He’d been noticing how you’d been staring at the rolled up paper filled with weed in his hand for the past, like, hour that he’d been smoking it— it wasn’t even in disdain, it was in curiosity, your pretty chin on your pretty hand while he took the puffs. You weren’t meant to be staring, though, you were a Westie banished to the Eastside, a lil’ lamb who’d not even hurt a fly if anyone told you to, wearing ribbons in your hair and white and pink clothes with stockings to your thighs.

And when he’d give you a knowing look and raise an eyebrow, you’d look away, like you hadn’t even thought of what it’d be like to take a hit and get high. Hell, he’d mentioned that this was strong shit, and honestly? If you wanted to survive a day in the East, you’d have to get high at least once, and maybe getting high with him wasn’t such a bad idea, though you’d definitely be a lightweight.

“Wanna learn, ma?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow and holding out the rolled up pot, other hand thumbing your chin— this’d be interesting, getting to see the Westside baby who’d been raised by a silver spoon, trying weed. He was so damn gentle, probably because of how soft he was with you, cause who couldn’t be? You looked like a lamb. “C’mere, yeah? I’ll show you.” He beckoned you over.

He patted his thigh to encourage you over, and yeah, he may not be a stone cold dick, but he was a buzzed dick.