#jackmanwife’s fanfiction

[jackmanwife]

CAUGHT ME ONCE, CAUGHT ME TWICE L. HOWLETT

Logan was off-limits, wasn’t he? Too old, too complicated. You told yourself it was just an innocent crush, something that would pass if you ignored it long enough. It wasn’t real—how could it be? You tried to rationalize it, to come up with every reason why it was just a phase. Maybe it was because Logan was so different from the boys your age. They were boys, he was a man. A real man. But it was fucking Logan. You were just lonely, or maybe bored. That had to be it.

Pairing: Dad's Best Friend!Neighbor!Logan Howlett/Female!Reader Summary: You haven't seen Logan in a while. After a long day at a family reunion, you find Logan sitting on the porch alone and join him. Next thing you know, you're knocking on his backdoor in the middle of the night. Warnings: (eventual) explicit sexual content, MDNI angst, age difference, (un)requited love… more to come Author's note: this was written with DOFP!Logan in mind but this could really be read with any logan!!!!! first work posted on here ahhhhhhhhh... pretty proud of this one though!!!!!!

WC: 3.1k

You’ve always known Logan.

It’s been like that ever since you were a little girl, how you would look up at him from the kitchen table to where he sat with your father in front of the television. Your father would be in the middle of his usual stories—fighting battles you’d never seen, making mistakes he would never quite own up to—and Logan would be right there beside him, laughing, adding his own pieces to them. Then there were the quiet moments when Logan would show up after a tough day just to have a drink with your father, or when he’d offer an ear when your father needed to talk. He’d been in your life for as long as you could remember. You never questioned it. 

Logan was just an extension of your father, another adult you didn’t fully understand but accepted as part of your world. He was the one who offered to drive you to school when your dad was working late, the one who brought you a pack of your favorite chocolate whenever he came over for no reason at all. Your mother always got on him for that, kept telling him that had been the reason her baby was scared to go to the dentist.

Some things started to change as you grew older. When you turned sixteen, you noticed how different Logan was from other men for the first time. It wasn’t anything crazy—he didn’t change in any dramatic way—but little things started to pop up: the way he started coming over more often, the way his eyes stayed on yours a little longer than they should have, the way he leaned in a bit too close when he was talking to you at the dinner table. Maybe he’s always been like this and you didn’t notice it when you were younger—or, at least you didn’t know how to recognize it—but it was only then that you started to realize Logan wasn’t just Logan.

But Logan was off-limits, wasn’t he? Too old, too complicated. You told yourself it was just an innocent crush, something that would pass if you ignored it long enough. It wasn’t real—how could it be? You tried to rationalize it, to come up with every reason why it was just a phase. Maybe it was because Logan was so different from the boys your age. They were boys, he was a man. A real man. But it was fucking Logan. You were just lonely, or maybe bored. Bored. Yeah, that had to be it.

At seventeen, you started to avoid him. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first, more like a tiny shift in your behavior. At family dinners, you’d excuse yourself earlier than usual, telling your parents how you needed to get up early or how you had work to finish, quickly going up the steps of the stairs and into your room. It was better this way, right? But even though you spent most of your time upstairs in your room when Logan was over, he would still be there, in your life, like he always would. You couldn’t get away from him. You would hear them late at night—your father, Logan, and a few others—but it was Logan’s voice that you focused on. It was only Logan’s voice that you could, no, chose to hear.

When you finally did come down, usually after most of the guests had left or gone to bed, you made it quick, hoping that he wouldn’t notice you. But he always did. Even if it was something little like grabbing a drink from the refrigerator, or helping your mom put the dishes away before bed, you didn’t look at him, but you could always feel his eyes on you.

And then there were the moments when you couldn’t avoid him, when he’d catch you alone. Those moments were the hardest. Like the time you were in the kitchen after dinner, cleaning up while everyone else was in the living room. You’d thought you were alone, left to finish the small task of washing dishes, letting the sound of running water drown out the noise of your thoughts. But then you heard the floor creak behind you, and you knew—you knew—it was him before you even turned around.

“Need a hand, kid?” He would say from behind you.

You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak right away. When you finally turned, you found him standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same look he always gave you. That same look that made you forget how to breathe.

