𝓶𝓪𝓵𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽

22.! ⵣ ⵣ ⴰⵎⴰⵊⴻⵖ مَلِكة(мαℓι¢кα) Free!🇨🇩🇲🇲🇳🇵🇵🇭🇳🇪🇱🇧🇸🇩🇨🇺🇨🇴🇿🇦🇸🇸 🇸🇩 🇲🇱🇧🇫🇸🇾🇵🇸🇾🇪🇭🇹🇲🇬🇰🇲🇳🇬🇺🇦❤️☀️💚

[malyscent]

I don’t know why, but whenever I get cornrows my scalp becomes really red and hurts a lot. The redness fades after a few days, but the pain lasts longer. I’ve heard people talk about ‘hair texture’ and how 3 type and 4 type of hair should handle braids, but I have 4A hair and I don’t really do protective styles often maybe once a year. I usually just brush my hair and wear it in a bun or leave it loose. My mom also gets redness on her scalp when she does braids, even though she has straight hair, but hers doesn’t hurt and she’s fine how is that possible?. So I’m wondering if it’s because I’m not used to braids or if something else is going on pls help a black sister. btw my hair is a mix of that and that.

[malyscent]

Home to You

(Keith power x Black reader)

*Contemporary Romance, Slice of Life, Romantic Comedy, Relationship Drama, Adult, Domestic Fiction, Humorous Fiction, Wholesome Fiction, Married Life, Established Relationship, Caregiver Dynamics*

The heavy iron key turned in the lock with a dull, metallic click. Keith stepped across the threshold, immediately unbuttoning the top two buttons of his uniform shirt and exhaling a long, weary sigh. It had been a grueling twelve-hour shift the kind that left his muscles aching and his mind completely drained.

Usually, walking through the door was his favorite part of the day. The apartment was typically a sanctuary of warmth: the low hum of the television, the savory aroma of whatever dinner you were experimenting with, and your voice calling out a cheerful greeting from the kitchen.

Tonight, there was only a heavy, suffocating silence. The entryway was pitch black.

Keith paused, his boots toeing off at the mat. A faint prickle of unease, honed by years of instinct, rippled down his spine. "Babe?" he called out, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.

No response.

He tossed his keys onto the console table and walked down the hallway. As he passed the kitchen, he noticed the counters were completely bare. No pots on the stove, no lights on. His stride quickened, panic beginning to crowd out his exhaustion. When he reached the master bedroom, he saw the door was cracked open, a sliver of dim twilight spilling out into the hall.

He pushed the door open softly. "Hey, you sleepin-"

The words caught in his throat.

You weren't sleeping. You were curled into a tight, defensive fetal position in the exact center of the mattress, completely buried beneath a tangled mountain of the heavy duvet. Your knees were pulled sharply toward your chest, and your hands were locked over your abdomen in a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

In the dim light, Keith could see the sheen of cold sweat highlighting the rich, dark tones of your skin. Your eyes were squeezed shut, your brow furrowed into a deep, agonizing frown. As he watched, your entire body shuddered, a faint, ragged whimper escaping your lips.

Keith’s work brain instantly evaporated. He crossed the room in two long strides, dropping to his knees by the edge of the mattress. The sudden dip in the bed made you gasp, your eyes fluttering open, glossy and bloodshot with tears.

"Keith..." your voice was barely a breathless whisper, tight and strained from hours of fighting the agony alone.

"Hey, hey, I'm here. I've got you," he murmured, his tone a rare, fierce mix of intense worry and absolute gentleness. He reached out, his large, calloused hand brushing damp, tangled curls away from your forehead. His palm caught the cold sweat on your skin. "Talk to me, baby. What hurts? Where is it?"

"My stomach," you choked out, a fresh tear escaping the corner of your eye and tracking down your temple. "It’s... it's been all afternoon. I tried to wait it out, but it’s just getting worse. It won't stop."

A wave of frustration at himself and tender anger that you hadn't called him washed over him. You had been lying here in the dark for hours, suffering in silence because you didn't want to disrupt his workday.

"Shh, don't talk, just breathe," Keith instructed softly, pressing the back of his hand to your cheek. Your skin was clammy and pale beneath its warm undertones, but thankfully, he didn't feel a raging fever. "Is it a sharp, stabbing pain, or is it a dull ache? Do you feel sick to your stomach?"

"Sharp," you wheezed, curling even tighter into yourself as another rolling cramp seized your abdomen. You let out a broken, agonizing sound that tore at his chest. "Like... like a vice grip tightening inside me. And yeah, I'm nauseous. Every time I move, I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

"Alright. Listen to my voice, okay? Try to match my breathing," he said, taking a slow, deep breath to anchor you. "I'm going to get you some medicine and heat. Don't move a muscle."

Keith rose to his feet, moving with an efficient, quiet urgency. In the kitchen, he quickly filled a tall glass with cool water. In the bathroom, he rummaged through the medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of maximum-strength pain relievers and a stomach-soothing medication. Finally, he grabbed the electric heating pad from the linen closet.

When he returned to the bedroom, he set the items on the nightstand and plugged the heating pad into the wall, setting it to high.

"Alright, sweetheart. I need to get you sitting up just a bit so you can take this," Keith said, kicking off his heavy boots and climbing onto the mattress. He positioned himself behind you, sliding his strong arms under your shoulders and behind your knees.

He lifted you effortlessly, pulling your fragile, trembling body back against his broad chest. You let out a weak, exhausted sigh, automatically burying your face into the crook of his neck. Even cold and sick, the familiar, grounding scent of him leather, rain, and the faint trace of cologne acted like an immediate anchor against the waves of pain.

"Here, take a tiny sip of water first," he coaxed, holding the glass to your lips with one hand while keeping you steady with the other.

Your teeth clicked weakly against the rim, but you managed a few small swallows. He carefully placed the pills on your tongue and guided the water back to your lips, waiting patiently until you successfully swallowed them down. You grimaced, your breath catching as the movement triggered another spasm in your midsection.

"I know, I know. You're doing great," he murmured into your hair.

He reached over and grabbed the heating pad, which was already radiating a thick, deep heat. Carefully, he slid it beneath your clutching hands, pressing it firmly against the lower half of your stomach.

The contrast was instantaneous. The deep, penetrating heat began to battle the icy, sharp cramps gripping your muscles. A long, shuddering breath left your lungs, your posture finally losing a fraction of its rigid, agonizing tension.

