[Tangled] The Snuggly Duckling Finishing School of Romance 2/?
It looks like this thing is going to end up somewhere in the range of 5-7 chapters, which is about twice as long as I'd thought originally. Isn't that just typical? LOL I hope to have part 3 done Friday, if not sooner.
Title: The Snuggly Duckling Finishing School of Romance
Status: Incomplete Series Fic
Date Chapter Completed: December 27, 2011
Series: Disney's Tangled
Genres: Humor, Romance, Buddyfic
Rating: 10+ for a little language
Pairing: Eugene/Rapunzel
Summary: Who would've thought that the best teachers in the ways of the heart would be hulking, hairy, tattooed, walking armories? Eugene plans to pop the question to Rapunzel on her birthday, that is, if he can survive the pub thugs' assistance.
Parts I
Now properly dressed, brushed, and shaven, and still feeling more than a little sick at heart and stomach, I take one last look at the handsome visage looking back at me (bloodshot, baggy eyes; flared nostrils; lower lip anxiously gnawed a bit too hard; clenched fingers) and breath in deeply.
"Alright, Eugene-Fitzherbert-Flynn-Rider-You-Fabulous-Man-You, enough talking to yourself in a mirror. Talking to yourself blindly in person is obviously perfectly okay though." Oh, haha, I am calm; I am centered. I absolutely am. Time to get to work.
Pacing the sun-drenched exterior corridors of the royal apartments is a great way to think, for the record. You can really get the blood moving through the legs, up through stomach and torso, and hope it hits the brain and that you'll actually be able to think and strategize like the high-functioning human you purport to be.
Now to figure out exactly how to begin. If I'm going to propose on her birthday, I'm going to do it grandly and memorably. I am going to do it right.
Oh man, I need someone to talk to about this! I've never tried to marry a girl before! How is it done? Popular culture makes it seem so easy: get down on one knee, pop out a giant sparkly ring that you must have financed through theft or the selling of an organ (bodily or instrumental), and the sappiest, most exactly perfect words will just flow forth in an effortless stream.
Yeah, that's not happening.
This will be, what, the tenth time I've tried proposing to Rapunzel?
First, there were the times when I couldn't quite get the words out: at the big welcome back party when I was more than a little intoxicated and it just seemed a bit too soon; one morning about two weeks after that at breakfast when she knew exactly how I like my eggs without being told; at the first ball when I saw her in full royal regalia, so beautiful and strong yet so unsure in her rouged cheeks and mouth, full skirts, and jewel-encrusted slippers; and when the queen invited me to study the kingdom's history, statecraft, and court etiquette along with Rapunzel, and she met me at the classroom doorway, giddy and with a smudge of ink already on her cheekbone.
Then there was the time when I did get the words out, as I carried her up to her room after a very long and trying day, and she relaxed completely and trustingly into my arms, warm, soft, cuddly, perfectly feminine and, oh, how I was a gentleman though it pained me. It was only after I'd asked that I realized she was asleep before I started the first word.
Even worse, there were the times when my motives were misinterpreted. Once when she was crying and she just thought I wanted to make her feel better. Once when I slipped up behind her and snaked my arms around her waist while I murmured in her ear, opting for the daring approach, and got a frying pan to the face for my troubles. I'd almost missed that feeling. Once when we were paging through the royal genealogy and she dissolved into giggles at my (admittedly flippantly-worded) suggestion that we join our respective bloodlines. And once more when I tripped all over my own tongue when she emerged soaking wet and nearly transparently clothed from the fountain after leaping in to rescue a struggling kitten. I will concede, however, that I was thinking the most ignoble of thoughts at that time and it probably showed.
In summary, my history as a husband-to-be has been somewhat disastrous. I have at least never given her a ring that she's accidentally ingested though, so I suppose there is some hope.
This time I am going to get it right. I've got one shot at a birthday proposal that Rapunzel will remember forever and won't be ashamed to talk about for decades to come. Hopefully she won't end up talking about it for decades because she finds it hilarious.
You know, all of this would really be so much simpler if Rapunzel would just come to her senses, realize what an amazing catch I am, and ask me to marry her. Oh, sure, I'd play hard to get for awhile-I do want her to respect me and want me for something more than my gloriously ripped body-but we all know I'd cave like a caved-in mine thingy.
Okay, I really, really need some kind of help here. An experienced man to guide me. My options? Not exactly endless.
