An Evening at Josie's
The Punisher (TV 2017) | Daredevil (TV)
Find it HERE on Ao3
✧ Pairing
Frank Castle × Reader
✧ Word Count
1.5k (1,530 words)
✧ Rating
Teen
✧ Warnings
Canon-typical language, Drunk patron, Harassment, Protective Frank Castle, Flirting, Reader drinks alcohol, No use of Y/N
✧ Summary
A ficlet based off of Maria/Mari/Isa’s imagine that they posted on tik tok @motherwitch11:
Imagine: You see him at a bar. He's already seen you first.
The small group of friends he came with keeps trying to pull him back into their conversation, but he's too focused on you. When you sit at the opposite end of the bar, he waves over the bartender and tells her, "Put her on my tab."
And you haven't even spoken a word yet...
Just a glance.
Author’s Note:
I've always loved the idea of Frank before someone knows he's The Punisher—just another quiet guy at Josie's who happens to notice everything.
This is a softer, first-meeting take on Frank that leans into the subtle protectiveness he shows in Daredevil and The Punisher: not because he thinks the reader can't handle herself, but because stepping in is second nature to him.
Hope you enjoy. ❤️
Imagine: You see him at a bar. He's already seen you first.
The small group of friends he came with keeps trying to pull him back into their conversation, but he's too focused on you. When you sit at the opposite end of the bar, he waves over the bartender and tells her, "Put her on my tab."
And you haven't even spoken a word yet...
Just a glance.
…….
Lily slides your way, cleaning a glass with a mischievous glint in her eye. She only gets that look when someone seems remotely interesting.
"What did he want—my number or to buy me a drink? I'm surprised you let him send you instead of telling him to do it himself."
Your eyes glitter in the faint neons as you scan tonight’s scene at Josie’s. The city's been lively lately, and this weekend is no exception. Your favorite local dive is comfortably packed, the neighborhood celebrating the big win together. Everyone’s raucous, loudly exclaiming, boisterously laughing except for Mr. Brooklyn Lager glooming at his corner stool.
You noticed him the second you walked in. He was hard to miss, dressed entirely in black among a sea of denim, khakis, and button-downs. His broad shoulders were slightly hunched as he rested his elbows on the bar, slowly sipping his beer while reruns of the game played on the mounted TV. He hadn't said more than two words to the group of guys standing nearby, and the only time you'd seen him speak was when he called Lily over.
"I'm surprised too," she says with a grin. "But it looks like all your drinks are on him tonight."
She sets your usual on the bartop, sliding it toward you with a wink.
"Drink up."
Your brows furrow as your gaze drifts from the drink to him—
Only to find him already watching you.
The air catches in your chest as the intensity of his gaze pins you in place. Everything around you seems to fade into silence. He holds your attention without moving, almost as though he's silently beckoning you over. His eyes are sharp, cataloging every feature of your face, every subtle shift in your posture, as if he can hear thoughts you've never spoken aloud. He doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.
He just watches.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression softens.
He tips his beer toward you in a quiet toast before turning back to the television.
You blink rapidly, desperate to shake yourself free from the spell of dark, brooding eyes and unfairly perfect cheekbones.
God.
You grip both the edge of the counter and your drink for dear life, taking several long swallows before pressing the cold glass against your flushed cheek.You glance back. He's still watching the TV. Good, great even.
Because you were starting to think one look from Mr. Brooklyn Lager was enough to short-circuit your entire nervous system.
The night rolls on, and you spend most of it avoiding the magnetic aura of Mr. Brooklyn Lager by playing a few rounds of pool. There are a handful of newcomers tonight, so you decide to take it easy on them. After all, as Josie's reigning pool champ, crushing first-timers isn't exactly sporting. Unfortunately, every casual game eventually attracts one thing: a misogynistic asshole who's a sore loser and one drink past his limit. You've already had enough of Benny—or was it Brian?—by the time you head back to the bar for a refill.
Naturally...
He follows.
"Heeeyyy..." he slurs, stumbling toward the bar. "I wasn't fin'shed playin'. C'mon, you gotta come baaack... 'cause I was winnin'. I was absolutely winnin'. Tha's not fair."
You turn toward him with a sigh.
"Brian, I—"
"Ma name's Benny!"
"Right. Benny. Listen, you lost every round we played. You've gotta cut your losses, dude."
"C-CUT MY LOSSES?"
