#j a z z [ hireath a home i don't know anymore ] [ and a peace i can't have ]

[spymeister]

I posted 3,860 times in 2022

That's 3,860 more posts than 2021!

2,029 posts created (53%)

1,831 posts reblogged (47%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@photobombingcryptid

@ofvaporex

@a-life-revised

@gowithplana

@sparkmender

I tagged 2,998 of my posts in 2022

Only 22% of my posts had no tags

#dash commentary - 154 posts

#j a z z [ spin the record dj] - and turn the music /on/ - 148 posts

#my art - 108 posts

#j a z z [ hireath - a home i don't know anymore ] [ and a peace i can't have ] - 105 posts

#j a z z [ hireath a home i don't know anymore ] [ and a peace i can't have ] - 59 posts

#ᵐ ᵉ ⁱ ˢ ᵗ ᵉ ʳ | ᵖ ˡ ᵃ ʸ ˡ ⁱ ˢ ᵗ - m u s i c - 54 posts

#crack commentary - 53 posts

#uwu - 47 posts

#jazz - 47 posts

#s h a t t e r e d  / v i s a g e s → [ m a e s t r o ] - 42 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#3. but also. feeding people is like a staple in southern households. no matter where you go. someone's gonna feed you because they like you.

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

/sticks one leggy out. 

34 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

#4

TFA eludes me rn

but

more warm up drawings, this time @gowithplana​ ‘s boy. 

36 notes - Posted April 15, 2022

#3

                                                           Singin’ a song                                                              —only my spark can know.                                        Won’tcha, ah won’tcha be my baby tonight?                     ← ------------------------------------------------------------------- →

                          INDEPENDENT | SELECTIVE | HEADCANON / IDW / G1 

                                           Jazz of Polyhex                                                   About | Laws | Dossier

                                      RP threadtracker here 

47 notes - Posted March 23, 2022

#2

88 notes - Posted July 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Starting the blog with a logic baby man.

148 notes - Posted March 22, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[spymeister]

BAD END- The bad guys win. Everything that can go wrong for my muse had gone wrong.

Jazz never becomes part of the Autobots.

He never meets Prowl in the shadow of Praxus, never meets that pivotal moment that changes his fate for the better. He climbs the ranks of Decepticon officers until he's working alongside Soundwave as part of the Special Operations unit.

He becomes a ghost, a terror, a monster that slide in and out of Autobot bases and decimate entire territories with a swathe of devestation. He becomes Megatron's secret threat, a shadow assassin that makes his way towards the Prime himself.

He meets Prowl now, too set in his ways and his function to even think about defecting. They meet, and clash, and clash, and clash again- avoiding assassination attempts on the other. Prowl thwarts his successes, and he starts slipping in importance in the optics of the Decepticon Elite.

Scrabbling back takes energy, deaths, and a certain amount of numbness to the mechanism he once was. However, it doesn't last- it never lasts. Autobot officer after Autobot officer falls as he makes his way through their ranks, never quite able to touch Prowl or Prime, but able to come close now and again.

Finally, there comes the job he doesn't walk away from. He doesn't know if it's a set up, but it feels like one. Feels like he's betrayed from the inside out. There's sick satisfaction on the face of the Autobots as they surround him. He endures the blows, the beatings, the starvation, and the violation of his character, frame, and processor.

He understands now why Megatron was terrified of mnemnosurgerons. He understands the violation of shadowplay, of having your processor dug through like it's a garden and someone plucking the thoughts out of you like a wayward weed. They don't leave much of himself when they're done.

They leave a shattered wreck to go to trial. To be condemned. He can't say a word in his defense, can't bring up coherent thoughts for an argument. All of the suaveness, all of the charm and the charisma is gone.

Instead, he shakes, and he shakes, and he shakes.

He's sentenced as guilty, as if there was any other recourse. As if he could afford any other option. As if he could afford anything. He's a Polyhexian. A Decepticon. A Disposable.

He doesn't notice when he's strapped into the harness, or when they attach the cortical feed to the back of his processor. Doesn't feel it when they shut his systems down one by one into stasis mode. Enough energon and energy fed to him to keep him aware, not enough to keep him awake.

