#devante swing fic

[vidvix]

Gangsta | Chapter 1

img credit: @nexttopbadbitch

Chapter One "The Peep Show" *Cue the most infamous scene from Belly 1998*

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

Devanté and his entourage hustled into the club watching the crowd part like the red sea, Their eyes glowing in the red lights, His shades tilted on his nose as he carried the briefcase containing thousands of dollars and cocaine in the other. His baggy leather clothes concealed him as he looked for his target and his eyes on the prize. One of the dancers stopped dancing as she seen Devanté pull up behind her, His presence identical to a black panther. The look of fear covered her face as she watched him slam the case onto the table and pulled a gun out. The glock sat comfortably on the man's forehead as he stared at Devanté's empty hand. The mission was to trade his supply in for more money and a key to escape. The man scoffed as he looked through the case and sniffed the coke making sure it was pure and not a false batch. His hands trembled as he counted the cash and put the respective bills in the right case making sure everything's right. Devanté gestured for his member to check after him. His glowing eyes focused on the trigger and wanting to release it so bad.

The member gave him the thumbs up and closed the cases.

"See how simple that was." Devanté chuckled "All you had to do was have my shit and not have me sitting here trigger happy. You're lucky your brains are still in your head, Nigga."

He whipped the man with his glock and left the scene distraught. Gasps left people's mouth as he walked past them and out the double doors to his car. Devanté hated when fools played with his money and acted dumb in process.

Tommy stood leaning against the building wall watching Devanté get into his car, Her cuban cigar blowing heavy clouds of smoke out her mouth as she observed his every move. The red cowboy hat on her head covered one eye letting him know that she's always watching. Devanté nodded to Tommy before speeding off in his cinnamon red mustang convertible. He knew who ran this block and what properties was his. Tommy owned all of red light district, Anything related to it belonged to her on the spot. Building or not, Her hands were already on it. The same block where she used to street walk on before she gained an interest in the drug trade and made a name for herself. "King Tommy" is what they called her due to her power over every pawn in her possession. Rather you were apart of it or not, Tommy found a way to make your ass useful.

On the other side of the city, Imani was throwing glass bottles in an empty parking lot with friends and drinking at the dead of night. She was supposed to be home before the streets light came on but she didn't care what happened to her. Imani hated living in that house, She'd do anything to get out of it. That included overdosing, running away, committing a crime, couch surfing, Anything to keep her from the house. Imani wasn't very book smart but she's street smart, She knows how to find her way around without a cellphone or map insight. Ever since she dropped out during her last year of high school, She spent that time exploring the streets and meeting all types of people including her biological mother who drugged herself to death. Imani wasn't surprised her mother was a crack whore, She always knew something was wrong with her but she didn't know what.

Both her and Devanté had something in common, Which is having a bad influence at a young age leading to them being just like their mentor. Except Imani is sheltered while Devanté was not and had to find his own way of finding a place to stay.

"Working for the money is better than begging for it." Devanté often tells himself when he looks in any mirror before he leaves anywhere.

His entourage all had lives outside of the business but never spoke about it. K-ci & Jojo live together taking care of their sick father and Dalvin struggled with mental health but never showed it because he didn't want to be a burden to anyone or himself for bringing it up. He just takes his meds quietly while taking care of business behind the scenes. There was an incident where he tried to take himself out due to the pressure he felt from their last mission and how bad it affected him, Having to see that poor man die for his greediness leaving his family behind. Dalvin can still hear that gunshot in his dreams but it was always him in front of the gun instead of that man.

the adrenaline rush Devanté gets from these high speed chases sometimes make him aroused with the thought of it. He loved the feeling of a gun in his hand and pure coke in his nose before a mission. It made him stronger and better than without it. His eyes sitting low and his gold grills sharp like fangs when he "recharges" himself. K-CI described him as some type of energy monster when it's task assignment time.

"What's mine is mine and what's yours is yours."

He always alluded to that but he meant that statement when told to anybody, He does it out of love as he calls it. Devanté calls himself the black mamba meaning no one is getting through him, Positive or not. He once made a man eat literal dog shit for messing with his supply and killing his dog, Wasn't that man's brightest moment in the moment. All the things people say about him were indeed true. Yes, He has a shop on the black market. Yes, He's killed people for fun. Yes, He's a drug addict. All that at the age of nineteen, Some kid he is. It's all thinks to his father that once lived but died an ugly man for his actions and crimes against others. Devanté will soon be just like him or worse if he keeps playing these silly games and putting his life in danger.

