hair isn’t slicked back like it is when he comes to see you in the morning before work. It’s tousled in a neat way, but still soft looking. The forecast was supposed to be sunny and bright, but grey clouds hovered above your apartment, looming with the threat of rain. The perfect weather for pancake making.

“Uhh, the recipe says, a cup of flour, a whole banana, mashed, an egg, and one mary poppins.”

“What?” Billy questions, looking over the recipe for himself.

“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down!” you sing. He looks at you quizzically.

“The medicine, go down…” you finish, less enthusiastically.

“Ohhh!” He claims, and you open a cabinet to grab the flour.

“You don’t get it, do you,” you say.

“The one with the maid! And the broom,” He says confidently.

“The nanny, with the umbrella, but okay Billy,” you say, stretching up for the flour, but you can’t reach it. You bring your hand back down to your side and burst into a fit of giggles.

He comes up from behind you and puts a hand on your lower back. You turn into him and place your head on his shoulder, silently chuckling into it. You feel him reach up for the flour and your heart skips a beat.

“She’s not a witch, Billy,” you say, murmuring into his neck.

He gasps as he leans back down.

“Did you not see the movie?” You question, but he starts laughing too.

“No, I… I saw parts but… I got flour in your hair.” He says, smoothing it down.

“What! Don’t rub it in!” You say, pulling away.

He laughs at you. His smile is cute.

“It’s cute. You look like Mary Poppins,” he says, moving over to you again. You’re cornered in between two counters.

“Okay, now I know you really haven’t seen the movie,” You tease, moving past him.

“Help me mash the banana, it’s the worst part.” You say, taking a fork from a drawer.

“It can’t be, I’ll do it,” Billy offers, taking the fork from your grasp.

He finds out, it’s definitely the worst part.

The memories from your childhood resurface like the bubbles in the batter as they cook on the pan.

“Watch this,” he says, taking the handle in his grasp and jerking the pan back and forth. The pancake unsticks from the pan, and he quickly flips it over, perfectly.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” You ask, as he plates the pancake and pours more batter into the pan. The kitchen is a mess, the counter covered in flour and your apron tied tight against Billy’s body, which has bits of batter all over it for some reason.

“Yeah, come here,” he says, before stepping back for you to take his place in front of the frying pan.

You watch intently, like children, waiting for the bubbles to rise.

“You know, it rose faster when you were doing it,” you claim, sighing.

“It’s almost there. Be patient.” He says, moving forward and pressing his chest to your back.

You lean into him, and hum in satisfaction.

“Okay, it’s ready,” he says, and you place your hand on the handle. He follows you, placing his hand on top of yours.

“You have to be careful, because the batter on the top is still really wet.” He says, and red flushes your face. For some reason, your skin is hotter where he’s touching you than where you’re touching the pan.

With Billy’s help, the pancake only catches a little bit on the side, and you rejoice, crying out, “Yes!” as you put it back on the heat for it to finish cooking.

Billy smiles at you from behind, “You’re a natural, you should be wearing this apron, not me,” he says, and you start cleaning up the kitchen a little bit.

As Billy plates the last pancake, he makes his way over to the kitchen table.

“Wait, come with me,” you say, guiding him into the living room, your plate of pancakes in one hand, a bottle of syrup in the other.

Billy follows suit, his own plate of pancakes in one hand, balancing two glass cups in his other hand and a carton of orange juice under his arm.

You both find a place on the couch, and spend the day talking and watching awful morning television and it’s all very domestic. You almost forget the missed date from earlier in the week, and that you’ve only been talking to him, well, texting him, for a few weeks now. Even Frank wasn’t on your mind, who came into the shop more frequently than ever, since he was a terrible texter.

“Thank you for this,” you say to him, plates and cups and silverware discarded on the coffee table.

“Thanks for, you know, giving me another chance.”

“Thanks for, you know, drinking orange juice. Since I don’t have a coffee machine.”

“I still don’t get that,” he says, “you work at a coffee shop and you don’t have a coffee machine.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t have a coffee machine. I work there all day, why wouldn’t I just get coffee there.”

“Oh, well, you have a point,” Billy says, tracing patterns on your calf, laid across his thighs.

You watch as he does so, listening to the rain on your window and the weatherman from the news station drone on about how the rest of the week would be gorgeous.

“Is this what you planned on doing?” you ask, resting your head on the arm of the couch.

“Hmm?” He hums, looking at you.

“Making breakfast. In my house. Or was this the uh… rain checked plans?” You ask.

“I was gonna take you to breakfast, but I figured that making it was half the fun. Plus, we’re not all wet in some rat infested New York diner.”

“Hey, the rats need to eat too,” You joke. Billy was an entirely different person than the one you had met the first day. His hand was delicate on your legs, the other supporting his chin as he watched intently a show about storm chasers he really couldn’t have been interested in.

You admired him the whole time. His big eyes and his sharp jaw. His well fitting black t-shirt tight around his biceps making it clear he works out. You found it funny how wonderful Billy actually was, and how you got to see this side of him compared to his cool, slick demeanor. But with every moment spent with Billy, it made it harder for you to tear yourself away from Frank. Both were handsome, kind, and you loved spending time with each of them. It’s like whenever you hung out with one of them, you could see a future with him. Now that things were getting serious, you had to start making up your mind. You had to talk to Morgan about it later. But for now, you let Billy run his hand down your leg.

“This is the best date I’ve been on in a long time. You’ve redeemed yourself, Russo.”

Billy smiles in triumph. He pats your leg a little.

“Yeah, me too.”

Frank would be glad to hear about this.

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