And inside, locked in his own processor—

—he screams

never making a sound.

[spymeister]

“Risk is inevitable in the lives of those that seek to do great works upon the face of the world. Danger, combat, and even death. These are the things we risk to make a difference.”

He's curled up in one of his innumerous hiding spots, listening to Prime trying to reason with some of the council members. The war is worsening, and no one is wanting to listen to sense. He can see how greedy they are, the stubborn set of their faceplates- the twist of their lips. He can tell that none of them, save maybe one or two is going to take the Prime seriously.

Finding his fingers itchy for his vibroblade, imagining how easy it is to slip the humming weapon into seams and against vital organs until energon pours from their intakes. And they burblingly agree to his demands, to his Prime's demands.

He twists his own lips into a wry, nasty smile. Easy to take the mech out of the 'Cons, but not so easy to take the 'Con out of the mech. Then again, that's why Prowl recruited him- wasn't it. It wasn't out of the goodness of the mech's spark- he'd seen the look he got when he'd officially sworn the oath.

It's because he's useful, and useful things have a reasonably long lifespan as long as they stay useful. The Autobots, he's learned, adhere to a strictly different variation of Functionalism, but it's still Functionalism and frame-classicism at it's core. However, at the moment- the Decepticons are worse, and he has to survive somehow. He knows damn well that the moment he becomes a liability, the tactician is going to drop him like a corrupted datafile.

He's certain in another life, it would have bothered him. As it is, he'd happily slip a holo-stilleto between the other's door-wings if he likewise becomes an issue.

However, he blinks a little in surprise as a frame wedges itself against him, both of them turning to stare down at the rigid posture of the councilmembers as they listen to the Prime's speech. A former enforcer and researcher- the mech is more than qualified to lead, but he's untried in the realm of war. Both he and Ratchet have experiences in different quarters- but he can see the jaded expression on the medic's face.

The muted anger at being threatened to be arrested and Empurata'd if he didn't shut his clinic down and return to Iacon by order of the Council. Of having to leave the patients that had actually needed him, in a community that all but the poorest of disposables and empties had frequented and lived in.

"How bad is it so far," the other's Iaconian accent gracing his audials.

The Poly shifts his own helm, cracking his neckstruts tiredly. His visor is dim, a soft glowing cyan in the dim light. The rest of his biolights are turned off as remains settled.

"Ain't going good," he murmurs softly back- optics lidding. "Prime's makin' a good point, but the council ain't gonna listen. They never listen. They're gonna get killed and ain't nothing we can do about it. We've warned 'em, and the smart ones have already fled."

He shakes his helm after a moment- watching another council-member, this one from Stanix- begin to argue vehemently with the Prime over fuel allotment to the lower castes.

"Slag like this is why I originally signed up with Megs."

He twists his lips in wry amusement.

"I keep tellin' Prowl an' Op, I can always slice a spark chamber open t'do some persuasion, but they got this whole thin' against violence an' threatenin'."

He cuts that gaze towards Ratchet, still giving him that wry smirk.

[spymeister]

@beatboombox

His visor is still broken over one optic, so Jazz can really feel that look of DisapprovalTM.

--------

Soundwave will be rewarded with his own infamous visor conspicuously absent, especially as the malleable metal on his face twitches one orbital ridge upwards over a gold optic.

Clawed fingers absently use the dauber to plop a red circle right over the servo-written square.

He's still currently curled up in his nest of blankets and heating pads- frame half twisted underneath due to both pain and an attempt to maximize temperature regulation.

"We both know ah ain't wrong."

[spymeister]

26.  HEAL :  for one muse to nurse the other back to health from a sickness or injury.

Being stuck behind enemy lines is the literal fragging worst, but at least he's not without his contacts. The retraction had gone along as normal, meeting up with his team for a debrief- then heading over to the medical section for his usual decontamination and cleansing protocols.

However, it had culminated in a sudden attack by an opportunistic band of neutrals, instead of 'Cons- and the ship had found itself forcibly grounded and the mechanisms inside fending for their lives. It'd taken nearly everything he had to help round up who was left and slip away before they could be tracked. A few of the sturdier ones had been sent out to scavenge for energon and supplies, while the injured had stayed behind to recover.