"Is that helping?" Keith asked, his deep baritone vibrating directly against your spine as he held you close.

"Yes," you whispered, leaning your full weight back into him, completely spent. "So much. Thank you."

Keith wrapped his large, warm arms securely around your waist, over the heating pad, adding his own natural body heat to the mix. He began to rub his palms in slow, soothing circles across your stomach, his movements rhythmic and gentle, careful not to apply too much pressure.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled after a few minutes of quiet, your eyelids growing heavy from the sudden relief and sheer exhaustion. "I wanted to have dinner ready for you. You worked such a long shift, and I'm just lying here..."

Keith paused his hands for a fraction of a second, letting out a soft, incredulous chuckle that was entirely laced with affection. He pressed a long, tender kiss against the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

"Are you out of your mind?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a fierce, protective register. "Babe, look at me."

You tilted your head back weakly, looking up into his face. His dark eyes were incredibly intense, entirely focused on you, filled with an unyielding devotion that made your chest ache in a completely different way.

"I don't give a damn about dinner," Keith said softly, his thumb gently wiping away the dried tear tracks on your cheek. "I care about you. When you're hurting like this, you don't tough it out. You don't worry about my shift. You call me. I don't care if I'm in the middle of a meeting or a crisis I will drop everything and come home to take care of you. Do you understand me?"

The absolute certainty in his voice made a fresh wave of warmth bloom in your chest. You nodded weakly, a small, tired smile finally touching your lips. "Okay. I understand. I promise."

"Good." Keith shifted slightly, pulling the heavy duvet back up over both of your shoulders, sealing the two of you into a cocoon of warmth.

He resumed the slow, mesmerizing circles over your stomach, his heartbeat steady and strong against your back. With the medicine finally kicking in and the heat dulling the sharp edges of the ache, your body finally succumbed to the relief. Safe in his hold, you let your eyes drift shut, your breathing deep and even as you finally fell into a deep, healing sleep.

[lesbostini]

One of my favorite cross-cultural practices, women with facial tattooing/markings

Featured cultures from left to right: Saudi Arabia (Bedouin), Palestinian, Fulani (Wodaabe), Egypt (Sinai Bedouin), Imazighen (Kel Tamasheq), Kalash, Myanmar (Chin state tribes), Alaska (Iñupiat)

[malyscent]

Imazighen!!

[malyscent]

Guys, if you have locs or know someone who does, I need help 😭 I’ve had my locs for a year now, but I still don’t fully understand how to do my roots myself.

Like, is it called a retwist or interlocking? And how do you actually do it properly on your own?

I’ve watched tutorials and TikToks but I’m still confused please help

Also my hair is long and my new growth is REALLY long 😭 like what am I supposed to do with that??

[malyscent]

If u don't mind me asking, are u from France?

Nope, but I speak French fluently it's one of my first languages. Why do you ask? I only started learning French properly when I was four because, obviously, I was in a French-speaking country. Outside the house, I’d speak French, but at home we spoke English, Arabic, or even a mix like Frenglish-Arabic

[malyscent]

A Moment for Us

(Michael B jordan x Actress!Black Reader)

*Contemporary Romance, Celebrity Romance, High Society Romance, Slice of Life, Fluff, Married-Life Romance, Actors AU*

I smoothed the front of my dress, my hands trembling slightly despite my best efforts to appear calm. I looked in the mirror one last time. The crimson silk cascaded down my frame, hugging every curve, culminating in a dramatic train that was currently being meticulously arranged by my stylist, Sarah.

“You look breathtaking, (Y/N),” Sarah murmured, her gaze fixated on the dress.

I managed a faint smile. “Thank you, Sarah.”

Taking a deep breath, I walked out to where Michael was waiting. He was clad in a sharp tuxedo, the black fabric contrasting sharply with his crisp white shirt. He looked up, and his smile sent a familiar flutter through my heart.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his voice smooth and soothing, like a warm embrace.

“You too,” I replied, my voice slightly raspy.

He reached for my hand, his grip reassuringly tight. “Ready?”

I nodded, even though I knew I was anything but. The MET Gala was one of the most prestigious events in the world, and all eyes would be on us. We were two of the biggest names in Hollywood, and our marriage only added fuel to the fire.

Hand in hand, we walked towards the waiting limousine. As we descended the steps of our hotel, a flash of light temporarily blinded me. I squinted, trying to make sense of the source. It was a photographer, perched behind a bush, trying to steal a glimpse of us.

Michael tightened his grip on my hand, pulling me closer. “Ignore them,” he muttered, his voice taut with suppressed anger.

I nodded, though my heart was pounding a frantic rhythm in my chest. We got into the limousine, the cool leather seats providing a brief moment of comfort.

The ride to the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a blur. The streets were lined with onlookers, their faces a mix of awe and curiosity. Some held up signs, their words a blurry jumble of letters and colors.

When we finally arrived, the red carpet was already packed. The air was thick with tension, a tangible energy that crackled around us. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

Michael led the way, his hand an anchor in the storm of flashbulbs and questions. I followed closely behind, my eyes fixed on the red carpet beneath my feet.

“How are you feeling?” Michael asked, his voice low and concerned.

“I'm fine,” I replied, though my voice betrayed my anxiety.

He stopped, turning to face me. He took my face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw. “Listen to me,” he said, his eyes drilling into mine. “You are the most beautiful, talented, and courageous woman I know. You belong here. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”

I felt a surge of warmth wash over me. He always knew exactly what to say, how to make me feel strong when I felt weak. I nodded, a genuine smile playing on my lips. “Thank you.”

He kissed my forehead, then took my hand again. “Let’s do this.”

We stepped onto the red carpet, and the world dissolved into a cacophony of sound and light. Flashbulbs exploded around us, a continuous barrage of light that stung my eyes. Photographers shouted our names, their voices a blurred jumble of words.

I focused on Michael, on the firm pressure of his hand in mine. He was my rock, my safe harbor in this storm. I managed to smile, a genuine smile this time, as I waved to the crowds.

We made our way down the carpet, stopping for interviews along the way. I answered questions about my dress, my career, my marriage. Michael answered them alongside me, his voice a warm counterpoint to mine.

We were asked about our future plans, about our hopes and dreams. We talked about our desire to work together again, to tell stories that mattered.

As we reached the end of the carpet, I looked back at the sea of faces, the flashbulbs still popping around us. A sense of peace washed over me. I was here with the man I loved, doing what I loved. And that was all that mattered.