You raise an eyebrow as his voice climbs louder. You pick up your third drink, silently hoping you won't have to violate Josie's no-fighting policy. You really like your neighborhood bar. You'd hate to have to walk another five blocks to the next closest dive because you broke some idiot's nose. Before you can finish calculating whether it'd be worth it an unmistakable presence looms behind you.
Judging by the sheer terror spreading across Benny's face, you know exactly who's standing there.
So...
He's tall.
Really tall.
Your spine prickles with awareness as warmth radiates from his body through the thin cotton of your button-down. Maybe it was his proximity. Maybe it was simply the thought of him nearly touching you.
"I think the lady said to cut your losses, Brian," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. Gravelly enough that you feel it before you fully hear it. “And she won't say it again."
The low rumble vibrates through you as he leans over your shoulder. You catch the scent of cedar with something darker beneath it—musky, almost metallic.
For reasons that are almost certainly tied to your third drink, you lean fully back against Mr. Brooklyn Lager's chest.
He freezes.
Every muscle tenses beneath you long enough that you're certain you've made a terrible mistake. Then Benny sways uncertainly, and Mr. Brooklyn Lager relaxes. One arm slides past you, bracing against the bar, boxing you safely into the space between him and the counter. The other settles around your waist, drawing you gently closer.
Protective.
Possessive.
Neither of you acknowledges it.
"But... my name's B-Benny..."
"I don't fucking care what your name is."
The words come out calm. Almost conversational. Which somehow makes them ten times scarier.
"Do I look like I fucking care what your name is?"
Benny doesn't answer.
"Get the fuck out of here before I make you."
Your hand instinctively settles over his forearm, your thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of his wrist. He's hot when he’s mean. Which is... honestly a little unfair.
You can't even see his face.
Benny, poor guy, wisely disappears. Probably deciding tonight isn't the night to die and practically scrambles away.
"Stay away from assholes, sweetheart."
"Oh? So we've skipped introductions and gone straight to pet names?"
You smile as you relax comfortably against him.
"Don't worry, sweetheart." His chest vibrates with quiet amusement. “Your friend Lily already told me everything I needed to know."
"And now you and my favorite bartender are conspiring against me? I see whose side you're on. Looks like I might be an asshole magnet."
He ducks his head, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder as though trying not to laugh too hard.
And somehow...
That tiny gesture feels even more intimate than the arm around your waist.
You slowly turn in his arms so you can actually look at him.
God.
He really is handsome.
Rugged, with dark brows softened by kind eyes. Built like he’s used to taking up space and making people move around him. There’s a smattering of pale scars along his jaw and sharp cheek bone. The meanest post-military fade you've seen in years, grown out just enough to feel lived-in. But it’s his eyes that hold you.
Steady.
Watchful.
Strangely gentle in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him at all. He follows your movement as you study him, not flinching, not performing—just letting you look. He glances over your head, scanning the room one last time before looking back down at you.
"Sorry about that," he says quietly. "You shouldn't have had to deal with him."
"I could've handled it."
"I know you could've."
That answer catches you slightly off guard not disagreement, just certainty.
Then he adds, softer:
“Still shouldn’t have happened.”
A beat passes between you.
The noise of the bar feels farther away now than it did all night.
You recover first.
"Well," you grin, "now that you've scared him off... you ready to get your ass handed to you in pool, Mr. Brooklyn Lager?" His brow lifts slightly.
“What did you call me?”
“Brooklyn Lager.” You nod toward the bar without breaking eye contact.
“Your beer of choice. Since you apparently know my name but I don’t know yours.”
His nose wrinkles as a quiet huff of laughter escapes him— short, rough, almost disbelieving.
“You’re gonna be a piece of work, aren’t you?”
“Guilty.” You smile wider. “Mr. Brooklyn Lager.”That earns a real laugh this time. It’s low and a little rusty, like it hasn’t been used often enough to come easily.
He shakes his head.
“Frank,” he says finally. “Call me Frank.”
The name lands differently than the nickname. He watches to see how you take it. You don’t hesitate.
“Well, Frank…” You lace your fingers through his large, calloused hands and he lets you tug him gently toward your favorite corner pool table. “….let me show you why my name's still at the top of that champions list."
And for the first time all night, he lets you lead. The noise of Josie’s swallows you whole again, laughter, clinking glasses, the crack of a cue ball. But this time, he stays close behind you.
And the rest of the night disappears into laughter, close games, and Frank coming dangerously close to stealing your title.
