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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Maid!Reader
Tags: DRABBLE!!!, being held against a wall hehe, Mission: The Gilded Cage, identity porn, jk, Tacitus Kilgore, NO SMUT, sexual tension, Arthur awakening something in Reader, no use of y/n, Kabedon ig, minor mentions of mistreatment when Pierre slaps Marie
Summary: I was struck by the idea of Arthur Morgan holding Reader with an hand over her mouth to keep her quiet during a mission, I needed to share.
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Work, work and more work. That seems to be the only constant in your life, a stream of labour: sweeping, washing, polishing, tidying, and watering the plants.
“At least we are never bored” Says Millicent, scrubbing down a porcelain pot, the hanging leaves of the Areca repeatedly hitting her face while she kneels on the marble floors.
Your own knees are tired and raw. You pull up your stockings from over your black uniform and whine.
“It seems there is always one party or another for mister Lemieux” says Millicent, swatting at the leaves of the palm with an angry hand.
You nod in agreement, looking at your shoes with a frown. You started working here only a few months ago. In truth even then it wasn’t the first time you saw the Villa. The mayor often hires girls from the city to work on the extravagant parties when needed. It was there you managed to be noticed and picked by the head of the house to work full time in the mayor’s villa.
A good accomplishment for a country mouse, that is what Millicent told you on your first day, looking at you up and down with an eyebrow raised. She had shoved you around to show you the villa, and from that day you have slaved away along the rest of the staff under Pierre’s ever watchful eye. The man is exceedingly neat and accepts nothing but perfection from the maids and servants. The butler is fast to anger, and known for berating and slapping any servant who steps out of order.
The work regime is strict, especially when parties and conferences are organized in the villa.
“Oh, stupid girl!” Whines Millicent, grabbing the silver pot from your hand, you were wiping it down, hands dark with Hagerty polish, the old bottle is stained in dark spots, and so are your hands, raw from scrubbing and now black with residue.
“That is Marie’s work, you need to go tidy the master bedroom, it is noon already!” she squeals, as if only now remembering. Sometimes Millicent is as fastidious as Pierre, and it is no wonder she seems to be the only woman in the building Pierre can stand. You scoff, wiping your hands on the cleanest corner of the rag and moving upstairs to the bedrooms.
“My goodness,” You mumble to yourself. You can see Pierre and Monsieur Lemieux walking back and forth in front of the wide windowpane that gives to the balcony. They talk, their backs held stiffly by the tight wool of their jackets. The alabaster light pours into the room and lights them with a white sheen, making their silhouettes shimmer against the marble of the walls.
You see men filter in and out the villa everyday, all standing and prancing with a bearing that speak of confidence and power, those who shape this city, in good and in bad, who decide the fortune of people like you. You make their beds, fluff their pillows, clean their workspace, dust their floors, and at the end of the day they decide if you ought to go home to comfort or misery.
You think this, remembering their faces, lit up by strange lights and stranger smiles, as you pull the sheets over Monsieur Lemieux’s bed, making it just as he likes it, with the pillows laid atop the duvet and not under, and the sheets tucked tight under the mattress.
Your back strains when you lift the corners of the huge mattress up to slip your hands underneath it, where the brass bedframe gives way to the iron skeleton. It has nothing to do with your measly rope bed back home, the sagging mattress and narrow walls.
Once the bed is done and ready you move to the window, sweeping the dust off the oak windowsill. Below, the gardens open up, lined in tufts of green and colorful flowers, the bayou stretches far, a grey and yellow line of fog in which the trees sink and disappear. You can look at it between the groves of the oak trees, where their branches hang low and shed light on the paved trails of the garden. An heron sits atop the gazebo, pointing its beak to the horizon. The shimmer of its plumes interrupts the peaceful grey of the sky.
Nothing will ever belong to people like you, something mean in your heart says.
The party is grandiose. You and Marie have been rushing up and down the stairs dangerously all night, trying not to slip and stumble as you go about your chores. The kitchen is in disarray, no matter how much you and the other girls tend to it, the amount of food being carted out is dizzying.
While the ladies and gentlemen outside hide their demure laughter behind fans and pristine gloves, the cooks yell obscenities at you and your colleagues, barking at you to go faster, spittle falling into the plates.
“Here I come!” You call out, swiping your hair back under your lace cap, pushing the cart of lobster tarts outside the kitchen, mostly as an excuse to get out of the heat. The ovens sputter, like angry dragons stuck behind oily iron grills.
Outside, in the fair gardens, la creme de la creme of Saint Denis socialites huddle in neat groups and chat. They barely glance at you when you go to refill the plates and collect the used ones.