Ratchet, unfortunately, had found himself in the latter category- grousing at the inability to move around and help. Instead, he's currently strapped to a gurney because of a spinal relay injury- with the Autobot Spymaster attempting to follow his direction to help with such a delicate repair. Jazz's claws are, thankfully, both agile and clean- and the microwelder he's wielding is carefully soldering broken bits of metal back together.

He pauses at a twitch from the medic, making sure he's not incurring pain- as those pain sensors are turned off.

"A'ight," he murmurs- "I got the motor relays soldered, what am ah goin' to next 'ere."

[spymeister]

❛ i’ll survive. somehow i always do. ❜

The Polyhexian snorts softly, idly twirling one of the vibroblades from digit to digit. Both of them are watching the mercenary in the distance, the hunter regarding them both as well. There's a faint beeping behind the distant mech, a beacon that's been activated to call in reinforcements.

It's too far out for him do dismantle this easily, and Meme is already on the ground and attempting to patch his wounds. He's simply covering for the taller mech, letting him get back on his pedes.

"I'd like a little less survivin', and a little more livin', personally-" the former spy drawls- watching the hunter before them to make sure there's not going to be a weapon drawn.

"How long ya got left on your repairs. Tha' beacon is speedin' up which means his friends are a lil too close for my comfort."

After all, Meme isn't the only one with a contract on his helm.

[spymeister]

"i wish you'd take better care of yourself."

He snuck on board the Lost Light for reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that he absolutely wanted to be away from Cybertron, and Optimus Prime. He knew that Rodimus would take anyone, and there were a startling number of Special Operatives already on the ship. Most of them had been part of the Autobot Diplomatic Corpse- which made them a special brand of crazy that even HE didn't deal with. He'd already managed to refuse Getaway's crazier ideas, and hide away from Atomizer's glee. They'd been so excited to see him that he'd almost felt bad about setting some slag right.

Almost.

There'd been something malicious in Getaway's field that had rankled him the wrong way. For the most part, he'd been able to be ignored except for the occasional side-eye from Magnus in his direction, going on about basic stuff and reconnecting with Blaster. Getting Megatron on board the ship had been... an optic opener, but like others he'd followed the trial with a measure of interest.

But also, a measure of disgust.

He knows those words were false, knows they were not Megatron's when they were spoken. He knows what a mechanism looks like under duress, having been the cause of it more times than he can count he won't think about that human he won't he won't he won't he won't. He'd shut it off after the sentence had been read out, and had avoided the ship's scuttlebutt after a while for that.

What did surprise him was that out of all the mechanisms that had come to see him after this issue, had been Ravage. While on the opposite sides of the war- he and the panther-mech had always had a sort of understanding each other. He'd tried to harm them as little as possible, and Ravage had kept their damage to a minimum. Being around Blaster and Steeljaw so long, had helped him understand some of the bonds that hostmechs and their smaller deployers share.

To be honest, he'd had taken a stupidly amount of time to actually meet back up with Megatron. Even longer to actually establish a rapport. However, somewhere along the lines between the occasional arguments- helping clean the mech's door and going being forced to go, Goddamn it Megatron he's GOING HE'S GOING to therapy sessions with the ship's resident therapist.

So, one of the things Rung had suggested was repairing old ties. During the War, while he and Megatron hadn't been any great companions- he had worked with the then-warlord for a while on some of the espionage missions he'd been doing with Soundwave. He doubts anyone actually realizes that he had been a 'Con once, and he doesn't know what they make of his friendship with him now.

Not that he cares.

Either way, it's led him down a strange, weird existence that somehow exists despite his past attempts to get rid of it. Today, amusingly enough- is one of the days he's glad he's made it this far.

Even though he's having to slap a large pair of servos away from his plating as the miner-poet-tyrant-revolutionary-captain attempts to pin him down so he can polish him.

"Ah don't need i'-" he slaps at those servos again, this time playfully. "Whom ah gonna look good fer! Mah platin' is fine. Y'need i' worse'n'me so ya can look good for Spectacles."

