oh so NOW y'all rushers wanna talk about James Diamond/Jett Stetson and Jo Taylor/Lucy Stone?!??!?!!! NOW y'all wanna go and totally get behind that like it's the next big revelation?!!??? WHERE WERE Y'ALL WHEN I WAS OUT THERE FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE ALONE IN THE FRONTLINES COVERED IN BLOOD AND RELENTLESSLY HERALDING THESE DAMN RAREPAIRS WITH EVERY INCH OF MY BATTERED CONVICTION AND YET NO ONE FUCKIN LISTENED?!?!!!! ISTG I'M GODDAMN CASSANDRA RN FINALLY WATCHING FORETOLD PROPHECIES GET FULFILLED AND YET. THE VINDICATION FEELS ALL TOO LATE AS THE LEGACY I HAVE BUILT IS ALL BUT FORGOTTEN NOW
- ̥۪͙۪˚┊ ❛ why love myself (when i found you instead?) ❜ : ̗̀❥ james × jett ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌
: ̗̀❥ RATING: G // WORD COUNT: 5,710 // CHARACTERS: jett stetson, james diamond // TAGS: one shot, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, slice of life, grocery shopping, domestic bliss, idiots in love, established relationship, schmoop, jealousy, protectiveness, insecurity, himbo boyfriends, prompt fill, jett-centric, i.e. a sad mad (smad?) jett lowkey adhd-monologues a whole loooot
: ̗̀❥ inspired by the song Glitter Times by Waterparks and dedicated as ever to the wonderful @cvsmicbaddie1 💜
: ̗̀❥ [Part 5 of Cupid Got Us F♡cked Up]
❝ so when you go, trap the feelings
we both know, line your ceiling
love you so rough it burns my bones
yeah, when you go, leave those feelings
home alone, busted pieces... ❞
The grocery trip wasn’t going out as well as Jett had hoped, and he was seething mad.
No, it wasn’t because he and his dumb boyfriend had wasted thirty minutes in the dairy aisle shivering and locked in a pointless heated debate about what kind of milk to get (James wanted plain oat milk—talk about Stuart Snooze!—but Jett wanted to try out this schmancy Japanese mushibou-gyuunyuu milk made from rice that was a million times healthier and was loaded with vitamins from A to Z and could probably extend your lifespan by like a good ten years or something, which they were so gonna need if they wanted to preserve their ‘best-looking people ever’ status). Or the fact that the gawky-faced teenager manning the checkout counter hadn’t been broken in on how to input simple coupon codes and nearly cheated Jett out of a good deal—seriously, 40% off on Le Labo hand soap and a free box of ultra-soft makeup tissues? That was a SuperStore steal!—if the scowly bearded manager with the unwashed apron and Hail Mary keycards hadn’t shown up to perform his pre-lunch break miracle (even with his reclaimed freebies, Jett still unfortunately had to use James as a human buffer to keep McNotLovin’It dude’s ick from spreading to him, as he made a mental note to cleanse his boyfie with palo santo and lavender incense later before he let him step a single cursed foot inside the apartment). Or even the disastrous fact that the flimsy paper bags ripped apart just as the couple had finally exited the premises and mister caveman-handed Diamond had to duck back and ask for some new ones, leaving one extremely miffed super actor superstar to chase after and pick up the tumbling products that had long-found their way to the disgusting confines of LA’s sidewalk gutters.
At that point, Jett’s life was just trying to be some sitcom. Some unfunny, sound effect-riddled, cheap cardboard sitcom that certainly didn’t deserve to have an A-list celeb such as bien à vous anywhere on its tiddlywinks show roster. If he heard that stupid disruptive uh-oh-oh song playing anywhere at all, he was seriously going to lose it and commit unspeakable acts of gorgeous violence (like how he played his role as a gorgeously evil half-wizard, half-demon in Witches of Rodeo Drive, but like, minus the star-spangled robe costume and zappy lightning magic and for realsies this time).
All of these consecutive troubles only really left the weary actor to wonder, not for the last time in his grievous life, why he even allowed James to tag along with his important shopping duties when he was perfectly capable of doing it alone without any added hassle. Sure, Jett could also just assign the weekly grocery list to his saintly agent and have her toss the task off to another lackey who’ll take care of everything without him having to lift a finger or touch the money with hideous old men in it, but he quite liked the rigmarole of this mundane ritual more than he’d openly admit, and he just couldn’t trust some unpaid intern to choose the perfect quality ingredients for his delectable recipes. Besides, Jett wasn’t about to pass up any easy opportunity to get all suavely styled up for the weekend and fatten up his paparazzi portfolio with candid photos of how glamorous and yet still smashtag relatable he was—tweenies and tryhards on ScuttleButtr ate up that kinda lifestyle press, after all.
James also had a big day off from howling in his papa dog’s studio today and an even bigger heart for wanting to help out...but that heart was unfortunately as sharp-witted as its biggest idiot owner and always ended up klutzily knocking the last seven letters out of assistance, no matter how desperately James wanted to spend his time with the amazing Jett ‘Sexyman’ Stetson enough to lap after his heels and do him all these spare domestic favours.
Which fine, Jett can’t really fault anyone for that, he liked having some (or lots of) extra muscle around and he was just that amazing after all—but he could, however, still fault James for the rest of this grocery pickle (no, not the ones that just did an Olympic-sounding splooshy dive into an open manhole). Matter of fact, why was the amazing Jett Stetson the one out here actively making a fool out of himself trying to play catch the freaking street cabbage anyway? For crying out loud, he was so not gonna make his super special cherry tomato couscous salad with cholera-infested chickpeas and sewer-tangy feta cheese!
Though, all things considered, their time at the grocery store was all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows with a bearable side of bickering and business as usual. Surely a few lost purchases was the far ideal outcome than say, James’ rabid hockey hound besties making a surprise cameo and ruining their lovely day out together with some ‘brilliant plan’ that would inevitably burn down the whole establishment and get someone’s troublemaking butt carted off to the nearest LAPD station. But Jett found that it was always simply getting back home afterwards that was the hardest part of going out.
After all, he was going out with James Diamond, a looker and a stunner and a charmer all around, cicely smiles and a carved physique and a crooning voice that could haunt kaleidoscope daydreams and velvet-lined palace hallways alike. Whenever the heavens rained down to bless their horizons with affection, James always got soaked to the bone and still had enough space left to drown the ocean. Flitting spotlights and starry eyes couldn’t get enough of him, and neither could Jett—even if most of that irresistible attention came in patronising backchat and lethally exasperated doses (and sometimes sneaky kisses). Still, like the contrary was god’s gracious truth, maybe the actor should also count himself pleasantly lucky to be with such a spectacular trophy boyfriend for the crushers and the cameras...but then again, why should any other five cent vanilla-plain cretin be able to share the same four-leaf clover fortune as him?
