But I know you.

𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

[notanicepcrson]

hi ! this is an 18+ indie rp blog for JACKET of HOTLINE MIAMI + PAYDAY 2 with heavy influence from the film DRIVE.

mutuals only / multiverse / low activity ish

if you’re a new mutual and you’d like to interact, absolutely drop me an IM, send a prompt, pick up an open, or even just throw me a starter or an ic ask.

I read everyone’s pages & rules before following. thank you for reading mine ! ☎ stats ☎ rules ☎ verses

[kxllerblond]

@notanicepcrson LIKED for Birthday Boy!!

❝ No, darling, I don't want to go for a 'birthday drive'. I don't think that's actually a thing...❞

[notanicepcrson]

He smiled all too sweetly, leaning in to the other's space to plant a soft kiss against his temple, warm arms snared around Clark's waist. He was half teasing... but it had been worth it to ask, anyway. "Sure it is," Jacket insisted. "You made it up one year."

Of course that had been for his birthday and not Clark's.

[n0t-a-nice-person]

[notanicepcrson]

lupuscrme​:

 ❛ -— Looks uncomfortable, mate.  ❜ masks were something you just got USED to. But this guy? This guy had taken it to a whole other level. Might as well have been wearing a latex helmet. Couldn’t be Loba. FUCK that. What he wore was troublesome enough.

Legs spread, bent forward. His elbows rested on knees, his hands hung loosely between them; the epitome of comfortable, casual.  ❛ Bet it’s like a sauna in there. Couldn’t pay me to wear somethin’ like that. ❜ and OH did he do some wild shit for money at the end of the day.

He moves to stand. Slowly but with little hesitance.  ❛ Anyway. I hope you weren’t with these guys. Gonna be a real pain in my ass if you are, I can tell. You look like the pain in the ass sorta bloke. ❜ he doesn’t move his head, doesn’t shift that vacant wolfish gaze from the equally as vacant gaze of his opposite. He tilts his head. There’s no need for gesturing, it’s clear what he means. A few bodies in sight, blood enough to tell a tale otherwise. 

The comfortable demeanor doesn’t leave him but it’s clear he’s ready for instant conflict should it be pursued. He’s sure he can tell the same about the strange chicken man.  ❛ And if you were lookin’ to get to ‘em first? Tough break, I ‘spose. Best to turn around and try again with another job. ❜ the only roundabout warning he’d give for the man to turn around, walk out unscathed. 

@notanicepcrson

Even through his mask, he could almost smell the blood before he’d even opened the door.

Static crept in on the edges of his vision.

Phone call hadn’t said anything about this. Why wouldn’t they have told him? Something felt off. He had already seen a wolf get killed outside the gas station. He had taken the mask. This one looked a little different, though.

Slowly so as to make it clear he wasn’t going for a weapon, his hand lifted to set itself against the doorframe, squeezing slightly at the wood there. Feeling the grain against his palm and fingertips. Something tactile to tell him this was real. A sauna? The other’s words sank in after some delay - any sweating he did under the mask went wholly unnoticed. Often, the blood and sweat mixed so much he couldn’t tell the two apart, and he was usually in too much pain at the end of the night to care either way.

Accent was unusual, he realized. He’d thought only Americans would be in on this.

His gaze fell to regard the blood, the bodies. Surely everyone must be dead for this guy to be so at ease as to have been sitting, initially. After a long silence, Jacket lifted his free hand and flashed an OK sign, giving it a little shake for emphasis. Job seemed to be done. Neither of them would want to stay much longer. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.

[malloniumer]

KING OF MIAMI HOSPITAL (?)

[notanicepcrson]

kxllerblond​:

❝ Damn. I guess we won’t work out then. ❞ he teased with a dramatic sort of sigh.  ❝ A whole different breed. Ouch-—that really hurts, Byrne. ❞ part of him was somewhat thankful Jacket didn’t deal with bikes. In a stunt sense? Dangerous. Hell, they could be dangerous just as a casual hobby. 

