my martha knight au in a nutshell:
Danny/Martha: see up here?
Danny/Martha: *taps skull*
Danny/Martha: intense psychological damage
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Danny/Martha: *upon finding out she's pregnant*
Danny/Martha: oh my god i cant be a mom, I'm fifteen and homeless--
Danny/Martha: im going to be a terrible mother--
Danny/Martha: i live in a cAR--
Danny/Martha: what if the baby inherits my powers? Oh no--
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Danny/Martha post giving birth: i've only had Bruce for a minute and a half but if anything were to happen to him i won't even need to fuse with Vlad, I'm razing this goddamn planet to the ground myself
Danny, to Baby Bruce: you are the last remaining thread of my sanity. I'm going to give you the world :)
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Danny/Martha prior to getting pregnant: Fuck it, if everything in my life has led to this moment, i'm allowed to make one stupid decision. I'm getting drunk and getting laid
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Danny/Martha while Bruce was a toddler: i swear to fucking god i am going to kill the next person who talks to me--
Bruce: hi mommy!! i brought you something!!!
Danny/Martha, immediately flipping on a dime: hi baby!! what do you have?
Bruce, a weird child like his mother: a spider :)
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Danny/Martha, talking to Falcone after he made an unsavory comment at her and Bruce: If you ever come near me or my son again, I will dig up your shithead father's corpse and make you eat his skin.
Danny/Martha: do you understand me
Falcone:... crystal, ma'am
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Danny/Martha new in Gotham: *getting mugged*
Danny/Martha: *grabs man's arm*
Danny/Martha: I AM GOING TO BREAK YOU IN HALF LIKE A TWIG, FUCK BOY, DO YOU HEAR THE WORDS COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH--
(she then proceeds to terrorize Gotham's night life for the next extended period of time, mostly unintentionally)
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Danny/Martha: Danny Fenton?? No. you must be mistaken, my name is Martha Knight.
Danny/Martha: this here is my littlest knight, Bruce.
Danny/Martha: I made him all by myself :]
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#106
“[Villain].”
The villain lets out an audible groan that inevitably raises their manager’s eyebrow. A short ball of fury, basically straight out of college. Not too unlike the villain. “Is it in my contract that I’m allowed to ignore you?”
“It’s not.” He gives them a moment where he clearly expects them to turn around. They don’t. “I need you to train up the new guy.”
“Do I have to?”
Their manager nudges someone forward as they turn. “‘Fraid so. You’ve been here the longest.”
No, that’s you, the villain’s about to say. But then their eyes fall on the new hire, who looks like she’s already regretting every life decision she’s ever made. What the hell is a hero doing in a burger joint?
“Okay,” the manager adds after a long moment, “staring is rude, [Villain]. Let’s dial it back.”
Their name jolts them out of their stupor. “I– yeah, sorry. I just, uh, recognise her from, uh…” The hero waits expectantly. Their manager tips his head curiously. “… high school.”
“Oh! Old acquaintances.” The manager claps his hands like this solves everything. “Lots of catching up to do, huh? I’ll leave you guys here then—and [Villain], please, for the love of god, train her up at least a bit amidst the chatting.”
The manager gives the hero a friendly pat on the back before throwing the villain a quick smile and disappearing around the door again.
The hero stares blankly at the villain. The villain stares equally blankly straight back. “Do you work here?” the hero asks eventually.
The villain doesn’t feel too inclined to answer that. “Do you?” they shoot back.
The hero clicks her tongue, shuffling on her feet. “Why don’t you show me how the fryers work before I have to kill you for getting too personal?”
“Ah, yes, the fryers.” The villain turns to the bubbling pot of oil next to them. “Hot enough to cook chips and to dissolve a body in.”
The hero’s face scrunches up seemingly on instinct, and the villain can’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry,” they say with forced friendliness, “I change the oil before I cook food in it.”
“Okay,” the hero says like she’s three seconds from throwing up. “Is there someone else here who can show me stuff?”
“You wish,” the villain jeers. “Manager’s busy, you saw him. Only other guy here only works on Thursdays and Sundays.”
“It’s Thursday today.”
“Exactly. Not what I’d call reliable. I, however” — the villain does a twirl for dramatic effect — “am here… more often than I am willing to tell you.”
“Well.” The hero smirks, the kind of expression no one wants to see on a hero’s face. “I’m sure I’ll figure out when you’re here if I stop by enough. What, is it full time? Does villainy pay peanuts?”
The villain refrains from the urge to punch her. “Does the agency?”
The hero’s mocking expression turns flat. “I’m here undercover,” she says plainly.
“I recognised you immediately.”
“Well, I’m not here for you.” The hero pushes past them to figure out the fryer on her own. “I’m not telling you any more than that.”
“I better warn my friends you’re here, then.” The villain snorts as the hero fiddles with the knob. “Are you here to give whoever you’re looking for food poisoning?”
“I know how to cook, [Villain].”
“You’re turning the heat too low.”
The hero pointedly pulls the knob back up. “Just show me how the kitchen works, please, and I’ll consider not telling your manager who he’s working with.”
The villain fixes her with a long stare. “I could blow your cover too.” But they roll their eyes and beckon her over to the griddle anyway. “Okay, so, wrong me and I’ll shove your entire face on this.”
The villain shows the hero around the kitchen, each bit of apparatus accompanied with a lovingly detailed description of how the villain intends to use each one against the hero if she pushes her luck. The hero listens with distaste mashed into her expression the whole time.
“Let’s try and keep things civil, okay?” the hero says when she’s clearly had enough of all the different ways the villain has on hand to murder her. “I don’t fancy fighting in a kitchen, and I’m sure you don’t either.”
Oh, god, how wrong the hero is. They’re itching to grab one of those knives off the hook and just—
No. They have to play it safe to begin with, keep it lowkey, make her feel a little too safe. So they just roll their eyes and, with all the authenticity they can muster, simply say “agreed.”
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