Disclaimer: I wish I owned Logan. But I don't. I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Amy-Sherman Palladino and gang. This is purely for entertainment reasons only.

This is in response to a challenge by Jennifer over at Rory and Logan's fanfiction site, Illusive. It hasn't been uploaded yet but I wanted to spread it around. It was to base a story upon a quote:

"Kissing is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when word become superfluous."

if people like this story, I will definitely continue.

The Portrait of a Butt-faced Miscreant

"I wanted to kill him!"

Marty gulped as he stared at Rory Gilmore's murderous glare. "Down there, kitty."

Rory blew a strand of her chocolate brown hair out of her face, her blue eyes piercing with unhidden fierce contempt. "No! I mean it Marty, I really felt complete and total hatred for him. If I could have wrung his neck, taken his eyes out of his sockets and made sure he was never gratified or happy for any moment of his skanky, whore-filled life I would have. I mean, he didn't even have the decency to apologize! The whole thing was my fault because I was too uptight!"

"Now, Rory, violence—"

One look from Rory and Marty clipped his mouth shut. "Right. Anyway, you need to control your rage. Especially when it comes to all things Logan Huntzberger," Marty laughed uneasily, not liking the look in her eyes.

"I need to get back at him. This won't just stay like this. Logan Huntzberger is going to regret messing with me!"

"Yeah, well—"

"Can you answer me one thing, Marty? Why are all men like this? It's like you take some kind of evil, perverse thrill over embarrassing them?! What on earth makes you think that it is charming and comedic?!"

Marty gulped, and knew much better then to argue with an angry Rory Gilmore. "We're sorry," he offered apologetically.

"As you all should be. You're idiotic."

Marty nodded solemnly. "Completely."

"Sophomoric."

"The majority."

"Useless!"

"Hey now—"

"Hate, hate, hate men."

"Now, now. You know you love me," Marty teased, trying his best to uplift her spirits. He didn't know why it annoyed him so much, knowing that Logan could get to her so badly.

"Humph. You belong to their gender. I think that's quite enough reason."

Marty looked at her consolingly. While the last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with Rory based on Logan, he'd rather it be anger-induced rather then having her admit what he secretly knew—that she was falling for Logan just as much as he was, her.

"I think I know what you need," Marty decided triumphantly. "You need more coffee."

A small smile danced on Rory's lips. "Sorry for lashing out at you."

Marty shrugged. "It's what I'm here for."

"You're such a good friend, Marty."

Rory didn't notice his smile falter as he walked away.

Instead, her mind returned to think about the blonde-haired, brown-eyed man—He Who Shall Not Be Named. She knew why she was so angry, of course. But wouldn't dare admit it to Marty, or anyone else for that matter. She would live in heavenly denial because it was better then admitting it.

Rory had lived her entire life as an intensely private girl. She was logical, and she needed to have her life planned out, to the very last detail of her entire existence. Every aspect needed to be ordered and no surprises would steer her off course. She had her goals and was driven enough to go after them. She liked reading and was fond of poetry. She was addicted to books and coffee, not to Logan Huntzberger. Who cared of he was handsome and charming? She wasn't that kind of girl. She was quiet and unassuming and smelled books. She did not think about ravishing blondes—one in particular—every time her eyes were set on his.

Rory was accustomed to fitting the good girl role. She liked playing her because it was safe. She was safe inside her books and her academic ambition. She was safe with Paris and Marty and the life she had made for herself at Yale. Logan and his world… they were anything but safe.

A thought popped into her head, and she smiled deviously as she began cooking up her plan of attack.

Logan wouldn't know what hit him.

Logan had always vowed he'd never let anyone see what they would never understand. He would never, ever open himself up to what he knew would leave him stripped to who he was. Because, surely, they would expose those wounds, just for the sheer gratification of seeing the smart-aleck playboy was capable of feeling.

He was safe inside the womanizing charmer. He was practically venerated like fucking god, not a little boy who had no idea how to love or what to do.

He hadn't wanted anyone to see the truths that he tried so hard to fade away. It was truly what he'd wanted.

And then she came along.

She wasn't like any other beautiful girl. She was smart and wonderful and kind, and never took crap. There's something about the way he felt she could see right through him. It intrigued him thoroughly, to say the least.

He'd studied Rory Gilmore. Loved her quirky, mile-a-minute way of speaking, the way she'd always tug at the corner of her lower lip with her teeth every time she was nervous, the serious concentration she'd employ every time she'd read a book, the sweet way she'd treat her friends, and kindness. She was effortlessly kind, even if she didn't try to be—even if it wasn't with him. Rory had a large effect on him, more so then he was ever willing to admit. It was weird, how deeply he cared about what she thought.

