#windows iis authentication

[it-system-engineer]

Windows Server IIS Kurulum Yöntemleri

Merhaba, bu yazımda sizlere Windows Server IIS Kurulum Yöntemleri konusundan bahsedeceğim. Windows Server üzerine Internet Information Services (IIS) rolünün kurulumu, web siteleri ve web uygulamalarını barındırmak isteyen kurumlar için kritik öneme sahiptir. IIS, Microsoft tarafından geliştirilen güçlü, güvenilir ve ölçeklenebilir bir web sunucusudur. Bu makalede Windows Server işletim sistemi…

[saintshadow]

How can you sustainably & realistically glow up?

Hello lovelies! I wanted to focus today’s reading on self care & nurturing, over here we are ALL about wholeness, healing, & authenticity. So I wanted to give channeled messages to all of you regarding this particular niche. This advice is meant to be flexible and manageable, growth happens and increments and I want you all to be patient with your growth.

pile i

You guys are observers, you may enjoy connecting and love people but just can’t seem to fit in. The problem is that you are focusing too much on trying to mirror and match. Your authenticity is calling, and it’s trying to claw its way out. Some of you may struggle with feeling like you’re in survival mode or have bad relationship trauma. This can be romantic, platonic, familial, etc! It’s giving TRUST ISSUES, y’all have beautiful minds and fiercely loving hearts. Your honesty will set you free, your authenticity will cleanse the pain away. Set boundaries and stand on them, you don’t need them- THEY NEED YOU. You can’t be a pushover forever, stand on your own two feet who cares about rejection. You will find people that accept you for who you are, people who are loving and compassionate who hold space for the contents of your mind & heart without turning it against you.

For some, it may be time to consider therapy and or medication. Health, quality of life- go outside more, exercise (you don’t have to make this stuff a chore, stagnance can be difficult to remove. Why don’t you start by opening the windows, sweeping and saying “by broom and air and with delight I remove this stagnance and make room for life” set your intentions, and what energies you want entering your space)

Make cleaning easier for yourself, find better organizational habits, you DONT need to be spic and span- but just have better general organization and be less harsh on yourself. Maintain your routines to the absolute best of your ability and don’t be afraid of messing up or losing track. It isn’t about being perfect it’s about quality of life

Recommendations: Journaling, music, spending time outside (even if ur on ur phone, it’s better than nothing), stretching and light exercise (u don’t have to lose weight, it’s not about societal standards it’s about loving who YOU are, taking care of your mind, body, heart, and soul)

Signs: seashells, Aphrodite, classical romantic art, drama tv shows & telenovelas, Dolores from encanto, stomach pains from anxiety, trouble sleeping, fear of loss & fear of connection, chronic illness (mental or physical)

Zodiac: Lilith in Capricorn, Sagittarius, and Scorpio, Gemini sun/moon/rising, Capricorn stellium, Uranus 6h, chiron 6h Chiron in Libra chiron in Scorpio Chiron in Sagittarius.

pile ii

In a loving way I’m about to beat ur ass fr omg

You need to be creating, stop avoiding your creativity it’s WHO YOU ARE. When you create unrealistic expectations of your creativity & try to cage yourself in you start to feel drained and tired. You can beat your exhaustion by just being you. There’s a message about teeth, taking care of your teeth, water flossing, going to a dentist, make an appointment asap! They’re still salvageable if you take action and put forth effort. For some a big chop could be in order, or at least a trim & some shaping. You are meant to be putting yourself out there, people actually REALLY admire your beauty and your harsh overly critical nature often blocks you from being satisfied with what you create and what you do. Give yourself the chance to just be. Stop creating stipulations for everything you make, if it flops who fucking cares. You guys don’t trust in your own ideas, and it’s because you block out a LOT. It feels like you struggle to connect with others and the world around you.

You can level up by caring less and investing more into your creative endeavors. You might get so restless and moody because you aren’t actually living in alignment with this part of yourself. You have an incredibly active mind that you’re not stimulating properly, when you’re gifted with such a mind it should be sharpened and exercised! Honed to your liking, the power is in you to make that choice.

Stand in your ideas, and get up and do something with them before they are given to others who will actually do the damn thing.

Recommendations: connect with nature, jot down your ideas, don’t shy away from self expression, dress how you really wanna dress, be bold, be brave, be unapologetically you.

Signs: blackbirds, crows, ravens, Lana del Rey, charmed, whimsy gothic/celestial aesthetic.

Zodiac: Aquarius, Leo, Capricorn, Aries midheaven/cancer rising, Saturn in Taurus ?, Uranus in Scorpio, mars sextile Venus

pile iii

It’s time to stop focusing on image and start focusing on tact, you may have to put your ego on the back burner for a bit but that’s okay. We all have to do it one time or another, you’re being called to re-examine your approach to life and the skills you’ve developed. Have more balance, and think more thoroughly and skillfully. Idk I feel like this pile is genuinely very impulsive and at times an active participant in incredibly foolish behavior. You spend a lot of time justifying your egotistical responses and knee jerk reactions- you can glow up by being more open minded to change. Changing your outlook, changing your approach, etc- perhaps sometimes you treat yourself like a one trick pony. Some of you could have also experienced bullying or othering in school. Feeling like the odd one out, you can glow up by confronting this wound and releasing it. The fixation on the wound is unhealthy & seemingly subconscious. You can also glow up by not reacting so strongly to everything- learn to not crash the fuck out every time you feel triggered. Or learn not to quietly implode every time you feel triggered, aim for flexibility and call in clarity in these moments it WILL be brought to you.