We walked into the museum, the cool air a welcome relief after the heat of the red carpet. The main hall was a breathtaking sight, its high ceilings and grand staircases reaching up towards the heavens.

We made our way to the dining room, where we were seated at a table with other celebrities and dignitaries. The conversation was lively, the food delicious.

As the evening wore on, the tension began to melt away. We laughed, we talked, we enjoyed each other’s company. It was a perfect night.

As we were leaving, I looked back at the museum, its grand facade illuminated against the dark sky. A smile touched my lips. I had made it. I was here, with the man I loved, doing what I loved. And that was all that mattered.

[malyscent]

You can’t say you’re representing Black love when the only women in your stories are mixed-race. That’s not real representation. As a dark-skinned Black girl, I genuinely like your work, but I still don’t see myself in it. There’s a difference between calling characters Black and actually showing Black women in a real, diverse way. Right now it just feels like you’re labeling them Black without really portraying us. Like… bffr, you can’t keep saying this is “Black love” or "...x Black Reader" when we don’t even see a typical Black woman in your stories. Representation isn’t just about saying it it’s about showing it like nigga bffr, where’s the Blackness? It just looks like white women painted Black, that’s it..And I’m honestly really disappointed, we rarely see accounts run by Black creators where Black women are actually highlighted, showcased, and centered in fanfictions or regular stories. There’s so few of them and you’re not really one of them.

Hi, I hear what you’re saying and I understand why representation matters to you, it matters to me too. But I do want to correct something: my page is centered on Black women. The only time I used a mixed-race face was in IN THE POCKET, and that was a one-time thing.

The other women I use as faces are East African and Sahelian/Saharan women, who are Black. Blackness is not limited to one look or one specific phenotype, and I think that’s important to acknowledge.

That being said, I understand your point about wanting to see more visibly dark-skinned representation, and that’s valid. I’m not dismissing that at all. But saying I’m not representing Black women at all or that I’m just “painting white women Black” is not accurate and feels dismissive of the diversity within Black communities.

Honestly, when I type ‘Black women’ on Pinterest, I usually only get Saheli/Saharan women. Otherwise, I just use the Black women (Mostly Saheli/saharan) already in my home feed or beautiful women I’ve found and saved on Pinterest hours ago. That’s kind of how my feed works I tend to save pins of women from my own culture or traditional stuff from my culture, so it probably affects what shows up on my feed or the results I get after typing 'black women' in my search tab, I guess. The only time I don’t use Saheli/Saharan or East African women (not that i only use them everytime, I just pick whoever fits the vibe of the story). if the story is focused on American culture. Then, yeah, I’d use an American girl. I’ve made plenty of stories about Latin America too, so it really depends on the story

Also, I have to ask when you say “we don’t even see a typical Black woman in my stories,” what does a “typical Black woman” look like to you? Black women are incredibly diverse in skin tone, features, and backgrounds, and my stories reflect that diversity. I’m genuinely curious what you mean by “typical” here.

I’m always open to improving and being more intentional, but my work is still rooted in representing Black women.

Honestly… it’s my first time being called out like this, so… Al eh, I’m listening and trying to understand.

Also, I want to say something about language. I absolutely hate being called the n-word. Even if someone is Black or even my friend, I personally would never use it I’m just not comfortable being called or labeling anyone as “negro,” and that’s a line I don’t cross.

[malyscent]

GHETTO

(Black reader x Black male)

*Slice Of Life, Fluff, Contemporary Fiction, Drama, Social Realism, Urban Fiction, Coming-of-Age*

The word “ghetto” comes from 16th-century Venice, where in 1516 Jewish people were forced to live in a segregated area called the Venetian Ghetto; the name came from the Venetian word ghèto, meaning a metal foundry that had previously existed there. The term later spread across Europe to describe legally enforced Jewish quarters, and during World War II it referred to confined districts like the one in Warsaw where Jews were isolated under N*zi rule. In the 20th century, especially in the United States, it evolved to describe racially segregated Black Americans neighborhoods created by discrimination, and over time it shifted again in slang to mean “poor,” “working-class,” or “unpolished.” Today, in places like France, Belgium, Portugal, Spain & England, it’s often used to describe a non-bourgeois, street-coded, or unapologetic style far removed from its original historical meaning. Because of France’s colonial history and immigration patterns, many African families settled in working-class suburbs around cities like Paris, Marseille, and Lyon. Over time, media narratives linked these neighborhoods with poverty, crime, or “banlieue culture.” As a result, aesthetics and behaviors associated with African and diaspora youth natural hair, streetwear, slang, bold expression, not following bourgeois or white norms became unfairly labeled as “ghetto.” Over time the word “ghetto” started being used as a shortcut to describe not just neighborhoods, but also the people, styles, and behaviors associated with those communities. So when natural hair, bold colors, relaxed posture, or a non-bourgeois attitude gets labeled “ghetto,” it’s often less about the behavior itself and more about racialized and class-based stereotypes. In other words, the term can function as coded language associating Black people aesthetics with being “low class” or “uncivilized,” even when the same behaviors on others might be called “edgy,” “effortless,” or “cool.”

The library was supposed to be a sanctuary, a quiet place for Y/N and Mathis to exist without the weight of the world’s expectations. They were tucked into a back corner, surrounded by the smell of old paper and the hum of the heater. Mathis was reclined in his chair, his baggy cargo pants pooling around his sneakers, his freshly twisted hair framing a face that was deep in a biology textbook.

Y/N sat across from him, her fabulous aesthetic in full effect: an oversized graphic tee, a stack of gold rings, and her afro picked out to its full, glorious volume acting like a halo in the afternoon sun. They weren't bothering anyone. They were just two Black kids being "relaxed," which, in certain spaces, was apparently a radical act.

The peace didn't last. It was broken by the sharp click-clack of sensible low-heels.

An older woman, looking like she’d spent her life monitoring the length of people’s grass, hovered over their table. She didn't ask to sit. She just stared.

"You two look... weirdly in a normal way," she began, her voice a condescending trill. "Exotic. But I bet you’d look so much prettier with straight hair, dear. No offense, but your hair just looks messy and... well, it’s just too much. Straight hair would make it even better. It would make you look more refined."

Y/N didn't look up. She just turned a page in her notebook, her jaw tightening.

The woman didn't take the hint. "And maybe if you started wearing dresses as well? My daughter goes to fashion school; she can help you. You look quite poorly dressed. It’s a bit... unkempt."

