Sativa! ib: sativa by jhene aiko please listen while you read!
author’s note: this is a collab fic i made with ava (@tacobacoyeet) bc she’s the one i always bring music inspo to when I hear a song and it makes me want to write bc ik she’ll understand. when I brought this idea to her she helped me flesh out the idea and the rest was history. i love her so much it’s ridiculous and we each wrote 2 parts each and melded them together so I hope you guys enjoy!
summary: You can’t take it anymore. The stuffy dresses, the snobby people, you need to escape yet another event rich people only go to in order to flaunt their wealth. So you text the one person you think might be able to save you.
pairing: patrick x fem!reader
warnings: nsfw (18+), drug use, fingering, p in v, smoking while fucking
i know you won’t leave me hanging, smoking weed out the container
The champagne tasted like boredom. Flat, expensive, and trying far too hard to be impressive. You took another sip anyway, because it gave your hands something to do, and because the flute made a nice little clink when it tapped against the gold railing of the rooftop terrace.
Below, the gala sprawled in all its glittering misery—crystal chandeliers, murmurs over chamber music, men in tuxedos with cufflinks more expensive than most people’s rent. Women swanned around in couture like walking centerpieces, gloved hands clutching clutches, smiles sharp enough to slice a soufflé. Somewhere inside, a string quartet played a Vivaldi arrangement no one was truly listening to.
You’d made it exactly forty-two minutes before sneaking upstairs. Forty-two minutes of fake laughter, tight smiles, and your stepmother introducing you as "our little darling" like you were a rescue poodle. You knew this world inside and out—had grown up attending galas like this since you were old enough to toddle in patent leather shoes. It was all an exhausting pantomime. Your family’s wealth stretched back generations—old money, museum-donor, building-name-on-the-wing kind of money. And with that came expectation: charm, poise, silence, discipline. The good daughter. The pretty one. The polished porcelain kept on the top shelf.
But lately, the mask had started to slip. You weren’t sure when it began. Maybe it was the third boarding school, or the fourth therapist. Maybe it was the year you turned twenty and realized you didn’t care about charity auctions or legacy internships. You were supposed to inherit the world, and all you wanted was to escape it.
The dress tonight was Dior—custom-fitted, a shade of moonlit pearl that clung to your hips like obligation. Your hair had been twisted into something that would hurt by the end of the night, and you were wearing earrings that once belonged to your great-grandmother, the kind that required insurance. And none of it felt like yours.
You set the glass down and checked your phone.
Nothing from him.
Yet.
The screen glowed in the dim rooftop lighting. You opened your messages, thumb hovering. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.
But your lungs itched, your throat burned for something more than champagne, and your skin felt too tight in this couture prison of a dress. You needed out. Not just from the party, but from the whole fucking night.
You opened your texts and scrolled until you found him.
you up?
A beat. Then another. Then:
i need to get out of here. i’m going to lose it.
are you close?
please.
You exhaled like you'd been holding your breath for the past hour, which… honestly? Maybe you had.
Another 20 minutes pass by and you started to give up hope. Maybe he was already sleeping. Or just with another girl or guy or whatever. Clearly you were not getting saved by your knight in shining armor. Until your phone buzzes once more.
im outside
You down another glass of champagne before making your way outside. He was here, in his 2007 Honda CR-V. Still fairly new, only a few years old. But a punishment from his parents nonetheless, for crashing his BMW the summer after highschool ended.
Climbing into the passenger side and shutting the door behind you, you can already tell what he had been doing that night, “So you’re not gonna share?”
He laughs, pulling away from the venue to park in an empty parking lot. “Been here less than 2 minutes and you’re already making demands. I rolled a fresh new joint just for you, princess.” It’s demeaning. A nickname he gave to you after a different late night smoke session where you opened your heart out about how being in this uppity world feels. Yet it still fuels the pit in desire you feel in your stomach. It’s been building for some time now.
He smirks, leaning over to open the glove box. He takes out his grinder, rolling tray, and rolling papers. He takes a little baggy out of his hoodie pocket and gets to work. You watch him intently. He’s focused. More than focused that he ever was at school or his latest tennis matches. He takes this craft seriously. More seriously than the craft that’s supposed to pay his bills.
Licking the paper to place his final seal, “The perfect joint. Best one I’ve rolled all week,” he murmurs. Holding it between two fingers with the mouth end facing you. You take it from him expectantly, placing it between your lips loosely. He takes out the roach he had tucked on top of his ear like a pencil to bring to his lips. Lighting it up, being careful not to burn his fingers.