❝ The joke being I used to be a bike person. Hardly at…your level of course. The professional stuff. ❞ he offered a casual waving gesture.  ❝ Trucks? Really? Like…semi-trucks? Those actually have live drivers? ❞

A slight furrow of his brow as he studied the other man in mixed confusion and perhaps just a bit of teasing concern - before Clark explained. Jacket’s eyes lit up a touch. “What?” He started in disbelief. “You had a bike? When?” Probably before the half-demon’s death, he could imagine. That was frequently a significant marker for change in Clark’s life. Still, he wondered at what point in the man’s timeline Clark had indulged in a bike, and for how long.

He nodded then in regards to trucks. “Yeah. Sometimes,” Jacket answered. “I don’t really like ‘em...” He admitted. “But I’ll drive one now and then.” Usually only if his agent found him a job he might actually enjoy. Otherwise, a studio sometimes reached out to him in particular if they had worked with him before or felt he was most suited for the stunt.

[notanicepcrson]

thesecondmost·:

There was no mutual respect. Just understanding. A predator being able to pick out another in the room. Moran had no reason to overstep his bounds and cross into the territory of hostility but it would be a lie to say a part of him didn’t crave to be handed a reason to.

The nod was answer enough and the sniper didn’t feel the need to carry on to try and dig for further detail or elaboration. If they guy could see, the guy could see. Moran would be perched up somewhere away from the brunt of the action-—it wasn’t like he cared if the masked man could properly cover his comrades or not. It’d been a minor curiosity at best. 

The tape player earned an arched brow, empty eyes roaming to it briefly before settling back on the empty sockets of the chicken mask. ❝ Yeah?❞ perhaps something as simple as THIS could be his invitation across that line. It’s a plume of smoke towards the man’s shielded face that serves as his response; there’s something dangerous about his gaze now. An extended hand, a challenge issued through bare teeth. 

Then, as suddenly as he’d shown those claws, the tiger retracts ( though not without some hint of gruff amusement ). He lifts a heavy boot and puts the remaining cigarette out along the bottom of it. ❝ Don’t see the big deal.❞ he pulls out a toothpick instead to jam between chapped lips. 

  ❝ S’not like a little cigarette smoke could hurt. Don’t think anything could overpower the stench of blood around here. ❞ spoken so plainly and bluntly as if it was anything but an overly dramatic way of calling the man and the group as Moran saw them. They could be as dignified and organized as they wanted to be with their fancy masks and methods-—but at the end of the day they were just killers like anyone else. 

Funny how killers could still cling to something as pedestrian as smoking manners though. ❝ You gonna be one of the ones out there tomorrow?❞ or whenever the fuck it was they were called to brief. Moran still needed to check over his rifle but that’d require crawling to the one in charge of the workshop and the sniper hadn’t felt inclined enough to bother yet.

The dark eyes of the mask met Moran’s gaze with the utmost focus. Watching him like the eyes of a hawk focused on some tiny, scurrying prey in a far off field of grass, when the man was merely on the opposite side of the couch as him. Jacket didn’t move, didn’t tense, just watched, patient and testing his coworker’s patience.

The cigarette was put out without incident.

He observed the toothpick, familiar in that Jacket frequented the very same replacement for his former vice. The matter of smoking in the safehouse was only a big deal because, as he saw it, it was a matter of a respect - all the other heisters had the respect to smoke outdoors, but for occasional slip-ups. It would be frowned on for Moran to make himself an exception. This small confrontation, Jacket figured, was more or less a safety precaution on behalf of both the newcomer and the more established heisters. Probably saved someone a fistfight somewhere down the line.

There was no odor of blood at the safehouse. Aldstone made very sure to keep it that way. But Jacket knew the man’s meaning. He nodded about the upcoming job, and proceeded to navigate his tape again. “[ First- ]” more whirring, [ time ]?” Accompanied by a tilt of his head to convey a question. He knew Moran was on the next job, but wondered if this would be his first job with the crew, or if he had done some form of heist with them before and Jacket hadn’t heard about it.