Hmmm pile 3, I’m not sure what’s going on for you my loves- but I see that in order to help further glow up that you would benefit from more privacy and alone time? Perhaps you have a validation seeking issue? I’m not saying all of you aren’t working on this btw! I’m sure some of you are, but I see where spending the foreseeable future in a state of solitude would be super duper beneficial for you. You need to rest and recuperate from something. Perhaps you feel burnt out trying to upkeep an image or upkeep a persona and you’re unable to keep up anymore. I feel like you guys need clarity, and unfortunately you’re only going to find that within right now. Perhaps some of you could even have some kind of obsessive thinking patterns- addiction to tarot or divination- you’re being told to relax. Lean into the healing, allow it to overtake you. You will come out of the other side, but when the darkness beckons. It is not always an invitation but an inevitable occurrence.

Signs: swans, lace & ribbons, ripped fishnets, beat up converse, a densely wooded area, tj maxx (lol??), Ayurveda, denim, cadavers.

Recommendations: thinking before you speak/act, being slow & methodical- not allowing people to push you over the edge but also knowing when to back down and reflect. Surrendering to the change so you don’t get dragged by the hair 😭

Zodiac: Sagittarius rising, cancer moon, black moon Lilith in Aquarius, north node in Libra, Aries moon and mercury, Saturn in the 12th house.

[dilf-docs]

High Heels, Hushed Whispers

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: a black dress, high heels and a fancy dinner. that's all it takes for you to fall into harry's scheme. or, better said, trap.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, (eventual) smut, foes to hoes, (one sided) enemies to lovers, angst, rich ppl (yes that's a warning), slowburn, reader may be a bit of a cunt (sorry if this x reader fic is mischaracterizing u), ft. dbf!harry (love this trope so much and had to squeeze it in, my bad)

word count: 3,562 words

side note: i'm lowkey crashing out in FOMO so bad bc materialists won't release in my country until july 31th💔 the need to move to US for my master's just to inherit a lifelong debt but never missing out as a cinephile again,,, HhmmM also, streets saying we're getting the gladiator II treatment in the marketing sense💔💔 UGH WHY WON'T YOU CHOOSE BILLIONARE IN THIS ECONOMY? PEDRO PASCAL FACED BILLIONARIE??!! tbh i'm a hypocrite bc if pedro was poor i'd still chose him anyway... this is in honor of materialists NYC premiere today, hope my man goes 🕯🕯

part: prev | masterlist | next

Picking up calls you shouldn't pick up is a lesson you've yet to learn. Damned be your work habits slipping up into your personal life.

"Let's see if I understand" from the other line.

You take a deep breath, pausing. "Yes?"

"You're going on a date and didn't tell me"

You roll your eyes, looking out the window.

"I would've told you if it was a date, Rach"

You were always a good liar.

"At least I could helped you pick your outfit" she whines. "Like old times!"

It's almost as if you can see her pouting through the phone.

"I would've let you" you concede, "but I already chose the dress you gave me last Christmas"

A fine red garment tailored in authentic silk that hugged your body just right.

"Great choice. That's a killer" then, there's silence, followed by a loud gasp that elicits another eye roll from you. "Wait. Don't tell me- You're already there!"

Your lips quirk up in a smirk. "Maybe"

"You are a terrible friend" but Rachel's words carry no real weight. "At least give me a clue?"

You remember the address, marked in the GPS screen in front of you.

"Boring"

"That's not a clue" she huffs, "everything's boring to you"

You look out the window, the mansion coming into your view.

"Extra boring"

"It's a social gathering, then. You hate those" and you hate how much she's right. Probably knows you better than your dad. Yourself even.

"Your silence proves I'm right" and again, you roll your eyes.

"Goodbye, Rach"

"At least find someone to take home. Your house reeks of loneliness"

It's a joke, but there's a weird pit in your stomach when you hang up. It shouldn't matter that much, but you can't keep pretending you are choosing to spend more time at the office, because going back to a place where the only sound is that of your own steps, echoing back to you, the surface and space looking so artificial, like a hotel room, has become some sort of torture.

Your driver, Joaquín, parks right in front of the entrance. Before he moves, you raise your hand.

"I can do this by myself. Thanks"

He knows better to contradict you and you don't know if you are convincing him or yourself.

"Have a nice night, Ms. y/n"

You open the door, sighing as the heels dig into the pebbled road. I'll try.