His ex girlfriend, Tris Tiber, wanted him out the game to protect him for getting into more trouble than he's already in. He treated her like shit but she stood by his side from thick and thin when it wasn't needed. That one day, She decided to say "Fuck you!" and packed her shit and left. Her wardrobe changed from the black leather aesthetic she dawned with him to a spunky metallic one, She allowed herself to show her freedom through her clothes and makeup. Once dark eyeshadows and red lipstick to silver eyelids and clear lip-gloss. Known for her sweet innocence, Tris seen some shit and took that trauma for a bigger and bolder personality. She stopped taking shit from anyone and stood for herself. Devanté tried to tie her down and hide her from the world, He failed in the making when he tossed her to the streets and left her to fend for herself. Tris took that sign and began working for Tommy Monroe, She'd be assigned as the acrobats, seductive siren, and the sniper. 

"Keep yo five dolla shit and get from mine." She warned as she slapped the hands off her hips inside the club. 

Her eyes followed Devanté to the back, She noticed he started wearing his shades again and slicked his hair back. The devil as she deemed him, The reason she turned to the dark side instead of leaving it all behind. Watching him pistol whipped that man, Shifted something in her brain chemicals. Tris pushed the man's head out the way and hopped off the stage to witness the rest of the scene. Her tassels shined in the light as she crossed her arms and detected the supply tossed on the table. That pearl powder glowed in her sight wanting her to take a sniff but she couldn't bring herself to do it. It was so tempting but she had to stay clean for the next round of tests coming up soon. Tommy would have her killed if she caught her taking their substances from clients. 

Those tests were not to be played about, It was all about focus and determined minds. Tris passed majority of her test up until the recent one for taking out her enemy. That man moves like water flashing past her eyes before she could see him. He had her pinned against a wall and took the caliber off her as she struggled to fight the heavy set man off. She returned to the headquarters defeated with an empty holster and ready to be lecture about her needing to work on her weight game. Tommy told her if she couldn't push a heavy set man off her, She'd be back on the streets looking for money and nowhere to go. Tris had one goal on her mind and that was to kill Devanté where she could have him cornered and stuffed in the back of trunk going to the middle of nowhere.  

[poorguysheadisdoingwhatnow]

Tiny Dancer part 3

Here’s Part 3 of @fucking-petticoated-swashbuckler‘s and my fluffy, fluffy fic

Read Part 1 here!

Read Part 2 here!

Twenty-six.

Race didn’t like thinking about aging. Or growing up.

But here he was. His twenty-sixth birthday. And it didn’t feel like this year’s birthday would be that unbearable. At least, as an adult, he had his freedom to not grow up if he wanted.

He blinked open his eyes and rolled over to grab his phone. December 11th. 7:12 am. And already quite a few “happy birthday” messages.

At least one from everyone, it seemed. Except for Spot.

Not that Race cared. It was only 7. Well, 7:13, now. But he wasn’t keeping track of the time. He didn’t even like his birthday that much. Of course he wouldn’t care.

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of his bed before standing up and walking to the kitchen.

It was like every other morning. Breakfast. Shower. Get dressed.

He walked out the door at 8:45 sharp, as usual. Took the subway to the dance studio. At least no one in his classes knew it was his birthday.

The studio was already unlocked when he walked in, and the other teachers were teaching their own classes. A few of his students were sitting in the lobby. Greeting them as he passed, he opened the door to his own studio and walked inside.

Spot was already there, waiting at the piano, his fingers flying absentmindedly across the keys as he played a few scales.

Race managed to tear his eyes away from Spot’s fingers and nodded in his direction before crossing to the other side of the room to set down his things. “Morning.”

Spot smirked. “Happy birthday, Higgins.” Damn it, he remembered. “You feel old yet?”

Race snorted. “Still younger than you, Conlon.”

“By seven months.”

“Whatever.”

Spot laughed. “You excited for whatever Sarah decided to plan?”

“You going to that too?” Race felt his face get hot. He turned to the mirror. Thank god he wasn’t blushing. His heart started racing as he turned back and saw the right side of Spot’s mouth still turned up in a playful half-smile, his eyebrows raised almost antagonistically.

“I thought I’d drop by,” Spot replied. “It’ll be fun to watch ya get drunk off yer ass.”

Race forced out a laugh, but inside he was already panicking. Great. Wonderful. How was Race supposed to have fun if he had to concentrate on speaking like a normal person? Why did he even get like this around Spot? It wasn’t like he even liked him that much.