“Why are the kitchens so slow?” Hisses Enrique, holding a bottle of champagne worth five times your hourly wage in a palm. A pristine white towel hangs off his elbow. You give it a distasteful glance before going back to your chores.
“I am not the cook, Enrique,” you say. He sputters, then smiles widely when a woman in a fine crimson dress holds out her crystal glass to him. He fills it with a flourish and a polite bow before going back to scolding you.
“When you go back tell them to hurry!” He says.
You nod obediently, and cart away the plates with a rattle of metal. By the main staircase sits a woman in a peacock colored dress, she fans herself dramatically and complains between puffs of a long cigarette. Her voice is loud enough to distract you from your work for a moment. When you glance back at the party Enrique is looking at you with a set of angry eyes, they set you into motion.
When you attempt to cart the plates into the villa from the back entrance you are stopped by a perfumed bunch of elegant guests, who filter out of the door laughing and chatting. The women are wearing fashionable gowns, with intricate lace bodices and expensive ivory brooches, the men stand straight in their tailored jackets, silk cravats and shiny top hats. You shy away from them, feeling embarrassed just by looking at them. Your hair sticks out of your bonnet and to your forehead, and your feet are swollen and ache in the press of your leather boots. You feel small around them, suddenly taken by shyness.
You push the cart towards the main entrance to the house, hoping not to encounter any fancy guests on the way there. The plates and silverware clatters when you trek over the garden’s uneven flooring.
You seem to be in no luck, at the entrance of the villa is a carriage, polished a slick black, pulled by strong horses who neigh restlessly under the weight of their harnesses. A number of men climb out of the fancy carriage, not a lady in sight. They are all finely dressed, but their gait is not as elegant as that of the rich socialites of Saint Denis. There is a feral hesitance in their steps, their shoulders are broad and their eyes are unkind.
You stop in the shadow, curiously peering around the corner of the flower arch to study the men.
They are not familiar to you, and their accents, when they greet the servitude while entering, are not French, nor British, nor from New York, like most guests’. They sound like roughened men from the West frontier, and you wonder if that is the case. Perhaps Oil traders, or enriched sheriffs.
They shoulder past the entrance, puffing on expensive cigars, escorted by a short, spindly looking Italian.
You jump. Marie is standing next to you, carrying piles of dirty porcelain plates. She grins, unaffected by your sudden stupor.
“Something interesting?” She asks, looking in the direction of the doors that are now closing behind the strange company.
“The mayor has some strange guests tonight. Men from the West… I think.” You tell her. She makes a sound of awe.
“Should we follow them?” says Marie after a moment of quiet.
“Do not be silly…” You answer with a shake of your head.
“Why not? Are they not handsome?” she insists, you both move to enter the Villa, looking around to see if anyone is listening to your gossip.
“I can't say,” You admit, smiling. The doors to the kitchen open with maids and scullions carrying food in and out. You stop just outside, avoiding the flurry of servants. Marie makes a sound, adjusting the plates in her hold.
“Well, I will try to look at the guests anyways, the gowns sure is beautiful tonight,” Gushes Marie, her eyes twinkling with wonder, she glances in the direction of the balcony, as if imagining the wide skirts and puff sleeves just outside. Girls like you can only dream about certain things.
You smile “I can’t, Enrique is keeping track of me, and God only knows what he would tell Pierre if he finds me slacking.” You whine. Marie nods and slips away, returning the plates to the kitchens to be washed, leaving without comment and being swallowed again by work. You hurry to follow.
Your feet hurt, you have been standing by this table for the longest time. Even the ladies that were dancing are now sitting on ledges and benches to let their feet rest, pleasantly pink on the cheeks and windswept.
You stand near the table, close to the tall bushes, responding to every and each request of the guests.
In front of you one of the strange men you saw earlier is talking to a crowd, explaining he comes from Quebec. He has a pleasant voice, croaking and charming and an head of grey hair. You listen to him in half interest, trying to keep your mind from the ache of your feet.
Another one of them walks into your field of vision, greeting people stiffly when they pass by. You focus on him, in your boredom. You can tell he is one of the new guests by the confident slope of his shoulders. Your eye narrow, focusing intently on his movements.
He is a tall man, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hips, dirty blonde hair swept back and parted neatly off the side. His face is blemished, rough and tan. He has an air of strange wildness hidden below his dark eyebrows, where the skin sags to hide his eyes ever so slightly, deepening the crease of his brow. He has a regular nose and a beard that is cut neat and close to the skin. He is handsome.
You suddenly feel the need to study him more. He moves, slowly, confidently off to the side, staring at the guests.
Your vision of the man is interrupted by a wall of embroidered silk and a tartan gilet. You lift your eyes to be met with a pair of wide one, sunk into a pale face. A man wearing an expensive gold monocle is looking at you.
