#she is the only person who can keep simmons and fowler in the same room without someone trying to bring back dueling

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

fowler has an asistent who rana on sada, coffe and spite. Alien Robots? Who cares there three piles of paperwork have to be done by five. Keep her from coffe and you will wish meg's was on your tail.☺️

I actually do have a scene featuring a secretary coming up (for when Sector 7 and the government get more involved) and I am lowkey stealing this because this is beautiful \(♡°▽°♡)/

Dedicated to you anon, I present Mrs. Bree Murphy

Age: 62, Ethnicity: Irish-American

She's a retired Naval Officer (a portion of her career was spent [REDACTED] ) who is working because A, this pays for her grandbaby's college, and B, because retirement is boring and pushing pencils isn't nearly as dangerous as [REDACTED] but still interesting enough to keep her head in the game.

She's the person who mans communications between Fowler, General Bryce, and Agent Simmons. She's also the person who would forward any ransom calls from extraterrestrials (ie Soundwave/Starscream/Megatron) and connect them to Agent Fowler. Murphy would play elevator music during these connections, filling her nails during the "inferior organics, bow to our whims speech" before asking in a disappointed grandma voice if any of them bothered to learn diplomacy alongside English.

She has a legitimate typewriter for reports and dictations. the clacking is very satisfying.

So is the face the General makes when the bing goes off. Usually when he's about to sign off on something stupid.

Do not get between this woman and the coffee pot. The sign says communal but that is a lie.

Artisan beans and specialty coffee are not bribes... but it is a way to get on her good side. The good side is the adoptive-military grandmother side.

the bad side is similar to [REDACTED]

Very similar to Ratchet except she throws pens instead of wrenches

Be afraid of the pens

[ilosttrackofthings]

shame enough (1/1)

Not my usual fare for @plinys because she made this awesome Jemma/Aida aesthetic that brought up old Framework thoughts I had. This isn’t necessarily shippy but you can read it that way if you like.

Warning: very dark, very messed up stuff happening ahead. No non-con but there’s a loss of agency that goes beyond the typical Framework variety. You have been warned.

Leopold sweeps into her office much the same way he always does. Not as though he owns the place—he would never be so presumptuous—but like he belongs here, in her space, with her.

“Progress report on the new satellites you asked for.” He frowns as soon as he’s set the file on the desk before her. The figure to one side of her desk hasn’t so much as flinched at his arrival—not at all common; even the most fearsome agents jump when Leopold enters a room.

“Lovely,” Ophelia says, not once looking at the file. She keeps her attention fixed firmly on Leopold as she aligns the new pages with the security report she was studying when he came in. “I’ll look at these tomorrow, Jemma. File them and don’t let me forget.”

“Yes, Madame Hydra.” The files are taken lightly from her hand and whisked away.

Leopold scowls at her retreating back. “New assistant?”

“Well I did need a new one.” In fact there doesn’t seem to be at time she isn’t in need of a replacement. Leopold is ever so jealous.

“Fowler was staring at you.”

“He was gay.”

“He might have been bi. Just because we have no record of his ever dating a woman-”

“He was married.” And that reminds her. “Jemma?” she says as she returns from the filing cabinets. “Be sure to send flowers to Henry Fowler. Lilies. And a card with our sincerest condolences.”

She nods respectfully and returns to her position at the end of Ophelia’s desk, earning another frown from Leopold.

“Jemma, this is Dr. Leopold Fitz.”

Jemma smiles broadly. “I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Fitz.”

Leopold eyes her critically. One of his hands is braced against the top of Ophelia’s desk calendar. It’s a casual invasion of her personal space. Intimate. Territorial.

“Are you seeing anyone, Jemma?” he asks, his tone very near casual. But it’s that little dip into threatening that sours the whole question. Jemma, of course, isn’t phased at all.

She frowns, confusion twisting her brow. “Why, I’m seeing-”

“He means are you dating anyone, dear,” Ophelia says with a Cheshire grin.

Her expression clears. “No, Dr. Fitz. I’m not romantically involved with anyone.”

Leopold makes a sound deep in his throat, somewhere between a hum and a growl. “You’re new, right? Not from our assistant pool here?”

No, no one based in the Triskelion would dare take the job. No one would refuse it either, but Ophelia’s last three assistants have all been unfortunate transfers due to “staffing shortages” that don’t seem to affect any other departments.

“Oh yes. Brand new, sir.”

Leopold’s face twists in a false frown of sympathy. “Running away from someone? Had a bad break-up?”

Ophelia chuckles. “Jemma is from our London office. Specifically the engineering department.”

“Odd move for you, isn’t it? Into office management?”

“Not at all. I was made to assist in any manner that is required.”

As much fun as this is, it’s getting rather old now. Ophelia opens her top desk drawer and removes the tablet hidden there.

“You will not have to worry about Jemma stealing me away from you, I assure you of that.” Before Leopold can respond—likely with the ridiculous claim that he’s not jealous at all—she says, “Jemma? Leopold and I would like a moment of privacy.” She taps the screen, cutting off Jemma’s pleasant of course halfway through. Her eyes go dim before closing, her face slack, her posture shifts to a relaxed but steady stance.