Well, he was a friend. But Race couldn’t understand why he seemed to subconsciously think of Spot as more than that. After all, that was all Spot thought of him as, right? Just a friend. A co-worker. A-

The door opened and his class entered the studio, effectively interrupting his mthoughts. When they’d all reached their spots at the barre, he started to teach the new plié combination.

“Demi, relevé, demi, stretch, grand…” His gaze kept wandering over toward the piano as he recited the combination, struggling to remember the steps; they seemed to escape his mind every time he glanced in Spot’s direction.

Each new combination he had to teach seemed harder to remember as the class went on. The dancers stood patiently as Race tried with great difficulty to recall his choreography, wishing he’d had the foresight to at least write them down. All he could seem to focus on was Spot Conlon- the way he always seemed to incline his head to the right whenever he was concentrating, how his movements at the piano were minimalistic but the passion and intensity stayed.

How he’d played the same développé music every class since the first.

And how Race’s développé choreography had begun to cater more and more to that music.

Race was relieved when his first class came to an end. “Révérence. You can improv today. Spot, can we please have 32-”

“Bars. As always.”

Race let the class giggle for a second before responding. “Thank you. One, two, three, four…”

Just two more classes. Then he could go home before his party.

In his years of dancing, classes had never passed by so slowly. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his denial, he was a little excited about his birthday. Maybe it was because he just couldn’t stop staring at Spot, that he just never wanted his graceful fingers to stop-

No, it was definitely the first thing. He was just anxious to get home.

Finally, the last student was out the door, and Race crossed the room to where his stuff sat, grabbing his bag and coat. He turned to where Spot still sat at the piano. “Uh...you leaving?”

“Eventually.” Spot glanced at Race, and Race had to pretend that the look didn’t leave his heart beating a little faster. “I’m just gonna play a little more, if that’s okay.”

“Oh...oh yeah, sure.”

Spot began to play again, another piece, slower than any of the dance music he had played before. It was beautiful, and, by the way Spot’s fingers flew up and down the keys, adding grace notes here and there, lilts and complicated rhythms, probably almost completely improvised, though Race could’ve sworn he detected some Chopin.

Spot paused for a moment and looked up to see Race still standing there, captivated by the music.

“No, no, keep playing. It’s amazing.” Race hoped Spot couldn’t see the embarrassment on his face.

“If you’re gonna stay, at least don’t just stand there,” Spot joked. “I never got to see ya dance on Thanksgivin’.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Race nodded maybe a bit too enthusiastically. As Spot started playing again, less somber this time, Race tendued tentatively before taking off his jacket and shoes and dropping them on the floor.

Tendu devant. Chassé. Arabesque.

As he began to dance, his movements became more fluid. Less awkward.

Enveloppé to attitude derrière. Penché. Allongé, then cloche to tendu.

His movements began to move him out of the corner. Countless chaînés and piqué turns carried him across the floor. The sequence of steps flowed more naturally to Race than speaking or breathing. He barely thought about what he was doing when he danced.

Développé 2… 3… 4… rond de jambe en l’air, fondu, relevé…

He almost forgot that Spot was in the studio with him.

Glissade, saut de chat. Land in arabesque.

Almost.

“You’re quite the dancer, Higgins.” Spot’s voice startled Race out of his reverie, and he stumbled. He recovered quickly, but he could feel his face flush, and not entirely because of all the dancing he had just done. Damn it.

“Thanks. You’re quite the pianist.” A thought occurred to him. “I haven’t seen you dance since we were in high school. You still dance much?”

“On occasion.” That was it. No further explanation. “Come on, it’s gettin’ late. Better get ya cleaned up before the party.”

“Um...yeah, you’re right.” Race put his coat and shoes back on and grabbed his bag. He waited by the door while Spot closed the piano and grabbed his own things. They walked out the door together, and Spot waited until Race had locked his studio. Then they left the building, stepping out into the cold December air.

“Well, I’ll see ya at the bar,” Spot said, turning to walk down the sidewalk; he lived in the opposite direction of Race.

“Wait!” Race called before he could stop himself. “You could just, uh...come back with me. I mean-” thank god for winter, the cold air was stopping the heat from rising into his cheeks “-my place is a little closer, and I can take a quick shower, and we can just go. Split a cab or something.”

A confused expression barely flitted across Spot’s face. His nose had turned pink at the tip from the cold. Then he nodded. “Sure.”