Y/N finally lifted her head. Her eyes were calm, but the fire behind them was unmistakable. "Are you done?"

The woman’s face contorted into a mask of offended shock. "Ooh, calm down! I just gave you advice. You don't need to raise your voice at me. Oh, you people are all the same... all getting defensive when someone tries to help."

"We both know I did not yell," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "To be honest, I really don’t care about your opinion. I just care about the fact that you’re standing on the strap of my bag. So move."

The woman sputtered, pulling her foot back as if the bag had bitten her, and scurried off toward the biographies section, muttering about "attitude problems."

Mathis waited until she was ten feet away before he leaned over the table, his face a caricature of the woman's pinched expression. He started whispering in a high-pitched, mocking tone. "Oh, straight hair would make you prettier, blah blah blah... girl, she can’t be talking about beauty when she looks like a raisin that's been sitting in the sun too long. She needs to worry about that foundation line on her neck before she worries about your hair."

Y/N let out a quiet, genuine snort, the tension leaving her shoulders for a moment. "She really thought she was doing me a favor. Like I haven't seen a flat iron before."

The quiet returned for exactly ten minutes. Then, Y/N felt a cold, sudden mist hit the back of her head.

Spritz. Spritz. Spritz.

"It will make them look way better and flat, trust me!" the woman chirped, looming over Y/N again with a plastic spray bottle she’d clearly filled in the bathroom.

Y/N’s reaction was visceral. She stood up so fast her chair screeched against the linoleum. As the woman reached out to touch the damp curls, Y/N pushed her arm away with a firm, defensive shove. The woman stumbled back, her eyes growing wide and watery in a performance of sudden victimhood.

"Are you mad?" Y/N shouted, her hands shaking with a mix of shock and rage. Her hair the hair she had spent two hours detangling and styling was now wet and starting to shrink in patches.

"Help! Why are you so aggressive?!" the woman screamed, her voice echoing through the entire library. "I’m feeling threatened! I was just trying to help you! You’re violent! Someone call security!"

Students started peeking over bookshelves. The woman, seeing she had an audience, let the mask drop completely. The "polite advice" was gone, replaced by the ugly, raw truth.

"This is the problem!" she yelled, pointing a shaking finger at Y/N. "You people come into these spaces looking like hoodlums, with that... that jungle on your head, and you expect us to treat you like equals? You’re aggressive! You’re bad! You should be ashamed to walk around looking like that. It’s dirty! It’s unprofessional! If you can't act civilized, go back to the streets!"

Mathis stood up slowly. He didn't yell. He didn't give her the "aggressive" reaction she was fishing for. He just stepped in front of Y/N, his tall frame creating a wall between the woman and his girlfriend.

"You just walked up and assaulted my girlfriend with a spray bottle because you don't like her hair," Mathis said, his voice deep and steady, cutting through her hysterics. "You’ve been harrassing us for twenty minutes. We have the right to exist in this library without your 'advice' or your racism. Put the bottle down and walk away before this becomes a legal matter."

The librarian arrived, looking between the wet floor, the spray bottle, and the sobbing, screaming woman. The woman started wailing about how Y/N had "attacked" her, but a student at a nearby table held up their phone.

"I got it all on video," the student said flatly. "The old lady was bothering them, then she came back and sprayed her like she was a stray cat. It was weird as hell."

As the librarian escorted the woman out the woman still screaming about "aggressive people" and "ruined society" Y/N sat back down, her heart racing. She felt the dampness on her neck, the familiar sting of being targeted for simply being herself.

Mathis sat down next to her, not across from her. He pulled a clean hoodie out of his gym bag and handed it to her so she could pat her hair dry.

"Don't let her get in your head," he whispered, leaning his head against hers. "Your hair is a masterpiece. She was just mad she couldn't handle the view."

Y/N took a deep breath, looking at her reflection in the darkened library window. Her hair was frizzy, wet, and "too much." And she had never loved it more.

Always love your hair. I’m the only one in my family with 4b hair. Everyone else has either straight or curly hair; I’m the only one with coils. Even though I know coils are a type of curl, I used to feel so left out by my family and friends. Back in the day, I always had my hair hidden in braids or under a veil.

When I finally started showing my hair, people would actually ask, "How?" They’d say I look exactly like my mom until I reveal my hair then I look like someone else entirely. My mom and every single woman on her side are fully Black but have straight to wavy hair. On my father’s side, it’s curly to 4a. I’m the only one with my texture.

One time, my mom even said, "You wish you had your twin's hair" (because she has curly hair). But through it all, I’ve learned that my hair isn't "messy" or "too much." It’s unique, it’s mine, and it’s beautiful. No matter what anyone says whether it’s a stranger in a library or even your own family your coils are your crown.

Always love your hair. This story is deeply personal to me. I am the only one in my family with 4a hair. Everyone else has straight or curly textures; I am the only one with coils. For the longest time, I felt like an outsider in my own home. When I was a kid, my mom relaxed my hair for years. It was straight until 2020, the year I finally found the strength to tell her: "No." No more chemicals. But the pressure didn't stop. Because I look so much like my mom light-skinned, small features, big forehead, small lips, and freckles she felt like my hair should "match" hers. She told me, "When you have braids or veils on, you look like you’re one of us." But the moment my natural hair is out, she calls it a "mess." She says it’s "too much," "noticeable," and "over the top." She’s even asked me, "Don't you want to at least curl it? Are you even my kid?" On her side, the women are all fully Black with straight to wavy hair. On my father’s side, it’s curly to 4a. I am the only one with these long, beautiful, thick coils. My mom once said I should wish I had my twin's curly hair. But standing my ground in 2020 taught me that my hair isn't a mess it’s a miracle. It’s loud, it’s noticeable, and it’s "over the top" because it’s beautiful. At my international school, a white teacher once told my mom during a parent-teacher day that she "never would have guessed we were related." She had the audacity to say my hair was "distracting" and "violating school rulings." (i was wearing a bun). An international school! Where people wear bindis and cultural attire freely, yet my hair was "weird" and needed to be "neutral." To that teacher, and to anyone who thinks coily hair is a "distraction": You’re the one who’s lost. My hair is long, it is a lot, and it is noticeable. It doesn't "shape" me; it is me. Whether it's a stranger in a library, a biased teacher, or even your own family never let them make you feel like your crown is a "mess."

