#jazzpunk

[redpaintsplatter]

At the liquor store with my mom and brother and found this drink, BIG jazzpunk vibes (did not buy it because I’m underaged)

[shenanibyte]

This may be the most sickeningly sweet headcanon I've ever written, but who cares

The Editor has freckles.

The Editor has freckles, and yet nobody knows but him.

Well, except maybe Mary, but that’s beside the point.

As the head of the Western Syndicate sector and a frequent face in magazine covers and billboards, the Editor has a reputation to uphold. He must be imposing, capable of inducing fear into the heart of his adversaries with an icy glare. Yet, he must be alluring — a tall, polished figure with an enigmatic charm that draws in potential suitors with a brief flash of his teeth.

Freckles, however, have no place in that carefully constructed image.

Before applying a generous glob of foundation to his face, one might mistake him for a speckled robin’s egg. The array of brown specks that dusted his cheeks and nose bridge gave him an air of youthful naivety. One he loathed. The Editor had always despised his freckles, convinced they made him look soft. Childish. Unfit for the fearsome reputation he had meticulously built.

And perhaps they made him look vulnerable?

Feel vulnerable?

Was the Editor… Insecure?

Pfft, of course not!

The Editor was undoubtedly the most pompous, self-absorbed bastard ever to grace Japanda’s streets. Not a day goes by when countless men and women would grovel at his feet, drooling over his pristine oxfords for the slightest amount of attention.

Even after his dirtiest works, when he’d return to his bachelor’s pad, exhausted, suit turned and marinated in blood, hair disheveled, with fresh cuts adorning his now multicolored face, others still lusted after him.

Bruises and all.

He could TOTALLY pull freckles off if he wants to. Hell, he could probably start a trend.

But he doesn’t.

So, each morning, the Editor dedicates himself to exhaustively layering foundation over his skin, concealing every speck, blemish, and imperfection. His fingertips worked overtime to sculpt himself into an untouchable figure, a flawless figure — almost godlike — for the public to admire, fear, and desire. And until his head sinks into his velvety pillow, he reminds himself why.

It’s all a part of his job.

No. It’s a part of his reputation.

Because the Editor has freckles.

And yet, nobody knows but him.

[apollosopera]

she’s on smoke break leave her alone

my take on the lady from the russian embassy in jazzpunk! just a quick sketch colored in with gel crayons. im having a lot of fun with these, who should i do next?

rough sketch under the cut

[zacsophone]

More progress 💥💥💥

[cl4mbulanc3plustwo]

draw colin (and maybe tony) or draw jazzpunk??

[cl4mbulanc3]

GUYS PLEASE HEAR ME OUT ON THEM… JAZZPUNK FANS PLEASE!!!

[polyblanc]

Red // probably already Posted this but its in my drafts so will be posted again

[onemillionbeetles]

oh jazzpunk fandom! i have food for you!!!

Something a little different from my normal tone. I wanted to go a bit more surreal and introspective with this one (not to mention SFW lol), and really go ham with the flowery metaphors. y’all like editor/polyblank romantic angst? you’re eating good tonight

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63325219

(full work under the cut)

To say Polyblank’s patience was starting to wear thin was an understatement. There was never any to begin with.

Like most of Polyblank’s missions, their task was deceptively simple: get in, save the boss, get out. They should have known by now that such an easy plan would inevitably be thwarted by a cast of colorful characters, each weirder and more ingratiating than the last. Worst of all was the Editor. They should’ve known he was behind this. The Editor was the proverbial gum on their sole, the pebble that kept sliding its way back into their shoe, the sock whose elastic, clinging desperately to any shred of stability, failed miserably and exposed the Achilles’ tendon to be blistered beyond repair. That is to say, they wanted to kick the shit out of him.

Which made it all the more exhausting that Polyblank was still at the Editor’s lavish Bachelor Pad after five rounds of various games, ranging from golf to boating, none of which were played fairly. Thankfully, they could finally take a moment’s rest.

Polyblank slumped into a (frankly garish) crushed velvet conversation pit, sans conversation. The last thing they wanted was to expend their energy on words, after hearing the Editor’s prattling voice for upwards of an hour. They propped up their legs, debating for a moment if it was worth it to take off their loafers, before remembering they didn’t care that much about the Editor’s belongings. Their head lolled back. It was nice to let their guard down, if only for a moment.

The cool breeze stiffened Polyblank’s posture as it tangled its way underneath their jacket. The city was far below, dizzyingly so, the chatter of people and the endless whirring of neons signs its own type of crickets chirping, crowds blurring together in a sort of pointillism below—the closest to art they could get in their line of work. It calmed them. Despite their reserved persona and top-secret line of work, Polyblank didn’t actually do well alone. Whenever they’d settle down at the end of another successful mission, rather than be relieved for a moment’s rest, their brain would start whirring as soon as their head hit the pillow, chomping at the bit for something to do. They surrounded themself with people, whether they realized it or not. Maybe that’s why they were still here humoring the Editor. The two of them reflected and fed off each other’s energies, they thought, a picture of a picture, an echo slowly fading, a Newton’s cradle clattering towards perpetual motion before puttering into dissatisfying stillness. They would destroy each other.