It’s just not frigging fair.
No, it wasn’t some kinda weird obsession, whatever—‘cause people obviously obsessed over Jett, not the other way around!—but it was just plain common sense. Jett was more than used to getting attention. He doesn’t have to turn all choosing beggar for it like anyone else in this hack town, it was served up to him with a gold-flaked garnish and a lifetime supply of garlic breadsticks with an all-expenses paid bill, and that’s all part of the Stetson charm.
But when he was with James? As much as Jett hated to admit that he had met his match, the warning signs couldn’t lie when they were smacking into his forehead all over the city, reddening his vision and forcing him to pay attention to the attention that was supposed to be all his, now divided into measly portions. Wait, no, not just divided—it was like some dumb waiter with string worms for arms decided to draw the line between who was gonna get the bigger half and who was gonna starve for scraps.
Surprises, surprises, James always got his fill. And Jett was left feeling like the trophy idiot. It made him painfully sick to his stomach, that infuriating imbalance, feeling like he was somehow lagging a thousand steps away from James as they walked arms steadfastly looped and strides side by side down the bustling boulevards of Hollywood, Jett forced to take a backseat for once—even that alone was already unfathomable, unless he was being chauffeured around in his personal CW-provided limousine—and watch James’ hungry gravity suck every innocent passerby in, James Diamond in his best element and he knows it.
And he knows Jett knows it, too.
See, Jett wouldn’t give a sewer rat’s mangy butt otherwise. Have a bottle-blond boy draw down his pricey knockoff Ray-Bans for a ‘Cuda cool check-out and a sneaky snake-skinned wink or have a tropicana-fragrant girl flip her sundress and temptingly wiggle her fingers in the smoggy wind to the siren’s lure of a prospective date, fine, whatever—that was all standard shindig and fruit loops flattering. But seriously, did his jerkfaced Jimmy Dean really have to lay down the charisma card so thickly suffocating with polite affectations and keep going all showbiz talk-show to every sweaty stranger who stopped them in their tracks with a disgustingly-drawled beckon of his name?
One moment, James was holding Jett’s hand, tenderly rubbing his thumb over his boyfriend’s knuckles (a reflexive habit, it seemed, but an endearing one all the same), and juggling the stuffed paper bags in one cradled arm so he could stoop down to sneak Jett exasperated giggles and fleeting chocolate-chip kisses (James was one of those chronic post-grocery snackers, so Jett made sure to toss in some nice cookie treats or two in the shopping cart for him) as they talked about their plans for the rest of their treasured day off together; which resulted in the usual squabbles and tongue-in-cheek threats to shut up before the other’s cherry lips did the shhhhutting up for them.
But Jett can’t even enjoy that much, because everyone just kept getting in the way.
Have these rude litterbags seriously never heard of the side of the sidewalk? Trust the city of angels to be littered with devilish desperados looking for their next cheap thrill hit, carelessly sticking to boot soles and the roof of mouths like discarded cigarettes. Some frumpy Tweedledumb and their preening Tweedledork twinsy looking like Old Navy mannequins gone rogue, hanging around at CVS parking lots like their next illegal prescription fill depended on it always had a wry greeting, a smudged phone number, a halitosis-callous “ditch...whoever that total loser is you’re with and go out with me instead, why don’t you?” to sic upon James. Now Jett really wished one of the hockey hound besties would actually show up, so he could then sic them as an easy distraction for all the townie weirdos craning their necks out for a back-alley good time. Sure, Kendork might not fall for such a ruse, but maybe the helmet shortie terrier or poindexter nerd supreme could work well enough with biting off a couple ankles. Freaks, geeks, and wannabes were the new online trending topics these days too, wasn’t it?
James might kill Jett for it. Or James might actually have some spare brain cells in his elephant heart enough to understand that it was all a part of the fame game, just as much as Jett understood the best when to be a gracious gentleman and let someone else take the spotlight for once—nevermind that it was always inevitably going to get shined back to him. But this courtesy was saved for show premieres, press releases and junkets, and dazzling red carpet walks with fellow illustrious celebrities, not for some lame skeezebag with a pick-up line filthier than their fingernails trying to snatch up his man!
Jett couldn’t stand it anymore. His long-suffering pride absolutely would not stand up nor stand down for it, and he was on his last leg today. He could easily withstand a gaggle of fawning fangirls (‘big timers’ or ‘BTRmy’ or ‘rushheads’ or whatever the heck tacky title they called themselves—at least the Jett-Setters had a cool nickname to scribble all over the back of their lined notebooks) who wanted nothing more than an autographed Overeager Haberdasher headshot and a fantastical one-way trip into the esteemed James Diamond’s low-rise pants. Jett’s had some personal experience with that crowd himself, and more often than not, they were just some harmless little squawking ducklings with the occasional overexcited bitey oddball in between that a hefty bodyguard could easily handle.
But Jett would take that baby wacko wrangling any day of the week than having to deal with some disheveled unattractive rando shooting him the evillest eye that sent a cold shiver snaking down his spine and made him feel colder than getting trapped in a dairy aisle, while mister gross gawker pulled James’ ear real close and whispered something in it. Something slimy and deeply sickening no doubt, judging by the way James’ eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared into the luscious forest of his swoopy bangs. Even with all the various brazen flirtscapade moves Jett had witnessed against James today, that one was truly the lowest of shameless lows. If they handed out annual awards for Most Outstanding Creep, that stranger danger would win every single one without even having to show up.
But that wasn’t even the worst part of everything. Because Jett looked up from sulkily reshuffling his beat-up groceries for the nth time to witness James not immediately drawing back and defending his honour with a sword-fight (or maybe a more sensible shove-fight), and instead simply smiling his perfectly lethal smile as he made a firm grab for the man’s arm. And he leaned in uncomfortably close—making Jett crush up a handful of cherry tomatoes into bloody mush—and whispered something back, something that made the man’s sunken eyes bug out of their sockets as his jaw dropped to the floor and his Skeletor face burned red...even redder than the dripping fruit pulp that the enraged actor had slapped over James’ face in a rightfully aggravated fit. If he was gonna act like a clown, then he was gonna get treated like a clown.
The disgusting nerve of it all!