It was not just weird, but pathetic. Because he was Logan. Totally confident. He never needed to try; girls were always flocking to him. And this beautiful girl, that seemed to him unreachable somehow, left him a mumbling incoherence. She was really oblivious to her beauty—she had no idea what she truly looked like. It had almost been instinct, the way he'd flirt with her, the way he'd just blurt things out, things that came genuinely from deep inside of him, as if it were the easiest thing to do. Playing a prank on her, while stupid, was impulsive because he wanted her to notice, wanted her to remember that he existed.

Truly, truly pathetic.

And clearly, not the way to Rory Gilmore's heart.

He knew he should stay away. He hated tangled webs. He hated strings. He'd always been repulsed by the idea of an actual relationship. Logan had always stressed his need to be free and independent.

And yet…

He found himself wanting to be around her. Not because he'd wanted to sleep with her like he had with so many other girls. Of course, he was insanely attracted to her, wanted her like he'd never wanted anyone in his entire life. But it wasn't the only reason. Logan just wanted to know the remarkable person that he knew was inside of her. Her favorite food, what made her laugh, or cry, what hurt… he actually wanted to learn about the books she read, simply because she liked them so much. Wanted to be able to hold an intellectual conversation with her because she was so goddamn smart. Wanted to rip out Marty's arm every time it would encase Rory's shoulder. Wanted to have her in his arms all day and keep her. Have her belong to him, as caveman as he sounded.

He wanted to show her the world because she seemed to sheltered, and challenge her to what he knew she could be. He was just so certain that underneath her quiet surface there was hidden fire waiting to be incensed. There was contained passion and an almost edge to her he knew was just waiting to get out.

And Logan also knew he was the person to make the real Rory Gilmore come out and play.

Case and point, she had gotten him back good. And enlisted her grandfather's help, no less.

And almost as if his mind had willed her into reality, he noticed she was sitting inside of the library, as always, a thick book in front of her as he scribbled in her notepad furiously.

Logan grinned felinely. Time to get Rory Gilmore talking to him again.

And Logan never backed down from what he wanted.

"Hey there, Ace."

Rory groaned in disbelief, cursing her fate. She didn't need to turn around to see who was there. She could perfectly envision Logan hunched over her seat, his face near her ear as he whispered his so-called smooth words.

Oddly enough she was not disappointed at the close distance between them. She was slightly preoccupied at her heart racing wildly and her breath was catching in her throat as she felt his mouth near her ear.

He seemed to be having similar thoughts to hers, because he turned to look down at her hesitantly, and because she was frozen, she couldn't move. He shifted, almost unnoticeably, and yet his nose was brushing hers

"Logan. You do know you're in the library, don't you?" she asked, feigning shock, eyes wide as saucers.

He smirked. "Cute," he answered, sitting across from her and grabbing one of her books. "What are you doing?"

And as he neared her, she was surprised by the feeling of electric current inside of her. It made her heart flutter inside of her rib cage, and her toes curl deliciously. It made her aware of everything, as if all her senses multiplied ten fold, as if Logan's presence multiplied as well—his stride, his poise, his almost elegance at the way he carried himself demanded your attention wherever he was.

"Studying. Foreign concept, I know," she added once she saw the face he made to portray his distaste.

"Ah, Rory. You really should stop wracking your brain with all of this useless information. And instead, fulfill your time in something much more worthwhile. So, what do you say? You. Me. Shower sex."

"Logan…"

"I am sorry for the prank, Rory. Which is why we need make-up sex. You are my fiancé, after all."

She flushed, giving him the anticipated reaction. The red, a mixture of blush and anger, reached her cheeks and made her look adorable. "I can't believe I ever entertained the thought of you being anything other then an arrogant self-serving jerk."

He grinned at her cheekily. "Thoughts of me entertain you, Ace?"

She glared at him. "Of course they do. Every time I picture myself hurting you violently in a variety of different ways makes me heart overspill with glee. In fact, right about now, I'm practicing, unbeknownst to you, a very widely known form of Chinese torture. Involves claws, I'll have you know."

"Kinky! I knew you were wild inside."

She rolled her eyes, standing up and proceeding to put all of her materials in her bag, trying hard not to look at him. His feet were resting in the table, one on top of the other, his hands in the back of his head and the smirk set in his face. As it always was.

She wanted to wipe if off his damn mouth along with his sexual innuendos and unnecessary existence.

"Whatever."

"Where ya going?" he asked confused, standing up and following her lead.

"Away from you," was what she answered.

Logan amusedly watched her as she walked away in her confident strut. "I'll call you!"

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