You look at him, eyelids low with fake annoyance, head tilted in waiting. He knows you never carried lighters. You didn’t smoke enough to. You don’t smoke without him. This was maybe the third time you ever have. With your back pressed against the car door and your body shifted so you can face him. He rolls his eyes, leaning over the center console to light the joint between your lips.
You take a drag, blowing the smoke directly in his face. He smiles, finishing the roach to toss it out the window. You knew it would be long before he asked for yours.
“You’re getting good at that. Be careful, people might think you’re a stoner.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” He can hear the glint of mischief in your voice. But there’s was something deeper underneath. Tier to your utter dislike of the world you had to live in. Fancy parties, gallery opening, charity benefits. Appearances meaning everything. Your parents planning out every step of your life. You having no say. You’re sure they wouldnt be happy about this. This was not apart of their plan.
He studies you for a second too long. The curve of your cheek in the streetlight. The way your gown is folded awkwardly in the cramped seat, hitched up just enough to show the expensive sheen of your thigh. Smoke curls from your lips like you were born for it. He swallows something that tastes a lot like trouble. There’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes—like he’s watching a secret unfold just for him. Like the sight of you in his world, already a little undone, is his favorite kind of victory.
You glance at him, eyes narrowed. "What?"
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Just thinking how funny it is. You, sitting in my busted-ass car, looking like that."
You smile lazily, teeth barely showing. "Maybe I like busted things."
His gaze drops to your mouth. "That right?"
You take another drag. Hold it. Blow it slow, right past his lips. He doesn’t move.
The tension is thick—coated in weed smoke and something warmer. Hungrier. Your hand lowers, brushing the edge of the console, knuckles grazing his. Not on purpose. Not really.
But you don’t pull away.
His fingers shift just slightly, meeting yours. It’s barely a touch—more suggestion than contact—but it shoots heat up your arm like he’d kissed the inside of your wrist. You can feel the air change, the quiet crackle between you.
He doesn't look at you right away, just passes his joint back with a casual, "You good?"
You nod. You take it from him and inhale deep, holding it for a beat too long, eyes locked on the slouch of his shoulders, the lazy way his legs are spread. When you hand it back, your fingers brush again. Deliberately.
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. Not yet.
The tips of his fingers trail from your knuckles up to your wrist—lazy, exploratory, like he’s just thinking out loud with touch. He taps the back of your hand gently, then lets his fingers slide up the soft skin of your forearm, featherlight.
Your breath hitches. Just once.
He leans in. “Princess,” he says low, amused. “You’re fidgeting.”
“Am I?”
“You’re squirming.”
You meet his eyes. Challenge blooming in your chest. “And what if I am?”
He lets his fingers keep going. Slow and smug. “Then I’d say you’re high. Or bored. Or...” His hand brushes the bare skin above your knee now. "Just looking for a better way to pass the time."
You don’t answer.
Because you know exactly which one it is.
You shift a little closer. Your knees could touch now—just barely. The air between you is humid with tension and weed and your perfume, some expensive jasmine blend that clings to your skin and his memory.
His hand lingers at your thigh, but this time it doesn’t just brush—it settles. Warm, solid, fingers splayed casually like they belong there. He watches your face the whole time, like he’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t.
You lean forward again. Not for the joint. For him.
His breath catches before he can school it. You’re so close now, he could count your lashes, could taste the ghost of champagne on your breath if he dared to lean just half an inch more.
You tilt your head. “Still think I’m fidgeting?”
He laughs, but it’s quiet. Strained. A little rough. "No."
Then you swing one leg over the center console. Onto his lap. Slow. Intentional. Your dress rides up, the fabric pooling around your thighs as you settle, straddling him in the front seat like it's the most natural place in the world.
His breath catches—like he can't believe you're actually doing it. Or maybe like he can, because he knew you'd end up here eventually. They always do, when he pulls just right.
His hands go to your hips automatically. Instinct.
And now you're both holding your breath.
His hands grip your hips a little tighter—firm, possessive, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Your hands find his shoulders, warm under the hoodie, and you press into him just slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. His head tips back against the seat, and that’s all the invitation you need.
You kiss him.
It’s slow at first. Curious. His lips part with a quiet sigh against yours, and your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders. You kiss him like you’ve been meaning to for a while, like you’re tasting the idea of him. Weed and mint gum and something soft, unexpected. He hums into your mouth, one hand sliding up your back, finding the zipper of your dress but not tugging—just resting there, like a promise.
Then he kisses you back like he’s starving.
His mouth moves against yours with a sudden urgency, teeth grazing your lower lip, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to make you gasp. You shift in his lap and feel him already hard beneath you, and it makes you move again—just enough to draw a reaction. He groans into your mouth.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, breath warm against your cheek.