The king is an obvious choice, of course. The thing is, I don't really want to talk to the king about this. Can you say awkward? You can't talk to a girl's father about wanting to marry her! Well, you can. Some might even say you should, or even have to, particularly with royalty. A lot of stuff rides on royal marriages after all: treaties and international boundaries and world peace, stuff like that.
Why on earth would they let me marry Rapunzel? The only thing saving me from being a complete nobody is my infamy.
Okay, stop, breathe, center. I'm on the third tier eastern corridor. The omnipresent sunbursts are joined here by row after row of potted as well as artistically rendered figs. The kingdom is a vast checkered quilt spread out in a comfy embrace around me. I will be rational and calm, and I will get this done.
The funny thing is that I've already got dear ole dad's permission to go forth and court his little girl. Yep, parental approval secured, signed, sealed, and delivered (in writing even; I didn't get to where I am today without covering a few bases), and who ever thought that'd happen? (If you want that story, you'll have to ask him yourself.)
You see, the issue (the embarrassment, the shame, the humiliation) isn't the king knowing that I want to marry his daughter; it's him knowing that I want to marry her but I don't know how to ask her. How to ask her in a way that she'd be guaranteed to say yes, I mean.
So the king's out. Who else? I am admittedly somewhat lacking in the positive male role models department. I mean, really, who else can I survey? The palace guards? Oooh, there's an option. They certainly spend enough time observing her-without all the smart-alecky looks and comments I get for the exact same thing-that they should know all the little nooks and crannies that lead to her heart. (I'm actually kind of jealous. Wonder how I'd look strapped into a kettle too?) But nope. I might have been forgiven for my grandiose getaway as aided by the Snuggly Duckling gang-that bit about saving the long lost princess certainly helps-but I doubt I'm quite back in their good graces after a minor incident last week involving a borrowed, priceless suit of armor, a bed sheet, and a wheelbarrow full, and I mean full of tomatoes.
Ah, here comes Conli now.
"Hey, man! How's it going? Any tortoise uprisings to foil lately? No? That's fabulous! Hey, I need some advice. Think you could spare a minute?"
And... nope. They're definitely not over it. If this was a just world, I should have spontaneously combusted down into ash just now.
Wait a minute... Snuggly Duckling gang...
Hmm, there are only about a million of them. One of them has to have had a successful romantic relationship.
Well, damn.
The pub thugs it is.
Next chapter
Title: The Snuggly Duckling Finishing School of Romance
Status: Incomplete Series Fic
Date Chapter Completed: December 27, 2011
Series: Disney's Tangled
Genres: Humor, Romance, Buddyfic
Rating: 10+ for a little language
Pairing: Eugene/Rapunzel
Summary: Who would've thought that the best teachers in the ways of the heart would be hulking, hairy, tattooed, walking armories? Eugene plans to pop the question to Rapunzel on her birthday, that is, if he can survive the pub thugs' assistance.
Parts I
Now properly dressed, brushed, and shaven, and still feeling more than a little sick at heart and stomach, I take one last look at the handsome visage looking back at me (bloodshot, baggy eyes; flared nostrils; lower lip anxiously gnawed a bit too hard; clenched fingers) and breath in deeply.
"Alright, Eugene-Fitzherbert-Flynn-Rider-You-Fabulous-Man-You, enough talking to yourself in a mirror. Talking to yourself blindly in person is obviously perfectly okay though." Oh, haha, I am calm; I am centered. I absolutely am. Time to get to work.
Pacing the sun-drenched exterior corridors of the royal apartments is a great way to think, for the record. You can really get the blood moving through the legs, up through stomach and torso, and hope it hits the brain and that you'll actually be able to think and strategize like the high-functioning human you purport to be.
Now to figure out exactly how to begin. If I'm going to propose on her birthday, I'm going to do it grandly and memorably. I am going to do it right.
Oh man, I need someone to talk to about this! I've never tried to marry a girl before! How is it done? Popular culture makes it seem so easy: get down on one knee, pop out a giant sparkly ring that you must have financed through theft or the selling of an organ (bodily or instrumental), and the sappiest, most exactly perfect words will just flow forth in an effortless stream.
Yeah, that's not happening.
This will be, what, the tenth time I've tried proposing to Rapunzel?
