A little post-PP oneshot. First Person (Danny), a POV I haven't used before. I found this humerus :bone:

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Somehow, somewhere, I know Plasmius is laughing his fruitloopy ass off.

That needs explanation, doesn't it?

I blame Sam, honestly. Or maybe Tucker. Or whoever it was who first made the connection that since I'm half ghost I must be half dead. Anyway, somehow it got out that I must be half dead. That's when the questions started.

I mean, sure, after the Disasteroid things have been a little weird. First there was everyone at school being overly interested in me. I was forcibly dragged back into the A-List for a few days before I realized they weren't going to let my friends in and I told them to shove it. Then I was stalked by every goth there is. Or at least every goth in town. Or something. I don't know. But they had all these weird questions that I couldn't answer. I mean, I don't know what it's like to die; I'm not dead. Yes the Ghost Zone is a creepy, dreary place but it feels so nice to be there, like a cool breeze on a hot day. No I don't know what sleeping in a coffin is like, no I don't drink blood, no I'm not affected by sunlight or moonlight or whatever, no I'm not coming to your Halloween party, no I didn't have a funeral, no I don't want to listen to your poetry, no, no NO.

All I wanted was for people to leave me alone. I want things to go back to the way they were. Danny Fenton was a nobody, I didn't get stalked by goths, priests, and paparazzi, my parents weren't leaning over me with equipment out every time I went home, heck, I even miss Vlad being evil and nobody else knowing it.

I still blame Sam. Of course the goths know someone in the mortuary business, that's just how it works, right? Anyway some company that makes custom coffins or something got wind that I'm half dead and never had a funeral. So they called me. Well, they called my parents. I'm still under 18 so they felt they could bypass me completely and get my parents to agree.

I said no, of course. Mom told me to think about it first, of course she didn't take my protests seriously. My parents have never heard no as 'no'. They still hear no as 'I just need persuasion so bug me until I give in'. Which I'm fine with, really. Okay, not really, but they're my parents, what choice do I have? That's why I don't blame them. I blame Sam.

I blame Sam because I made the stupid mistake of flying over to her place since Tucker was busy so I could rant about the whole situation. I didn't want or need anyone's input, I just needed an understanding ear that I could vent to before telling my parents 'no' again and then staying at Tucker's for a few days until my parents realized I was serious. I didn't get that. Well, I did, but only up to a point.

As soon as the whole coffin issue was mentioned Sam's eyes got real wide and she got that glazed look I'd seen Paulina giving Phantom for the past two years. She stopped me right there and, well, I blame her.

She did this to me.

Before I knew it I was agreeing to go along with things. My parents were discussing money and things while I got shoved into a room and made up into this weird goth doll.

Now I've been under these lights for the past two hours and I'm getting really bored. It's official. Photo shoots suck. The white lily they're making me hold has been replaced like three times now because their lights wilted it. I'm seriously considering just freezing the next one and letting them deal with that.

Wait, they want me to do exactly that. Fine. I hand them the wilted flower and take a new one. I freeze it solid, a glistening, frosted sculpture of ice and death except now it's frozen to my hands. Oh joy. Fine. I lay back down in the coffin and hold the flower over my chest.

They tell me I look exquisite. That the red satin brings out the paleness of my skin and the shadows under my eyes. They painted my lips red, too, and layered more makeup over my eyes than Sam wears. My hair's been fluffed to splay out around me and I'm supposed to wink up at the camera with this come-hither look on my face.

They put me in a black suit with a red cravat... thing... tied at my throat. There's lace at my wrists and my neck and satin everywhere and ugh I'm dressed like Vlad.

I blame Sam for this.

But, hey, I can put "coffin model" on my resume now.