“I can be your one time baby”
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Joost x f!jazz singer reader
Context: joost goes to a jazz club in Amsterdam and he finds you, and he’s captivated.
Disclaimer: smut, pussy eating, switch, mentions of cigarettes and alcohol.
Enjoy reading ! This is my first fanfic and I’m also taking requests so feel free to send me some !!
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The jazz club was the kind of place that existed in a perpetual haze of blue smoke and amber light, where the music curled through the air like cigarette smoke and the whiskey flowed cheaper than water. It was a Tuesday night, which meant the crowd was sparse, just enough bodies to fill the shadows between tables without making the room feel alive.
Joost Klein sat at the bar, nursing a glass of something dark and cheap, his long fingers wrapped around the glass with a delicacy that seemed at odds with his stature. He was watching the stage, had been watching for the better part of an hour, waiting for the headliner to appear. The place smelled like stale beer and old wood, but he did not mind. He liked places like this, places that felt worn in, lived in, places that did not try too hard.
He was about to flag down the bartender for another when the lights dimmed further, and a single spotlight cut through the haze, landing on the small stage by the piano.
Joost straightened, his drink forgotten.
She was wearing red, a dress that looked like it had been poured onto her body, hugging every curve with sinful precision. The fabric clung to her breasts, perky and full, before nipping in at her waist and flaring over hips that could make a man religious. The dress had a slit that rode high on her left thigh, exposing toned, creamy skin and the lace tops of her stockings, black and intricate, disappearing into heels that clicked against the stage with authority.
But it was her hair that stopped his breath.
It was curled, voluminous, a cascade of dark waves that swept across her face in a dramatic swoop, veiling her left eye completely, giving her an air of mystery that made him want to push that hair back just to see what she was hiding. She looked like Jessica Rabbit had stepped out of the cartoon and decided to sing in a dive bar in Amsterdam, all exaggerated curves and impossible glamour in a place that did not deserve her.
The piano started, slow and smoky, and when she opened her mouth to sing, her voice was velvet and sin, wrapping around the notes like she was making love to them.
Joost did not take his eyes off her.
She sang standards, old jazz numbers that his grandmother might have listened to, but she made them sound new, dangerous. Her body moved with the music, hips swaying, one hand resting on the microphone stand while the other gestured through the air like she was conducting the smoke itself. When she hit the high notes, her head tilted back, throat exposed, and he could see the pulse beating there, fast and alive.
The set lasted forty minutes, but it felt like seconds. When she finished, the sparse crowd applauded with the enthusiasm of people who knew they had witnessed something special, and she smiled, just a quirk of those red painted lips, before stepping off the stage and disappearing behind a curtain.
Joost was on his feet before he realized he had moved.
He pushed through the small crowd, ignoring the bartender who called out to ask if he wanted another drink, and made his way toward the back of the club. There was a small hallway there, dimly lit, smelling of stale perfume and damp concrete, and she was there, leaning against the wall, counting cash from a mason jar with her head tilted down.
Up close, she was even more devastating. The hair that veiled her eye was softer than he had imagined, and he could see now that her visible eye was dark, lined with kohl, watching him approach with an expression that was not quite wary, not quite welcoming.
"You are new," she said, and her voice was different when she spoke, lower, rougher, with an accent he could not place. Eastern European, maybe, or something else entirely. "I would remember you."
"Joost," he said, and his voice came out softer than he intended, thick with his Dutch accent, the G sound gentle at the back of his throat. "And you are impossible to forget."
She smiled, a real smile this time, and it transformed her face from beautiful to something else entirely, something that made his chest tight. "Charming. And Dutch, yes? I can hear it."
"I have excellent ears," she said, pushing off the wall. She was tall in those heels, nearly eye level with him, and he could smell her perfume now, something dark and floral, mixed with the heat of her skin. "What do you want, Joost from the Netherlands?"
You, he wanted to say. In my bed. In my arms. Let me take care of you.