[malyscent]

To all my fellow Black folks who grew up watching Azur and Asma the movie inspired by Algerian, Moroccan, Tunisian, Mauritanian, and Malian cultures we can all agree that La Fée des Elfes was way prettier than La Fée des Djinns. Like, who even marries a djinn? Asma’s choice is just… mad weird. And we can all agree that Azur and Asma is the best Amazigh movie ever if you want to actually understand your culture. It’s also hilariously stereotyped.

Azur: white man, blue eyes, Catholic, starts life ridiculously easy rich, goes to the best private Catholic school, outstanding education. His father? Biggest racist ever you know, full-on Zemour vibes. At night, Azur, the supposed antagonist, finds out he’s technically the son of his babysitter, not his mother. And this babysitter? Amazigh probably Algerian, Moroccan, Mauritanian, Malian, Tunisian, we don’t know, but she’s Amazigh. She teaches him everything including Arabic before he can even stand on his feet. Dude knew ourouf al-hidjā’ as a white man way before me BEFORE ME. She teaches him stories, kindness, sharing, love everything.

And he shares all this with… Asmar. Now Asmar: lives in the hess, capable, respectable, black, Afro-haired, Moroccan. I had the biggest crush on him. He’s the kind of guy who could get into Harvard just from saying hello. But he’s rude, hates everyone in his social class, and because he’s poor (as we say here" Il est pauvre et malheureux), every time he sees Azur no matter how much he loves him he’s like: 'go get lost, you bourgeois trash.' Who remembers the line:

"First of all, you’re not even handsome."

And Azur goes: "It’s me, the prettiest."

And Asmar just stands there like: "It’s your outfit that’s pretty, not you."

While Azur is secretly receiving an education from his baby-minder something that has nothing to do with his father Asmar is watching from afar and inspiring himself from that same education. Not the father’s elite Catholic schooling only, but the knowledge, language, and values the baby-minder gives Azur. Asmar’s kind of like a guy from UPEC. He sees Azur riding a horse he rides a table. Azur dances, he dances on a tree. Who remembers all of that? Pure nostalgia, cultural stuff and funny stereotypes all wrapped together.

[malyscent]

Who’s Really Pregnant Here?

(Black reader and Black male)

*Contemporary Romance, Slice of Life, Romantic Comedy, Relationship Drama, New Adult, Domestic Fiction, Inspirational Fiction, Humorous Fiction, Urban romance, Wholesome Fiction, Married Life, Established Relationship, Caregiver Dynamics, New Parents Romance*

The sun was setting, casting a long, honey-colored glow across the apartment, but Ibrahim wasn't looking at the view. He was currently squinting at your feet, which were resting on a velvet ottoman.

"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, "serious" tone he used when he was about to do too much. "The swelling. It’s up by approximately 15% since 2:00 PM. I’ve calculated the sodium intake from those pickles you had. We need to elevate. Immediately."

"Ibrahim, I am literally sitting on an ottoman. My feet are already elevated," you laughed, reaching for your book.

"Not high enough. We need the 45-degree angle. The gravity needs to work for us, not against us." He disappeared and returned with three extra throw pillows, lifting your legs with the tenderness of someone handling ancient artifacts.

If there was an award for the most sympathetic pregnancy in history, Ibrahim was the frontrunner. He didn't just support you; he joined you.

When you got a cramp in your calf at 3:00 AM, he’d wake up clutching his own leg, gasping as if he were the one being struck by lightning. When you felt a little nauseous from the smell of the neighbor's garlic chicken, he’d be the one sitting by the open window, fanning himself.

"I think my nesting instinct is peaking, babe," he said later that afternoon, frantically organizing the spice rack for the third time that week. "Everything needs to be mathematical. What if the baby needs cumin and we can't find it? The chaos would be unbearable."

"babe, the baby is going to be drinking milk for six months. He does not care about the cumin."

"It’s about the principle, Y/N! The atmosphere of order!"

The breaking point came when you decided you wanted to move a small, decorative floor lamp from one side of the nursery to the other. It weighed maybe five pounds.

You saw Ibrahim round the corner, his eyes widening as he saw your hand grip the brass pole.

"Drop the weapon!" he shouted, half-joking but mostly panicked. "That’s a spinal hazard! Your ligaments are loose, Y/N! Relaxin is coursing through your veins! You’ll snap like a twig!"

You didn't even say a word. You just turned, set the lamp down, and walked toward him. Ibrahim was 6’2” of solid muscle, a beautiful, deep-complexioned man who usually commanded every room he walked into. But as you approached him with your "Mother-to-Be" glare, he actually backed up until he hit the hallway wall.

"Listen to me," you said, poking him in the chest. "I am pregnant, not paralyzed. I am a goddess of fertility, not a Victorian orphan with the vapors."

"I just—"

"Shhh." You grabbed his large hand and placed it firmly on your bump. "Feel that? That’s a strong baby. And his mama is stronger. Now, you are going to go into that living room, you are going to sit on that sofa, and you are going to stay there until I tell you it’s okay to breathe again. Do you understand?"

Ibrahim looked down at you, then at your hand on his chest, and then back at your eyes. He swallowed hard. "You’re... you’re really mean right now. It’s kind of intimidating, I’m scared."

"Good," you whispered, spinning him around by his shoulders. "Now march."

You literally pushed him down the hallway. He didn't resist; he let you manhandle him all the way to the couch, where he sat down with his knees together like a polite schoolboy.

"Can I at least have the remote?" he asked meekly.

"Only if you promise not to look up 'pregnancy complications' on your phone for the next two hours."

An hour later, after you had successfully moved the lamp, folded three shirts, and enjoyed the silence, you walked back into the living room.

Ibrahim had fallen asleep. His head was back against the cushion, his mouth slightly open. In his lap was a book titled The Expectant Father’s Guide to Everything, and his hand was still resting on his own stomach, as if he were keeping his "phantom baby" warm.

Your heart melted. You realized his drama didn't come from a place of doubting your strength; it came from the fact that he was so deeply in love with the life you were creating that he didn't know what to do with all the extra energy.

You grabbed a soft throw blanket and draped it over him. As you did, he stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He immediately reached for your hand, kissing your knuckles.

"Did you finish your 'heavy lifting'?" he teased softly, his voice gravelly from sleep.

"I did. The lamp is moved. The world didn't end."

"Lucky for us," he murmured, pulling you down so you were tucked into his side. "But just for the record... I'm still doing the dishes."

You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "sure, Ibrahimah. Sure."