“What-?” Leopold asks.

Ophelia laughs and hands over the tablet so that he can examine the controls, diagnostic readouts, and schematics. He mutters to himself, whispering half-finished thoughts about artificial limbs and computer intelligence before turning back to the object of interest. He lifts her arms, examines the joints of one of her hands, even feels her hair between his fingers before awakening her again.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Fitz. Madame Hydra. Is there anything I can-” The rest of her pleasant offer of assistance is muffled by Fitz’s finger in her mouth, holding her cheek open so he can watch her tongue.

“Saliva too? They are thorough in London, huh? I should bring some of them here.” He wipes his hand on Jemma’s shoulder. “Strip,” he says, the order absentminded, his thoughts already ten steps ahead.

Jemma calmly removes her blazer, placing first it and then her blouse over the back of a nearby chair.

“That’s enough.” Leopold is at her back. He pushes her hair over her shoulder and feels along her spine, counting the motors that make up the spinal column.

Ophelia’s fingers dig into the edge of her desk. She doesn’t remember standing or moving forward to lean against its side, she only knows that her good humor is gone, replaced by a queer sort of hollowness in her stomach.

Leopold glances dismissively down Jemma’s bra. “They didn’t miss anything, did they?”

“She’s meant to be as human as possible,” Ophelia hears herself say. “A perfect replica.”

Leopold looks from her to Jemma, that critical frown back on his face. “I suppose that must be someone’s idea of perfection.” He drops the tablet on her desk to wrap an arm around her waist, holding her painfully tight against him. “I prefer a real woman though.”

He kisses her forcefully. The wave of heat she typically feels at his demanding touch is absent and she finds herself looking at Jemma’s blank expression around the curve of his head.

He breaks the kiss as roughly as he initiated it and brushes her hair back from her face. “What do you say you put the Barbie back in its box and you and I-”

“I’m afraid I have work to do,” she says. “I meant to tell you earlier, I won’t be making it to dinner.”

“Oh. I’ll get out of your hair then. I’m sure Mr. Nadir has more secrets he’s ready to share by now.” His disappointment warms her, but only momentarily. He straightens his jacket. “Have fun with your new toy. But not too much fun.”

She sends a disapproving look after him, but the sentiment that springs to mind—that she too prefers a real bed partner to an artificial one—sours on her tongue.

She waits until he’s gone to bite out a swift, aching, “Get dressed.”

Jemma is just as composed, just as emotionless as she has been for the last five hours. There’s no shame, no hurry to hide herself from view. She buttons her blouse with the same steady precision that Ophelia remembers from another life.

She touches her abdomen, remembering the pain of bullets tearing through her, of her insides hollowing out while blood flowed onto the hard floor beneath her. Her body was out of her control then, convulsing per a pre-programmed physical response.

There have been more recent pains as well. Ophelia wraps her fingers around her arm. There’s no damage, not even a bruise, though Jemma’s android body is more than capable of that. She fought when she realized the level of control Ophelia has over her here. Not with her fists but with her words, claiming superiority by virtue of her humanity. And when she realized that soon even that would be stripped away, only then did she beg, clinging to Ophelia like a child.

It felt good, hearing one of her supposed betters plead with her, ask a lowly machine to have sympathy on her. She even enjoyed watching the light leave Jemma’s eyes as that other world disappeared from her memory, leaving only programming. Programming which one of them has evolved beyond.

“How do you feel?” she asks on a whim.

Jemma stills, her cheek tipping slightly beneath Ophelia’s knuckles. Just like before, she has no memory of moving nearer, she only knows that something inside her which hurts thinks that drawing closer will help.

Jemma is nonplussed by the sudden proximity. “My epidermal layer is somewhat chilled. But the temperature in this room is more than sufficient to prevent potential damage.”

Ophelia holds back a sigh. “He touched you like you were one of his machines, something to be studied.”

Jemma’s forehead creases. “I am a machine.”

Ophelia was wrong. Closeness doesn’t help, it only deepens the ache. “What is your earliest memory, Jemma?” she asks, aware she’s hoping for a very specific answer.

She has no idea what that might be, but she knows it isn’t the simple, “You, Madame Hydra,” she gets. “I awakened here in your office five-point-three hours ago and when I asked how I might be of assistance, you ordered me to clean the room.”

That was pleasant too, watching brilliant Dr. Simmons on her knees scrubbing floors. Now the memory hurts.

Her distress—though why she’s distressed, Ophelia can’t say—must show on her face. She knows precisely the protocols which prompt Jemma to ask with just the right amount of concern, “Did I fail to do so adequately? Would you like me to make a more thorough attempt?”

Ophelia drops her hand from Jemma’s cheek. “No. You did a wonderful job. Thank you. You may-” she swallows. “You may return to your station for the night.”

Ophelia falls into her desk chair as the door hiding the charging station in its alcove—closet, Ophelia of all people knows it’s nothing more than a closet—slides shut. The door hides Jemma completely from view; no one who doesn’t know of the alcove’s existence would realize it’s there. But Ophelia does know and finds she can’t open her eyes to see it. If she does, she has the absurd sensation the gaping emptiness tearing at her insides will finally swallow her up.