"Another drink," he said instead. "With you."
She studied him for a moment, her visible eye traveling over his face, down the length of his body, taking in the designer jacket that looked thrifted but was not, the expensive boots scuffed from use. He knew what he looked like, young and slightly unkempt, tattoos peeking out from his collar, hair falling into his eyes. He knew he did not look like the kind of man who belonged with a woman like her.
"Okay," she said finally, tucking the cash into her bra, right there where the fabric met skin, and he watched the movement with a hunger he did not bother to hide. "But not here. I know a place."
"Actually," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I would like to take you to my place. If you would let me."
She raised an eyebrow, surprised by his forwardness, but there was something in his eyes, something soft and earnest, that made her pause. "Your place?"
"It is clean," he promised, and his accent made the word sound like a caress. "I promise. And I have good wine. Not this cheap club swill."
She laughed, a low sound. "You are confident."
"I know what I want," he said simply, and he offered her his arm, an old fashioned gesture that seemed to suit him. "And I want to take care of you tonight. Please, let me."
She looked at him for a long moment, at the way he stood there, patient and open, waiting for her decision. Something in his gaze made her feel safe, made her feel seen.
"Okay," she said, and she took his arm, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow. "Lead the way, Dutch boy."
They walked through the narrow streets of the city, her heels clicking on the cobblestones, his longer strides keeping pace beside her. He did not rush her, did not pull her along, but walked with a slow patience that matched the rhythm of her steps. They did not talk much, just the occasional comment about the buildings they passed, the stars above, nothing important, because everything important was happening in the silence between words, in the way he glanced at her from beneath his lashes, in the way she leaned slightly into his warmth.
His apartment building was in a converted warehouse in the Jordaan, an area that had gone from industrial to trendy, the brick exterior cleaned and restored, large windows glowing with warm light. He led her inside, past a lobby with marble floors and a doorman who nodded respectfully, to an elevator that opened with a soft chime.
"Fancy," she observed, leaning against the elevator wall, watching him press the button for the top floor.
"I like nice things," he said simply, and he turned to her, his expression soft. "But I am not fancy. I hope you will see that."
The elevator opened onto a single door, and he unlocked it, stepping aside to let her enter first.
She walked in, and her breath caught.
The apartment was stunning, a loft space with exposed brick walls and high ceilings, original wooden beams crossing overhead. The furniture was modern but comfortable, clean lines and soft fabrics, everything in shades of cream and charcoal and warm wood. It was immaculate, not a single dish in the sink, not a single item out of place. Large windows looked out over the city, the lights twinkling below like fallen stars.
The apartment reeked of cigarettes, the sharp, acrid scent of cheap tobacco that had permeated the walls, the furniture, the very air. And beneath that, the sweet, cloying smell of cheap liquor, vodka that cost ten euros a bottle, whiskey that burned going down. It was a jarring contrast, this pristine luxury marred by the scent of vices.
She turned to him, confused, and he was watching her, his expression sheepish but unashamed.
"I am clean," he said, gesturing to the space around them. "I like order. I like nice things. But I smoke," he held up a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, "cheap ones. And I drink," he pointed to a cabinet where bottles of bottom shelf liquor lined up like soldiers, "the cheapest I can find. The smell, it gets into everything. I am sorry."
She laughed, a real laugh, and the sound filled the space. "You are a contradiction, Joost Klein."
"Ja," he agreed, smiling that sweet, lopsided smile. "I am. But I can open the windows. Air it out. For you."
"Don't," she said, and she walked toward him, her heels clicking on the polished concrete floor. "I like it. It smells like you."
He stilled, his eyes darkening as she approached, and when she stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume over the smoke, he reached up with one hand and gently pushed that curtain of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
"There you are," he said softly, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I wanted to see both your eyes.”
She looked up at him, and he was so close now, close enough that she could see the dull grey in his bright blue eyes, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"Joost," she whispered, and her voice was different now, softer, vulnerable.