[spymeister]

❝  you’ve stolen my heart,  the least you could do is tell me what you intend to do with it.  ❞

The other mechanism is watching him with that peculiar intensity that belies what might be roiling in his processor. It's both predatory and observant- watching every micro-expression the Praxian might have, from the way his body twitches to the flicks of those sensor-panels. Now and again, his helm'll quirk right or left- a small indicator to show that he's listening.

Or that he's accessing his HUD.

Right now, he's considering those words from the normally stolid Enforcer. There are walls upon walls around the spy's spark and personality. Layers and hallways lead to rooms that don't make sense, filled with personalities that he can switch to on the fly.

Profiles that he leaves there for necessity's sake.

"Didn' intend t'steal nothin'," he croons softly- tone modulated, pleasant. "And ah don't intend t'break it, or hurt i'. Question is," he steps a bit closer- sliding off where he'd been perched- and leaning face to face with Prowl.

"Whaddya want out of this."

[spymeister]

Apologies, Jazz- it's your turn for affection. Megatron lifts one of Jazz's servo's up for inspection, unfurling his digits to rub a thumb along the length of them.

And then, making optic contact with Jazz, he presses a lingering, soft kiss to the palm of his servo. Remains there for a moment. Pulls back to kiss the pad of his thumb. His index finger, the middle, ring and pinky, as well. All slow, red optics glittering rubies.

That servo spasms underneath his ministrations.

While no physician- Jazz's palms and digits are incredibly sensitive from the use of the magnets. The constant vibration and pull and twist on his wires makes them able to communicate the most subtle of vibration into something definable in his processor. His helm tilts to one side, then the other- a faint shudder rolling up his frame.

It's like watching a cat's fur as it ripples upwards.

His plating flares, then tamps- then flares again in an upwards rush. Energon flares in his lines, heating up towards his core, mouth opening slightly as he sucks in air carefully to cool himself. His other claw curls into the air, then extends- kneading helplessly as he's assaulted so very gently.

His optics are fixated on those rubies, bright and brittle gold reflecting back.

His field is a writhing thing, even for the stillness in the rest of his frame. It wriggles and rolls, twisting against Megatron's in the most delicious of ways. It's an obvious window to the agitation that the other mechanism is feeling, a gradual building of heat under plating and against frame. It makes lubrication start to build, and a sweetly uncomfortable pressure in certain areas.

The extra thumb-claw gently slides out, a measure of trust towards Megatron. It's the least used of his claws, though still useful and slightly worn. It's joints show less wear and tear, the claw still a little sharper than the rest.

[spymeister]

Tarantulas thrusts a small vial with a needle in the cap towards Jazz. "Can I have a small sample of your blood."

There's a faint confused expression there- but he doesn't mind Tarantulas too much. He's been around much weirder individuals in his function. At the very least- the mechanism isn't Tremor. That'd been a mechanism he'd enjoyed tearing joint from joint.

He likes her, at least.

The cap is nipped off with sharp dentae- and he eyes his protoform for a moment. He winds up drawing fuel from the upper portion of his forearm- where an energon line is easily accessed. His helm tilts to one side as he watches the vial fill, then neatly withdraws the syringe. A quick lick of the spot has it sealing with the swipe of the thick oral fluids.

The needle is capped back, and he offers it to Tarantulas.

"'ere ya go, pretty lady. Anythin' else ya need?"

[spymeister]

An invasive question, is it? Rung peers at Jazz from over his oculars, mouth tugged down in a little frown.

“May I be tactless for a moment? I’m only curious, but, Jazz, I’ve never seen you finish a full measure of energon. If you’re storing it in the walls somewhere, pleasure just try to keep it away from anything flammable, alright?”

He peers up from where he's draped at the foot of the berth, idly thumbing through the channels on the vid-screen affixed to the wall opposite them. Wide gold optics turn towards Rung, guileless and curious at the question. Leg struts are bent at the knee, ankle-joints crossed as they wobble forwards and back in a relaxed pose.

In this safe space- he's sans the majority of his armor, old weld scars and bubbled areas of burns long-past healed visible from where the slimmer mechanism is seated. Those gold optics cycle in a blink as he considers the question- absently turning down a show that comes on with volume just a touch too high.

"S'an old habit," the other explains with a faint shrug. "Got used to hoarding it as a young mech, and kept up the habit through wartime."