“Miss, may you tell me if this is lamb patè, or something different perhaps?” Says the eccentric looking man, bringing a tarte to his nose. You widen your eyes.
“Oh– I believe it is duck, mister, and these are salted peanuts” You point to the platter. The man hums in theatrical satisfaction and plucks the peanuts from the plate. You look past him, trying to catch another glance of the handsome stranger who was standing by the greenery but you have lost sight of him.
You step back with some disappointment, your heels hurt in your boots when you swing back on them.
Suddenly the sound of choking and spluttering interrupts your thoughts. The eccentric fellow who just asked you about the tarts is choking on a peanut, sputtering on the floor and half bent over so that you can see the line of his corset cutting into the fabric of his jacket. You gasp, horrified, and rush to his side, holding your hands awkwardly midair over his back. In your haste you do not know what to do.
Before you can call out for help the wide man you were staring at prances over, and takes a hold of the choking gentleman, squeezing him hard and tight until the peanut is finally dislodged from his throat and pushed out on the floor in a glob of spit. You slide to the side, looking in wonder at the unlikely hero.
“Oh, thank you!” Whimpers the fancy man, clearing his throat from the shock of choking. The westerner pats his back with broad palms.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is rough as gravel, deep, unsophisticated in a way that feels familiar to you and somehow comforting after hours of hearing the snickering of high society
“Thank you, killed by a pesky peanut, what a terrible way to go!” exclaims the dramatic gentleman, patting his chest over the tartan gilet.
The rough stranger looks at you, noticing where you were cowering behind the corner of the table. He sends you a nod, you nod back, a bit shaky and still surprised. It may be the first time tonight that one of the guests acknowledges your silent presence with some humanity. Now that he is closer you get a better look at him. He truly is as handsome as you thought, although not as clean as the tidy gentleman around him. The wildness of his features give away a strange sort of honesty. It is a face much more similar to those you are used to seeing in the countryside, back in your youth many men had palms as broad and calloused and hair as wild.
The other man unfurls like some exotic flower and introduces himself as Algernon Wasp, thanking the man and passing him a neatly printed card.
“Tacitus Kilgore” Says the man in return. You file the information away, feeling your cheeks grow pink. You take to adjusting the display of champagne glasses just to avoid the sight of the wide stranger. Tacitus Kilgore. You repeat it to yourself.
When you lift your eyes again he is looking at you while tucking the card away in the lapel of his jacket. You stare right back, until he has turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd again.
You couldn’t help but be nosy. It is not hard to be nosy when working as a maid. You always hover above these interesting folks, and they ignore you as one does any light fixture, brass handle, picture frame or dirty carpet. As if you were merely an object, they pass you by without a care, and speak of their affairs knowing you have no way of ever using information against them.
Gossip may be the only silver lining of the oppressive weight of servitude.
It is no wonder you keep your eyes on Tacitus all night. He is easy to spot, so much more imposing than the rest, with a gait so distinct, and a voice so rough and suave. It takes you very little to spot him among the crowd.
You perhaps shouldn’t have lingered by the fountain, spying the party when you saw him approach the veranda. Not after all the warnings Enrique has sent you tonight.
You look at the handsome stranger trail suspiciously at the side of the villa, watching his back. You follow him as long as you can from the glass door, then hear the front door open and Pierre talking to the servants about this and that.
“Marie! Marie! Find that little reprobate jip and beat him!” you hear him call out.
You attempt to escape from the main room, and disappear in the hallway at your right, still intrigued by the strange whereabouts of Mister Kilgore, who you just saw disappear out of the crowd and off the side of the building. But Pierre weighs heavier on your mind, you shouldn’t be here, and he seems already in a foul mood.
Marie appears then, rushing down the stairs with a grin. You initially think she must have heard him call for her, but she proves you wrong.
“Are you watching the party?” she asks, you stutter, halfway to the corridor to hide from Pierre. You want to warn her the butler is coming but end up simply shaking your head, confused and a bit hurried.
“We have to get back,” You tell her, hoping it is enough of a warning, but she simply goes back to looking out the glass panes at the swirling of guests. The music slips in, dulled by the windows.
You shake your head and walk away, to hide from Pierre who is sure to admonish you if he were to see you here and not in the kitchens.
When you cut the corner you can hear his fine leather shoes tapping on the bicolored marble of the flooring. It distracts you and you slam into a solid wall of flesh. A pristine black coat, smelling strongly of cigar, invades your vision.
You can hear Pierre’s shoes squeak on the marble floor, but you can’t focus on him, as a hand presses to your mouth, choking out whatever sound of surprise you can push out, and a big arm wraps itself around your shoulders to keep you from falling backwards.