[notanicepcrson]

every day we stray further from God’s light

[notanicepcrson]

kxllerblond​:

The cambion turned to the film again, his temple resting against his lounged hand; he gestured vaguely with the other.  ❝ Yes, well…people tend to die when everything doesn’t go smoothly. That could be said about MOST things but especially this line of work I am helping oversee. ❞ that sort of risk game with the job of bank heisting and he was sure the members all understood the risks-—but Clark was a professional and he hardly intended to let any of them die because of any information or intel he’d given them. 

That’d be quite the mark on his reputation and his reputation was what he held most dear. Well…second most perhaps.  ❝ Do you do motorcycles? ❞ clearly not eager to linger on his own side of things. It wasn’t that he was ashamed over his less than legal ventures, but he could find them boring to talk about.  ❝ Or do you just dabble in normal car shoots? ❞

Without fail, the mention of motorcycles brought to mind a bright turquoise helmet, broken and spattered in blood. But Jacket didn’t let the image bother him right now.

His little smile didn’t falter, and he shook his head, gaze cast briefly downward in his usual timid fashion - “No,” Jacket sort of scoffed, chuckling softly. “Bike people are... a totally different breed,” he explained, looking to Clark then with a teasing wrinkle of his nose as if ‘bike people’ or any association with them was just completely unacceptable. Only teasing, of course. Plenty of perfectly respectable motorcycle experts in the stunt field. Jacket wouldn’t deny that.

“I just stick with cars...” He reached to fix idly at some stray strand of the other man’s hair. “Trucks, sometimes.” Larger trucks, too, though they weren’t his specialty, and more often than not, stunts involving very large trucks weren’t manned at all, but created with equipment or special effects that had no need of someone actually behind the wheel. That was fine by him, because he considered them kind of a pain to drive.

[notanicepcrson]

thesecondmost·:

@notanicepcrson·

To the surprise of few, the sniper liked to stay out of sight. At a distance. For the most part, Moran found himself holed up in some shabby box of an apartment when he wasn’t needed. This was purely a business arrangement; there was no need to constantly maintain a presence a the group’s safehouse. It was a place he felt no more welcomed than he felt welcoming of its occupants. Unfortunately, there were times when he was expected to show some face, show up and stand around while their supposed leader prattled off about strategy and planning. 

Moran took enough note during these meetings to make sure none of it conflicted with his own. 

There were periods of nothing before these meetings though. A day at least where he was simply expected to be present and wait around the packed base until the time came. It was grating but Sebastian had weathered worse working environments. 

He knew most of their names (their aliases, rather) not out of any need or want to be familiar with them, but out of necessity for the job. To know who was doing what once things went live. Knowing who the fuck was who made for smoother comms, after all. The quiet one, the MASKED one, he knew was JACKET. Moran had noted that out of all of them, he seemed to be the only one concerned about preserving some sort of concealed identity even around his supposed comrades. 

Strange but otherwise there was nothing Moran found noteworthy about him. That wasn’t to say there WASN’T, just that the sniper didn’t seem to care enough to determine this. For lack of anywhere else, he had taken up residence on the common room’s couch-—unfortunately also occupied by the strange && masked criminal. Moran’s cigarette hung between his lips, feet kicked up onto the table with little regard for if it was proper etiquette or not. ❝ You see in that thing?❞ he asked suddenly, sliced through the prolonged silence that had hung over the duo up until that point.

It seemed they worked in groups of four. The sniper could only wonder if the chicken man would be one of those four he’d be providing cover fire for during this upcoming job. The sniper still didn’t understand why he was THERE. It was just some criminal group that ran around in masks playing bank robbers as far as he was concerned. Nothing special. BUT, his employer apparently saw something of note and Moran wasn’t usually one to question his employer. He just went and shot his gun at or for whoever he was told to. 

He had seen it from the first time the man had first stepped foot into the same room as him.

It went beyond the unsettling familiarity in the stranger’s face, beyond the features that reminded him of his own. It had the same effect as seeing one’s own reflection in a mirror suddenly disobey: watching a reflection lift its arm when you had done no such thing. This man was a reflection of himself in some way. A familiar look in his eyes. A familiar way he moved.