Their moody musings were interrupted by the click-clacking of perfectly shined Oxfords, followed by cushions shifting on the other side of the pit. Polyblank raised an eyebrow at the Editor before gesturing at his hands.

“Oh, come now, I’m only having a light,” the Editor rolled his eyes. He had produced an embossed cigarette case, inspecting several hand-rolled options before popping one into a dainty holder. He flicked open an equally ornate lighter, struggling to get the flame to stay ignited. The wind did him no favors, but his hands seemed to be��� shaking, was it?

Polyblank watched for a moment as the Editor grunted pathetically, handling the lighter much the same way as an orangutan would handle car keys, if he ever got ahold of some.

Eventually, they had enough of gawking at him, sighed, and pulled out their own light. Without fanfare, they lit the end of his cigarette.

The flame illuminated the Editor’s thick lenses, obscuring his eyes from view. It was for this reason that Polyblank couldn’t decipher the look on his face. Grateful? Relieved? Cocky? Most likely the latter, but they could dream. The Editor only nodded once, an acknowledgment that something had happened that had benefited him in some way.

Polyblank sat there dumbfounded for a moment. They were unsure what to feel, unsure of why they had just helped their mortal enemy with such tenderness, a word they did not like using but that was the only one apt for the situation. Sensing Polyblank’s eyes on him (despite his own being closed as he took a long drag from the cigarette) he offered the pack to them. Polyblank shook their head, putting both hands up in defense.

“What’s the matter, afraid of a contact high?” The Editor chuckled, “or did mother tell you not to smoke?”

Polyblank rolled their eyes. They struggled to admit it, but if it wasn’t for the ingratiating smile and posh accent, he’d have a sort of bad-boy charm about him. He was quick to take what he wanted, and with a skinny cigarette clinging to his lips it came off as bold rather than petulant. Ruffle that perfectly coiffed hair and undo the Windsor knot and maybe…

Their mind was wandering again. Back on track now, you have to beat him at his own game. Try as they might, they kept trailing back to that cigarette. The smell was nauseating, the person holding it even more so, but the smoke lingering in the air softened his features and created a dreamy ambiance that left Polyblank’s head spinning. A sound left the back of their throat, somewhere between a grimace, a chuckle, and a hiccup.

“I really think a cigarette would do you some good,” the Editor chided, slipping one into Polyblank’s lapel pocket with uncouth firmness. God, he’s pushy. “Make you less uptight, at least.”

His hand stayed on their chest, the other planting itself on their shoulder. He had them right where he needed. Mere inches from each others’ faces, Polyblank could smell the smoke on his breath mixing with expensive scotch and far too much mouthwash. An intoxicating cocktail to be sure, if they’d only indulge. And god, did they want to.

No thanks, I’m high on my mother’s love, Polyblank quipped tonelessly, not daring to let even a hint of the desperation permeating their brain show on their face.

“Come now, have some indirectly at least…” the Editor took a long drag from his cigarette. He maintained eye contact the entire time, one eyebrow cocked in victory despite no competition. He hooked a thumb under Polyblank’s chin, opening their mouth slightly so they could blow the smoke into it. His lips were so close to their own that they could feel the heat radiating off them. Despite their better judgement, Polyblank inhaled.

God, it tasted expensive. Their eyes fluttered shut as they breathed deep. A smile tugged the corners of their lips. They became acutely aware of the Editor’s nose touching the tip of theirs, and kept their eyes shut so as not to deal with it.

“See, silly?” The Editor chuckled, “Tastes nice, doesn’t it?”

Polyblank’s heart caught in their throat. Silly? They should be insulted. They should take the opportunity to hurl a pillow, a lamp, the whole sofa in fact, against the side of the Editor’s head so that his skull gonged against it like a church bell. And yet, despite every nerve in their body protesting against it…

They kissed him.

It felt like the right thing to do in the moment. His lips were already there. They needed a bit of relief. It was certainly better than miniature golf. Not to mention the fact that beneath it all, Polyblank wanted to do so. Simple as that. That’s at least what they told themself while white-hot panic kicked in. What are you doing? Every synapse in their body was firing at once. Thoughts clattered like marbles, the city ambience building in their ears until it reached a nervous crescendo. As suddenly as they had initiated the kiss, it dissipated and caught in both of their throats.

The Editor, ever the chatterbox, was the first to break the silence.

“Erm-“ he tried to form words, each sound sputtering and dying in midair. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I… hah- I must say, Polyblank, I commend you for taking initiative.” Was he blushing?