As he drives away, you can't help but think again what were you really doing here. It's not like you needed the money, so, again, why did you agree? Willingly accepting to help Harry and his friend, people who you could care less, the first even nearing enemy territory. But for some reason, the moment those brown eyes landed on you, it felt like yes was the only correct answer.

"Welcome, Miss. Can I see your invitation?"

You think it's pointless: would you've driven all the way here if you weren't invited?

"Here"

You don't know why but the moment you step in, your eyes search for him, Harry, as if your body moved on instinct. Betraying.

A waiter walks by and you take whatever it's on his tray, downing the liquid with a gulp. Once the small tingling buzz settles into your system, you find that easy practiced smile of yours: cold enough to be polite but not warm enough to be confused for anything more.

"Having fun?"

You spin, dress doing a little reveal of your bare legs, yet he doesn't even look your way, that kind of silent promises and respect faithful men hold onto when they've swore their heart to only one woman.

"I'm trying"

"That's the spirit" he chuckles, lowly. "Is there anything I can do to make your night better?"

You fake a pondering gesture.

"Maybe get you another drink?"

"Thanks, but I want to walk straight when I exit through that door"

"Smart girl" he quips, "but I hope you don't plan on leaving soon"

You take the time to look at him under the chandeliers.

"I have manners"

This man has a kind smile that reaches his eyes, a dark grey but still holding onto a spark for life, not dull at all. His hair matches his gaze, and so does his neatly trimmed beard. His face is aged, probably about the same age as Harry, if you were to take a guess.

"Paul" you recognize. "Paul Lauder"

Lauder offers his hand and a charming smile, like all the men from his circle have been cut from the same cloth: gentleman manners that hide calculating characters. Still, there was something about the man and owner of the house standing before you, that seemed genuine.

"Am I that easy to recognize or has my friend already talked about me?"

A million questions raise through your head. If he was talking about him, how did he know you knew each other? It was a given in your society, yes, but to speak about you both in such friendly terms? Or worse: had Harry spoken of you to his friends?

"Forgive me. I talk nineteen to the dozen"

Your body tenses at just the sound of his voice, and there he is, the man of the hour.

"Harry" Paul calls him, another gentle smile making its way to his face.

"The one and only. Don't tell me you know another one" he jokes.

He still hasn't looked your way, and you don't know why that makes your skin hot.

"You're irreplaceable, my friend"

Now you see why he insisted on helping him. Paul's a true friend: a rare gem, especially in New York's elite.

"This is y/n" Harry introduces you, "David's daughter"

Its only then that Harry looks at you. A fast up and down, barely noticeable, but you were an observer, always. Part of your work and charm, just what made you perceptive and deadly enough. His eyes linger on the open skin, in the cut of your leg, and then move to your face, gaze holding. Daring, almost. And the he chuckles. Harry fucking chuckles, the sound low and grave. A fuzz settles in your cheeks and you choose to blame the alcohol rush.

You desperately wish to know what Harry's thinking.

"Ah. So this is she" a knowing smirk makes its way into his mouth. Then, his eyes widen. "Wait, David? Oh, haven't you grown? Into an extraordinarily beautiful woman, nonetheless. You sure look like your mother"

The compliment feels paternal at best, but a knife slowly twists into your ribs at the last sentence. None of the men seem to catch this.

"She has" and Harry takes your hand from seemingly nowhere, body closer than you anticipated. Grabs your hand and kisses it like he means it. The other man observes it all in silence. "The belle of the ball"

"Except this is my birthday, not a dance" Paul banters, nudging the billionaire gently on his side, as if you hadn't gone completely at loss for words. You hated to be unprepared, yet Harry always seemed to turn you into a house of cards, his wind sweeping you off your feet.

"There's music" Castillo is quick to reply. "That has to count for"

Paul lets out an easy laugh. Then, looks over his shoulder, and you don't miss the way his eyes light up, unaware adoring smile on his face, the rest of the world reduced to a meaningless blur.

"It's my turn, I suppose" you don't understand what he means. "I want to introduce you to my wife"

You see Harry's body tense and smile falter by centimeters, barely noticeable.

So this is it. This is the part where you meet her. Your newest job.

Your eyes follow Paul's direction, only to be knocked breathless.

Her beauty is obvious, insulting even, making you uncomfortable in your own skin. It's in the way she carries herself, smiles all white, her teeth perfectly lined; blinding. Dress ivory and clean, making your red one feel vulgar in comparison.

You wait for the cold to hit you, but when Paul slides a hand across her back, resting behind not to claim nor brag, but to belong and feel her warmth, she smiles, not for the room, but to the man who looks at her like she makes life worth living.

You're confused.

"This is Grace" he introduces her, proud.

The woman shakes your hand. Even her gestures seem the perfect mixture of delicate and proud. You tell her your name and suddenly, she's smiling again.

"Pleased to finally meet you. Harry has talked so much about you"

His stare burns from your side. So he has indeed talked about you before. You decide not to dwelve too much on how that makes you feel.

"Alright, that's enough" he laughs, clipped. A hand slides across your back, and it feels deliberate.

An instrumental cover of an old 90s ballad you can't quite place begins to play.

