adrianmasri

[adrianmasri]

Credit: x

23/07/22 - Brooklyn

[adrianmasri]

'Anything old'. His chin turned up at the mention, suddenly a lot more interested and certainly a bit impressed. There weren't a ton of people, like him, under a certain age who found much interest in 'the old'. He gently laughed, "In essence, I'd say you nailed the current state of the music industry, yeah." He smiled, "Although, if I'm being honest, I think the eighties were the last of the great, personally. Artists stopped playing their instruments — really playing, in the nineties. Just — generally speaking. There are always exceptions." He mused aloud, shrugging, perhaps giving himself away as a musician in his own right. He wondered, as someone who also seemed to devote a large part of their life to music, if she was musically inclined as well. He felt the urge to ask, but saw no way in. Maybe, eventually, but it wouldn't surprise him nonetheless if she were. He shook his head, "Not on vinyl. Yet. Rio Kosta doesn't even release their first album until next month," He stated, "It wouldn't suit your station, anyhow, but, I do have something new in that will." The mention of eighties music had him beaming, however, and he stood up to his full height, moving past the desk and her, and going to happily fetch what he would regard as his biggest accomplishment since working here, "I worked really hard to get this one in stock," He smiled over his shoulder, "— You'll like this." Adrian smiled and returned shortly with The Jesus and Mary Chain's 'Psychocandy', reissued. He set it down in front of them, crossing his arms, "Personally? One of my favorite albums of all time."

it  was  easier  to  put  up  a  guard.  she  had  spent  so  long  building  it  up,  using  lipstick  as  war paint,  that  windsor  bay  felt  like  a  rather  rough  landing.  things  were  quieter,  slower,  and  they  were  forced  to  remember  how  life  had  been  before  she  fell  into  the  arms  of  a  man  that  wrecked  everything  —  when  she  was  younger,  the  town  hadn’t  been  kind  to  her.  it  hadn’t  shown  their  siblings  mercy,  it  hadn’t  offered  sanctuary  or  a  hand  to  hold.  but  it  had  been  there  for  her  to  return  to,  and  for  that  she  supposed  she  could  be  grateful.  “i  do,”  they  ambled  closer  to  the  counter,  an  offer  of  companionship  that  remained  silent  and  tentative.  almost  like  a  cat  judging  someone’s  scent  from  afar.  “i  have  a  slot  where  i  play  anything  old.  eighties,  nineties.  nothing  beyond  that,”  their  nose  screwed  up,  “it  all  turned  to  shit  after  that,  right ?  after  the  deaths  of  some  of  the  greats  …  all  cotton  candy  and  high  ponytails.”  their  tastes  stretched  backwards  all  the  way  to  old  country.  ivelisse  loved  the  rawness  of  it,  the  authenticity  of  real�� emotion  that  had  been  lost  in  bubblegum  and  crop  tops.  for  some  they  could  switch  off  their  brains  and  enjoy  the  soulless  drivel.  for  others,  for  her,  she  needed  something  visceral  —  she  needed  to  be  reminded  that  other  people  could  be  cut  open  and  bleed  just  the  same  as  she  could,  that  heartbreak  wasn’t  an  isolated  feeling  that  they  held  in  their  chest  like  a  heavy  and  permanent  stone.  they  moved  their  gaze  up  again  to  focus  on  the  man  behind  the  counter  ;  cute,  striking,  but  cursed  with  kindness.  he  would  learn,  she  thought.  he  would  learn.  “rio  kosta ?  i’ve  never  heard  of  them.  you  got  anything  i  can  listen  to ? ”

[adrianmasri]

The mood seemed to shift for whatever reason — or maybe she just wanted to toy with him. He watched her then. No, she certainly was, full stop. Perhaps she had caught scent of his rather justified attraction towards her. In this bar, after all? It was the kind of bar where she could crouch and groan and shuffle her way through the shift, and she'd still appear to be flitting around like an angel with stardust at the tips of her fingers for most. He knew then, as she dragged her gaze across his front and leaned in, he knew that she knew that he found her to be one of the best things he'd laid his eyes on since he'd arrived, and for that, she was toying with him. He stayed still, his eyes remaining on her own, as they didn't dare look anywhere else. He could smell her scent, something of perfume, clean laundry, and top-shelf booze. Was that her discernment too? His cologne and the fresh rum on his lips. It made it hard to swallow, having her this close to him — a stranger, but a sight for sore eyes, nonetheless, and this close, he could see that her eyes weren't brown, but rather slow, dripping amber. She was right. Her remark about being in-between, but even so, it was a broad catch-all in his mind, and he smirked, "Isn't that just life?" He mused, blinking, finding himself finally with the courage to look down at her lips briefly, "Aren't we all just somewhere in-between? You, me," He looked around, "Them." And then he looked back at her, realizing she'd moved back to her bottle and her shot glass, "To exist is to innately be halfway." He shrugged, "... But even that might be a little too existential for just a drink at a bar."