So no, it really wasn’t Jett’s best move. It was a move for sure, but causing a whole diva tantrum scene, dropping his crumpled grocery bag full of not-so-fresh organic produce for the second time that day, and abandoning James in the middle of the street with Abnormal Bates didn’t scream out superstar sophisticated—but what else was Jett supposed to do? Keep gritting his teeth and smiling politely to the ignorant vision-impaired plebians who didn’t have enough functioning brain parts to recognise and acknowledge his beloved presence? Keep letting those revolting schmucks get away with slobbering all over James as his clueless boyfriend did nothing but stupidly swallow their drip? Keep silently suffering through the blacktop-burning anger that blistered his perfect skin and made him feel hot and numb and shaky all over? Jett was gonna end up knocking someone’s pricey veneers out if he kept it up. Or vice versa, and he can’t get awesome acting roles and rock modelling his awesome movie posters with yucky dentures!
Jett didn’t know how long he ran for, didn’t really know where he was escaping off to, didn’t even realise he had curled up in some dirty alleyway next to an overflowing dumpster until the putrid smell hit him full-force and made him choke into nauseated rage and bitter laughter. Well, whatever. Maybe this was where he belonged right now—he was down in the dumps, after all. He’d laugh some more at his quick-footed wit if his twisted ankles weren’t actually killing him.
With a groan, Jett gingerly stretched out his feet, distastefully kicking aside a soggy takeout box as he did so. Really, he couldn’t have ran that far nor intensely to warrant such a kind of flaring pain. He seriously had to jump back on that elliptical. Or return to his weekly spin class with Anna-the-juice-cleanse-and-capybara-loving fitness instructor. Hopefully the wet market-smelling slimeball three stationery bikes behind Jett who kept ogling those unblinking fish eyes at him had finally decided to change gyms by now...
Jett’s begrudged musings were interrupted by a swarm of unidentifiable insects milling their way out of the discarded food box, as he started with a scream and curled himself up again and seemingly pulled fifty muscles in the process. Jett sighed resignedly. He was just so unlike his perfect baby blue boyfriend, who had the alarming workout ethic and brawny muscles of an ichor-guzzling demigod, who could compete in an Ironman marathon on a downright whim and win that first place red ribbon and sweetest Gatorade shower without breaking a single sweat, who could easily pick him up and carry him around like it was nothing and spoil him with supertastic cuddles like it meant the world and—
Jett only realised his grave mistake right as he felt someone’s brawny arms gently drape around him, the redolent smell of some toxic-man-branded ‘Cuda perfume, his favourite subtle spice aftershave, and the fresh sweetness of cherry tomatoes enveloping him and making his lungs hurt, hurt, hurt.
“Why are you still here?” Jett snapped, refusing to lift his head from his folded elbows. If he had to gander at that wide-eyed sad puppy dog look he knew all too well James was sporting like the latest Milan look, he was going to use the sheer brewing force of his evil will to zap him into a pretty-faced portobello mushroom (yes, very much like those meddling kids in Witches of Rodeo Drive). “You clearly don’t need me around!”
“Babe...what’s wrong?”
“I’m sick of people getting all upfront and personal and creep central with you! I’m Jett freaking Stetson, they should be looking at me, I’m amazing and gorgeous and like, the bestest superstar ever to exist in this slipshod city that I’m way too high-calibre to grace my brilliant presence with!”
“Seriously, is that it? You’re mad at me ‘cause I’m taking the attention away from you?”
“No, it’s because they’re taking your attention away from me, you dense idiot!” Jett’s tone had taken on a petulant whine, and he hated that he couldn’t help it. Just as much as James couldn’t help being so irritatingly...himself. After all, a good stupid heart got you some places, but stupidly good looks gave you the skeleton key to the entire world. Jett didn’t want to let himself open up like this, but James had to hear it from him sometime. If not now, then it would be never. “You crave all the attention and you get all of it whenever you want and from whoever you like and I wouldn’t care—but you also keep flaunting everything in front of me and practically shilling out VIP passes to your gunshow like you’re some kinda discount Oprah, and it’s really annoying! They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve you.”
“Well, it’s not like I can really do anything about it—”
“Yeah, but you also don’t have to freaking enjoy it so much that you’re practically wearing me down with all the smarmy face-rubbing you’re doing!”
“Dude, seriously—ugh, look, believe me, I don’t really enjoy it as much as you think I do. And I swear I’m not trying to do anything like that to you like, at all.”
“Oh? Then why aren’t you acting like it?” Jett accusingly spat. “And seriously, why do you even like me, James?”
“What?!” James threw his hands up bewilderingly. “Where in the world did that come from???”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed by now or you’re just trying to play nice—‘cause you just love doing that with your innocent little boy act and shiny halo, huh?—but not a lot of people really like me. Sure, they adore me or fear me or obviously wanna be me but they never really care about me beyond that. And like whatever, they’re all just stupid jealous haters and unattractive losers who need lives anyway—but then maybe you shouldn’t have to put up with me, either. ‘Cause I hate fakers worse than plain jerks more than anything else, it’s so obnoxiously tiring. So. I’ll ask you again. Which one are you?”
“Jett, come on...we’ve been together for ages! What makes you think I’m still just faking all this?” James pleaded. “‘Cause if that’s the case, then I’m probably the best darned actor in the whole world and I deserve all the super cool awards and shiny trophies and stuff. But I’m not, you are. And if you’re asking me how I really feel about you, I can only really tell you one thing, and that’s I love you.”
“Yeah, you say that now ‘cause it’s what I wanna hear—but what if you fall in love with someone else, huh? You wanna settle for someone a lot less better than me? You’re gonna find your next love at first lousy sight and final happily ever after on these filthy streets and have your magical movie moment that even Hallmark wouldn’t freaking sell? And then what?” Jett’s shrill voice splintered into a thousand pieces, lodging in his aching throat and heaving chest and prickling his vision to a watery blur, smearing the beautiful image of James Diamond into bleeding bokeh lights. How easy it was to let him walk ahead and fade away, to leave Jett in this unknown alley stretching out to an obscure infinity so he can pick up his uglier pieces by himself and salvage what’s left of his shattered dignity somehow. “Then you’ll leave me too?”