"This is my favorite" Grace beams, green eyes sparkling with joy.

"I know. That's why I asked it to be played"

She swats his chest playfully while yours aches with a silent press. Grace links her arm with Paul and gives you a goodbye smile.

"I'll leave you two alone. I have an important dance to attend"

Before going, Paul gives Harry one last look, one you can't decipher. Your breath feels oddly constricted.

"Just us again. Is this perhaps fate telling us something?"

You scoff.

"That I should go home"

"Is that so? Didn't take you for a downer" Harry laughs.

"I'm not" you protest like a child, embarrased.

He's enjoying this, by the way he smirks. "I don't believe you"

"I don't care" but you keep looking on his direction.

"Fine. How about this? Give me a dance and I'll believe you"

You face him, annoyed.

"Do you ever stop doing business?"

He just offers his hand.

"Quick. Offer's expiring and everyone's staring"

Harry's right, though. You hate their whispers and looks, so, be it the pressure or way your heart beats when his fingers slip between your own, you concede.

"Just one. You're lucky I don't like unwarranted attention"

He guides you to the center.

"You better get used to it. You're a natural"

The soft strings and notes of a saxophone waft through the air. Grace and Paul laugh somewhere to your side.

"But I hardly know this beauty by my side"

You might break your neck with how fast you raise your view, stuck before on the sway of your feet.

"Huh?"

"Lady in red?"

His hand softly caresses the silk of your dress, like a wind breeze.

"Me?" you ask, voice caught in your throat.

Harry laughs. With or at you.

"No, the song"

That's why it was vaguely familiar.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Don't you know Chris de Burgh?"

"All I know is my feet are killing me"

"So dramatic" yet his voice is soft. As the cello hidden behind drums and bass. Too soft. Stable as the Roland TR-808 drum machine for the drum pattern. Tension hanging like the synthesizer, acknowledged but not spoken of.

Harry had this effect on you. He just brought this side of you, a more unguarded side no one saw or dared to search for. Not even Rachel, who you spoke to. You talked to Harry. Because he looked past your walls. He tried. Took the time to pluck brick by brick. Like it mattered. You weren't New York's most sought-after divorce lawyer nor David Beaumont's daughter, just a girl who tried too much and is tired of doing so, and had finally been seen: the eyebags and the pleading eyes. The yearn for something she would never say outloud, between pride and the refusal to name something she can't even name.

"We always end up dancing" you comment, hand firmly holding his. Because it has become too much, and you'd rather go back to the light swimming than the drowning.

"We always end up doing the same things"

You think about the first time you met him. Not the very first, but the one you saw Harry Castillo for the first time.

It was at your father's fourth wedding, with a woman you can't seem to remember by face nor name.

"I hate weddings" you had said, not expecting to be heard but to be understood; the entlitement of your silver spoon was inherit. You felt as if you were wearing a costume of some sorts: a polished aspect that hid that bitter taste of seeing your father's failure and betrayal all over again, front row. You saw by the corner of your sharp eyes the way Harry tensed, unsure if he should even acknowledge you. So you sat in silence for the rest of the ceremony, answer hanging in the air, and when your father swore an expiring love again, you walked out, not before sparing one last glance his way.

He did too.

It made you falter a bit, unsure, almost tripping on the bench. For a moment, it seemed like he could see what you hid: the light tremble in your hands, the unopened invitations yet showing up at the last minute because you had no one else in this life, and how, despite your cruel jokes and harsh words, your eyes turned glassy when you allowed yourself to look at the bride as a kid looks at the shiniest toy behind the display, forbidden to be touched. For a moment, Harry Castillo saw the little girl who wore the heavy crown of a last name, words and grown face like an armour.

"I hate you"

Or maybe you fear him and the way he picks the scabs of your best hidden wounds, searching for the meaning of you past the shells of healed by force scrapes.

He closes his eyes, feigning hurt. "And here I thought we've gotten past base one"

"I hate you" this time sharper. You wish you could mean every ounce of venom laced within.

"You don't mean that" softly, like his gentle tug on your dress. Like the calm of your storms.

No answer, but the tiniest phantom of a smile graces your lips.

"Tell me about Grace"

Harry's grip tightens on your hands. "What about her?"

"I don't think she's the villain you're trying to make her be"

He narrows his eyes. "Give it a few days. She's just a pretty face"

"You say it like that's all there is"

"No" he's quick to answer. Then pauses, probably pondering. "But it certainly helps"

He looks at your lips. Under the lights, it's hard to distinguish if the red across your face is of anger or just a blush.

"Harry-" you beg without knowing why. A greater woman wouldn't.

"What?" like he's dealing with a naive kid.

"Don't lie to me" you seethe.

Not you. Everyone but you.

The song keeps playing in the distance, yet all you can hear is the ringing of your ears.

"I'm not"

It's pathetic to care this much about someone you claim to despise, finding hurt in a rift across the laces of trust in such strange interwoven bond. A phantom thread.

"Where are you going?"

Your feet develop a mind of it's own. You don't spare him a glance, breathing suddenly a difficult task.