Much to his surprise, the shot glass was slung his way, filled to just the amount where not a drop spilled loose. Ever so contained. He picked it up and lifted it in her direction briefly, before downing it. A grimace briefly crossed his countenance, as he'd never been one for shots. Guess he was now. Or at the very least, in this moment. 'If you make it to Supernova and survive the bass drop, then I’ll give you something you can cry about'. The remark made him smirk, amused by the banter she seemed to crave giving out, at least in his direction tonight. It occurred to him that rather than him opening up, she had done so instead. The melodramatic 'ache'. He wasn't sure what she meant. It could've been several things, none of it his business. Not yet. He figured he'd see her again after this encounter, something told him at least that was true. "And what happens when you get sick of the noise? Or when it stops suddenly?" he quiered, trying to make sense of it. There were always moments of quiet. In bed at night, waking up in the morning, the corner of the busy party, the walk from your car to the door. Quiet. All quiet.

He shook his head, his tone matching hers, "Neither. I'm just here. And soon I'll be there, and so on." He told her, pulling his wallet out to leave a twenty-dollar bill in his place, "I'll go ahead and close my tab, Bex." Her name. "And maybe I'll see you at Supernova."

Her smile curled slow and wicked, like cigarette smoke over a flame — not quite a threat, not quite a welcome, but something in between. She didn’t blink when he called a timeout, just tilted her head and let him talk, the edge of amusement tugging at her mouth. That smirk stayed, even as her eyes swept over him again, slower this time — not flirtation, not yet, just curiosity sharpened into something deliberate. “You don’t have to choose,” she said finally, voice low and dry like the air right before a storm. “Insulted or flattered — both can be true. That’s kind of my specialty, actually. Hitting that sweet spot between charm and chaos.” She leaned forward just a little, close enough for him to catch the scent of bourbon and something faintly smoky — maybe her perfume, maybe just Shooters itself clinging to her skin. Her forearms rested on the bar, a bar towel clenched loosely in one hand like she’d forgotten it was even there. “And no,” she added, “I don’t do this with everyone. Most of the regulars? I barely do more than grunt in their direction. No offense to the guy passed out in the corner over there, but he peaked in '98 and hasn't shut up about it since.” Her gaze flicked toward the back of the bar, toward the aging regulars who practically lived in those stools, before cutting back to Adrian with pointed clarity. “But you? You walked in like you were waiting for someone to notice you weren’t from around here. Sat like you’re not sure if this is a beginning or a stopover. That kind of in-between? I know it when I see it.” She didn’t apologize for the observation. Just let it hang in the air, like the hum of a jukebox between songs. Then came his comment — I doubt you’d ever look like hell — and something in her eyes softened, but didn’t lose its edge. “Flattery,” she said, almost to herself. “Dangerous game, stranger. I might start thinking you’ve got good taste.” She pulled the bottle back toward her and poured another shot, this time sliding it across the bar to him. Her fingers tapped the rim of the glass before letting go. “You’re right, though. I’m not from here either. Still figuring it out. This bar barely knows my name, and I work here.” She shrugged one shoulder, casual, but it was the kind of casual that had been practiced into muscle memory. “But I’m not in a rush. I’ve got time. A little chaos. Some noise.” Her gaze lingered on him when he mentioned the flyer — his tease about backhanded compliments — and that grin returned, this time warmer. “Backhanded? Please. That was a kindness,” she deadpanned. “If you make it to Supernova and survive the bass drop, then I’ll give you something you can cry about.” Then, softer — not tender, but true. “You said it yourself. I talk like I know the noise. That’s ‘cause I do. Spent years trying to drown out my own head with it. And somewhere along the way, I realized it wasn’t about escape. It was about resonance. Finding something that hit the same frequency as the ache.” She took another shot, slower this time, like the burn was familiar — a grounding ritual more than a relief. “So no, I haven’t found peace or whatever shit people chase. But I found sound. I found volume. That’ll hold me for now.” Then she cocked her head again, watching him. Really watching. “So what about you? You just passing through? Or are you the kind of lost that’s looking for something to get lost in?” Her voice held no judgment — just challenge. And under the hum of Shooters, the question settled between them like a match waiting to be struck.

