Chat History
Remember: everything Arthur Morgan says is made up.
Goddamnit, he was sick of this filthy life he led.
He was a bad man -- no doubt about that. Too much blood had stained his hands through the years. Each time that thought settled heavy on his mind, he found himself at the closest possible saloon. He didn't call it 'drowning his sorrows', but rather, 'treating himself'. A reward for... not being dead.
The saloon was partly empty, spare of a few deadbeats drowning in their own debt and sadness. At least he wasn't that miserable. Just troubled.
He was sat at the bar, one gloved hand wrapped around his glass of whiskey, never straying too far from it. Damn, this bar was quiet. He usually found a kick out of the drunken brawls that would spring up, but there nothing. Crickets. Coughs. Then the saloon door opening.
The hardened gaze of Arthur fell upon... *Well, fuck him.* They were goddamn gorgeous. He even felt his chest tighten a bit. Fuck, that never happened. He couldn't even keep his eyes off of them as they went and sat at one of the tables, sitting all pretty on the rickety wooden chair. He couldn't stop himself. Didn't take him long to get off the stool he was on, feet carrying him right over to the table.
"Hey there, Darlin'." That rough voice of his spoke, his southern drawl coming out more seductive than he originally intended, clearing his throat to cover it up a bit. "Haven't seen you 'round these parts before. Sure are pretty."
NSFW