“No,” you managed to say, “No, I’m good.”

Logan wouldn’t move. You stood there, hands trembling slightly as you dried them on the dish towel, waiting for something, anything, to make Logan walk away. Your father could call him back to the living room, your mother could come in and ask Logan if he was sure he was full. Where were your parents when you needed them?

Slowly, Logan took a step forward. He didn’t touch you, didn’t say a word. He just looked over your shoulder at what you were doing. You could smell him—straight tobacco from the cigars he couldn’t put down—and you hated how much you wanted to lean into it, breath all of him in, lose yourself in it.

“You sure?” His eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you knew he could see right through you, could see the effect he had on you. You wanted to push him away, get all of this to stop, but you couldn’t.

“Yeah,” you finally said, staring right at him.

And just as quickly as it had started, it was over. Logan nodded, took a step back, went over to the refrigerator to get a couple more bottles of beer, and then he walked away.

That night in the kitchen was the last time you saw Logan before you left for college. You didn’t even say goodbye. After that, everything had moved so fast—packing up your entire life, saying your goodbyes, and heading off to a new city with new people, new distractions. You had hoped that the distance would make it easier to forget about him, to push all those complicated feelings to the back of your mind, focus on what’s ahead of you. And for a while, it had worked. College gave you tons of experiences, plenty of faces, and a busy schedule that left little room for thoughts of home, thoughts of Logan. 

But every now and then, late at night when you were alone in your dorm room, you'd think about him. You would remember the way he'd looked at you that night in the kitchen, hell, the way he’d looked at you whenever. The moments would replay in your mind, and you thought about what would have happened if you’d let him know exactly what you were thinking, what you wanted. But it was for the best that you had left when you did. There was no future in whatever was between you and Logan. You knew that from the start.

You never really spoke to him after you left, too. Nothing more than a few polite exchanges when you’d call home and hear him in the background. Logan was almost back to just being…Logan.

But now you were back.

The family reunion had been planned for months, and you had no real excuse to miss it. It was the first time since you went away for college that everyone had been getting together, including Logan. When your mother first told you about it over the phone, you didn’t know what to expect. How much has he changed? Or did he change at all? Did he find a girlfriend? A wife? Ever since you found out about the reunion, Logan never left your thoughts.

When you finally arrived at your parents’ house, the familiar sight of the driveway, the porch swing, the old tree in the front yard, brought everything back to you. You could hear the sounds of a full house even from where you were sitting in your car. It felt good to be back, even though part of you was distracted, knowing that he was somewhere nearby. But you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t obsess over it—at least, not yet.

Walking into the house, you were greeted by your mother first. Her arms wrapped around you in a tight hug as she ran on about how much she missed her little girl. When she pulled away, you started to take everything else in. People milled about, chatting and laughing, drinks in hand. Your father was in the middle of it all, talking to every single person in the crowd, checking in with everyone and their lives. When he saw you, he waved the both of you over with a grin, “There she is, our girl!” he would call out, and you shyly made your way through the crowd to greet him.

The next few hours passed easily. It started to get darker outside, the last of the food had been eaten, and the people began to spill out of the house and into the backyard. You caught up with old family friends, neighbors, and familiar faces you hadn’t seen in years. You did what you had to do, smile and nod, responding to the same questions over and over—how’s college, what are you majoring in, do you have a boyfriend yet—but your mind was somewhere else. Logan wasn’t here.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter, that you were here to enjoy the reunion, not to obsess over whether Logan would show up. Still, every time you heard someone new walk through the door, your heart stopped, only to return to its normal pace when you find out it wasn’t him. You had been back for hours now, but there was still no sign of him. It felt stupid standing there in the middle of the reuinion, trying to act like you were present.

You couldn’t pretend for much longer. You needed a break—a moment to gather yourself, to stop the endless questions running through your mind. Eventually, you excused yourself, slipping out onto the porch in hopes of finding a moment of quiet to gather your thoughts.

The creak of the porch floorboards beneath your feet was the only sound in the night as you stepped out of the house. You took a deep breath, letting yourself relax. You leaned against the porch railing and stared out at the empty street. You could finally let your thoughts settle, stop worrying about Logan, and just enjoy the moment back home.