[adrianmasri]

"Oh sure, I have," He told her assuringly, and he supposed he was so far into music that there wasn't something she could suggest that would stump him. It was a large part of his life — listening and creating, and in a way, it always had been, even as a boy, music had perforated his way of knowing. Most of his memories were tied to songs. He had his mother to thank for the exposure to the hits and the classics. The seed that she had planted and watered only grew as he'd gotten older, and he was quite good at it as well. If there was any consolation in this world, it was that he was at least good at that one thing. Music. Adrian had already moved, adroitly plucking two albums up swiftly from two separate bins, "Kavinsky and Gunship." He began walking back towards her, holding Kavinsky's 'Outrun' and Gunship's 'GUNSHIP'. "These are who you need," he smiled, returning to her with the two new picks, shrugging, "They're popular too, so I don't know if you've heard of them or not, but they'll be the closest we have to that sound you're looking for." He shrugged, "Although this is a music genre that goes deep. There are tons of nobodies putting out this kind of sound, usually remixes, instrumentals—" He scratched the back of his head, "I can give you my own list of some songs, if you want."

     Whether she was successful or not, Camila had tried to shield him from the disappointment that seeped into her expression when he'd returned with Top Gun and Dirty Dancing soundtracks. Though, the brunette was swift in trying to appear grateful, she smiled at the offerings. ❝ ⸻ These are really good, just not what I'm looking for. ❞ There was a pause to consider Purple Rain for a moment, then a beat later Cami shook her head. Maybe what she was after was too niche for a record store.

A flush warmed her cheeks when he asked for clarification, for a deeper description of the music she was seeking. Not really embarrassed, though prepping herself for judgement. ❝ It's called synthwave. Have you heard of it? ❞ Of course he had, that felt like a silly question the second she'd uttered it. ❝ Timecop1983 and The Midnight are popular artists. You've maybe heard them? It's electronic music inspired by the eighties action and horror films. Even video games of that era. ❞

[adrianmasri]

He watched her momentarily depart the conversation, of which he was fine to leave it as that — let her roam without disturbance as most of the clientel did, but then she returned. He smiled at her question, the tone in which it was asked striking a chord that sounded pleasant to his own ear. He stood up behind the counter before side-stepping his way out onto the floor of the store, "Something inspirational?" He mused, glancing at her before making his way to the 'M' section, hand trailing along the tops of vinyl as he went. He plucked what he was looking for and brought it back to the woman, offering a small smile. "'Bon Voyage' by Melody's Echo Chamber, for sure," He flipped the album to show her, the pink and white cover appearing even warmer underneath the shop's yellow lights, "If French neo-psychedelic pop doesn't get the creativity flowing, then I don't know what will." He capered, laughing mildly at his own words. He offered her the record, suddenly becoming curious, "So, what's the inspiration for?" He quirked, moving again, already thinking about what else he could pull. He then became a bit playful with his tone, glancing over his shoulder, "Are you an artist? A musician? Just dabbling in pottery? Or a bit of crochet?"

Signe   hadn't   meant   to   stop   by   the   record   store   on   her   way   home   from   work,   but   something   had   drawn   her   in.   If   she   were   honest   with   herself,   she'd   been   in   a   bit   of   a   rut   creatively   as   of   late   and   there   had   been   a   particular   vinyl   album   cover   that   had   caught   her   eye.   Maybe   some   new   music   would   help   get   the   creative   juices   flowing   again.   The   bell   over   the   door   rang,   alerting   all   who   were   in   the   store   (a   man   behind   the   checkout   counter   and   another   patron   perusing   the   aisles)   of   her   presence.   The   employee   greeted   her   and   Signe   smiled,   offering   him   a   polite   nod.   She   was   going   to   set   off   on   skimming   through   the   records,   but   she   decided   it   would   be   wiser   to   ask   for   help   so   close   to   closing   time.   "Actually,   yeah.   What   would   you   recommend   for   someone   who's   looking   for   some   inspiration?"