"May I kiss you?" he asked, his voice gentle, respectful, but with an undercurrent of something else, something that made her stomach tighten.
He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like the world outside had stopped turning and there was only this moment, only them. His lips were soft, warm, and he moved with a slowness that was maddening, his hand cradling her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek as he deepened the kiss. He tasted like cheap cigarettes and expensive toothpaste, a contradiction like everything else about him, and she melted into him, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms.
"Je bent zo mooi," he murmured against her lips, and the Dutch sounded like a prayer. "So beautiful. Ik heb je gezien en ik kon niet ademen. I saw you and I could not breathe."
"Joost," she gasped, and he kissed her again, walking her backward until she felt the edge of his sofa against her legs.
"Sit," he commanded softly, and she did, sinking into the plush cushions, watching as he knelt in front of her, his hands resting on her knees.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire but his touch gentle as he ran his hands up her legs, feeling the lace of her stockings, the warmth of her skin above them.
"Deze jurk," he said, his fingers finding the slit in her dress, tracing the edge of it, "is te veel. It is too much. You are killing me."
"Then take it off," she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands.
He smiled, that sweet smile that did not quite reach his eyes, which were focused and intense. "As you wish."
He stood, pulling her up with him, and turned her around, his fingers finding the zipper at the back of her dress. He lowered it slowly, inch by inch, pressing kisses to each new bit of skin he revealed, the nape of her neck, her spine, the dimples at the small of her back. The dress fell to the floor in a pool of red, and she stood there in her lingerie, black lace and stockings, her hair still veiling one eye in the mirror across the room.
He turned her back around, his gaze raking over her body with a hunger that was palpable, but his touch remained gentle, reverent. He cupped her breasts through the lace of her bra, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, feeling them harden beneath his touch.
"Perfect," he whispered, and he unhooked her bra, letting it fall, his breath catching as her breasts were revealed, perky and full, the nipples dark and tight. "Absoluut perfect."
He bent his head and took one into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the peak with a tenderness that made her knees weak. He supported her with one arm around her waist, holding her up, while his other hand kneaded her other breast, his thumb rubbing circles over the nipple.
"Joost," she moaned, her hands finding his hair, holding him there.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, the same devotion, and she felt herself growing wet, felt her body responding to his gentle dominance, to the way he took control but kept her safe, kept her cherished.
"Kom," he said, taking her hand. "Come. I want you in my bed."
He led her to a door at the far end of the loft, opening it to reveal a bedroom that matched the rest of the apartment, clean and modern and luxurious, the large bed dressed in white linens that looked like clouds. But the smell was stronger here, cigarettes and cheap liquor, concentrated in the smaller space, and she realized this was where he spent his time, where he slept and smoked and drank alone.
He noticed her noticing, and his expression softened further. "I know. It is a lot. But I will make it nice for you. Wait."
He moved around the room with efficiency, opening windows to let in the night air, lighting candles that smelled like vanilla and sandalwood, pushing back the heavy smell of his vices until it was just a undertone, a reminder of who he was. He pulled back the covers, revealing soft sheets, and turned to her, holding out his hand.
She took his hand, letting him pull her to the edge of the bed. "Much."
He kissed her again, soft and deep, and then he was guiding her down onto the mattress, following her, his body covering hers with a weight that felt protective, not crushing. He kissed his way down her body, his lips tracing the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the valley between her breasts, the softness of her stomach. He paused at the waistband of her panties, looking up at her with a question in his eyes.
"Yes," she whispered, lifting her hips so he could slide them down her legs, leaving her in only her stockings and heels.
He spread her legs gently, his hands warm on her thighs, and he looked at her, really looked at her, with an expression that was almost worshipful.
"Kijk naar jou," he breathed. "Look at you. So wet for me already. Is this for me, schat?"
"Yes," she gasped, her hips bucking slightly as he ran one finger through her folds, gathering her wetness. "All for you."
"Good girl," he said, and the praise sent a shiver through her. "Such a good girl."