"Outside"

The cool evening breeze hits you. So does the smell of water, the soft sounds of a fountain in the background.

"At least this time it's a garden"

You and balconies. Another of your rules broken. By Harry, again.

"What are you doing?"

You admire his persistance. With shaky fingers, you reach for one of your dress' pockets.

"Thinking"

"It's such a nice evening to be doing that" as if nothing happened.

You roll your eyes, pulling out the lighter with your mother's initials.

"I'm trying to think who is lying to me"

His face falls.

"Y/n" as a warning, maybe a plea. "The answer is obvious. You don't know her, but you know me"

"I don't" you cut, harsh. "As you don't know me either"

You keep saying the same words, as if they were a shield of some sorts, to protect you from falling under his spell.

Harry Castillo scoffs.

"I'm trying, trust me. But you never make it easy" then, his charming smile is back on, slipping on it like a costume of some sorts. Tailored suit: just for him. "Lucky for you, I'm not a quitter"

"Do you have a cigarette?"

His face betrays surprise. Still, he pulls a Marlboro Gold and hands it like a peace offering.

"You said you quit"

The light flickers, smell of nicotine mixed with that of the flowers of the night garden.

You hold his gaze. "I'm not a quitter"

Harry pulls one of his own too. Takes a long drag, tired, before asking.

"Do you want the truth?"

You face him, expression unreadable. A weak smoke cloud billows over your eyes, masking their shine.

"I don't care"

"Don't lie to me" he repeats your words, but instead of the severity of your own, his are laced with benignity.

"I don't care"

"I didn't want to be alone"

You take another drag, silent, wishing for louder words and not spaces of silence that leave your mind restless.

"Harry Castillo, who could buy all of Manhattan, can't find a simple escort?"

He scoffs, seemingly offended. "That's not what I meant"

But not for the accusation at his expense, rather at your lack of (or lack of wanting to) understand.

"Too low for you, I get it. Where all your model friends busy?"

"One, they're not my friends. I can count those with my fingers" he lifts six. "Besides, I doubt twenty something year olds would be friends with a forty-seven year old finance guy"

You take a drag. "What does that make us then, Harry?"

Harry exhales. "We aren't friends"

Your lips curve up. "And two?"

It's his turn to smile.

"I doubt they would choose to accompany me to an old people dinner instead of a night clubbing with their age appropriate friends" he casts you a look, deliberate. "What would you do?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

His smile widens.

"Tricked, but you are"

You smash the half burnt cigarette against a stone statue next to you.

"Grace isn't the problem"

"Sweet Grace may be eleven years younger, and we know what that means in our world, but God, doesn't that woman love Paul?"

You chuckle, lowly.

"Jealous?" you find yourself teasing him.

He casts you a quick look. "Of course I am"

Even if his tone is light and playful, there is a quiet longing laced within. You gulp harshly.

"Why me?"

"Because you're you"

Your heart shouldn't beat this fast. You chuckle, weakly.

"Elaborate"

"Of course you have to know everything, don't you? You can't help but want to understand it all"

You laugh. "Is that so bad?"

"It's very... you"

"Got it. I'm the bad I was asking about"

For the first time, you both join in laughter. It's so easy feeling this comfortable with Harry, you think. Like it's meant to be. All pretenses left behind for a moment of too loud unguarded laughs.

When the laughter dies, he takes one last drag before putting his cigarette out.

"It's because you're the only one who could play along and not make more out of it"

You're not sure you want to face him. Still, you do, offering a tight lipped smile his way.

"Because I'm smart"

"Of course, you're a Beaumont"

A beat.

"You could've told me"

He shots a look your way, eyebrow arched.

"Would've you accepted if I told you the truth?"

You ponder for a moment before answering.

"No"

"Be honest"

"No, but I would've told you to fuck yourself"

Harry smiles. "That's better"

You join him. "I could send a lawsuit your way for lying"

"I doubt that, divorce lawyer"

You let out a dramatic gasp.

"I went to law school. I know this things"

"I'd like to see you try"

"Are you challenging me, Mr. Castillo?" you dare, mischievous.

"Please, don't call me that. You make me feel old"

"That you are"

"You're impossible" he sighs. "Older, then"

The wind blows your hair a little wild. It gets on your face.

"We should go inside" you say.

"Yeah. We should"

You feel a hot rush through your face when his fingers remove the loose strands, touch delicate. His gentle ministrations find a way inside your tense heart, nesting inside in a pulsating soft ache.

He offers his hand. "Dance with me. As an apology"

"That sounds like another favor"

"Yeah. So we get more prying and envious glances thrown our way"

"I feel I'm getting the short end of the stick here"

Harry laughs. "I'm the old man with a pretty lady on my arm"

"The lady in red" and the color matches your cheeks and dress.

"Is dancing with me"

You take his arm. "Lyric?"

"Truth as well"

When you get back inside, Paul's eyes find you soon enough. You try not to think too much about the meaning behind his smile.

"So..."

"So?"

You take his hands first, diving in. They're warm, holding yours back without second thoughts.