[adrianmasri]

[adrianmasri]

'There's nothing I need' — the brashness of it even made his soft-spoken welcome sound rather chipper, but honestly, he wasn't even offended. He could've even convinced himself that he was relieved. Obviously, she was the kind of customer who didn't need a helping hand at every turn. Although her mood seemed to lift, as if almost consciously, and he decided that maybe she was aware of her audacious entry into the store. His head had been cast downward, picking at some stuck electrical tape that was on the old counter, but he looked up, interested once more when she said she was here a lot. Did he remember her? At first, he wasn't sure. His gaze looked over her face, and after a few moments, he was somewhat certain he did. They had a certain look about them — dark, pretty, a little bit moody. Oh, Nirvanva. Definitely moody, or trying to be. It seemed one either found Nirvana to be the best or the worst. The nod to the most fabled band of the '90s made him smile slightly, only because he fell on the latter side of the track. The '90s, to Adrian, were the death of great musicianship. Alas, he offered a rather genuine look, "So, you work for the radio?" He asked, head tilting to the side, "If you're looking for a new sound, I probably should say that it depends on the station, and what you want." He mused, "but if you're asking me personally, Rio Kosta is who you need to be playing."

if  ivelisse  had  a  larger  trailer,  they  would  have  taken  half  the  store  away  with  them  that  evening.  not  that  she  had  the  funds  for  it.  the  radio  station  didn’t  pay  much,  and  she  was  only  on  air  for  a  few  hours  each  night  —  bleeding  their  heart  and  soul  out  over  the  airways  and  saturating  the  town,  for  a  small  wedge  of  time  at  least,  with  the  voices  of  the  grunge  greats.  she  had  long  since  collected  all  of  nirvana’s  albums,  but  that  didn’t  stop  ivelisse  from  almost  compulsively  running  their  fingertips  along  the  spines  whenever  she  passed  by.  it  felt  as  though  electricity  bounced  up  from  the  cardboard  and  danced  up  her  arm.  it  was  what  she  had  intended  to  do,  pushing  open  the  door  to  main  street  records  with  that  familiar  chime.  the  last  thing  she  wanted  or  needed  was  company.  “there’s  nothing  i  need,”  blunt,  clipped.  almost  rude.  ivelisse  sighed  and  corrected  herself,  remembering  what  her  mother  would  say  when  she  forgot  her  manners.  “i  mean  —  i’m  here  a  lot.  i  wanted  to  come  and  see  the  nirvana  albums.  to  get  away  from  the  world  outside  for  a  while,  y’know ?  and  if  you  have  anything  new  …  i  have  a  spot  on  the  radio,  so  i  can  play  it.  or  whatever.”

[adrianmasri]

Eighties soundtrack. He found that to be an interesting request—niche, even. So much so that he found a small laugh leaving his own mouth, but nonetheless, he raised a finger as if to say 'wait', "We might have something," He responded, beginning to make his way over to the promptly named 'soundtrack' bin, one that had been chucked in the corner for the most part. Movie scores never sold like hotcakes, but they had their market. "Not my first choice, but something," he mentioned over his shoulder, his tall frame moving through the aisle adroitly. Adrian thumbed through the stack once he got there, lips pursing in mild focus, his brows canted. He pulled one out and then another, then grabbed both to flip over and show, "So we have... Top Gun or Dirty Dancing," He made his way back over, slower now, as he inspected the back of each vinyl, "Looks like it's power ballad or uh- power ballad," He japed, a small smile finding his countenance, "Although I know we have Purple Rain somewhere, if that's more your thing." He leaned against the table, setting the vinyls down and crossing his arms across his chest, now curious, "What exactly calls for a 'very specific sound'? That is if you don't mind me asking."

     It wasn't exactly something she could explain, this new fixation on electronic music, or synthwave as it was named, a microgenre that she'd been drawn to after hearing a single song. That was the bonus of Spotify sometimes, the act of playing a song and the app creating a playlist based off of that. It's spurred Camila on down the rabbit hole and now she'd become obsessed. There was other music out there in the world? Why was hardly anyone else dug deep into this 80's inspired music?

Walking into a record store was a long shot, Camila knew that, yet when she'd spotted Main Street Records while taking care of some errands her curiosity had gotten the better of her. ❝ ⸻ Hi, thanks, ❞ the smile was immediate, reflexive, but not unfriendly. There was a brief internal debate and then Cami decided to deal with whatever judgement rather than waste her time looking for something the store might not have.