“I’ll never do that even if you paid me a spajillion dollars,” James assured without hesitation, nuzzling his face on the crown of Jett’s head and planting small kisses all over it. Jett shivered lightly as the other boy indulgently breathed in the elusive fragrance of their latest experimental Tropical Coconut conditioner with shea deep moisture (Jett thought the packaging looked really pretty like him, James complained that he didn’t wanna smell like a beach, Jett called him an extremely rude rhyming word, and James gave up...well, after a little more physical persuasion). “And besides, what’s not to love? Like you said, you’re Jett freaking Stetson. You’re amazing and funny and super talented and surprisingly caring, and you can cook up exotic world-class dishes that could put every fancy-schmancy pricey restaurant in LA to shame, and you’re super smart with all those weird obscure history and fashion and culture thingies that even the genuisest person I know wouldn’t be able to catch up with. And yeah, maybe I get super annoyed sometimes, but that’s only because you’re also the best-looking person at the Palm Woods. Or maybe everywhere else you go, for that matter.”
“Well, duh!” Jett huffed with a bemused roll of his eyes, lightly beating a fist on James’ lap. “See, that’s exactly why I don’t even know why you bother with those scuttling street rats when you have me.”
“‘Cause they all want you too, it turns out.”
“...Come again for the big man?”
“You know what that crummy lowlife wanted from me? He was asking all about you, Jett.” James explained. “He said some really nasty things that he wanted to do with ‘your pretty friend over there’ if I did him a solid and introduced you ‘cause you way too busy with moping over the groceries to notice, and I had to very kindly tell him to shove off with sleazing out on my precious boyfriend before I put my pretty foot in ugly places the sun don’t reach. Believe me, I almost friggin’ did. I just can’t let anyone disrespect you or hurt you or speak about you like that, ever. It makes my blood boil just thinking about it...” he exhaled harshly and shook his head in resentment. “But luckily, you running off saved me from having to do anything really bad in the end, so there’s that.”
“Oh...”
“Yeah. And everything about this whole crazy sitch today, from our whole grocery shopping mess that was surprisingly fun to having to fight all those creeps away which was, well, not really so fun...all of it just made me even realise how much I don’t ever wanna lose you to anyone else.”
Jett didn’t respond. He couldn’t bring himself to, not without some oncoming embarrassing breakdown—and he’d had enough of those for one day, thank you very much!—so he settled for a sniffle instead. Maybe it was pathetic enough to sound cute. Or maybe it was the other way around. He couldn’t tell.
“I mean, do you know just how blessed I am to be with you?” James continued in an earnest whisper, lifting Jett’s chin to lovingly wipe off his cascading tears with the sleeve of his jacket. “That out of everyone you could’ve chosen, you went with me, James Diamond, the luckiest man in the universe? Do you know just how crazy you make me feel, babe? You make me feel so happy, so insanely wild for you, so much better everyday that I’m with you, and that’s never gonna change. As a famous pep-talking man always says, things like these come once in a lifetime, and I know that I’m in this for life. So no, I don’t care how many date-worthy people are roaming out there and asking for my number, ‘cause I’ll never feel anything as amazing as when I’m with you, and you alone.”
“Hmph...really?”
“Of course! You’re my boyfriend, my Jett-ski, the luuurve and liiiight of my life,” Jett scrunched up his nose at James’ unabashed cheesiness, making the singer laugh, “and I love you so much, and I’ll never stop loving you forever and ever, times infinity plus one. And I promise you with all my heart and soul and my awesomely smooth hair that I only have eyes for your gorgeous face, you sulky little idiot.”
“You better, or I’m poking them out with a kebab skewer—and it’d be a right shame, ‘cause you’ve got some pretty golden peepers on you and I’m gonna miss looking at them too.”
“I promise.”
“On your life?”
“What, the heart and soul and hair wasn’t enough for you?”
“See, I was almost convinced you weren’t gonna say something immensely annoying between all that glitter-sprinkled sappiness, which means that you’ve probably been replaced by an evil brainwashing skull-faced alien and then I’m gonna have to go all chew gum and kick butt on you.”
“Ugh, sure, I’m the one being annoying—and yes, of course on my life! On our lives together. And my lucky comb. And my cool white v-neck shirt that you keep stealing. And my gorgeously gorgeous washboard abs. Do you want me to go on? ‘Cause I could totally go on.”
“You honestly had me until that last part, which is a total lazy lie.” Jett snorted, poking at James’ stomach and making him burst out in a peeved giggle. “You’re starting to get all soft around the sides—I’m cutting you off from binge-watching Spanish telenovelas while scarfing those guilty pleasure Slap E. Cheese burger abominations with your sleepover besties before you turn all Stay Puft Diamond Boy on me.”
“Nah, that’s actually from you spoiling me all the time with your delicious home-cooking, ya big dummy,” James said, coyly spreading his arms wide open. “But does that mean you don’t want supertastic cuddles from your Jimmy Dean anymore?”
“I didn’t say that...” Composing himself with another tiny sniffle, Jett threw himself on James and smothered him in a koala hug, nearly knocking him flat on his back and onto the teeming insect trashopolis prospering on the ground. “And well, next time, you have to be super mean to literally anyone and everyone else who tries to get with you!”
“Ooh, you know I can’t do that, fuzzybumpkins. You know the paparazzi’s totally gonna tear me to beautiful confetti shreds if rumour gets out that James Diamond of wholesome boyband act Big Time Rush is a total jerkface to fans, and then the whole band’s gonna get in big time trouble with Gustavo and Kelly and big boss Griffin over all the bad PR, and we can’t really have that, can we?”
“Eh...who cares? You’re badly due in for an image do-over anyway, ‘cause the whole snoozy sweetheart show is really starting to go past its prime like rancid oat milk—anywayzies, haven’t you heard lately that bad boys and grunge gangs are making a surprising comeback these days?”
“Jett...” James sighed.
The actor pouted at his boyfriend’s hushed scolding, but slowly shook his head in begrudged understanding anyway. “Okay, maybe not then. But just remember that you’re mine, okay?”
“Awww,” James cooed, biting back a smug smirk, “I love it when you get all adowable and possessive with me.”
“Shut that little mutt mouth—and you’re still mine!”
“All yours forever, babe.” Jett felt James’ lips grazing his goosebumps-stippled nape, pleasantly warm and smiling with the quiet promise of forever, and Jett had no choice but to believe him. Curse his sneaky elephant-hearted charmer for being so good at making him fall in love again and again and still make it feel brand new. Being with James really was once in a lifetime, and Jett was deeply doomed and in it for life—on their lives together.
“Okay...the paparazzi’s totally not gonna...” Jett absently muttered, and gasped in horror once the realisation hit him like a charged clown slap to the face. “Were there any of them today?! Did you hear clicking cameras anywhere or see any E!News vans around?! Did they see any of this go down?!”