First, there were the times when I couldn't quite get the words out: at the big welcome back party when I was more than a little intoxicated and it just seemed a bit too soon; one morning about two weeks after that at breakfast when she knew exactly how I like my eggs without being told; at the first ball when I saw her in full royal regalia, so beautiful and strong yet so unsure in her rouged cheeks and mouth, full skirts, and jewel-encrusted slippers; and when the queen invited me to study the kingdom's history, statecraft, and court etiquette along with Rapunzel, and she met me at the classroom doorway, giddy and with a smudge of ink already on her cheekbone.
Then there was the time when I did get the words out, as I carried her up to her room after a very long and trying day, and she relaxed completely and trustingly into my arms, warm, soft, cuddly, perfectly feminine and, oh, how I was a gentleman though it pained me. It was only after I'd asked that I realized she was asleep before I started the first word.
Even worse, there were the times when my motives were misinterpreted. Once when she was crying and she just thought I wanted to make her feel better. Once when I slipped up behind her and snaked my arms around her waist while I murmured in her ear, opting for the daring approach, and got a frying pan to the face for my troubles. I'd almost missed that feeling. Once when we were paging through the royal genealogy and she dissolved into giggles at my (admittedly flippantly-worded) suggestion that we join our respective bloodlines. And once more when I tripped all over my own tongue when she emerged soaking wet and nearly transparently clothed from the fountain after leaping in to rescue a struggling kitten. I will concede, however, that I was thinking the most ignoble of thoughts at that time and it probably showed.
In summary, my history as a husband-to-be has been somewhat disastrous. I have at least never given her a ring that she's accidentally ingested though, so I suppose there is some hope.
This time I am going to get it right. I've got one shot at a birthday proposal that Rapunzel will remember forever and won't be ashamed to talk about for decades to come. Hopefully she won't end up talking about it for decades because she finds it hilarious.
You know, all of this would really be so much simpler if Rapunzel would just come to her senses, realize what an amazing catch I am, and ask me to marry her. Oh, sure, I'd play hard to get for awhile-I do want her to respect me and want me for something more than my gloriously ripped body-but we all know I'd cave like a caved-in mine thingy.
Okay, I really, really need some kind of help here. An experienced man to guide me. My options? Not exactly endless.
The king is an obvious choice, of course. The thing is, I don't really want to talk to the king about this. Can you say awkward? You can't talk to a girl's father about wanting to marry her! Well, you can. Some might even say you should, or even have to, particularly with royalty. A lot of stuff rides on royal marriages after all: treaties and international boundaries and world peace, stuff like that.
Why on earth would they let me marry Rapunzel? The only thing saving me from being a complete nobody is my infamy.
Okay, stop, breathe, center. I'm on the third tier eastern corridor. The omnipresent sunbursts are joined here by row after row of potted as well as artistically rendered figs. The kingdom is a vast checkered quilt spread out in a comfy embrace around me. I will be rational and calm, and I will get this done.
The funny thing is that I've already got dear ole dad's permission to go forth and court his little girl. Yep, parental approval secured, signed, sealed, and delivered (in writing even; I didn't get to where I am today without covering a few bases), and who ever thought that'd happen? (If you want that story, you'll have to ask him yourself.)
You see, the issue (the embarrassment, the shame, the humiliation) isn't the king knowing that I want to marry his daughter; it's him knowing that I want to marry her but I don't know how to ask her. How to ask her in a way that she'd be guaranteed to say yes, I mean.
So the king's out. Who else? I am admittedly somewhat lacking in the positive male role models department. I mean, really, who else can I survey? The palace guards? Oooh, there's an option. They certainly spend enough time observing her-without all the smart-alecky looks and comments I get for the exact same thing-that they should know all the little nooks and crannies that lead to her heart. (I'm actually kind of jealous. Wonder how I'd look strapped into a kettle too?) But nope. I might have been forgiven for my grandiose getaway as aided by the Snuggly Duckling gang-that bit about saving the long lost princess certainly helps-but I doubt I'm quite back in their good graces after a minor incident last week involving a borrowed, priceless suit of armor, a bed sheet, and a wheelbarrow full, and I mean full of tomatoes.
Ah, here comes Conli now.
"Hey, man! How's it going? Any tortoise uprisings to foil lately? No? That's fabulous! Hey, I need some advice. Think you could spare a minute?"
And... nope. They're definitely not over it. If this was a just world, I should have spontaneously combusted down into ash just now.
Wait a minute... Snuggly Duckling gang...
Hmm, there are only about a million of them. One of them has to have had a successful romantic relationship.
Well, damn.
The pub thugs it is.
Next chapter