He shakes his helm, turning back towards the vid-screen- squinting at a show.

"Ya won't find anythin' in the walls, least no energon. Snacks, maybe. Ah tend to keep the energon in safer places tha's closer to cold storage so tha' the temperature is less liable t'make the fuel go boom."

He gives Rung an easy smile, letting his helm be braced on his forearms as the remote is set down and they're crossed under him. His body is curved towards the other mech, displaying the easy trust he has in the bespectacled mech.

"Grew up w'...whassahumans call i', food insecurity? 'Ad it through t'war since my missions were always in t'black, an' after the war when ah was homeless again- jus' kept it up. Now ah'm not! Ah got a home with y'all."

His optics squint in obvious pleasure- the focusing rings blown wide with affection and fixated on the other.

[spymeister]

The soft notes of his sitar reverberate in the small room he’s claimed for himself. Situated in the middle of the room, the former Spy-turned-back-to-musician allows his claws to interrupt the strings of light to create the polyphonic tones. His audials catch the finer nuances of the notes- making him sway a little with the melody as it streams from him in improvisional strains.

‘I’m lost and found I’m fragile and sound. I’m the one you lost. and you’ve borne the cost.

I’m the heart and soul. I’m your rock-and-roll And when you’re down. I won’t let you drown.

You’re my sunny day, the path when I’ve lost my way. You’re the beating heart. And I’m at the start—

At this journey’s bold. And our hands to hold. Weary down to the bone, but you won’t walk alone.

I’m the one that’s wrong. And you’ve known all along. You held let me flower and grow. Never said “I told you so.”

You’re the one I need. The wound I bleed. You’re the sun in the sky. And I’ll tell you why.

At this journey’s bold. And our hands to hold, We’re weary down to the bone. But you won’t walk alone.

Cause I’ll be here right beside. And I won’t let you hide. Behind the doubt and fear. Cause I’ll still be here. 

Cause-

At this journey’s bold. And our hands to hold, We’re weary down to the bone. But you won’t walk alone.

He smiles to himself as he sways back and forth, letting the music carry him as it always does. He can feel it dig into his spark, feel it give warmth to his digits and make his chest feel tight. It makes him feel alive like few things do these days.

[spymeister]

He quietly reaches over and pulls out the electro-sitar for the first time in what feels like thousands of vorns. Claws carefully run over the base of the instrument- before touching the fretboard. The strings hum online as they feel his spark resonance. They linger, six strands of light from end to end- waiting for the touch of his digits.

His legs fold down beneath him- cradling the instrument in his lap as he half folds over it. One hand reaches up to cradle the fret- the other arm slinging over the top to dangle his claws over the bands of light. He can feel his digits trembling, the buzz of the strings awaiting his touch. 

Touching the first note, and hearing the chord- is like coming home.

He doesn’t know when the optic cleanser started running down the side of his faceplates. One hand reaches up absently to rub at his face, before returning to the fret. Another note follows the first, and then the second, and then the third- discordant at first.

But sweetening as he continues.

Eventually, rusty as it is- his voice begins to join the melody-

— harmonizing.

‘I don’t know when I lost you, but I know it’s been a while. Ain’t been the same with you gone and I don’t remember how to smile.`

`But I’m still waiting here at home hopin’ you’ll come through that door cause I don’t know what life is now and I don’t wanna be alone anymore.`

`so I’m waitin’ here at the crossroads and the day is fadin’ fast. and I know I got a decision to make Cause I don’t think I’m gonna last.`

`So I’m tryin’ to be strong and it hurts and I don’t know if I’m on the right path. but love feels better than all this pain and forgiveness is better than wrath.`

`so where-ever you are tonight, because I’m layin’ here alone. jus’ know that no matter what. I’m waitin’ for you at home.`

`I didn’t tell you I loved you. And I knew that was the end of the line. But i’d do just about anything now to let you know that you were mine.`

`But I’m still waiting here at home hopin’ you’ll come through that door cause I don’t know what life is now and I don’t wanna be alone anymore’

`I’m hopin’ you can hear my voice. even if it’s for one last rhyme Cause I’m prayin’ these words are reachin’ you. and with each grain of sand that falls we’re runnin’ out of time.`

‘So I’m tryin’ to be strong and it hurts. And if you’d just walk into my spark I’d get down on my bended knee. cause inside of me you’ve already left your mark.`

He pauses, smiling to himself as the song trails off- chuckling softly to the empty room.