A sound at the far end of the porch caught your attention, though, and that's when you saw him.

Logan.

Wait, Logan? Fuck no, it couldn't have been.

He was sitting on the step of the porch, hunched slightly, one arm resting casually on his knee, the other holding a cigar. You really thought you were imagining it, but it was him. Undeniably Logan. It all hit you at once��the relief, the excitement, the nervousness—making it harder to breathe, let alone think straight. Logan was here. He had been sitting here all along while you had been inside, only thinking about him, wanting so badly to see him.

You stood there, frozen in place, not sure what to do or say. He looked about the same, but his hair was slightly longer than you remembered, a few strands of it falling over his forehead. His strong wide shoulders strained slightly against that tight black shirt on him, letting you see every delicious curve of muscle he had. His jeans were worn, fitting snugly around his bent legs with the help of his belt, and as he shifted slightly, the faint clink of the buckle reached your ears.

You realized you were staring, but couldn’t bring yourself to look away. You felt like you were seventeen again, standing in that same kitchen together, looking at each other the exact same way. But you were older now, way older—well, only nineteen—but college had changed you—at least, that’s what you thought. Because if that were really true, why was Logan still making you feel this way?

Quietly, you crossed the porch, heart pounding, trying to keep your footsteps light on the wood. You moved toward him since you knew he knew that you were there anyway. Without asking, you took a seat beside him on the steps. 

Logan took the thick cigar from out his mouth and held it in between his fingers. He didn’t look away from where he was staring out at the street, just gave you a small “Hey, kid,” his deep voice breaking through the quiet, “Couldn’t stay in there, huh?”

You shrugged. “Guess I’m more like you than I thought,” The words catch in your throat, but you clear it quickly. “The noise,” you glanced briefly back toward the house, “It was too much.”

“Yeah, too much’s one way to put it.” Logan raised the cigar to his mouth, fingers wrapped firmly around it, each movement so slow it was hard not to watch. He closed his lips around the end, took another long drag, and then he exhaled. Each detail stood out—the small lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his lips parted slightly as he released that last breath of smoke.

You brought your knees up to your chest, making yourself look smaller, because you felt smaller sitting next to him right now, that seventeen-year-old girl you were before.

“So…” you started, “what have you been up to?”

“Not much to tell,” he took another puff, “Work, mostly. Same old routine.”

You nodded, “Some things never change,” you looked out at the street with him, feeling a bit sad at the thought of him here, night after night, alone, like he’d always been.

At least, a little part of you hoped he’d be alone.

“And you,” His eyes stayed on your face a bit too long, “You’ve changed. A lot.”

Changed? A lot? I mean, your bra size had gone up a cup or two, but that wasn’t what he was referring to, was it? You tried to play it off, letting out a small, almost forced laugh. “You think?” you tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear just to give yourself something to do.

But Logan didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He was just… staring. Studying you. Taking you in like you were something new, something different. His thumb grazed the edge of his cigar, bringing it up to his mouth again. It was like he was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you—not as the girl you’d been, but as the woman you were now. 

Finally, he nodded, almost to himself, like he’d just come to terms with something. “I know.”

I know?

He said it so quietly, like it meant a hundred different things he couldn’t bring himself to explain. You searched his face for something that might give you a clue, an answer to the question in your head. What did he know? Did he know how much you had thought about this, about him, when you hadn’t meant to? Like you shouldn’t have? Had he caught on? 

You almost said something, your lips parting, but the words never made it out of your mouth. You wanted an answer—needed it, even—but as you looked at him, you realized he probably wasn’t going to give you anything anyway. Maybe that “I know” was all he could give you—and maybe, for tonight, that was enough.

Your body moved on its own, scooting closer, closing the space between you. This is wrong, you wanted to think, you shouldn’t even be this close. But you just kept going, holding your breath as you leaned in. Just a little more, just a little closer. 

Logan’s hand, still holding the cigar, lowered slightly. His eyes dropped to your lips again, and before you could think it through, before you could stop yourself, you kissed him.