Race could barely keep himself from grinning. “Cool. Let’s go.”

It felt weird to shower while Spot sat alone in Race’s living room, even though he’d been the one to suggest this plan.Trying not to make it any more awkward than he already felt it was, Race finished quickly and got dressed. He walked out of the bathroom in fresh clothes, his hair still noticeably damp. Spot was sitting on the couch, on his phone, and he stood up when Race came out into the living room.

“Ya look good...I mean, at least you’re not sweaty anymore, they wouldn’t’a let you into the bar.”

Race laughed as he rolled his eyes. He started walking toward Spot. “Ready to go?”

“Sure ya won’t freeze?” Race involuntarily held his breath as Spot reached up and tousled his hair. “It’s pretty cold outside. That-” He gestured at Race’s wet hair. “That’s not gonna help.”

Race forced another nervous laugh as he struggled to remember how to breathe and worked to slow his heart rate. “I might have a beanie somewhere? But that won’t help my hair dry.”

“Oh, here.” Spot reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a dark red beanie. “I got this if ya wanna borrow it.”

“Why do you have-” Race shook his head and took the beanie from Spot. “Nevermind… thanks.”

It smelled like Spot’s shampoo, tea tree oil with a hint of sandalwood, a combination that complimented the scent of what Race assumed was his cologne? Deodorant? Whatever it was smelled faintly of musk and made Race want to just close his eyes and take it in.

“Alright, we goin’ or what?” Race looked up to see that Spot was standing at the door. When had he moved?

“Uh...yeah, let’s go.”

They hailed a cab outside the building; the bar wasn’t far, but it was way too cold to be walking. And when the car pulled up to the curb, Race ignored his accelerating heart rate when Spot opened the door for him, and when Spot sat a little closer to him than seemed normal, and when Spot leaned forward to pay the cabbie for the ride (“the birthday boy shouldn’t pay for the cab”) and put his hand on Race’s shoulder in a way that was casual but was it casual oh god-

“We’re here.”

Race glanced out the window, and sure enough, there was the bar. Spot was already opening the door and sliding out of the cab, and Race got out behind him.

The bar was fairly crowded, but it wasn’t hard to find Sarah and the others, especially when she stood up from the table and yelled “Race!” across the room.

“Hey, Sarah!” Race called, making his way to the table with Spot close behind. “This is a great place you chose, thanks.”

“Nothing but the best for the birthday boy.” Sarah leaned close, a conspiratorial grin spreading across her face. “And you and Spot came together, huh?”

“You do realize we work together, right? And we, you know, had work today?” Race felt himself blush yet again.

“That why you’re wearing his hat?” Sarah smirked. “And-” she sniffed. “You smell like him too?”

“Fuck off, Sarah. Nothin’ happened.” Spot came to his rescue quickly, a frown on his face. Thank god. “It’s ‘is birthday. Leave ‘im alone.”

“Alright, alright.” Sarah held up her hands in mock surrender. She gestured to two empty seats between Crutchie and Specs. “You guys sit down. We’re gonna have a good time.”

(Btw we’ll have you know that this chapter you just read is exactly 1899 words. You’re welcome)

[tasha-lemon]

Jour avec.