“Shut up,” you whisper, kissing him again, deeper this time, rolling your hips once—twice—until he’s cursing and dragging you closer.
His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath where your dress has ridden up. He pushes it higher, bunching the delicate fabric around your waist, exposing you fully to his hands, to his eyes, to the heat blooming between you.
“You’re seriously in Dior right now,” he says, voice low and wrecked, eyes flicking down to where the silk is gathered around your hips.
“And you’re seriously hard in sweatpants,” you shoot back, breathless.
He laughs, sharp and dizzy, before pulling you into another kiss—this one filthier, deeper, with his hand sliding beneath the hem of your panties like he’s done it a hundred times before.
And maybe, in his head, he has.
Your head falls forward onto his shoulder as his fingers find exactly where you’re already wet for him. “Fuck,” he says into your hair. “You’re soaked.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, mouth at the base of his throat. “So do something about it.”
He does.
Patrick’s fingers start slow—just the faintest brush along your slit, dragging through the wetness he found like he has all the time in the world. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, watching every little twitch of your mouth, the way your lashes flutter when he circles your clit with the pad of his finger.
You grind down into his hand, chasing pressure, but he pulls back just a touch. Not enough to stop, just enough to make you feel how deliberately he’s holding back. “Pat—”
“Shhh,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let me take my time with you.”
One finger slips inside, slow and deep. Your jaw goes slack. You cling to his hoodie, nails digging in, and he groans at the feel of you clenching down around him already.
“So fucking tight,” he murmurs, kissing your neck now, biting softly just below your jaw. “You get like this at every gala, or just when you’re slumming it with me?” His voice drips with something filthy—amusement, maybe. Or pride. Like he likes knowing he’s the one who makes you forget what you’re supposed to be.
You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when he’s curling his finger just right, when his thumb is back on your clit, drawing soft, steady circles that make your thighs shake.
He adds a second finger, and you gasp—hips jerking, breath hitching. “There she is,” he says, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “Knew you’d let go for me.”
“All that polish and pedigree, and you’re falling apart in my lap,” he whispers, more to himself than you. Like he’s savoring it.
The rhythm is relentless but controlled. He fucks you with his fingers like he’s playing a game he’s already mastered—like he’s memorized every sound you make and exactly what each one means. Your hips start moving without thought, chasing every press of his hand, every graze of his knuckles.
“Patrick,” you gasp. It’s all you can manage—his name, like a warning.
He slows. Eyes locked on yours. Thumb easing off your clit.
“Not here,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Not like this.”
You blink at him, dazed.
“I want you,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear. “But I want space. I want to lay you out. You deserve more than cramped angles and my fucking center console digging into you.”
You exhale shakily, heart racing. Then you smirk.
“Isn’t that what the backseat’s for?”
His eyes darken. Your answer hits him like a spark to dry tinder. He smiles, crooked and dangerous. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it’s for.”
“After you Princess,” he nods towards the space between the two front seats. You made your way to the backseat as gracefully as you could, crawling between two car seats. You stop to sit on the center console with your back facing him.
Moving your hair so the dress zipper is exposed, he gets the message, unzipping your dress. Taking his time. His eyes follow from the nape of your neck all the way down your now exposed spine. He traces lightly, fingers ghosting the slight curve of your spine. All the way down until he stops right above the waistband of your panties, “No bra?” he questions barely above a whisper.
You continue pulling your dress and panties off until you’re left in nothing. Leaving both articles of clothing abandoned in the passenger seat where you once sat. Before making your way to the back seat finally.
You sit on the right side, back pressed against the soft cushiony seat. You could sit here and explain the intricacies of Women’s clothing and the decision making process behind when to wear a bra and when not to, but instead you opt for the more fitting, “Are you complaining?”
It’s more of a rhetorical question. His eyes are already locked on your exposed boobs, nipples hardening from the light chill of the AC. His eyes drag across your body until he reaches your eyes. Smirking just to add, “Me? Complain about you? Never.” Rolling your eyes to hide how the light sarcasm in his tone is turning you on more than it should.
He follows, sitting right next to you. Clothed thigh pressed against your bare one, but not for long. He takes off his hoodie (no t-shirt underneath, shocker), sweatpants, and boxer briefs, with a sense of urgency.
He pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him, mirroring the position you were just in minutes ago. You both lock eyes. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to immortalize this moment. Cradling the back of your jaw, while grazing his thumb across your bottom lip. Without a second thought, you open your mouth slowly. Maintaining that eye contact while sucking his thumb into your mouth.