Jacket didn’t like any of it. He didn’t like mirrors to begin with.

But... Moran hadn’t been outwardly hostile yet. And if he was anything like Jacket, he wouldn’t be, unless given reason to. Still, he couldn’t shake a gut feeling of distrust. Something about the man set him on edge, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off of him since Moran had seated himself on the other end of the couch.

Addressing the other’s question, Jacket nodded a little. Then, still without taking his eyes off the newcomer, he drew his tape player from his belt, and it whirred for half a minute until Jacket reached the clip he wanted.

"[ Please smoke only in the designated areas. ]"

[johnxspine]

some doodles

[notanicepcrson]

kxllerblond​:

He appreciate the teasing, how easily they could poke fun at one another. Two vastly different individuals and yet both so guarded…comfortable enough to be able to tease and taunt and flirt. There were arguments to be made as to if either of them truly deserved that level of comfort but…

❝ A commercial. Fancy. Maybe I can drop by. ❞ and then a job somewhere a month or so out. Well, it lined up nicely with his own work at least. Perhaps too well—but that wouldn’t be a connection he’d be making any time soon.  ❝ Try and get me a date, hm? I’ve got something coming up around that time too. I’d like to spend a day with you before you head out if possible. ❞

Jacket was resilient enough alone…add in the fact he wasn’t exactly human and there wasn’t logically any reason for Clark to worry. Yet, there simply was that small chance that he wouldn’t come back from a job. Frankly, the same could be said about Clark and his own business endeavors. It was never discussed but they were both aware, how could they not be?

❝ Mine’s not going to be very active. I just need to sit back and help make sure things go smoothly. Or, rather, I need to sit back and help things go smoothly for the person who is trying to make things go smoothly for the guy who is trying to make things go smoothly. ❞ he grinned gently.  ❝ It’s all very convoluted but…that’s business for you. ❞

He smiled warmly then. “Sure,” answered with ease. Ordinarily very reserved, very private, hesitant, with anyone else - everything was different with Clark. Far more of Jacket’s doors were open to the man; truly Clark was welcome to let himself in to almost any part of Jacket’s life by now.

He liked having Clark on set at his shoots, as he got to look forward to seeing him after all was said and done, even if his agent sometimes poked fun at them for looking alike. And the catering was usually good, too, so he got to share it with the man and make sure Clark had something to eat. Sitting back some, Jacket nodded about a date and answered again, “Sure. Whenever you want. Your schedule’s busier than mine,” he reminded with a soft chuckle.

A bit of blinking at first as he looked to be trying to wrap his head around Clark’s explanation of his upcoming work. “Oh. Sounds like... a lot of things that have to go smoothly.” But that was typical of the half-demon’s work. Typical of his own, too.

[notanicepcrson]

ko3ak·:

YUP, IT’S DEFINITELY HIM. While Sokol’s left gawping at the screen another car grazes his, sending him crashing into the barricade. Fuck, since when booing’s so annoying to him? By the time his car’s facing the right direction again, he’s second from the bottom. Even Jacket’s gaining on him rapidly and he’s a lap ahead. 

There’s no use in trying. In high difficulties a single cock-up can be unforgiving and a comeback is unlikely. Even if he floors the gas and miraculously gains on the rest of them, he’d be nowhere close. There isn’t enough time. Jacket’s already on his last lap. He’d rather take a bullet to the head than come second to him. 

If there’s anything being in a competitive sport didn’t teach him, it’s how not to be a sore loser. Used to having what he wanted when he wanted it, never outmatched by an opponent on the rink ‘til today and he’s not having it. It’s all that he has against Jacket, really. Can’t stand how a man from nowhere outshone him in every sense of the word. How he cruised through life– be it bloodbath or video games– unscathed without so much as lifting a finger. Sokol just wants Jacket and his stupid car to disappear. 

Sokol hits the pause.

“ Don’t want to play anymore. ” Said like a petulant child, and the controller’s tossed onto the couch between them. Why did he even agree to play with him? It’s the chicken shit’s fault for showing his face. “ Going to get food. ” Is all he offers before escaping into the kitchen. He’ll never recover from this.