Savourer une tasse de thé sous un ciel gris, de l'electro-swing en fond. Ronronnement contre ma jambe et poils sur mes habits, fourrure douce qui enveloppe mon cœur. Un appel quasi-quotidien de mon âme-sœur, à des kilomètres de distance, des années-lumières de ma vie, ancrée en mon âme. Découvrir que la fac, l'école, ne me donne pas ma valeur, ne me retire rien. Envoyer ma mère se faire foutre en skipant sur "ne pas décrocher". Avoir tellement hâte d'aller voir Split au cinéma avec Mari. Hurler ma chanson avec une voix de merde, éraillée par la maladie, s'en foutre complétement. Faire du pain à trois heures de l'aprem, juste par gourmandise. Embrasser le ciel en savourant les étoiles. Heures de recherche sur la magie, les sorts, se prendre la tête sur les propriétés des pierres. Vi. C'est un hibou... Choisir une robe pour le plaisir de la porter sans avoir à sortir. Le vent qui me porte quand je cours, le mouvement de mes jambes qui me propulse plus loin à chaque foulée, qui me rappelle que mon corps est capable, qu'il est vivant. Éclater de rire quand Freyja se casse la gueule du lit. Accepter la boulimie, les scarifications, les jours "sans". Essayer de ne plus se juger, échouer parfois, retenter toujours. Accrocher au mur mes cartes postales, preuves tangibles de l'amour que me portent ceux qui me sont le plus cher, décoration de douceur pour un trop grand cœur. Peindre mes cheveux et ma vie en bleu, petit à petit. "Toi, depuis que tu l'as quitté, tu revis, c'est un truc de fou !". Sautiller comme une folle parce qu'en octobre prochain, je vais voir Lady Gaga avec ma meilleure amie, mon morceau d'âme depuis 15 longues années, 15 trop courtes années pour nous. Voile, pas poil. Voileee. Rester éveillée à 2h du matin, lumière éteinte, à contempler le ciel par ma baie vitrée, inspirer cette paix tangible qui a envahit ma vie depuis un petit moment. Dévorer pain et fromage à n'importe quelle heure. S'emplir les yeux et l'âme de la lumière qui revient manger le monde, du printemps qui ronge petit à petit le calme de l'hiver, avoir hâte des matins où l'air pique et le soleil réchauffe. Nostalgie des couchers de soleil éclatant, incendiant. Réécrire des fic pour le plaisir, sans se juger. La musique du Seigneur des Anneaux qui rythme le travail scolaire. Avoir trouvé la personne avec qui j'ai envie de vivre, parce qu'avec elle y'a des hauts et des bas, comme dans chaque amitié, mais elle est l'un de mes plus beaux et puissant coup de foudre. Découvrir qu'on a pas besoin d'amour "romantique" pour être heureux avec quelqu'un, et se confirmer dans l’idée qu’au final, amitié et amour désigne la même chose. Sassy as fuck et No Chill, hymne des Serdaigles. Lire encore et encore, nichée sous le plaid. Chercher cette saloperie de balle rouge sans laquelle Soldat Freyja dépérit. Nuits et matins de douceur absolue, où je chéris et surkiffe les câlins de Mari, où je donnerais sacrément cher pour pouvoir rester contre lui, en sécurité sous la couette, sans jamais avoir à affronter le monde extérieur. Avec sa fucking odeur qui m'apaise et me rassure. Fondant au chocolat devant The Gazette. "Lone Digger".

Il y a des jours avec, et des jours sans.

J'aurais encore des jours où tout me semblera futile, inutile, sans autre goût que l'amertume de ma détresse et l'acidité de mon désespoir. J'aurais encore des jours que je teinterais du rouge de ma peau, des cicatrices de mon sang. J'aurais encore des jours où ma gorge me semblera remplie de verre pilée et mes yeux déchirés à la pierre ponce, des jours où je devrais déployer toute ma force pour me souvenir de quelque chose de bon, de bien, qui vaut le coup, où mon seul rempart contre la Noirceur sera mon souvenir de terreur infinie qui m'a toujours gardé de tout, mon "garde-fou du désespoir".

Mais je lâcherais rien. Jamais. Parce qu'après un jour sans, y'aura toujours un jour avec. 22 ans pour apprendre cette leçon, tu peux crever pour que je l’oublie.

[vidvix]

Gangsta | Devanté Swing

a work in progress being written on wattpad as well as here. The idea was inspired by Belly (1998), Pyramids by Frank Ocean, and the color red.

Imani loves the thrill of danger but not the consequences that come with it. She ends herself in trouble with Devante, A dealer on the run. The two embark on a bonnie and clyde journey as their forbidden love affair grows and their betrayal hides in plain sight. Will she be his ride or die?

“The Naivë”

Imani Cortez "You walking around me like you got the cooties are something."

"The Gangsta"

Devanté Swing "This is life, Baby! You either shoot or get killed."

"The Queen Pin"

Tommy Monroe

"You mess with my business, I'll have my goons fuck you up."

𝖂𝖍𝖔 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖓𝖞𝖜𝖆𝖞, 𝖆𝖓𝖞𝖜𝖆𝖞? 𝕮𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖍é, 𝖈𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖍é, 𝖈𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖍é, 𝖈𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖍é

playlist ON THE RUN PT 2. - JAYZ

DON'T HURT YOURSELF - BEYONCÈ

NEEDED ME - RIHANNA

ABOUT THE MONEY - T.I

APESHIT - THE CARTERS

HIGHEST IN THE ROOM - TRAVIS SCOTT

GANGSTA - KEHLANI

DANCE FOR YOU - BEYONCÈ

ALRIGHT - KENDRICK LAMAR

PRAY FOR ME - KENDRICK LAMAR