"Let's dance"

And you do, trying not to feel special for being the one Harry Castillo chose.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / 🏷: @io12n @dowscal @oscar-isaac @joelscowgirl @jxvipike @klarkapascal @lostinmyownmaze @folklore-barnes @alinacecee @sukitruqui @youusunshineyoutemptress @hermionelove @noisynightmarepoetry @ann-gell @suzysface @joelmillerpascal @ennvsco @not-the-teen-witch (comment if u wanna be added!)

[emjayewrites]

written in the stars • ibou konate series (2/16)

GIF by suckmyarschkarte

SYNOPSIS: When duty and destiny collide, Liverpool defender Ibou Konaté finds himself married to a stranger. Their modern values clash with ancient traditions as they navigate a world where neither fully belongs - too faithful for some, too progressive for others. Between Premier League pressure and painful family expectations, they must discover if an arrangement made by others can transform into a love written by their own hearts.

PAIRINGS: Ibou Konaté x Rabia Amal Hassan Farah (fc: @/kingedna_)

WARNINGS: mentions of religion (Islam), fluff, non-sexual intimacy (i.e. kissing, hand holding), very loose depictions of sex (this will not feature smut)

TAGLIST: @kj77 @ibouchouchou, @lev-1-1, @irishmanwhore, @jessnotwiththemess @peyiswriting @tsukishimawhore @themaster2007-blog @sucredreamer @muglermami @rougereds @eriks-girl @amirawrah @t-bpe @butterpas2 @cleverwinnermak @coffeevacation @alika-4466 @thepointlessideas @iamryanl

A/N: Hey everyone, please note that this story is different than others as it will not include explicit smut. It will be some closed-door love scenes to be respectful of his faith. I've done a lot of research on Islam and Ibou, but please let me know if anything is incorrect.

Part II: Football Wife

The Uber driver kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Rabia pretended not to notice, focusing on the unfamiliar streets passing by outside the window. Liverpool in daylight was a different city entirely – less mysterious than her rainy arrival had suggested, more vibrant with its mix of historic buildings and modern life.

"First time in Liverpool?" the driver finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Yes," she replied, now familiar with the question. "Just moved here."

"From where, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Dubai most recently. But I grew up in Belgium."

"Long way from home then," he observed. "What brings you to our city? Work?"

Rabia hesitated, weighing her answer. "Marriage, actually."

"Ah, love!" The driver beamed. "Powerful thing, that. Got me to move from Glasgow twenty years ago for my wife. Never regretted it."

Love. The word hung in the air, neither confirmed nor denied. Easier to let him assume than explain the complexities of an arranged marriage to a stranger.

"We're here," he announced as they pulled up to a stylish café on Bold Street. "Leaf's brilliant for lunch. Your husband's got good taste."

"My friend chose it, actually," Rabia clarified, gathering her bag. "But thank you."

The café was busy with the lunch crowd – a mix of professionals, students, and shoppers seeking refuge from Liverpool's perpetual threat of rain. Rabia scanned the tables, anxiety fluttering in her chest. She'd only met Magi briefly at the wedding, and now she was meant to have an entire lunch with her – the veteran footballer's wife guiding the rookie.

"Rabia!"

She turned to see Magi Salah waving from a corner table, looking effortlessly put-together in a modest but fashionable outfit – dark jeans, an oversized cream sweater, and a beautifully arranged hijab in a complementary beige.

"You found it!" Magi stood to greet her with a warm hug. "I was worried you might get lost."

"Thank goodness for Uber," Rabia admitted, settling into the chair across from her. "I haven't quite figured out Liverpool's geography yet."

"It took me months," Magi confided with a sympathetic smile. "Mo kept finding me in random neighborhoods when I first moved here."

There was something instantly comforting about Magi's presence – a warmth and authenticity that put Rabia at ease. Here was a woman who had walked this path before her, navigating the strange intersection of faith, football, and foreign culture.

"I ordered us some tea," Magi gestured to the pot between them. "Hope that's okay. This place is known for their blends."

"Perfect, thank you."

After placing their lunch orders, Magi leaned forward slightly, her eyes kind but direct. "So, how are you really doing? And you don't have to give me the polite answer. I remember those first weeks all too well."

The simple question, asked with such genuine concern, nearly undid Rabia's carefully maintained composure. How was she doing? She barely knew herself.

"I'm..." she began, then stopped, reconsidering. "Actually, I'm not sure. Everything happened so quickly. One minute I was running my boutique in Dubai, the next I'm a footballer's wife in Liverpool."

Magi nodded understanding. "The whiplash is real. One day you're yourself, the next day you're 'Mrs. Whatever' and everyone has expectations."

"Exactly!" Relief flooded Rabia at being so perfectly understood. "And I keep thinking I should have a handbook or something."

"Don't tell me you've been watching those awful WAG shows," Magi groaned.

Caught, Rabia felt heat rise to her cheeks. "For research purposes only."

Magi's laughter was bright and genuine. "Oh honey, those shows are about as realistic as thinking all Muslims are the same. Pure fiction dressed as reality."