He sat up slightly when the race was suddenly paused. Looked to his opponent - who was discarding the controller and standing, moving off for the stairs. Jacket stared, incredulous for a beat; really, from a professional athlete, he had expected a better sense of sportsmanship.

He had also looked forward to beating the Russian repeatedly, and not just once.

Jacket sat back, setting his controller in his lap in favor of drawing his tape player from his belt again. The device whirred while it was fast forward, and before Sokol was quite up the stairs, Jacket managed to reach the clip he was searching for.

“[ Afraid. ]”

Funny. He was the one in the chicken mask, and yet...

[notanicepcrson]

gxttricky​:

Truly, the enforcer had meant like…a group trip. Chains was no CONTROL FREAK but he had his own standards of what he liked to shove down his throat. Perhaps contrary to the popular consensus, he didn’t NOT trust Jacket but the guy hardly seemed to exist on anything beyond fucking pizza and whatever he could order for pick-up or delivery.

Chains couldn’t be in the wrong for doubting his capabilities to pick out decent groceries. Chains also wasn’t one to both argue with convenience when he could help it OR try and discern just where miscommunications happened with the mute heister—let alone go out of his way to correct them.

Forty minutes later and it was starting to become a question as to if the birdbrain had gotten lost or had finally decided that YOU KNOW WHAT? Maybe Payday wasn’t the call for fueling whatever dark, twisted motivations he kept tucked away in that varsity jacket. 

At first Chains had returned to his workshop (like fuck he was going to wait around and waste time over EGGS). At the thirty-minute mark, he managed to pluck his earbud out, crane his head back and utter a mumbled curse of “Fuuuck me, man.” to his ceiling. If the guy didn’t come back what kind of reaming would he have to deal with from Dallas? What would he even SAY?

[ ‘Ah, shit. Yeah, my bad, Dallas. I sent the guy out for some goddamn eggs and he just didn’t come back. Motherfucker mowed down the best of the best but that grocery rush hour just really gets you. Didn’t stand a stance.’ ]

By the time Jacket managed to make his way back in with the carton of eggs in tow, Chains had been just about ready to haul ass out to go look for him. 

“Shit, Jacket. What took you? Grocery store out of damn eggs? Had to grab the hen and raise her yourself?” his gaze flicked to the carton and he reached for it to place it into the fridge. “Had me ready to come get your ass. Mind out here makin’ up all sorts of bullshit bad scenarios.”

He stared for his coworker, handing off the eggs with a slight tilt of his head. The store had been 15 minutes away, and he hadn’t been willing to do any speeding where the safehouse was involved. He wondered exactly what Chains had been worried about. Maybe that Jacket had altogether forgotten about the eggs and gone to do something else... Or decided against getting eggs at all. Neither were things the other heisters would put past him, probably.

And probably, Chains had had something else to eat in the meantime, he realized as the eggs were merely stowed in the fridge. He sighed softly, staring for the fridge. Possible that by the time Chains got around to having more eggs, they would be gone again...

[notanicepcrson]

gxttricky​:

If ranking was according to how intricate of a motherfucking excuse one could come up with—let’s just say Dallas would have some competition as the mastermind of the group. 

“Aight, OK. I don’t want to be hearin’ jack SHIT when I dip in heavy to the ammo out there. Karma’s gonna be a damn BITCH and I want all y’all to think back on the day you forgot some common fucking grocery etiquette.”

It was with no REAL ire and the group likely knew that. It was just Chains being, well, Chains.

The enforcer grabbed for the empty egg carton, tossed it noisily into the bin and turned to go about removing the pan from the stovetop since APPARENTLY eggs were out of the question. “Bunch o’ goddamn heathens.”

With all dispersed except for…

“You volunteering for a grocery run, Jacket? How kind of you.” one could argue that Aldstone did the shopping in general but Chains wanted some goddamn eggs and he wasn’t about to call for the butler and WAIT when he had two perfectly fine, sexy legs that he could use to get them NOW. 