He sucks in a breath, subconsciously biting his bottom lip. You suckle his thumb, swirling your tongue around it, tasting yourself. The grip on your waist tightens, his fingertips digging into your skin and pulling you closer. Letting his hardness slide back and forth between your folds aided by your slick. A small whimper caught in your throat as his tip catches against your clit.
You see the way his eyes darken despite being surrounded by the darkness of the night. Like a switch flips in his head, he can’t wait any longer.
He cradles the back of your head as he changes positions, laying you down on the seats while he hovers over you. Slowly pushing inside you so you could really feel him filling you up inch by inch. You can feel the way your body stretches to accommodate his size. Your walls gripping him, sucking him in, in a way that makes his jaw tense. “Fucking hell,” he mumbles against the crook of your neck where his head had fallen.
“Patrick,” you gasp as he bottoms out. Nails digging into his upper back pulling another moan out of him. He starts his strokes off slow. Like he’s trying to savor the moment. Or maybe he’s trying to ingrain his spot in your body.
He lifts his head up, green eyes meeting yours. The sliver of light descending from the street light cascades across his face, allowing you to really see him for the first time tonight. You always used to tease him saying his eyes were actually hazel and not green, but up close you can tell he was right. Freckles sprayed over his face. They were your favorite physical feature about him, but you’d never tell him that. His brow was furrowed, the effort he was exerting visible. Sweat starting to form as he picks up the pace, “Fuck Princess, you’re so fucking tight. Gonna be the end of me I swear.” Not a hint of sarcasm behind the nickname.
Moans falling past your lips after he adjusts his angle to hit that spongy spot inside of you. But you can’t let him think he’s got you, yet, “Don’t tell me you’re close already,” you try to say as smooth as you can but the breathiness laced in your words gives you away.
He pulls out, making you whine at the loss. Wiping the sweat on his forehead before grabbing your hips to flip you over. Slumped over with your head resting on the seat while your ass sticks up in the air. He pushes back inside of you, quick and easy with how wet you are , “Big words for someone who’s dripping for my cock.”
He takes a moment. You can hear the lighter spark twice behind you, followed by the light sizzle of Patrick taking a drag from the previously forgotten joint. He keeps one hand on your hip, pulling you back to meet his thrusts over and over again. Other hand free to help him continue smoking.
You can’t see him, but the mental image combined with him assaulting that perfect spot inside of you is getting you really close to the edge, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Patrick! I’m so ah—you’re so deep.”
He takes another drag, not letting up on his pace, “Yeah does it feel good? Me fucking my cock so deep inside you. Shit. Taking it so well.”
You nod, the side of your face dragging against the fabric of the car seat. You’re slamming your hips back to continue meeting his thrusts while you move one hand underneath you to start playing with your clit. Rubbing back and forth, Patrick’s balls slapping against your folds while his cock presses up against your g-spot and, “Ah ah I’m coming, fuck Patrick. I’m coming, I’m coming oh fuck.”
“There we go,” he grunts as your walls spasm around his cock. He places what’s left of the joint in a cup holder before gripping your hips with both hands so he can finish. Using your body to get off, your slick and cum starting to pool around the base of his cock. A few more hard thrusts and, “Shit baby, so fucking hot. Came all over my dick ah, m’gonna cum. Your tight fucking pussy ah—shit, fuck Princess, fuck,” he’s spilling inside you. Staying all the way pressed inside, ensuring you take it all.
After he pulls out, his hands rest on your ass. Fingers spread over your cheeks as he holds you open to stare at where he’s filled you up. Still trying to even out his breathing, “I don’t have any napkins or wipes in here.”
Blissed out from your orgasm you just hum in acknowledgment. Lazily you start, “So how am I gonna—“ you get caught off by the feeling of Patrick’s tongue diving into your hole. It’s slow and deliberate. Half like he’s trying to clean you up and half like he’s trying to make another mess. You wince from the overstimulation but whimper from the pleasure. “Patrick,” you whine. Subconsciously pushing back on his tongue a little bit. It didn’t take long until you were clean (debatable). The cum being replaced with spit.
He leans back to sit, grabbing the joint and lighter again before resting against the car door. You maneuver yourself so you’re sitting next to him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, pulling your face towards his chest. You watch in silence as he sparks the joint once again. Taking a drag before wordlessly placing the joint at your lips. You inhale while he holds it, exhaling after he moves it away.
You both sit there in silence. Skin to skin. You can hear the steady rhythm on his heart beat from where your ear is pressed against his chest. Silence broken by Patrick after another drag, “Wanted to do that since forever.”
“The fucking me part or the smoking while fucking me part?”
“Both,” he lets out a low chuckle. Giving you the last hit before he rolls down the window to toss out the roach and air out the mixture of smells in his car, sweat, weed, and sex.
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