"I may have taken notes," Rabia admitted sheepishly.

"Burn them," Magi advised, eyes twinkling. "The real handbook is much simpler. Be yourself, support your husband, and ignore the noise."

"The noise?"

"The press, the fans, the critics, the so-called friends who suddenly appear when your husband gets famous." Magi's expression turned more serious. "Our husbands signed up for the spotlight. We just happened to marry into it."

Their food arrived – vibrant salads topped with grilled halloumi and pomegranate seeds. As they ate, Magi shared stories from her early days as Mo's wife, the culture shock of England, the challenges of making friends in a new country.

"The football world is... different," she explained. "Not bad, just different. There's this strange bubble where normal rules don't quite apply. Money, fame, pressure – it changes the dynamics of everything."

"I'm worried about fitting in," Rabia confessed. "I don't know anything about football beyond the basics."

"You don't need to," Magi assured her. "Ibou doesn't need another coach or analyst. He needs a wife – someone who sees him beyond the game."

"That's the tricky part," Rabia said, pushing a piece of cheese around her plate. "We barely know each other. The whole arrangement happened so fast."

Magi didn't seem surprised by the mention of arrangement. Mo had probably filled her in on the details.

"Mo and I had an arranged marriage too," she revealed, confirming Rabia's suspicion. "Not exactly the same – we'd known each other's families for years – but still, not the romantic fairy tale people assume."

This was news to Rabia. The Salahs always seemed so naturally connected, so in sync. "Really? But you seem so..."

"In love?" Magi smiled. "We are now. But it took time, patience, and a lot of awkward conversations." She reached across the table to squeeze Rabia's hand briefly. "Love can grow from respect and friendship. Sometimes it's stronger that way, because you build it deliberately instead of falling into it blindly."

Something loosened in Rabia's chest at these words. Permission to take time. Acknowledgment that what she and Ibou were navigating wasn't abnormal or doomed – just different.

"How did you... I mean, when did you know it was becoming more than arrangement?" she asked, unable to keep the question inside.

Magi considered this, her expression softening with memory. "There wasn't one moment. It was a collection of small things. The way he remembered how I take my tea. How he called his mother for my favorite recipe when I was homesick. The look on his face the first time I cheered at the right moment during a match." She laughed softly. "I'd been practicing, you see. Learning when to cheer. And he knew it, and appreciated the effort."

"Ibou seemed happy when I remembered something about an upcoming match," Rabia offered, thinking of their morning conversation.

"See? Those little bridges you build toward each other – that's where it starts."

They talked through dessert and second cups of tea – about practical matters like matchday protocols, about the best places to shop in Liverpool, about the challenges of maintaining faith in the spotlight. Magi offered advice without being preachy, shared experiences without suggesting they were universal.

"The most important thing," she said as they prepared to leave, "is remembering that your marriage is yours. Not your parents', not the community's, not the public's. What works for Mo and me might not work for you and Ibou."

Outside the café, they exchanged a warm hug.

"Call me anytime," Magi insisted. "Seriously. Middle of the night identity crisis? I've been there."

"Thank you," Rabia said, meaning it deeply. "For lunch, for the advice, for..."

"Understanding?" Magi supplied with a gentle smile. "That's what friends are for. And you need friends here, outside of just being Ibou's wife."

As her Uber carried her back through Liverpool's streets toward her new home, Rabia felt lighter than she had in days. She wasn't alone in this strange journey. Others had walked this path before her and found not just contentment but joy.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Ibou: "Training finished early. Coming home soon."

Such a simple message, yet her heart quickened reading it. Home. Their home. Where they were building something unique – not a fairy tale romance, but perhaps something equally valuable.

A marriage of choice, even if the initial choice hadn't been entirely theirs.

Rabia was halfway through a virtual tour of her boutique when she heard the front door open. She'd been FaceTiming with her assistant Nadia, checking displays and approving new merchandise arrangements, her laptop open to spreadsheets of quarterly sales figures.

"He's home," she whispered to Nadia, suddenly conscious of how domestic that sounded. "I'll call you back later."

"Give that husband of yours a proper kiss!" Nadia teased before Rabia could end the call, her voice loud enough to possibly carry beyond the living room.

Mortified, Rabia quickly hung up, setting her phone down just as Ibou appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp from a post-training shower, his training gear exchanged for casual clothes. He looked tired but content, his eyes brightening when they landed on her.

"Back early like you said. How was training?" she said, closing her laptop.

"Slot satisfied with the preparation," he explained, setting down his gym bag. "Says too much training makes legs heavy for match."

"How thoughtful of him." She smiled, surprised by how genuinely pleased she was to see him. Lunch with Magi had left her feeling more settled, more open to possibilities.

Ibou gestured to her computer. "I interrupt your work?"

"Just checking in with my assistant. Making sure the boutique hasn't collapsed without me."

"And has it?"

"Not yet," she laughed. "Though apparently one customer threatened to never return because we didn't have her size in our new abayas."