“Sshhh, Sssh, quiet now” Whispers a man, so close to you his breath hits your temple.
When you look up it is the sun burnt face of Tacitus Kilgore you see. His eyes are stormy, focused on you and angry. You want to yelp in confusion, but the hand presses even harder against your mouth, until you can practically taste the silk of his gloves.
He lifts a finger to his lips to invite you to shut up, as if his hand was not still clutched over your mouth. You can feel the temperature of your face rise, making you stutter. His body presses you hard to the wall, his full weight over your front, making your back flatten to the marble as much as your corset allows.
You whimper behind the glove, and receive another squeeze that invites you to shut up.
“Have you lost your mind? I said, have you lost your mind?!” Complains the butler just behind the wall.
Tacitus presses you into the wall and leans over the archway giving to the room, looking at the scene with severe eyes. You look at him while he is distracted, he is wild looking, even more than you initially thought. His nose has been broken before and his face is marred in small scars and blemishes you can’t fully blame on the sun. A mean scar interrupts the clean skin of his chin.
Your breath catches in your throat, he is very handsome and very close.
He shouldn’t be inside, it is not allowed for guests to be in the Villa with the party ongoing. But you can’t force the words out, moving ever so slightly to peer at the scene as well. Tacitus’ grip loosens over your mouth, moving to your shoulder to keep you tucked behind the archway so they won’t spot you.
Marie is too busy looking at the floor to see you two anyways.
“Come here… Look at me- I said look at me!” Says Pierre before the crack of a slap interrupts the silence. Marie whimpers in pain and you squeeze your eyes tight, afraid Pierre may find you too, and mildly guilty for not warning her of his arrival.
Tacitus tightens his palm over your shoulder and it works better to shut you up than him muffling you. Your knees are weak.
“Stay quiet” he tells you, looking at you carefully “-and if someone asks, I wasn’t here, do you understand?” He says. One of his hands slips into his pocket and he pulls out a crumpled bill. You shake your head, refusing the money without making a noise.
“This area is not meant for the likes of you and you know it!” Says Pierre, still reprimanding Marie.
Tacitus looks between you and the scene, his eyes crinkling in distaste. There is something profoundly dangerous in them and you shiver, body pressing to the wall in search of an anchor.
“Don’t go telling anyone about me-” he growls the command low enough not to be heard, his voice so rough and angry you have to swallow thickly to compose yourself. The sound is intimate, barely able to escape the space between your bodies. You nod, the movement is fast and practiced like you are used to with your employers, a pleasing shake of your head.
He seems to look at you in hesitation, like he is not sure what to do with you. Then, he looks you head to toe, appraising. You have seen similar looks before, but none so gracious as his. Was it not for the tension in your back you would almost feel bashful.
He sighs deeply, a sound of irritation. His mouth twitches, eyes bouncing between you and Pierre’s pristine tailcoat. Only then he lets go of you. The heft of his arms stops pressing you to the wall and you finally breathe.
Mister Kilgore gives you a cursory glance, studying you, and seems satisfied to see some fear in your posture, probably hoping it will be enough to keep you silent. With a final grunt and a long breath that smells of smoke he rushes off, and up the stairs to trail silently behind Pierre to the apartments on the second floor.
You immediately hide back in the corridor, listening to the distant cries of Marie in the foyer.
Whatever mister Kilgore was doing you do not want to look into. You know better than to take your gossip too far. He seems like a potentially dangerous man and you want nothing to do with that, and God only knows what he intends to do upstairs with Pierre. Your stomach flips between something pleasant and a spike of fear.
You adjust your hair, tucking them under your bonnet with shaky fingers. Your hand presses to your lips to imitate the pressure of his palm over your mouth. You are not sure if you are meant to think of this encounter as anything other than frightening, but the strange softness of his hold over you was dizzying.
Happy with your decision not to spy any longer on the affairs of the guests you rush away, gathering your skirts and exiting from the side entrance to hide back in the gardens. Your heart beats, vulnerable and overexcited in your chest.
Part of you wants to immediately rush to Marie and Millicent to tell them about the scene. But you cannot.
The moment keeps repeating in your brain, the press of his body over you and the warmth of his palm over your mouth. You suddenly blush, realizing the intimate nature of his hold over you. You are red in the face and panting when you exit the villa.
Feeling a sudden shudder of emotion pervade you, you start shivering, rubbing your arms and hugging yourself. You rock back and forth on your heels and scrunch your face up.
“Oh Lord-” You whine, embarrassment burning in your belly. “Never again!” You whimper and, suddenly feeling more energetic than the whole night, you rush back to work.