“Jett, chillax, I don’t think—”
“No, you don’t, but freaking listen to me—you may be fine with having a rowdy rockstar rep on blast, but I absolutely cannot have anyone seeing me, the amazing Jett Stetson, slap anyone outside of my show-stopping award-winning teen dramas—or—or even dumpster camping!” The shaken actor yanked his shirt collar to cover his face up to his nose and distrustfully looked around the dismal area, using his brawny human buffer to shield him from any potential showbiz vultures lurking around the corner.
“Hey hey, don’t worry—I’m sure we can take it on together,” James assured. “I’ve been through some way worse scandals before...like that song swifting thing with Kendall and Lucy, and Carlos and Logan accidentally terrorising street grandmas, and even Cher Lloyd getting real mad and going after my pretty face!” He threw in a mortified signature hand-face move for extra emphasis. “So we can handle it easily. And if things get out of hand, then...me and the boys will take care of it.”
Jett arched a suspicious brow at him. “Does your ‘grand plan’ for it involve low-level mischief crimes, weird crank calls and ridiculous costumes, and tacky tree hats?”
“Whaaaat??? Noooo, not at all, like we’re—we’re just gonna, y’know, haha...” a sheepish James coughed as he hastily knocked off the leafy headdress that had inexplicably popped up on him. “Like I said, don’t even worry about it, babe!”
“Suuure...”
“And seriously, I’m really super sorry I kinda caused all that trouble just because I didn’t pay more attention to you today. I mean, I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but I was kinda busy fighting off everyone else who wanted the same thing with a limp baguette.”
“I’m really super sorry you didn’t pay more attention to me too, ‘cause I’m not the one who’s missing out here!”
“Clearly not.” James chuckled. “Anyway...you wanna get outta dodge now or what? This is sweet and all, but the paps still have a good chance of catching us in a bad spot and we’re not exactly in the best setting for this rom-com movie moment to sell to Hallmark...unless we’re secretly filming a segment for HGTV’s Double Dumpster Divers Week and you’re totally punking me hard with the dumpster camping right now. Which if you are, then it’s working, ‘cause well. This place seriously stinks.”
“I think that’s the nasty feral pheromones of all those milquetoast flirters and desperate chancers clinging on you, actually,” Jett snarkliy pointed out. “But we probably should go now, yeah.”
“After you, my darling.”
With a graceful flourish, James stood up and outstretched a hand to help Jett out. Jett accepted it and shrieked in surprise as James suddenly whirled him around, holding him snugly by the waist and dipping him low before bringing him back up in a tight embrace, laughing delightedly at his flustered state. Applemint-cool breaths tickling Jett’s mouth, James cupped his face and leaned in for a happily-ever-after kiss, but Jett interrupted it with a generous pinch of James’ cheek, making his boyfriend cry out in indignant protest as he profusely rubbed at his throbbing face, now red as cherry tomatoes (but minus the smacking application of said fruit this time around).
“Don’t think I’ve fully forgiven you, Diamond boy—you’re not gonna get away with your crimes that easy!”
“What can I do to make it up to you? I’ll do anything, I swear.”
“Well, I think I have a few good ideas.” Jett grinned toothily, ocean eyes crashing with the familiar tidal wave of mischievousness James had come to both dread and look forward to. With the amazing Jett Stetson, it was always going to be a surprise, but he knew James wouldn’t have the light and luuurve of his life any other way. “But first, we should probably get that rotten smell off you with a nice long bubbly bubble bath, then I’ll whip up a super special, three-course, hopefully sewer disease-free dinner for deux, and then you could show me how just much you’re mine, babe.”
With their scores and plans finally settled up, Jett softly kissed James and gave his flushed cheeks one last fond pinch before intertwining their hands to drag him all the way back to the Palm Woods, their haul of battered grocery bags threatening to fall apart again, their coupled cicely smiles gleaming bright and sweet in the throes of a languid weekend afternoon. So maybe the grocery trip didn’t exactly go as Jett had planned, but it didn’t really matter anyway.
Going home was with James Diamond was always the best part of everything.
❝ so when i go, f♡♡k those stupid girls
that don’t mind their business
hope you know you’re the only one
‘cause i’d sleep on your sidewalk ; ❞
۪͙۪˚┊❛ ride on, ride on now to the other side of yesterday ❜ : ̗̀❥ james × jett ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌
: ̗̀❥ RATING: T+ // WORD COUNT: 3,910 // CHARACTERS: jett stetson, james diamond, kendall knight, jo taylor, logan mitchell, carlos garcia // TAGS: one shot, angst, mild hurt/comfort, pov second person, songfic, nightclub, alcohol, partying, drunken shenanigans, references to drugs, mature language & themes, internal monologue, love at first sight or tripped-out delirium, mildly dubious consent?, alternate universe: different first meeting // AO3
: ̗̀❥ Song inspiration + lyrics from: Boy by Reol (translation)
: ̗̀❥ [Part 4 of Cupid Got Us F♡cked Up]
Hey boy, it stings
My heart just can’t get used to this
Strange feeling of you not being around
But I know I have to go
The way the boy’s hips sway under the burning glow of the cramped room, extraordinarily gossamer and mesmerising against the hundreds of other sweat-infused bodies strobing and gyrating and writhing to the strident beat, it’s almost enough to make you forget the week-stale perfume and cosmopolitan rejection permeating every inch of your arctic-slippery skin.
The screaming is unbearable. You choke down the last drops of your Whiskey Manhattan without biting on the cherry and invite him to dance. He laughs and pulls you in to take a clumsy seat by the bar instead.
I messed up so many times
But I’ll redo it however many times
And everything you denied
I’ll prove however many times
In the middle of wry introductions and exchanging double-edged banter about who’s better-looking (it’s obviously you, but you modestly pass up an occasional cheapshot or two as not to turn him off to pompous egotism; the truth isn’t really welcome in these hotspots anyway) and a rather passionate dad joke about his cheesy boyband career that you’re endlessly hair-riffling and fake-laughing in dangerous schoolgirl levels to, someone comes up to slap the boy in the shoulder—some lanky unattractive blond with enough eyebrows to knit ten sweaters and is definitely a thousand hitchhiking miles away from the both of your supreme leagues (though you reign more supreme, no big duh).
We’re on top of a scale, seesawing
And what’s being measured is our amount of good luck
I hear the sound of the end approaching
You figure the boy will easily shrug the poor opportunistic fool away, but then suddenly he’s grinning and woolly odd-face is sticking his tongue out derisively and they’re laughing together to the tune of decades-long familiarity and you feel a burst of something like inexplicable jealous rage—how dare he—and your fists clench but before you can gear them back to take a smash hit, a froofy pink drink with fancy sliced fruits in it (exactly your guilty pleasure type but you pretend to be all huffy and insulted anyway) slides between your tetchy hands and the boy’s hooded gaze slyly flits back to you.