[malyscent]

Sugar, Spice, and Double-Sixes

(Black reader x Black male)

*Contemporary Romance, Slice Of Life, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Established Relationship*

The soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower were the only things competing with the music. The apartment felt like a sanctuary, a private universe where the only two citizens were you and Noah.

After the hair oiling session, the "chill" reached a new level of depth. Noah didn't just stop at a scalp massage; he moved down to your shoulders, his thumbs finding those specific knots you get from sitting at a desk all week.

"You're holding all your stress right here," Noah murmured, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that always made your stomach do a little flip. "Let it go. I got you."

He shifted, pulling you back so you were leaning against his chest. You both stayed like that for a while, scrolling through a travel vlog on the big screen, whispering about where you’d go if you had a private jet and no responsibilities.

"Bali," you said decisively.

"Nah," Noah countered, kissing the top of your ear. "A villa in the south of France. I want to see you in a sundress walking through a vineyard in Marseille or better Avignon. Plus, the bread, Y/N. Think of the bread."

By 4:00 PM, the breakfast had worn off, and a collective craving for something salty kicked in. You headed back to the kitchen, but this time, the energy was higher. A classic 2010's Kompa playlist kicked in, and suddenly the kitchen was a stage.

Noah used a wooden spoon as a microphone, serenading you with a dramatically off-key rendition of an Usher bridge while he started prepping "gourmet" nachos.

You stood by the counter, chopping the cilantro, watching him move. There was a rhythm to the way you two operated an unspoken language of passing the salt, dodging each other’s hips, and stealing tastes of whatever was simmering on the stove.

"Open up," he said, holding a chip loaded with the perfect ratio of cheese and meat to your lips. You took the bite, leaning into him as the warmth of the oven filled the room.

"10 out of 10," you mumbled through the crunch. "You're lucky I'm keeping you around."

"Oh, is that how it is?" he laughed, pulling you into his space, his hands resting on the small of your back. "I thought I was the one doing the favors here."

As the sun began to dip, the apartment took on a golden, honeyed hue. You decided to ditch the living room and move the party to the balcony.

Noah brought out a couple of floor pillows and a thick knit throw. You sat between his legs, the plate of nachos between you, watching the sky turn from a pale blue to a bruised purple and orange. The air was cooling down, but with his chest against your back and the blanket wrapped around both of you, it was perfect.

"You ever just look at your life and realize you have everything you need?" Noah asked quietly, his chin resting on your shoulder. He wasn't looking at the sunset; he was looking at you.

"Every Saturday," you replied, reaching back to lace your fingers through his.

The rest of the world was loud, fast, and demanding. But in this moment, under the fading light, it was just the smell of cocoa butter, the taste of lime and salt, and the steady, heavy heartbeat of the man who made home feel like a destination.

The sun had finally dipped below the skyline, leaving the apartment bathed in the glow of a few strategically placed amber lamps and the flickering neon sign in the kitchen. The "chill" vibe hadn't left, but it had morphed. The lazy energy of the afternoon was replaced by a sharp, playful electricity.

It was Game Night. And in this house, Game Night was a contact sport.

Noah cleared the coffee table with a theatrical sweep of his hand, looking at you with a challenge in his eyes. "You ready to lose that 'Undisputed Champion' title you gave yourself last month, or should I just give you a head start?"

"A head start?" You scoffed, grabbing the deck of cards and the dominoes case. "Noah, I’ve been letting you win just to keep your confidence up. The gloves are off now."

Round 1: The Dominoes Duel

The sound of "bones" clacking against the wooden table was the only thing louder than the 90s R&B playing in the background. You both sat cross-legged on the floor, the intensity between you thick enough to cut with a knife. Pure focus. Noah was leaning forward, his tongue poking out slight his "tells" were nonexistent, but his trash talk was top-tier. The loser had to do all the dishes from brunch and the nacho cleanup.

You slammed down a double-six with a satisfying thwack. "Read 'em and weep, baby. That’s game."

Noah stared at the board, then at his remaining tiles, then back at you. "You’re cheating. I don’t know how, but you’re reading my mind. It’s the only logical explanation."

"It’s called 'skill', Noah. Look it up in the dictionary under 'Y/N'."

Round 2: The Console War

After the dominoes defeat, Noah retreated to the bedroom and came back with two controllers like he was wielding dual swords. You moved to the couch, the TV glowing with the bright colors of a kart-racing game.

This was where things got loud.

"Move! Get out the way!" Noah yelled, his entire body leaning to the left as if it would help his character turn a corner.

"Oh, you’re using the red shell on your own person? Your soul is dark, Noah!" you shrieked, hitting the turbo boost and zooming past him at the final second.

He dropped the controller, falling back against the cushions with a dramatic groan. "I can't believe this. My own home. My own lady. Just pure disrespect on the track."

Eventually, the competitive fire burned down into warm embers. You were both breathless from laughing, your hair a little messier than it was an hour ago, and the score was technically a draw (depending on who you asked).

Noah reached over, grabbing your waist and pulling you across the sofa until you were sprawled on top of him. He wrapped his arms around you, his chest heaving with a final lingering chuckle.

"Okay, okay," he murmured, his voice softening as he smoothed down your edges with his thumb. "You won the night. I surrender."

"Say it louder for the people in the back," you teased, resting your chin on his chest.

"I, Noah, have been humbled by the Queen," he whispered, his eyes dark and full of affection. He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. "But don't get too comfortable. I'm watching tutorials on YouTube tomorrow. It's over for you next week."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby."

He pulled you up for a slow, deep kiss that tasted like the end of a perfect day sweet, lingering, and completely theirs. The games were over, but the night was still young, and the house was full of nothing but peace.

[malyscent]

May every Muslim stoned to death, mocked, oppressed, ridiculed, or silenced for practicing their religion be brought peace.

May every Christian mocked, ridiculed, oppressed, or called heretic for following their faith be at peace.

May every Jew called zio, stoned, oppressed, silenced, or whose voice was stolen for practicing their religion be at peace.

May every atheist mocked, ridiculed, oppressed, or attacked for believing in nothing be at peace.

May every Sikh, every Buddhist, every Hindu, every Taoist, every Shintoist mocked, ridiculed, shamed, or punished for practicing their faith be at peace.

May every Baha’i, every Zoroastrian, every Jain, every spiritualist, every Wiccan, every Pagan, every Druze mocked, silenced, or oppressed for following their beliefs be at peace.