“Been a long time, baby girl. A long time. Think we still got some life left in us?”

A gentle pat to the board.

“Yeah, me too.”

[spymeister]

For reference mechs.

I got a full set, an’ it cost me less than ya would have thought. Complete with stockings t’fit my thick legstruts.

[spymeister]

@a-life-revised  @sparkmender   continuing from x

-----------------------------------

His electrophores shift their coloration back to his more familiar monochrome with it’s primary color highlights as he comes alongside the bigger mechanism. One dark hand reaches up to slide it’s smaller digits into Megatron’s palm. From there, he’s careful to interlace those digits, giving the other the anchor of his presence and touch.

His frame comes to rest against his- helm barely reaching the top of the other’s hip-plating. Their dichotomy should be hilarious- but it isn’t. There’s something possessive in the way he claims Megatron’s space as part of his own, something fierce and sweet in his field as it interlaces as well, joining the broader one that emanates from the former Slagmaker. 

“When t’ heat-death of the universe tries to consume us,” he continues- quoting the writer that Optimus had once favored- when he was still good, and kind. “an’  our sparks are the bulwark that keeps us whole— we’ll be together, singin’ an’ dancin’ in the dark until the new suns bloom again.”

He smiles as Rung comes alongside Megatron’s opposite side- both of them bracing the taller mech by the virtue of their presence. The former warlord doesn’t haven’t to answer, doesn’t have to acknowledge what’s said or not. All he has to know, is that no matter where the travels or the proverbial road takes them.

He’s not alone. 

[spymeister]

cupped +reverse 👀

There's energon on his servos, energon on his frame. It's not all his, though he's sure he's leaking from somewhere. There's a fog over his vision, and he's not sure if it's because his visor is cracked- or there's still battlelust crowding his processor.

The twin vibroblades still hum, digits gripping the hilts tight as he shakes and shivers from the electro-adrenobytes course through his system from various electrical diffusers in his hydraulics system. He doesn't see the mecha that are circling away from him, a rock parting the stream of soldiers heading back to triage and medical shelters.

Of course, that might be because of the small nest of bodies that litters him in a semi-circle, their purple brands having faded to steel grey with the rest of their frame. There'll be footage later of his small form streaking with berserker fierceness through a small line of Decepticons, breaking through them with almost manic precision.

No one can recall what set him off, or how he managed to do it.

Still, only one mechanism dares to approach him- a familiar field that begins to calm him down. He briefly startles when a red servo touches his shoulder-strut, letting his armor ripple over his frame before it settles down into a more relaxed cant. It's like watching an organic cat's fur ruffle and ripple.

This time, when he's touched again- he doesn't jolt, instead letting one of those large hands curl under his chin and draw his helm up to meet intense blue optics. Obediently, he slips the visor back so that Ratchet can continue his examination. He doesn't deserve the understanding in them.

Or the kindness that he sees.

His own focusing irises slip to one side, unable to continue as his vents begin to pull in great gulps of air to ease the heated internals and wires. Nerveless servos finally drop the blades, the humming weapons kicking offline as soon as their hilts leave his palms. He's not hyperventilating, but it certainly feels like it- despite his control. Instead, he just lets Ratchet move his face back and forth, the scrutinizing look for helm injuries.

He is surprised, however, when that servo pulls him closer- so that his other arm can go around the smaller mechanism's shoulder struts. Ratchet's digits leave his chin- coming to rest on top of his helm between his sensor horns- the muffled, "Don't do that to me again, kid" whispered against the thin metal there.

He wishes he could promise that, but they both know the truth. Prime needs him for these missions. Needs him to do the dirty work no one else can, and needs him to be the eyes and audials in the trenches and on the other side. There's always going to be situations like this, always going to be the one trigger too far, the one hit that lands wrong.

And all he can hope is that he has somewhere to come back to, and a pair of red servos waiting to put him back together.