“On me,” he says, and smiles that perfect smile, but it’s the assuring squeeze on your skinny-jeaned thigh that makes your chest explode with something like curious obsessive desire. You won’t dare.
“Having fun, my man? is this the hottest club ‘round this side of the Hollywood hills or what?!” Far from it, babe—this isn’t even an anthill worthy enough to stomp my Balenciaga Slides on, you’d retort, but you pop a complimentary peanut or two to keep your rain from their pathetic parades. You’re roasting here too, and hypocrites can’t be choosers. “Oh, and B-T-dubs, you so owe me for actually convincing the huge scary Freight Train-looking bouncer dude to squeeze us up a good couple spots on the list, even after all that bullshit chaos you just had to cause with mister line cutter outside.”
The pounding of my heart is a teasing reminder
Of what’s long overdue, let’s dance
In front of this intersection of our different paths
Yeah, I came here just because I thought to!
“Hey, not as much as you owe me for throwing hands with the big G-man and Kellsters to let us get off band rehearsals early for the night—I swear, I’ll be digging out gnashed teeth shrapnel outta my eardrums for weeks to come!”
“Yeah, at least that’ll give you some excuse to actually clean them, huh?”
“Fuck off.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
“I know you do, idiot...hey, wait a sec. You never even introduced me to your pop-collared buddy there, ya sly dog! Ah—‘scuse me—sorry about that—how’s it going, man? I’m Ken...wait, you uh, you look kinda familiar...have I seen you somewhere before?”
For you, I always wanted to be just right for you
If I just thought about how you could do anything
I didn’t need any aspirations
No shit Sherlock, you’re capital Fab Fit Fucking Famous, but you’re gonna let fugly (for fuzzy-ugly) duckling figure that kiddie brain-buster out for himself. You simply turn up your chin to an elegant degree and take a snide-coded sip while he tries to make a glib comeback, but he’s thankfully cut short and dragged back by another gormless giggling blondzo, though she’s certainly a significantly prettier sight than her companion...wait, a prettier sight you’ve seen and kissed before...and once relentlessly chased for the sake of the candid cameras and paparazzi posers, even when the game was already over and she respectfully cut the first-place ribbon from your neck. This is genuinely the last place you’d expect to see a vanilla-blue valley girlie like her, and recognising her down to the bouncing Mary Sue curls and the sweet sixteen smirk sends a painful surge of Chambord up your spluttering nose.
So much for being the white swan.
And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything
I even would’ve wanted to be a clown
But she thankfully doesn’t notice you, and you don’t care enough outside of the momentary culture shock to chase her down and catch up with her, either. Not when you’ve already been spared having to put up with awkward pleasantries with some passé costar. Not when she never really liked you much anyway. And especially not when you finally have your darling nightingale boy all to yourself.
Ah, has my time come already?
Tomorrow is calling me
I smile and wave my hand goodbye
Though, not quite; never quite yet. More flirty no-names and unfriendly faces stay in the woozy rotation, vices and vultures, drawn to the boy’s centripetal gravity just as much as you are. Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy like that, even with your blinding bravado and obnoxiously bedazzled confidence, you can’t help but wonder how in the wasted world you’re still managing to keep close attention to him and when his slipping inching fleeting touch is gonna drift away into a parallel reality (please, not sooner, not later), and why you’re suddenly burning up so much.
It’s the bright lights. It’s the copious alcohol. It’s the spinning too much and too close to the sun.
Top speed in the direction of love
Ride on, ride on now, to the other side of yesterday
Towards the direction of love
“Can we go home now?” someone puppy-whines from behind you and the boy, a klaxon siren intensity that makes you cover your top-hits tinnitused ears and wonder if the cops are closing in to bust in and declare the party as over (as if it wasn’t dead on arrival already when killjoy over here cried wolf). “I think I’m starting to get a serious breakout of hives from this abrasive glowstick plastic. Or it might be the toxic fluorescent dye leaking out and I’m about to have a major anaphylactic shock and seize out and die on the dancefloor to friggin’ Ke$ha telling me to lose my mind and lose my clothes in the crowd and I’m sure as Begly’s bike toast am not gonna take it off!”
“Oooh yeah nah, I wouldn’t recommend that, dude.” Tsk, tsk. You totally would, though. Might liven things up a little better, and you’ve honestly seen worse. Way, waaaay worse. Maybe even done worse if you remember right—but that’s not a fun scandal scoop saved for tonight if everyone’s out here making new one for tomorrow’s headlines. “Not the stripping part, and deffo not the dying part, either—most bigwig party animals are worse revivers than they are kissers.”
“Oh, ‘cause you’d know, huh?”
“Hey, I’m just saying. Take my advice—or don’t, whatever, it’s your body glitter-glazed funeral and we’re not gonna drag your rotting naked ass back home unless Los finds a nice dumpster to bury you in—if you think the overuse of spit and sheer sloppiness is unbearable on the second one, well...”
The saliva I’ve spit out
The fallen leaves won’t return to their branches
I’ve cut off any way to back down from this
Farewell, my beloved days
This lukewarm quip is enough to make mister hypochondriac barker run with his tail between his hobble-hocked legs, knocking some preppy Erewhon-Organic-looking Crosby (who’s clearly trespassing on a group of Daisy Duke girls’ private plush lounge territory) over and ass-up—serves the hedge fund creepo motherfucker right!—as the perp takes his frantic tarantella to the graffitied graveyard they generously call a bathroom. Probably to seek out a steel wool pad and some hospital-grade antibacterial soap (in some depraver’s shady hovel in downtown LA, yeah, as friggin’ if—he’s more likely to find another rigor mortised body slumped a-la avant-garde exhibit in one of the stalls).
A ne’er-do-well who would
Make all the noise in the world
And never be satisfied
Cute as the nervous dimples and unmatched rabid geek energy were, your jaded eyes don’t follow him for very long. The boy’s stark enraptured face, thrown back to the suffocated skylights and shimmering with pure glee, wouldn’t let you. Slowing down into an astonishing descent with the taste of margarita salt on his sweetsoft lips sipping away the straight chlorine on yours—and you’re stuck waiting, watching forever, a bystander feeling smaller and smaller under the sinking settling shrieking realisation that the sky is bigger than they ever dreamed to cosmically imagine and one daring yesterday it’s all going to go dark, empty space and darkening vision.