May every African, Native American, Australasian, Maori, or Indigenous person called demon, cursed, mocked, oppressed, or persecuted for practicing their ancestral beliefs be at peace.

May every atheist mocked, ridiculed, oppressed, shamed, or attacked for believing in nothing or questioning faith be at peace.

May every person, of every religion, belief, or spiritual path, who has had their faith weaponized against them, their freedom stolen, their hands tied, their hearts broken, find peace.

May every child born into a world that laughs at their prayers, every soul forced to hide their rituals, every heart bruised for holding onto what they believe sacred, be comforted.

May all the silenced voices be heard, all stolen rituals be remembered, all stolen lands and stolen practices be honored.

May the world learn to respect every path, every tradition, every way of worship, every human being, and may compassion guide every hand, every heart, every voice. 🕊️

May every human, every spirit, every being who has suffered for what they believe finally be free, finally be honored, finally be at peace.

[malyscent]

Free Congo 🇨🇩 Free Mali 🇲🇱 Free Eritrea 🇪🇷 Free Sudan 🇸🇩 Free South Sudan 🇸🇸 Free Burkina Faso 🇧🇫 Free Niger 🇳🇪 Free Chad 🇹🇩 Free Ethiopia 🇪🇹 Free Mozambique 🇲🇿 Free Burundi 🇧🇮 Free Central African Republic 🇨🇫 Free Libya 🇱🇾 Free Somalia 🇸🇴 free Madagascar 🇲🇬

Free Ukraine 🇺🇦 Free Haiti 🇭🇹 Free Venezuela 🇻🇪 Free Cuba 🇨🇺 Free Colombia 🇨🇴

Free Myanmar 🇲🇲 Free Afghanistan 🇦🇫 Free Kazakhstan 🇰🇿 Free Kyrgyzstan 🇰🇬 Free Palestine 🇵🇸 Free Bolivia 🇧🇴 Free Lebanon 🇱🇧

Free every land suffering under war, occupation, hunger, and oppression. 🕊️

Free every soul trapped under oppression, every child denied education, every family fleeing war. Free the voices silenced by fear, the hands held back by hunger, the dreams crushed by corruption and greed. Free the lands scarred by conflict, the streets where fear walks beside every step, the skies darkened by bombs and drones.

Every nation deserves peace, freedom, and dignity. Every human life matters. No more borders of injustice. No more walls of apathy. Free the oppressed, free the silenced, free the world from tyranny. 🕊️✊🏽

[exotic-african-beauties]

Beautiful Mali woman from the Tuareg tribe🖤

[malyscent]

proud to be one! ⵣⵣⵣ

[malyscent]

In the Pocket

(Black Reader x Black male)

The humid evening air was a welcome relief compared to the frantic pace of the work week. As Yn and Tyler pulled into the parking lot of "Starlight Lanes," the neon sign flickered in a rhythmic pulse of hot pink and electric blue, casting a vibrant glow over the hood of Tyler’s car.

"I’m just saying," Tyler said, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror and adjusting his fade, "my hook shot has been medically classified as 'lethal.' You might want to mentally prepare for this L."

Yn laughed, sliding out of the passenger seat. She was rocking a pair of high-waisted jeans and a cropped white tee that made her skin glow under the parking lot lights. "Lethal? Tyler, last time we came here, you almost ended up in the next lane over. Focus on keeping the ball on the wood, and then we can talk about my 'mental preparation.'"

Inside, the vibe was pure nostalgia. The heavy scent of floor wax and salty fries hit them instantly. Old-school R&B was pumping through the speakers just loud enough to make you want to two-step while waiting for your turn.

They swapped their street shoes for the classic, clunky rentals. Tyler groaned at the sight of his mismatched brown-and-blue pair. "Why do these always look like they were stolen from a 1970s gym teacher?"

"Because they were," Yn joked, tying her laces. "But don't worry, they really bring out your... desperation."

Game On.

They found Lane 14. Tyler grabbed a heavy 14-pound black ball, testing the weight with a professional-looking spin. Yn opted for a shimmering purple 10-pounder that caught the overhead neon.

Tyler stepped up first. He took a long, dramatic breath, did a little shimmy to the beat of the music, and released. The ball roared down the lane, a literal thunderclap, and smashed into the pocket.

STRIKE.

The screen erupted in a cheesy 90s animation of a dancing pin. Tyler turned around, arms wide, a smug grin plastered on his face. "Like I said. Lethal."

"Beginner’s luck," Yn murmured, though she was privately impressed. She stepped up, her approach much more calculated. She didn't have his power, but she had grace. She released the ball with a smooth flick of the wrist. It glided, hugged the right gutter for a terrifying second, and then hooked back in at the last moment.

9 PINS.

"I see you, Yn!" Tyler cheered, leaning against the scoring console. "The 'slow and steady' approach. It’s cute."

By the second game, the trash talk had escalated to an art form. They had ordered a basket of lemon pepper wings and two sodas, which they picked at between frames.

"You're overthinking it," Tyler whispered, standing close behind her as she prepped for a difficult 7-10 split. He placed a hand on her waist, his tone shifting from teasing to genuinely sweet. "Just follow through. Aim for the arrow, not the pins."

Yn felt a flutter that had nothing to do with the score. She took his advice, swung, and while she didn't get the split she cleared the 7 pin with a satisfying clack.

"Better," he said, giving her a quick side-hug before it was his turn.

However, Tyler’s "lethal" hook started to fail him. He got cocky, trying to bowl between his legs to impress a group of teenagers at the next lane, and sent the ball straight into the gutter.

"Oh, look at that," Yn said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Was that the 'lethal' gutter ball I’ve heard so much about?"

It all came down to the tenth frame of the third game. The score was tied. The R&B had switched to a slow jam, and the neon lights seemed to dim, focusing the energy on the hardwood.

Tyler went first. He got a spare. He sat down, wiping his hands on a towel, looking genuinely nervous. "Alright, Yn. It’s on you. You miss this, I’m never letting you hear the end of it."

Yn stepped up to the line. She could feel Tyler’s eyes on her. She blocked out the noise of the neighboring lanes, the smell of the grease, and the sound of the music. She took three steps, her arm swinging back like a pendulum.

The purple ball left her hand with a soft thump. It rolled true, right down the center.

CRASH.

The sound of all ten pins collapsing was the best thing she’d heard all night. She didn't even look at the scoreboard; she just turned around and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Dinner is on you tonight, Mr. Lethal," she beamed.