Polyblank snorted, rolling their eyes but making no effort to move away. They noticed the Editor’s hand, once passively at their shoulder, had shifted so he was grasping firmly at their lapel. They met his eyes, despite the nausea such intimacy caused them. There was the usual smugness, sure, but that had been knocked off-kilter, revealing a genuine softness hidden underneath. Polyblank’s mind flitted back to the hotel, what the Editor had said to them. They were in disguise as a beautiful woman, but those words didn’t ring hollow. His eyes hadn’t left Polyblank for even a second that night. As much as the Editor could patch sincerity with sarcasm, he had still, rather than disposing of them the instant they stepped foot in his bachelor pad, done this elaborate display of manhood, of self-aggrandizing importance, always something to prove to someone. It all made sense now.

Such affection could never last. One moment later, they’d be at each other’s throats again, no doubt. The cosmic ballet would go on.

But for now, they could reach an impasse.

Polyblank nodded, the Editor repeating his gesture in a moment of mutual understanding.

It was impossible to tell who leaned in first. Polyblank moved their arms to wrap around the Editor’s neck, lower lip trembling against his. The Editor in turn discarded the cigarette, opting instead to grip Polyblank’s waist under their jacket. For just a moment, a peace treaty was secured. The constant din of city life faded away. The only sound was their mouths tangling together, heartbeats synchronized, breath labored. They stayed this way a while, content to offer a simple comfort to each other. God knows they both needed it.

At last, the Editor had to pull away. Typical. Even a kiss had to be under his complete control, lest Polyblank forget who called the shots.

“You know it’ll never last,” he sighed acerbically. There was an undercurrent of sadness, wondering what could have been, had things been different, had Polyblank been someone else, had he been someone else.

After all, there was no escaping the truth of the matter; that the fighting would only go on as long as they’d both let it. At any point, they could have said, enough of this, fired the shot, and tidied up the mess the other had made of their life.

But then, who would win?

Polyblank managed a shrug. Then again, nothing lasts around here.

Ashes to ashes.

[redpaintsplatter]

I have a really silly but really dumb idea for a a jazzpunk oc…. Mmmmm….

Basically his name is kernel panic and he’s a military man whose entire body is like a screen. When he’s embarrassed he blue screens. I think he’d be kind of a goofy guy, always trying to seem serious but he’s such a giant dork. Pathetic middle aged to old man… gotta draw him

[bangobeep]

guys they're being weird and homoerotic again 🙄🙄🙄

[apollosopera]

she jazz on my punk til my poly blanks

wanted to go for more of a 60s watercolor sketch vibe with this one, the eye was a stylistic choice bc none of the jazzpunk characters technically have eyes, but it felt weird not to give her any. so she gets ONE.

[tatangadragon]

messed up the colouring but it is what it is. need to draw jazzpunk stuff again ....

[aspennnnnnnnn]

jazzpunk is great because 9/10 times when i mention it in like a discord server everyones like "omg i remember when random popular youtuber played that game i loved it as a kid!!!!" or "oh ive never heard of that game but it looks fun" and theres MAYBE one other little weirdo in the server who actually likes the game beyond just playing/watching a playthrough of it once and thinking it was neat. im gonna start eating concrete where are the abnormal jazzpunk fans when i need them

[periwinklefemur]

One of my headcanons for Jazzpunk would have to be that to others, Polyblanka appears as a clump of static due to him being an espionage agent.

Features such as his hair and overall silhouette aren't affected, and neither are the clothes he dons. HOWEVER! His face is entirely devoid of defining features, appearing as a shifting blur of black, white, and grey pixels, akin to a corrupted transmission.

Additionally, with his body being composed of static, he lacks the usual warmth or sensation that human flesh has. Standing near or making contact with him replicates the fuzzy, tingling sensation of a CRTV screen.

It should also be known that this extra layer of protection—his disguise—can be damaged. (Similarly in a way of cracking open a crab leg to expose the soft, tender flesh residing within.) Whether intentional or not, depending on how much damage he takes in a specific area, fractures will begin to form, splintering outward and weakening with each hit. Eventually, a piece of his static-exoskeleton may fizzle out, briefly revealing glimpses of his fleshy-yet-freshly-bruised form beneath.

And you know damn well that while spying on Polyblank, the Editor would demand that his operatives gather as many pictures exposing Polyblank's 'true' self as possible. Whether a bruised eye, a busted lip, or even the faintest hint of a dimple, he didn't care. He’s determined to piece together a collage in order to reconstruct Polyblank’s true face from the scattered fragments, no matter how incomplete they may be.

[cl4mbulanc3]

hi jazzpunk fans heres a sketch befote i finish please follow i want followrs

[ratsniffer]

My favorite thing to do when i'm in a fandom is watching gacha reacts video's.

And i'm nodicing a suspiciously small amount of Jazzpunk gacha reacts...cough cough