rânsexual = being attracted only to romanians. no lads allowed. ciobanul mioritic is the best man you’ll ever find
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Italy

seen from Malaysia

seen from Italy
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from Malaysia
seen from China

seen from Bangladesh
seen from Guatemala

seen from Malaysia
seen from Poland
seen from China

seen from Malaysia

seen from United Kingdom
rânsexual = being attracted only to romanians. no lads allowed. ciobanul mioritic is the best man you’ll ever find
Starter for @boogcymxn
Nails lightly tap along the edge of wood like a xylophone skittering upwards along keys during a scale. It’s a restless, thoughtless gesture where all the rest of her movements are precise--measured--but it stops the moment a glass is set in front of her, her second roll of impatient nails coming to a halt.
The same moment she tucks up her drink, the soft music of a piano filters in through the small space and Cat’s shoulders barely ease downwards. It’s a small bar tucked in the middle of the city--a hidden gem--and most nights, the smoke clings to the walls like a desperate mother to a growing teenager’s shoulders, but not tonight.
No, tonight is a Sunday and most people are celebrating their sins in church instead of the most practical of holy places, and instead of a large band there’s one, singular, lonely looking piano player dancing sad little melancholy tunes on stage, trying to depress his captive audience into either leaving or buying enough alcohol to drown out the inevitably commiserating ping in a heart.
It’s beautiful--a haunting sort of noise--and she smiles, slim and tight and sober.
There’s only one other person in the bar and Cat has no problem dipping her chin back to casually hum over her shoulder, eyes resting on the lone piano player on stage, music quiet enough to where her voice blends in with it.
“I’ve always had a weakness for pianos.” The whiskey is smooth when she sips it, fingers elegantly swirling amber around the rim, eyes cutting over to the stranger for only a moment before settling forward, “Almost cliche, isn’t it? Normally this place is full of unbearable Billy Joel or this week’s rendition of Don’t Stop Believing.” It’s drawled, eyes skimming along the stage, “But on Sundays...he can play whatever the hell he wants, usually because no one cares enough to hear it.”
There’s a freedom, isn’t there? In that.