Tyler stood up, laughing as he shook his head. He reached out, grabbing her hand and pulling her into him. "Fine, fine. You win. But I’m choosing the place, and I’m definitely ordering dessert."

As they turned in their shoes and walked out into the cool night air, the competition faded, replaced by the easy, comfortable warmth of a night well spent.

[malyscent]

Marry Me Again (At 4:00 PM)

(Black Reader and black male)

The Saturday afternoon light filtered through the towering glass atrium of the National Museum of African & Afro-American History and Culture in ABJ., casting long, geometric shadows across the polished floor. Malik stopped just inside the entrance, letting the rush of the city outside fade away, replaced by the hushed, reverent hum characteristic of great museums.

He felt a hand slip into his, warm and familiar. He looked down, smiling instantly. Yn.

Even after seven years of marriage, the sight of her could still reset his entire equilibrium. Today, she was a vision in brown wide-leg trousers and a cream-coloured silk blouse that contrasted beautifully against her deep skin tone. Her natural hair was pulled up into a bun, drawing attention to the elegant slope of her neck and the small gold hoops in her ears.

"Ready to get cultured, Mr. Malik ?" she teased, squeezing his hand.

"As long as I'm with you, Mrs. YN," Malik replied, bringing her knuckles up for a quick, smooth kiss. "the way."

Dates looked different now than they did in the early days. They weren't frantic attempts to impress or nervous navigations of "getting to know you." Now, dates were intentional pauses in their busy lives a chance to breathe the same air without talking about mortgages, career ladders, or whose turn it was to call the plumber. A museum was perfect. It demanded slow steps and quiet observation.

They started on the upper levels, in the culture galleries. Malik loved watching Nia experience art. She didn't just look at a painting; she communed with it.

They stood for a long time in front of a massive, vibrant quilt by Bisa Butler, the fabric pieced together to form portraits that felt alive with history and energy. Nia tilted her head, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns in the subjects' clothing.

"It’s incredible," she murmured, leaning into Malik’s side. "How she takes scraps things people might throw away and turns them into royalty. It feels like… resilience woven together."

Malik stepped back slightly, shifting his gaze from the artwork to his wife. The gallery lighting caught the thoughtfully furrowed brow and the slight purse of her lips as she concentrated. He loved her mind. He loved the way she processed the world with such deep empathy and intelligence.

"It reminds me of you," he said quietly.

Nia turned to him, one eyebrow raised playfully. "I remind you of a quilt?"

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. "No. I mean the resilience part. The royalty part. You take the crazy pieces of our week, the stress, the noise, and you somehow stitch it into this beautiful life we have. You make everything around you better."

Her teasing smile softened into something genuine and tender. Her eyes shone slightly. "Smooth, Malik. Very smooth. You're lucky you're cute."

"I'm lucky I'm married to you," he countered, kissing her temple before steering her toward the next exhibit.

They moved deeper into the museum, transitioning from visual art to music. In the music gallery, the atmosphere changed. The air felt charged with rhythm. They wandered past exhibits on jazz, Motown, and hip-hop.

Nia stopped in front of a display featuring vintage photographs of a Harlem jazz club in the 1940s. The black and white photos showed couples dressed to the nines, swinging wildly on a crowded dance floor, their joy palpable across the decades.

"Look at that energy," Nia whispered, her foot tapping instinctively on the floor. "I wish we could time travel just for one night. I want to see you in a zoot suit."

Malik laughed out loud, the sound echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. "Baby, I don't know if I have the swag to pull off a zoot suit. But I would definitely spin you on that floor."

He stepped behind her, wrapping both arms around her midsection and resting his chin on her shoulder. They stood there together, swaying ever so slightly to the faint sound of a saxophone filtering through the speakers. In that moment, surrounded by the history of their people's joy and enduring spirit, Malik felt a profound sense of grounding. This was his history, yes, but Yn, the woman in his arms, warm and solid was his present and his future.

After two hours of walking, the inevitable "museum legs" began to set in. They found a quiet bench tucked away in a less trafficked corridor near a large window overlooking the National Mall. The late afternoon sun was turning golden, bathing the monuments outside in warm light.

Yn sat with a sigh of relief, stretching her legs out. Malik sat sideways, angling his body so he could look at her. He reached over and began massaging the arch of her foot through her stylish, but perhaps not entirely practical, loafer.

"Oh my god," she groaned, letting her head fall back against the wall. "Marry me again. Right now."

Malik smiled, working his thumb into a knot in her heel. "I think once is enough trouble for a lifetime."

She opened one eye to glare at him without heat. "You love the trouble."

"I do," he admitted easily. He stopped the massage and just held her foot for a moment, resting his hand on her ankle. The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the shared experience of the past few hours.

"It’s heavy in here sometimes," Yn said softly, gazing out the window. "Beautiful, but heavy. You feel the weight of everything that came before us."

Malik nodded slowly. He knew she was thinking about the deeper historical exhibits they had briefly walked through earlier. "Yeah. It is. But it makes me appreciate this, you know?" He gestured vaguely between them.

"Us sitting on a bench?"

"Us. Being free to be us. To love each other out in the open. To build the life we’re building. It’s what they were fighting for. Black joy, black love… it’s resistance."

Nia turned her head fully to look at him. Her expression was incredibly soft, filled with the deep, abiding love that sustained them through the mundane Tuesdays and the stressful Thursdays.

She reached out and placed her palm against his cheek, her thumb brushing against his neatly trimmed beard. "When did you get so wise, Malik Harrison?"

"I just hang out with a really smart woman," he said, leaning into her touch.

"Come on," Nia whispered, standing up and pulling him to his feet. "Let’s go home, husband."

They walked out of the museum hand in hand, stepping back into the noise and bustle of the city evening. But they carried the quiet intimacy of the afternoon with them, a renewed appreciation for art, history, and the masterpiece they were creating together every single day.

[malyscent]

o those fasting for Ramadan may your prayers be accepted and your heart be at peace.🌙 To those observing Lent may your sacrifices bring you closer to God.✝️ To those celebrating Black History Month may you continue to honor your ancestors, resilience, brilliance, and impact✊🏾. To those celebrating Holi may your life be filled with color and happiness🌈. To those celebrating Nowruz may this new year bring light, growth, and new beginnings🌷. To those celebrating Purim may your days be filled with joy and remembrance✡️.

Different traditions. Different stories. Different faiths. But all rooted in meaning.

Wishing everyone love, growth, unity, and blessings this season