A long, soft sigh from within the mask, visible in how his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t slept, besides that impromptu little nap. He might question if he was OK to drive right now, but he knew he was; had driven through worse circumstances before.

Wordlessly - no tape player, not so much as a brief nod - and perhaps a bit sluggishly, Jacket stood from his seat and moved for the stairs to leave. Did the nearest corner store have eggs...? He didn’t think so. The closest grocery store was further away, such were the perks of the safehouse being in a desolate part of town.

He returned close to 40 minutes later with a carton of eggs.

[notanicepcrson]

gxttricky​:

💰 open;;

   “Alright…” his hand slapped onto the counter. The enforcer turned around, jabbed a finger at the fridge. “Which one of y’all rude asses decided it’d be CUTE to eat all of the goddamn eggs and not tell a damn soul about it?” he GOT it, he did. A safehouse full of criminals, mercenaries, and overall loons. Being a bad guy didn’t excuse bad manners though and Chains would be caught dead thinking otherwise.

Having been dozing right there at the counter with his chicken-masked head in his arms, Jacket sat up abruptly, startled awake by the sudden smack of the counter.

He barely woke quickly enough to catch Chains’ question. Looked to the few other heisters littering the counter and dining table, who all stood then and collectively issued a cacophony of excuses before dispersing through the safehouse, leaving just Jacket there in the kitchen and dining area.

He looked at Chains.

Probably... it had been a group effort. Jacket certainly hadn’t eaten all the eggs himself.

But... he had eaten the last three.

[notanicepcrson]

ko3ak​:

The warbling noise of the tape recorder sounds again when Sokol sits upright and cracks his spine. His brows leap into his hair. Did he hear this right? The chicken man wants to join in? Fine. Two can play at the game. He scoots to one end of the couch to give him some space.

“ Controller below TV. ” Gestures at the drawer before navigating back to the loading screen on his. Unapologetically cranks the difficulty up to the hilt. A risky move, considering he’s never played on that level before, but how bad can it get? A few more obstacles or a bends in the road’s probably nothing he can’t handle. 

The game starts off smoothly enough. He zips past the other AIs with relative ease, but his eye’s only trained on one marker at the map in the corner of the screen. 

It’s just a game, but he’d rather be shot dead than lose at the hands of a psycho that couldn’t speak. He’s going to win, has to win—- there’s no doubt about it, and he’s so into it, body slanted to one side like it’ll help the drag of the vehicle somehow. 

But midway into the race a car– is it Jacket’s– tailgates his. Barely nudges the tail wing—- and by law of video-game physics, sends his car in a tailspin. 

“ What the fuck… ” All said in a sharp exhale as fingers curl into the plastic hard enough to buckle it. Since when was this Mario Kart? There’s still some hope, but he’ll have to pick off two cars to gain momentum. 

As if he didn’t know where the controllers were kept.

He moved ahead, tucking his tape player back on his belt to open the drawer and take a controller. Then moved to the couch, in the furthest possible seat from the Russian, to sit - observing the projector screen just in time to see Sokol adjusting the difficulty.

Jacket had played this difficulty before, mastered it before, even if it had been awhile. But the fact Sokol had just now moved the difficulty up was telling.

Where Sokol sat tense, physically leaning into his turns, Jacket sat slack. Leaned forward with his elbows propped on his knees but otherwise relaxed. It took him the first lap to familiarize himself with the controls again. Yeah, the turning sensitivity in this game wasn’t his favorite - but he got the hang of it again quickly enough, and by the next lap, he was catching up. Fast.

Sokol wasn’t doing too badly, all things considered. But that was about to change.

Jacket waited for a stretch of track where the both of them would be going top speed, and it was there that he made just the right little bump against the tail of the Russian’s virtual car, knocking him into a spin that would take an awful lot of time to recover from. Really, he hadn’t had to play dirty to pass his coworker, but the opportunity had been hard to resist. There was some satisfaction to be had in the violent shriek of an opponent’s tires, and in the hissed curses of the man on the other end of the couch.