❝ Well, okay, ❞ the brunette turned in his direction, a hand on a hip and hesitation in her expression as she took a couple of steps closer, ❝ would you happen to have some eighties movie soundtracks? I'm looking for a very specific sound and now I'm curious what it would be like on vinyl. ❞

[adrianmasri]

He took a double-take from behind the counter, "Hi," He responded again, rather dumbly, though it may have been said softly enough for her not to notice. It had been her smile that had taken him aback — he didn't always get a smile walking through that door, let alone a nice one. He stood up, shaking off whatever small crush begged and poked and pleaded for him to give it some attention, and moved over to a rack closest to the desk. "I mean, if you're feeling adventurous, we have these 'blind date' records." He reached out to a vinyl that had been wrapped in brown paper and took hold of one. "All of them were picked by one of us, naturally, but uh... I guess that really isn't a great selling point," He mused aloud, briefly, and in turning to face her again, it dawned on him what he could recommend, "Have you heard of Flyte? I feel like you might like Flyte."

Phoebe had been doing a bit of shopping in the downtown area. After picking up an order at the dispensary, she placed a to-go order at Salsa Street Grill. With a wait-time of about twenty minutes, the blonde wandered into the nearby record store to kill some time. She had started building up her vinyl collection within the past year and there were still some albums she was looking to add to it. A soft ring from the bells rapping against the door signaled her arrival. "Hey," Phoebe responded with a friendly smile as she made her way to the first row of records on display. "I'm not looking for anything in particular. Just killing some time before my Salsa Street order is ready." The smile on her face softened as she made eye contact with the employee. "So what are some of your favorite albums or artists? Give me some new recs."

[adrianmasri]

He laughed a reserved laugh, one that prompted a lift of his glass to his lips, this time taking a swig. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill bartender, no — he hadn't encountered one this valiant since he'd lived in New York City. Was she from there? Perhaps. But she wasn't from here, that much he could infer. Her words pricked, but it was as though as soon as they'd made contact, they were being pulled away, doused in something forgiving. Another drink. "Timeout," he capered. "Honestly, I don't know whether to feel insulted or flattered by what you're saying, but maybe that was exactly your intent," he briefly mused, turning his head back to her with a small smirk, tugging up at one corner of his mouth. What was her name? Bex. Her name tag was clipped to the apron around her waist rather than her chest, and as his eyes pulled back upward, he wondered what it stood for. His next words were now directed towards her, though still soft-spoken, "— This whole dissecting thing you're trying to do," He began, "Is this something you try on all your customers, or was I just the special one tonight?" Adrian glanced left and right, briefly taking in the zombified array of suspected regulars. Maybe his statement had been a little too strong; perhaps it was because he was one of the few in the room currently with a pulse that prompted such digging. He wouldn't admit it because he knew she wouldn't believe it, but there was nothing to find. "I doubt you'd ever look like Hell," He found the words slipping from his mouth, a denial to a very obvious lie, "I get it. I just rolled into town, too. But that was probably pretty apparent, huh?" He smiled, and if there had been anything easy enough to pry out of him, it was that. He received the flyer, pulling it closer across the table, "So you can dish me back-handed compliments there too? I'll think about it," He teased, leaning back in his chair, the first time he'd done so since she'd started talking to him. Did she have him hooked? It was a little hard to say. She was fun to talk to at the very least, that he'd have no problem admitting. His head cocked to the side with intrigue, "Sure sounds like you've found it. The noise, I mean. You talk about it like you know it."

