𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 !
˚ʚ🎶ɞ˚
Y/n Cantrelle, a celebrated jazz vocalist whose voice has become the heartbeat of France, has spent a lifetime serenading audiences in the dim glow of nightclubs, the smoky warmth of pubs, and even the sacred hall...
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｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა 🌺 ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
🌺 ˚ʚ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝙄𝙏 𝘼𝙇𝙇 ɞ˚ 🌺
The soft hum of chatter ebbed and flowed through the dimly lit jazz club, where shadows flickered against the walls like faint echoes of the past. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and a faint trace of smoke, though the haze had long cleared. A deep, steady rhythm pulsed from the band, the low notes of the double bass blending effortlessly with the quiet brush of drums, creating a sound that lingered just under the surface.
Y/n Cantrelle stood on stage, a single spotlight casting a gentle glow around him. The piano keys danced beneath his voice, each note slipping out like smoke from a candle. His presence commanded the room, though he remained still as if he needed only his voice to move the world around him.
Glasses clinked softly in the distance, but all else had fallen quiet. A couple leaned in closer at a corner table, their whispered conversation momentarily forgotten, as the smooth, velvety cadence of Y/n's song filled the space. His voice rose and fell like the ebb of a slow-moving tide, rich with the depth of emotion that lingered between the notes.
The club's amber lighting glowed across polished wood tables, casting long shadows that stretched toward the stage. People sat, still as statues, eyes fixed on him. It was as if the air itself had stilled, waiting for the next phrase, the next sound, to spill from his lips. Even those near the bar, usually talkative and loud, leaned in, their glasses forgotten as Y/n's voice washed over them, quiet and haunting.
Y/N's voice flowed like silk as he sang in French, each word wrapped in the elegance and emotion of the language. His tone was rich and velvety, effortlessly moving through the melody with a natural grace. The soft, romantic cadence of the French lyrics seemed to resonate deeply with him, bringing a depth of feeling to every note. His voice had a warm, soothing timbre, yet carried a quiet intensity that captivated anyone listening. Whether he lingered on a gentle whisper or soared into a powerful crescendo, something was mesmerizing about the way he poured his heart into every phrase.
Outside the club, the city carried on in its usual hum, but inside, time seemed to hang in the balance. Each note, each pause was like a heartbeat in the chest of the room, and Y/n, at its center, held it all with effortless grace.
Y/n couldn't help but smile at the thought of indulging in some of France's most exquisite desserts after a hearty meal. As he drove through the winding streets, the idea of treating himself to a set of French delicacies became more tempting by the minute. He imagined the flaky, buttery layers of a classic mille-feuille, filled with rich vanilla pastry cream. Perhaps he would also savor a tarte Tatin, with its perfectly caramelized apples melting into a crisp crust. And of course, no French dessert spread would be complete without a selection of delicate macarons, each one bursting with a different flavor—pistachio, raspberry, and perhaps a hint of lavender.
