Now, see, Dick was somewhat of a pretty, prissy boy, considering how he’d grown up a Westie, with a silver spoon in his mouth until he pissed Bruce off for saying no to an arranged marriage with Barbara and got thrown to the Eastside, where he met you. You practically ran the East, with every butch, beefy guy living under your thumb, no matter how many inches they had on you, and he’d been following you and learning the ways of the East like a lost puppy. It was kinda pathetic.

And here you both were, in your bunk in your crew’s den, which was a huge change from the luxury of the Westside, with silk sheets and satin pillows. And he’d been suffering with the aroma of the weed you’d been smoking from rolled ones that your guy Devon had made— he’d never smoked before, you couldn’t find a peep of it over on the West, so when you offered? He shook his head.

“No, no, I’m good,” He chuckled, though his eyes strayed to the little stick of lit up green plant— maybe he could try it, but nope, no, no, he still had to keep his virtues, right? Ah, well, it couldn’t hurt to have a taste, it’d make him worry less about being booted from the Westside.

“Actually, maybe I can.” Dick chuckled nervously, biting his lip. He was clearly very tempted, his mouth dry and tongue darting to lick his lips. He had been West-bred, taught the strict morals of the Westside, that he should never do that, or he’d be a devil in the flesh— but, honestly? You made it look so cool.

So he scooted over, and his eyes flicked from you to the joint, waiting for you to teach him, as he always did like an eager little puppy. If only Bruce would see him now, ready to smoke a joint and get high for the first time.