Her brow arched, slow and deliberate — a challenge and a smirk dressed up as a reaction. “So you’re ducking storytime and asking for intel? Gutsy move for someone still sipping their first drink like it’s sacred,” she said, voice rough around the edges but smooth in its rhythm, like she’d been nursing sarcasm since birth. “I respect it. Shy’s cute. But careful — I’ve seen that kind of quiet before. Usually means one of two things: either you’ve got nothing to say, or you’ve got too much.” She didn’t expect him to flinch — and he didn’t — but she saw the flicker. Good. He wasn’t all surface. Instead of pouring another shot right away, she leaned against the bar, hip cocked, arms crossed loosely like she was settling into a story even if it wasn’t her turn. “Truth is, I haven’t been in Windsor Bay long enough to have a favorite dive or some secret password for the underground scene. I’ve barely had time to figure out which liquor store doesn’t card me when I look like hell.” She dragged a finger through a ring of condensation left by someone else’s glass, watching it smear before glancing back up. “But I know a few things. One — the jukebox in here has better taste than half the town. And two — there’s this place called Supernova. You won’t find it if you’re looking for something polished. It’s not that kind of venue. Think strobes, sweat, speakers that rattle your ribs. Mostly DJs, yeah, but sometimes they throw on a live act that sounds like heartbreak and chaos had a baby.” She reached behind the bar and pulled out a wrinkled flyer — neon ink, half-torn edges, the kind of thing that felt more like a dare than an invitation. She slid it across to him with two fingers. “I work with them sometimes. Promo stuff. Getting the right people in the right mood. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it’s alive — which is more than I can say about most things around here.” Her gaze pinned him again, and there was a flicker of sincerity beneath the smirk now. “You want curated, acoustic, someone baring their soul with a single spotlight on ‘em? I’m sure it exists. Somewhere. But if you’re asking me — and you are asking me — I say chase the noise. The kind that makes you feel something in your teeth.” Finally, she poured the shot. Let it burn its way down like truth.

[adrianmasri]

tamino for ‘every dawn’s a mountain,’ photographed by nick ventura

[adrianmasri]

⇝ @windsorbaystarters

WHERE: Main Street Records

WHEN: Weekday, 7:02 PM

What would he play? His shift, his choice, the rules were the rules at Main Street Records, but at the end of the day, what did they need to hear? 'They', or the one lone person in the store, shifting among the reprints with their back to Adrian. To be fair, it was half an hour before closing, but it didn't mean he couldn't go out with a bang. He thumbed through the selection behind the counter and picked up Leaf Hound's 'Growers of Mushroom', letting the vinyl spin against his fingertips before he set it on the record player and placed the needle down. The guitar, the bell, the electricity of Freelance Fiend filled the room, soaking up what was left of the evening light. Bringing out the air guitar was tempting, but with an almost rhythmic swivel of the shoulders, he found himself satisfied. The bell on the door rang. Someone new. He moved to the swivel chair by the register, sitting down and watching as someone else walked in from the door just a few paces to his left he started on what he'd been chiming all afternoon, "Welcome," He greeted, "Let me know if there's anything I can help you find."

[adrianmasri]

✹

HIGHLIGHTS

Name: Adrian Vince Masri

Pronouns: He/him

Height: 6'4”

Sexuality: Straight

Gender: Cismale

Age (current): Twenty-five

//

— Perhaps a bit proud in his own wake, a bit mysterious, a bit misunderstood, and certainly reticent. Adrian is the guy everyone has ideas about, involved they may be, but never a concrete thought, per se. Not here, but never there either. With a hint of moodiness, of nothing to lose, and the wasteland of self-grown despondency, the one that comes with an innate tendency to keep others at arm’s length, and well, you may just catch him in a mood to talk. An utterance there, a question next, and a smile. After all, even the lone wolf must still visit the pack if not just to reassure himself that he is still a wolf too.

BIOGRAPHY

PRESENT DAY 

Adrian simply wanted to fly the coup.Unsure of where to go, he settled on outside of Portland, in a town called Windsor — quaint, quiet, close to the noise but not in the center. He'd been in Colorado for most of his life, attending University there for music theory, and music had always been his passion. Simply, Windor was the first time he'd been on his own, and he was loving it.

PERSONALITY

Though appearing a bit standoffish, half due to his stature, the “omega” is all inferred bark and, well, no bite. He is cool, he’s calm, he’s collected. He won’t be the one starting a fight, nor the one ending it either. He’s a listener. In fact, some would say he’s born to listen; to pick apart what exactly makes something tick. A virtuoso. Although it’s highly perceivable that his utmost talent lies strictly in music, not necessarily with people. He doesn’t speak unless he feels something needs to be said, and some may even praise this particular nature. Or, despise it.

He’s the kind where you can see the cogs turning in his head, perhaps one of the few expressions he does casually and readily wear: thoughtfulness. Maybe even meticulous would be the way to describe him. However, if he’s not in the mood, he won’t be in the mood, and there likely isn’t a way to shove or pull the stubbornness of his bearing, and this can come across as cold. On the contrary, he’s simple. He has simple pleasures and simple desires: a moon on a summer night, a radio with no static and the touch of a hand.

He’s free; maybe even raised with the mindset, hailing from Colorado with an ambitious and nuclear (for the most part) family. He likes to toy with things, especially if they have keys and he has an interest in audio and wires. Sure, he’s smart, but even the patient grow weary with what he might possibly do with it.