This is the afterlife
A masochist hurting themselves in longing
And in the end, I lost it all without a trace
What was “for you” was really always for me
As soon as I made sure of it, the fading sky grew cold
This shooting star moment doesn’t last you very long, either.
“And how’s our wonder loverboy doi—woaaaaah nelly. What the hell happened to you? Jeez, I trust you to behave and leave you alone for five minutes...”
“I was just talking to this really cool-looking girl over there—she was with her kinda-scary friends but she’s got all these crazy piercings and rainbow hair and she said she liked Helmetie and thought I was kinda cute and I said I thought so too! And she asked if I thought I was cute, but then I said I meant I thought she was cute, not me. And Helmetie also thought she supertastic-cute, and she laughed and it was seriously the cutest thing ever! So we were like, really starting off on the right foot—and I swear, she was gonna be the one, dude!—but then I asked her what size her finger is and she wouldn’t even let me get to the buying a wedding ring part before, well. This whole mess.”
A pint-sized Latino soaked in what smells like Strawberry Sangria and stale hotdog water steadily trudges towards you and the boy, mopey mouth running a mile a minute with no room to spare for a shut the fuck up. You’d honestly sneer at his sorry sloshed-up sight if he didn’t just embrace the sticky spilled drink all over the both of you without a second boundary’s worth of thought nor hesitation.
Oh, broken mirror
Is there anything you can salvage of me?
I don’t know, sorry
His caramel cheeks are flushed Cosmo-pinker and his face is a miserable smear of nosebleeds and sobriety, but being teetotal wouldn’t explain why he’s wearing that godawful vomit-brown paisley top and a clunky sports helmet in the middle of a goddamned nightclub. Although, thinking back on all the times you almost got concussed in between getting stampeded by staggering strangers and oversensual half-lovers and snorting bullheads spoiling for a fight, he may just have the right idea. Especially if he’s gonna keep up that honest-to-badness garish haunted sofa ‘fit and trashy pick-up line streak. No matter how adorably, hopelessly, idiotically innocent it was clearly intended to be.
Hollywood don’t do subtle, and this kid was anything and everything under god’s wilted green earth and piss-yellow sunshine but.
And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything
I just wanted to match everything you did
Strawberry shortcake wedges himself in between you two (practically plopped right on the boy’s lap and that venomous rage resurges but you’re all out of froofy drinks and you’re honestly feeling a bit sick and sluggish from the syrupy sweetness and that unfading acrid taste from three free shots and an accidental alcoholic waterboarding ago, so down, bitch!) and laments some more to his apparent wingman over a glucose-elevating order of Virgin Mudslide about his voodooed lacklustre lady luck.
Halfway through the hurricane glass, he gets so impossibly giddy over the thought of never finding true love tonight that his splayed limbs start to have a life of their own and his whirling seat’s rivets fly off like teeny artillery, prompting a serrated scowl from the shaved-head bartender and a rub on the back from the sympathetically exasperated boy as he mumbles something about “first Hortense, now this—why can’t we just have a nice boys out for once without it getting all screwed-up and messy, I swear to god...” and even you actually start to feel a bit sorry for him and his little project reject.
It’s so frustrating
But I can’t even bring myself to cry
I can’t even shed a tear
With this, boybestie’s promptly encouraged with a crumpled wadful of cocktail napkins, one Helmetie less, and a mollifying bro pat on the back to take it easy and breathe it out, loosen...er, tighten up and get himself back out there on the raucous runaway, and try again (and again and again and again by the looks of it, you’d willingly bet your overcharged tab). They’re the Hollywood super party kings of Hollywood, for crying out loud (whatever the hell that even meant—and Hollywood twice cancels the whole equation out...okay, you really need to lay down on the chasers before you become the next new-age enlightener. And also just lay down, in general), so he better stop the pervy twenty questions game and the shady cool cat act and just try to be himself this time. But maybe just not too much himself.
Hey, so I gave you the notice
But the after-effects are getting to me
I can’t just be calm and collected about this all
And so now we’re both getting a taste of this irony
Nerve-twisting numbers or not, the boy makes a really good point. You’re never really yourself when you’re hanging out in these kinda jank joints, of infamous druggies and has-been thuggies and mostly junkied now-next-to-nobodies—when you’re there overdressed to unimpress for the free drinks and the easy-A lust and the wishy-washy escapism of being no one or everyone or anyone else at all, there isn’t any need to be yourself, after all. That’s the last thing any try-hard outsider would ever want in this silver-lined city, to be known for being yourself since there’s no riches in radical reality...but despite that, the boy himself strangely seems to feel right at home here, no fragile façade nor pity-love fable to peddle save that salvaged heart bleeding bubblegum songs and unsaid stories all over his hundred-dollar sleeve.
Well, don’t say you didn’t want to know
I’m feeling on edge, give me something to spur me on
You can see lost scars peeking shyly from behind his apropos Tom Ford bomber jacket that does nothing to hide the soiled clothes of a wayward child stumbling skinning his knees in dirty wonderland, you can see the branching scars that cross his tempered face like fortune lines and coat his sweetest words with an aftertaste of berry-baby-bitter that makes him swallow his guilt a lot harder just so his perfect smile could be a little softer, if you step back and look closer to dim down the glaring migraine lights reflecting rainbows and district red lights all over his flawless skin, you can see he’s really built of nothing else but smouldering diamond bones and vicious tooth and nail ambitions and the prettiest little scars. He hides it well; but there’s no place left to hide in this cramped hellhole but upfront.
Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy, who hurt you?
Give me more of that conviction
Give me more reasons to stand up again
Give me however many and however many times
You don’t ask anymore. It might just be from one-too-many slips and slurries and shots of flaming sambuca, but choosers can’t be hypocrites and you hardly even recall if you exchanged names. Saying hi all the time and staying high all the time, some nitty-gritty details are bound to drop off into asterisks—like how long ago did you meet, and why can’t your hands stop blurring in front of you when the boy’s holding them so tightly it’s cutting off the blood circulation and keeping you numb to every sinking gripping aching touch, and why do you need to care about all these pointless questions? What was your name again...?
Well, whatever. It doesn’t really matter at all. You don’t need names to dance. You don’t need names to fuck. You don’t need names to remember for longer than a nascent after-hours, turning blood-red against yellowed eyes and evergreen veins. But you’re not so sure you want to forget, either.