He lowered his head and licked her, one long, slow stroke that made her cry out, her back arching off the bed. He was gentle but relentless, his tongue finding her clit and circling it with a precision that made her see stars, his fingers sliding inside her, curling to find that spot that made her toes curl.
"Joost, please," she moaned, her hands fisting in the sheets.
"Shh," he soothed, looking up at her, his chin wet with her arousal. "Let me take care of you. Laat me voor je zorgen. Just relax and let me make you feel good."
He returned to his task, his tongue working her with a steady rhythm that was driving her mad, not fast enough to make her come, not slow enough to let her relax, just keeping her on the edge, building her up. His fingers moved inside her, stroking that spot, and she could feel her orgasm building, hot and heavy in her belly.
"Please," she begged, her voice breaking. "Please, Joost, I need to come."
"Not yet," he said, his voice gentle but firm, and he pulled back, his fingers stilling inside her. "Not yet. I want to be inside you when you come. I want to feel you around me."
He crawled up her body, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips, and he positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her, hot and hard.
"Klaar voor mij?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent, with his desire. "Ready for me, beautiful?"
"Yes," she breathed, wrapping her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back. "Please, Joost. I need you."
He entered her slowly, inch by inch, filling her with a thickness that made her gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders. He did not rush, did not force, just pushed forward with a steady pressure until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stopped, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
"God," he whispered. "Je voelt zo goed aan. You feel so good. So tight. So warm."
"Move," she begged, her hips bucking against him. "Please, move."
He pulled back and thrust in, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep, each thrust hitting that spot inside her that made her cry out. He was gentle but dominant, his hands pinning her wrists above her head, his mouth at her ear, whispering filthy things in Dutch that she did not understand but felt in her bones.
"Je bent van mij," he told her, his voice low and commanding, his hips never faltering. "You are mine tonight. Deze kut is van mij. This pretty pussy is mine. Zeg het. Say it."
"Yours," she cried out, her orgasm building again, stronger this time, overwhelming. "I'm yours, Joost."
"Good girl," he praised, and he released her wrists, his hand sliding between them to find her clit, rubbing it in slow, firm circles. He started to pound into her, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. "Kom voor me, schat. Come for me. Let me feel you."
She came with a cry that sounded like his name, her body convulsing around him, her muscles gripping him like a vice, and he groaned, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, as he chased his own release.
"Ja," he gritted out, his voice strained. "Just like that. Come for me. God, je bent perfect. You are perfect."
He thrust deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and he came with a groan that sounded like a prayer, spilling inside her, his body shaking with the force of it. He collapsed onto her, but he caught himself on his elbows, not crushing her, his face buried in her neck, his breath hot against her skin.
They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, the scent of sex and smoke and cheap liquor mixing with the vanilla of the candles. He did not pull out immediately, stayed inside her, holding her close, his hand stroking her hair, her back, with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"Joost," she whispered eventually.
She pushed his hair back from his face, looking into his eyes, soft now, sated. "That was..."
"Special," he finished for her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "It was special. You are special."
He pulled out carefully, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him, tucking her against his body, her back to his chest, his arm wrapped around her waist. He pulled the covers over them, creating a cocoon of warmth in the room that smelled of his vices but felt like safety.
"Stay," he whispered against her hair. "Please. Stay the night. Let me make you breakfast. Let me take you out tomorrow. Let me... let me see you again."
She turned in his arms, facing him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat steady and strong beneath her palm. "You are sweet," she said, and she meant it. "Under all this," she gestured vaguely at the room, at the smell of cigarettes and cheap liquor, "you are so sweet."
"I am just honest," he said, his hand cupping her cheek. "I know what I want. And I want you."
She smiled, that slow, wicked smile that had hooked him from the first moment he saw her on that stage. "Okay," she said. "I'll stay."
He smiled, a real smile, bright and boyish, and he pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair. "Dank je," he whispered. "Thank you."
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