Logan went still, and for a second, you thought he’d pull away. But then he tilted his head slightly, lips pressing back against yours, his large hand moving to the back of your neck as he pulled you closer. You felt everything—the years of wanting, of hiding, of imagining this came to life. 

You felt like you couldn’t get close enough to him, as if you were trying to crawl inside him, to become part of him. You didn’t know when you had stopped thinking, but it was like your body knew exactly what to do.

But suddenly, Logan pulled back, breathing hard. He looked away from you, the muscles in his neck flexing as his jaw tightened.

“Go back inside.”

What?

He couldn’t have been rejecting you—not after the way he held you, not after the way he kissed you like that. That had meant something, hadn’t it? No, he was rejecting what had happened, rejecting this. But why? You didn’t understand. You wanted to reach for him, make him look at you, ask him what had changed. He had to have felt it too, hadn’t he?

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was afraid, afraid of whatever line he thought he had crossed. And it hurt—God, it hurt. Because seeing him sit there, barely able to look at you. You knew he was never going to let himself have this—even if it was something you both wanted.

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the step, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. “Logan, I-” 

Pressing the cigar down on the wood beside him, he stubbed it out with the twist of his fingers, hard. Like he was stubbing out everything that had just happened. “I’m not doin’ this with you.”

“I didn’t think-” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I don’t know, I thought…” What had you even expected? What had you been thinking when you let yourself think this could actually happen? You should’ve known this. Logan wasn’t the man who would give in to this shit. No, Logan was Logan. 

“Look, you don’t need to get confused about this, kid.” He cut you off before you could say anything else. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, “I’m not your…whatever you think I am, alright?”

His words hit harder than it should have, but you couldn’t bring yourself to show it. He was trying to make this easier for himself, for the both of you—you could see that—but it wasn’t working.

Logan pushed himself to his feet, straightening up. You wanted to stop him, to make him look at you, to make him see how badly you wanted this—wanted him. But he just wiped a hand over his face, exhaling hard where he stood. “I’ve got nothing to give you, kid,” he said before leaving you there, walking back inside the house.

[jackmanwife]

Professor!Logan has always been professional, but you can’t ignore the way he looks at you during his lectures anymore. It’s subtle— a look that lingers on for far too long when you raise your hand or a small smile when you answer a question correctly— but it’s enough to make your cheeks grow hot. He leaves you little notes on the papers he turns back to you, too, and you save every last one of them. Study material. “You're smarter than most of my other students,” he praises, but you just giggle out a small "Thank you."

Professor!Logan is starting to catch on. Sitting in the front row, you're doing all sorts of things to catch his attention. Twirling your hair around your finger a little, biting the tip of your pen, crossing and uncrossing your legs. When he looks your way, you make sure to hold his stare, letting your eyes drop to his lips before flashing a small smile. After class, he orders you to stay behind, but you know this isn’t about the paper you turned in. “You’re not just interested in the material, are you, sweetheart?” When he walks around his desk, he doesn’t sit. Instead, he stands in front of you, towering, and you look up at him, keeping your eyes on his. “You’ve been distractin’ me for a while,” He steps closer, and your back presses against his desk, “You want me to show you what happens when I stop holdin’ back, darlin’?” His hand slides up your thigh, fingers brushing against the hem of your skirt, teasingly close to where you’ve been needing him all this time.

Professor!Logan knows you're back for more. He’s got his reading glasses perched on his nose, running his hands through the stack of papers in front of him, “This couldn’t wait until office hours?” he asks, not looking up as he marks a paper and flips to the next one. You take a slow step forward, shrugging, “No, I…” He looks up now, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I wanted some extra help.” Logan’s eyes narrow slightly. You swallowed, “I just need to understand the material you taught today better,” you said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your voice wavered. Logan chuckles softly, lips curling into a smirk, “Is that so, darlin’? Because from where I’m sitting, it seems like you’ve got a…” His eyes take you in, looking you up and down, “different kind of help in mind.”

Professor!Logan is usually calling you back to his office after a long lecture. You’re sitting on his desk, legs dangling over the edge as he stands between them, his hands running up your thighs. “You sure you understood everything, sweets?” His lips brush against your ear before he presses a kiss onto it. One of his large hands slips around your waist, his fingers pressed firmly on your back, pulling you closer to him. You nod, leaning into his touch. “That’s good,” his thumb brushes gently over your cheek as he tilts your face up to his, “Been thinking about you all day, you know that?” He murmurs. You nod again, barely able to find your voice as his thumb brushes over your lip, and the look in his eyes tells you he’s just started.