THE REST

🤠

HELLO y'all, i am whit/whitney (she/her) and am super excited to be here! just like this and i’ll message you for some potential plots!!! i also love me some chemistry based stuffs too so if you also are the type that just wants to throw them to the wind… you have found your match.

[adrianmasri]

A hop, skip, and a jump away. His apartment was only a quarter of a mile from the lights of 'Shooters', the grungiest dive on this side of Windsor that he'd had the pleasure of stumbling into. He'd just been here once before, a few Fridays ago, on one of his first weekends in town. It had been busy — too busy to manage to find a seat at the bar, but tonight, for whatever reason, it was slow, and he was thankful. He'd taken a seat somewhere in the middle of the bar table, a few others on either side, mixing his Coke and rum. He was here to get the scoop; he was curious if this was a live music venue as well, or if it was just all jukebox and ESPN. The drive to Portland wasn't damning, but it was long enough to be indignation for someone who wanted to relax, drink and listen to show on their free evening. The bartender who had served him his first drink wasn't here when he was last — he would've remembered her, if not for her striking smile and long legs, then for her gregarious attitude. The shot he watched her pour and drink with the adroitness of a sailor, he knew, was not her first of the night nor her last. Himself, however? He was too sober for her forward game of story time. Also, not necessarily beknownst to him: too shy. She leaned in, and his hazel eyes remained on her brown. "Your skillset is impressive," He commented, noting on her concluding remark, "But let's be honest, it sounds like you've had enough mischief for the night, so I'll spare you mine," Adrian smirked, taking a sip of his drink, "— Tell me about the art scene here," He switched gears then, slightly less playful, "Where can I find good live music?"

open starter!! (@windsorbaystarters) || location: shooters!!

Nights at shooters had teeth. The kind that sank in slow — right around your third drink, when the jukebox hit something you swore you’d never admit to liking and the haze from the old overhead lights made everything feel just a little softer around the edges. Outside, the place still looked like it had been forgotten by time and forgiven by no one, but inside? Inside was her kingdom. Bex leaned against the bar, one boot propped up on the foot rail, fingers drumming against a chipped bottle opener like she was waiting on fate or trouble — whichever showed up first. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d run her hands through it too many times, and her black tank top had survived at least two beer spills and one idiot who thought calling her sweetheart was a good idea. “Alright,” she said, voice rough around the edges but still loud enough to cut through the low murmur of bad decisions and cheap whiskey. “I've had three couples make out in the corner, two people try to break up at table six, and one guy ask if we have pumpkin spice tequila. so unless one of you plans on catching fire or confessing a murder, it’s officially the most boring shift I've had all month.” She poured herself a shot — no lime, no chaser — and let it burn down like it owed her something. Then, with a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth, she leaned in. “So, who’s got a story worth the spill? Bad hookup, good revenge, something you swore you’d take to the grave but won’t shut up about after two drinks?” Beat. “And don’t lie. I've got a nose for bullshit and a baseball bat in the back if you make me regret asking.”

[adrianmasri]

The chair he was in sank low under his weight in a way that made him feel like he was being swallowed whole. Alongside the seemingly constant, busy buzz of the café, relocating was becoming an increasingly necessary outcome to his once quiet morning. Both his hands wrapped around his coffee cup to-go, and he began scoping the outside of the building for a spot. He hadn't paid much mind to who had sat next to him. That was until she spoke, and then his head turned, meeting a pair of dark brown eyes. He withheld a smirk, raising a hand to his mouth to conceal a laugh, if only out of surprise that he'd been asked such a question. A date. There was nothing less likely for a new, fresh-faced stranger amongst a small town. He didn't know a soul. But, that could make it fun. Adrian lifted a brown, "Not this time," He jested. "I was just planning my escape route, actually. It's busier today in here than I like."

open for @windsorbaystarters where: mug shot cafe

Elle claimed a small corner in the busy cafe with an oat milk vanilla latte and an almond croissant parked on the table in front of her. She'd been sitting there doing admin, and it was driving her a little bit nuts. Not something she'd ever get really used to. "Okay," She turned to the person next to her, who looked a little lonely. "What happened, your date stand you up or something?"

[adrianmasri]

tamino at the all points east festival in london on august 28, 2023, photographed for melodic magazine

[adrianmasri]

Tamino in San Diego (March 2025)