If you can love someone
More than the number of your regrets
Then that love is something you should sing out loud
Forget about what I promised you on that day
The silence speaks volumes. He spills half his vodka tonic on the jacket while grimacing from the lime and invites you to dance. You laugh and clumsily pull him into the floor, and that terrible twist of time leaves a lot of space for bad intentions as it slows the both of you into a phantasmic non-apropos waltz.
Wishing you well as I send you off
Just one last thing to bother you with—
I’m sorry. Well, then...see you again
Tired forehead to piercing clavicle. Phantom hands anchored and tracing gently-swaying hips, arching closer, grinding teeth. Broad blustered chests exploding in hazardous friction, challenging each other to thump a little faster, a little louder, a lot more painful, catching breaths catching up to the reverberating electrified drop before the raving crowd goes wild and they all fall down and you would too—god, why does everything burn so fucking much?—if only the boy isn’t holding every part of you together. You and the boy and you’re his boy but is he your boy? You’re not sure you’re not sure of anything anymore and you’re almost afraid to feel afraid to ask and it’s stupid and you’re stupid—stop acting so stupid, where’s your heavy hurting head, up there, up where, where did all your clever lies go off to, to throw up the poison and feel okay again or to curl up and die all alone in some other hypothetical hellhole where it wouldn’t be caught dead—as if you haven’t done this before.
For you, I always wanted to be just right for you
If I just thought about how you could do anything
I didn’t need any aspirations
And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything
I even would’ve wanted to be a clown
You’ve been here before, danced a million ankle-breaking steps before, fucked a hundred wasted no-names before, remembered a thousand hangover ways to wake up on the wrong side of Viva La Holy Hollywood before, but you’re one-hundred percent sure plus one that you’ve never ever done this before. Never felt anything like this before. What is this, you may ask? Why ask at all? Maybe you shouldn’t. The boy’s not looking for answers he knows he couldn’t give back. But you’re still going to ask. God, you have to ask. Even if it’s just this time. Damn whatever the hell your dizzy dirty deadly cocksure fucking ego is screaming at you in every available profane language but right now, but there’s no other time to waste than now.
Ah, I’m out of time now
Turn around, turn it all around, for me now
“Are you still gonna want me tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, but I like the idea of you. And I want you, right here, right now.”
What’s for what and what’s for who?
I guess I’ll know when it’s all over, huh?
No promises. Nothing different. You’ve seen this shit before, a bajillion times over. He’s good at this. He’s done this before. You’ve believed it before. But you believe in him anyway.
You don’t know what else to do. You don’t know how else to think. You can’t feel anything but the boy.
Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy, why do you hurt?
I love this good-for-nothing lifeform with all my heart
And even if this isn’t the best solution
I just want to be myself...ah, it’s time now
Now you’re dancing, you’re dancing, and the cramped room crashes down around you and the lasting memory of the boy falters and the stringent beat has fallen away into a senseless static rush and you’re still somehow strobing and gyrating and writhing fucking mechanical as you hold onto him for dear life and delight and dear lies and the constellated kisses on your broken neck are stinging and numbed fingers bruising hips and grinding teeth breaking hollows and everyone and their chemical friends are watching, are watching but the glitter in your bleached-blue eyes shine like salty stars reflected against ocean indigo and something slips inside your tongue sinking the unsinkable and it’s not a pastel pill or a blotter or the sun but you gag once and get swallowed whole as everything melts down into a bad trip and he’s desperately asking for your name—what was it again, tell me tell me tell me—and you’re screaming something maybe like his name beneath his slippery scarred skin spreading with cracks and heady perfume and you’re hot and cold all over and over it’s over and going under underwater and all that’s left to think about is the all-consuming idea of him, and him, and him, and maybe, and maybe you—don’t know don’t know don’t want—you want it. Right here, right now. Maybe just enough to forget nothing, everything, anything at all. Maybe you like the idea of us.
No matter how it turns out, I’m going to go now
To the starting line, top speed in the direction of love
Maybe you even love the boy, in some other dying cosmic yesterday you never dreamed to imagine before and never will again, even if you escape this pretty greenyellowredblack hole and fucking crawl out of that infinite stampede and make it out alive, alive, are you alive somehow. But you’re feeling smaller and smaller and your headspace is empty and your bloodshot vision is darkening and you’re not gonna ruin it like that. You’re not gonna ruin him like that. Not tonight.
I T ’ S O N Y O U N O W —
Ride on, ride on now, to the other side of yesterday
And I’ll overtake even longing itself.
a forgotten train carriage from the 40s of German origin, the same occupied in the terrible history of World War II, today they sleep in an esplanade. #portrait #ny #chilegram #nycphotographer #filmphotography #fotoarica #jamett #fotografia #fotografialatina #fotografiaurbana #photodocumentary #fotografiachilena #fotoarica #streetphotography #photosoot #photogrid #photojournalism #Arica #fujinon #120mm #ilford #mamiya #35mmfilm #christianjamett #ny #nycphotographer #35mm #streetphotography #walls #town #sweden #stockholm
from a train the landscape between arid and green, and little by little the city moves away and the train starts on the road to La Paz - Bolivia. everything happens in the city of Arica. #portrait #ny #chilegram #nycphotographer #filmphotography #fotoarica #jamett #fotografia #fotografialatina #fotografiaurbana #photodocumentary #fotografiachilena #fotoarica #streetphotography #photosoot #photogrid #photojournalism #Arica #fujinon #120mm #ilford #mamiya #35mmfilm #christianjamett #ny #nycphotographer #35mm #streetphotography #walls #town #bolivia #training (en Poconchile, Tarapaca, Chile)
An old facade of a building is located in the Plaza de Tacna in Peru. a light half lights part of the scene. #portrait #ny #chilegram #nycphotographer #filmphotography #fotoarica #jamett #fotografia #fotografialatina #fotografiaurbana #photodocumentary #fotografiachilena #fotoarica #streetphotography #photosoot #photogrid #photojournalism #Arica #fujinon #120mm #ilford #mamiya #35mmfilm #christianjamett #ny #nycphotographer #35mm #streetphotography #walls #town #tacna #peru
a man without a direction goes straight to a road without a destination, only his belongings that are in a supermarket car accompany him. #portrait #ny #chilegram #nycphotographer #filmphotography #fotoarica #jamett #fotografia #fotografialatina #fotografiaurbana #photodocumentary #fotografiachilena #fotoarica #streetphotography #photosoot #photogrid #photojournalism #Arica #fujinon #120mm #ilford #mamiya #35mmfilm #christianjamett #ny #nycphotographer #35mm #streetphotography #walls #town #man #usa (en Arica, Chile)