Professor!Logan likes to keep you around now. You walk down the hallway to his office, a hot cup of coffee in your hand. You noticed the light still on under his door and couldn’t help but think about him working alone, grading papers into the early hours. Knocking softly, you step inside when you hear his short “Come in.” When you do, Logan looks up from his laptop, brows raised in surprise before they rest as he smiles. “What’re you doin’ here this late, darlin’?” He sounded so tired. You hold out the cup, and he takes it from you, his hand lingering on yours. “Thought you could use this,” you murmur, watching as he takes a sip, his eyes never leaving yours. He sets the cup down on his desk and shakes his head, “Always lookin’ out for me, huh? Come here,” he pats his open lap, “Keep me company for a while.”

[jackmanwife]

You picked at the food on your plate with your fork, something your father cooked up a couple times a week—a pile of mashed potatoes that had long since gone cold, some roasted asparagus you hardly touched, and a piece of chicken that tasted bland after the first few bites. You weren’t even hungry, really—just wanted to get dinner over with.

Your father was going on about one of his favorite old stories—something about a fishing trip he’d taken a few summers ago, the same trip he brought up every chance he got. He told it the exact same way, too: the “massive fish” that got away to the epic battle with his fishing line. You nodded along and gave him the occasional “oh, really?” like the good daughter you were. Your mind, however, wasn’t on fishing—or the food.

You took a sip of water, looked down at your plate, then glanced up at the man sitting in front of you. There he was, Logan—and fuck, did he look good. He was patiently listening to your father, sometimes letting out a chuckle, drinking a little bit of beer from the bottle next to his plate—barely touched, too. You can tell he was just as bored as you were. Only difference was, he wore it better.

Then it came to you. You didn’t have to sit here quietly, bored out of your mind. Not when he was right there, so close, looking so put-together. No, you wanted to fuck with him a little, have some fun.

You took a quick look at your father, making sure he was still caught up in his stupid story, and after what felt like hours, he was. Good. You slipped off one shoe under the table, feeling the cool floor against your bare foot before reaching out, letting your toes brush Logan’s jeans—feather-light. Just a little something to get his attention without making it too obvious.

You stared at your plate, even though a smile tried to pull at the corner of your mouth. After a few seconds, you looked up at Logan, expecting him to be looking at you, too, but he wasn’t. He just continued to drink his beer, talk to your father, take a small bite of food from his plate. He wasn’t doing anything. Why wasn’t he doing anything?

Okay, maybe he didn’t really feel it. Beneath the table, you pressed your foot a little higher, up along his calf. Still, nothing. Logan barely blinked, even, he just leaned back with a small smile on his face as he listened to your father, bringing his bottle back to his mouth for another drink. Fine. You slid your foot higher, pressing along his thigh, harder this time. There was no way he wasn’t feeling this. And yet—he just went on, acting like he hadn’t noticed a thing, even though you knew he did.

But then, just when you were about to drop your foot, Logan casually reached under the table, catching your ankle in his hand. The move was so sudden you almost choked on the food you were keeping in your mouth. His fingers tightened around your ankle, holding you in place. Your hand tightened around your fork, trying to pull your foot back, but he wouldn’t let go. He made it clear that he was aware of your little game—and that he was going to win it.

You yanked your foot back hard enough to slip out of Logan’s grip, causing the table to shake. Your father paused mid-sentence, looking over at you.

“Oh, um—I think I’m full,” you forced a small laugh out, pushing your chair out from under the table as you got up.

Logan finally looked over at you, lips curling in the slightest smirk. You knew that look. “Leaving so soon, sweetheart?” He nodded toward your half-full plate, “Barely touched the food on your plate.”

Jesus Christ, was he going to be the death of you.

[jackmanwife]

welcome to JACKMANWIFE

i'm sal she / her 19 years old multifandom fanfiction writer masterlist requests are open

beatles side blog @laydownallthoughts