I should be working on my essay. I should be sleeping. I should be-*fanfiction drags me by my legs, chucks me onto my desk and forces me to write shit* why.

Danny Phantom and the origin of the tattoo AU don't belong to me, but I love this AU to death (no pun intended) that I had to write something on it.

Enjoy! :)

-Cheshire

Some bells aren't pleasant to listen to...especially when they're being slammed from a door.

"We got an angry customer!" Kyle bellowed. "Better take this one, Tuck."

A guffaw echoed from the corner of the parlor. "First time in a couple years he's actually done his job, eh?"

"Shut the fuck up, Randy," another muffled voice shot.

Said Tuck sighed heavily and lazily dragged his spinny office chair to the front desk, his red beret flopping over his forehead. A slight shift fixed it up again, but not without a smirk from the client in front of him. A pale, gothic, irate teenager glared at him with steely amethyst eyes. "Hey," he greeted.

The girl chewed on her gum stick for a moment longer before answering. "Hey."

"How can I help you?"

She slid a piece of printer paper onto the counter. "I'd like to get this tattooed on my back," she replied.

Tucker nodded at the design. Large, dark wings; pretty cliche for a teen like her, but hey, he wasn't paid to judge. "You're gonna want to give this to your artist-that's his job, not mine." The girl nodded. "What's your name?"

"Manson. Sam. Sam Manson."

"Thanks, Mr. Bond. And how old are you?" He pulled up the customer list tab and typed in her information.

"I'm eighteen. Um, nineteen in a month."

"Sweet. Happy early birthday." With a final tap, Tucker spun around to rifle through several files and eventually pulled out a document. "I need you to read and sign this consent form too, please." He slid the paper closer to her. Sam took the form.

"Um, pen?"

"Here," he muttered, slapping a ballpoint pen on the counter before facing back to the computer screen. Sam finished signing the paper with a small flourish, and Tucker took back the document to file away later. "How many tattoos are you getting today?" he asked.

Sam looked away for a second. Insecure or nervous? Tucker chuckled to himself. Who am I kidding. She's nervous. "Does, uh, does a pair of wings count as two?"

"Well, they're separate, man. Pretty sure that's two."

Her face morphed into a mix of angered fuming and slight humility.

Tucker laughed. "I'm just playin'. I'll take your money, thank you very much. Go in the back, my buddy Danny's gonna ink your tattoo," he said, and Sam eagerly stuffed her reference sheet into her back pocket. The receptionist stretched, standing up slowly and guiding the client into the back parlor. The ever-so-often squeal from other customers made Sam noticeably wary, but if real life goths behaved in any way that internet goths did, Tucker was ninety-percent sure she was going to be just fine.

Until she stopped at the closed curtain where her artist waited.

Don't lose your balls now, man, Tucker sighed internally. Last time somebody chickened out, it was a grown man with a Scottish beard long enough to rival Gandalf. He ended up getting some vomit stuck in those lovely facial locks. Was a pain to clean up, too.

"So, um, do I go in, or do I meet the artist, or-"

Tucker frowned. "Not to interrupt your stutter session, but do your parents know you're here?"

Sam looked ready to shoot back a snarky reply, but held her tongue. "I sort of told them I was going to the mall..."

"This is an awfully long way from the mall, and I'm pretty sure you suddenly having black angel wings and missing $120 is gonna make some eyebrows raise."

Her eyes hardened back to that determined, steely look again. "No, I'm not backing out. Just...I think I need a second before I have my skin punctured."

Tucker chewed on the inside of his cheek before pushing back the curtain. "Danny, can you grab a vomit bag? I think she's gonna hurl."

"No, I'm not!" Sam argued.

A lanky man in an Overwatch t-shirt and ragged jeans ducked out of the curtain and handed Sam a paper bag inside of a Ziploc. "I have some Pepto Bismol too, if you'd like," he offered, and Sam looked repulsed at the bag.

"I'm not feeling sick, seriously. Thanks, though," she said.

"My teenage rebellion senses are tingling, D," Tucker snickered, and aforementioned Danny punched his arm.

"It's probably her first one-is it your first one?"

Sam nodded.

Danny crossed his arms triumphantly. "Hypothesis confirmed. She's getting the willies."

Tucker stared at him. "Who the fuck says the willies anymore?"

The tattoo artist pulled a rejected look. "Obviously I've been watching Downtown Abbey when you go to your failures of online dates."

"That hurts, dude."

"Aw, that's nice."

Get over this, Sam, the client thought anxiously. They're not gonna bicker forever. You wanted to grow up, remember?

"-You stole my fucking Vaporeon! A fucking Vaporeon! That's, like, stealing an Arceus!"

"Tuck, you know that you can just get an Eevee down the street and evol-"

"No buts, Daniel! I taught that thing friggin' Surf and wasted, like, three hundred Candies to evolve it! I demand my vape god back!"

Danny rolled his eyes and shrugged, pulling out his phone. "Oh," he sighed dejectedly. "Looks like the servers are down."

"LIES. Give it here." Tucker snatched the iPhone out of his hands. After a moment's pause, his face crumpled. "That's-that's rigged. You have your WiFi on and everything, right? I mean, we share the same data but..."

"Wait, we share the hotspot?! Dude, what the fuck?! Why didn't you tell me?! My bill's been going through the roof for no reason and it's 'cause you don't have your own fuckin' WiFi-"

Tucker shushed him. "Snow White's getting over her morning sickness. Better get to it," he snickered, and Danny scowled as he stalked back into the curtained room.

"You owe me five hundred and thirty dollars!"

"You owe me a Vaporeon!"

Danny grumbled and muttered something incoherent under his breath as he prepared the needle and inking table. "I'm Danny," he introduced, shaking Sam's hand abruptly. "Sam, right? Sorry about earlier. Tell me if you still feel sick or light-headed, alright? I'd rather have you go home with a refund than a hospital with a bleeding half-tattoo."

Sam nodded. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

He polished off the tip of the needle and turned on the machine to warm it up before settling down on his stool. "So, what design do you want?"

Sam awkwardly pulled the crumpled reference tattoo sheet she printed out earlier. "I was hoping to get that done on my back?"

Danny skimmed through the reference sheet and flicked various parts of it with a slight hm and you sure you didn't rip this off of Quotev? before pinning it on the table. "You've thought about this completely through, right? Once you get a tattoo, it's there-"

"-for life," Sam finished. "I know, Mom."

Danny snickered. "Tuck, we got a sassmaster!"

"A sassmaster? Jesus. She'll be screaming shitposts as soon as you needle her twice."

Sam glowered as she took off her shirt and laid on the table. "I can take a shitload of needles, thank you very much."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "Don't share your needles, kid, you'll get STDs."

"Not those needles, I meant-you know what, never mind. Can we start, please?"

The tattoo artist grinned, handed her a leather biteguard and picked up his needle. "Pro tip: don't hold your breath."