"Terrible crisis," he agreed solemnly, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. He hesitated in the doorway, as if unsure whether to join her or give her space. "Your lunch with Magi was good?"

"Really good," she nodded. "She's wonderful. Gave me lots of insider tips on footballer wife protocol."

"Protocol?" His eyebrows shot up in alarm. "There is protocol?"

"Oh yes," she said, keeping her expression serious. "Very strict rules. For instance, I'm only allowed to wear team colors on match days, must learn the offside rule within thirty days of marriage, and am required to bake cookies for the locker room once a month."

Ibou's face went from concerned to suspicious to amused in the span of seconds. "You are teasing me."

"Maybe a little," she admitted with a grin. "Though Magi did have useful advice."

"Such as?"

"That every football family finds their own balance," she said. "Some wives are completely involved in every aspect, others maintain separate lives entirely. She said what matters is finding what works for us."

He nodded thoughtfully. "This makes sense. No one solution for everyone."

"She also mentioned you and Mo have been talking about us," Rabia added with a raised eyebrow.

Ibou had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Just... comparing notes? This is wrong English maybe."

"Comparing notes on your arranged wives?" she pressed, though her tone remained light.

"More like... asking advice," he clarified. "Mo has successful marriage. I want same."

The simple honesty of that statement disarmed her completely. "I want that too," she admitted softly.

A moment of understanding passed between them, neither quite ready to define what "successful" meant in their context, but both acknowledging the shared goal.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, changing the subject. "I can make early dinner."

"I'd love to see these cooking skills you mentioned," she said, closing her laptop. "Need help?"

In the kitchen, Rabia discovered that Ibou wasn't just being modest – he moved with confidence, preparing ingredients for what he called "footballer pasta" with practiced ease.

"Secret of professional athletes," he explained, dicing vegetables with surprising precision. "Carbs, protein, simple."

"And here I thought you all had personal chefs," she teased, perching on a barstool at the kitchen island.

"Some do," he conceded. "I prefer to know what goes in my food."

"Control freak?" she suggested playfully.

"Defender," he corrected with a small smile. "Always preparing, always careful."

Something about that resonated with her – this instinct to protect, to prevent problems before they arose. She recognized it in herself too, in how she ran her business, how she approached relationships.

"Did you decide if you'll come to match?" he asked, focusing on stirring the sauce.

The question caught her off guard. "I... hadn't thought about it. Should I?"

"Only if you want," he said quickly. "No pressure. But I can arrange ticket. Good seat."

"I'd like that," she decided, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "Magi offered to sit with me, actually. Said the first match can be overwhelming."

His expression brightened visibly. "This is good! She will explain everything."

"Hopefully she can explain why grown men fall down clutching their legs when barely touched," Rabia teased.

Ibou gasped in mock offense. "This is football slander! In my own kitchen!"

"Our kitchen," she corrected automatically, then froze, realizing the casual claim she'd just staked.

Instead of awkwardness, his face softened. "Yes. Our kitchen."

They ate at the kitchen island rather than the formal dining room, the pasta simple but delicious. Conversation flowed more easily than it had before, perhaps because of their separate experiences today – her with Magi, him with training – giving them new things to share, new perspectives to offer.

"Magi mentioned something interesting," Rabia ventured as they finished eating. "She said you and I are both overthinkers. That we probably spend too much time analyzing and not enough time just... being."

"Mo says same thing," Ibou nodded, seeming unsurprised. "Says I prepare too much for life. That some things cannot be tactically planned."

"Like arranged marriages?" she suggested with a wry smile.

"Exactly like arranged marriages," he agreed. "Though imam did good scouting, I think."

That made her laugh – the football metaphor perfectly capturing their situation. "Excellent transfer window strategy."

After dinner, they fell into a comfortable routine – Rabia insisted on washing dishes since he'd cooked, while Ibou made tea. They settled in the living room afterward, the evening stretching before them with no particular plans.

"Magi also mentioned I should see where you work," she said, curling up on the sofa with her tea. "Is there a way to tour Anfield when it's not match day?"

The question clearly delighted him. "Of course! I can arrange private tour. Show you everything – training facilities, locker room, pitch."

"I'd like that," she said, finding it was true. Understanding his world seemed important, even if football itself held little inherent interest for her.

"Tomorrow after match, maybe? If not too tired?"

"Sure, though shouldn't you rest after playing?"

"Light movement is good," he assured her. "Prevents stiffness."

They spent the evening making plans for the weekend – the match, the tour, perhaps exploring Liverpool a bit if weather permitted. It felt surprisingly normal, this domestic planning, this carving out of shared experiences.

Later, as they prepared for bed, Rabia found herself watching Ibou's reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. There was something endearing about seeing this side of him – not the polished professional athlete or the formal groom, but just a man in pajama pants with toothpaste foam on his lip.

"What?" he asked, catching her gaze in the mirror.

"Nothing," she said, then decided on honesty. "Just... this is nice. The everyday things. They're making this feel more real somehow."

He rinsed and considered her words. "Real is good?"

"Real is good," she confirmed. "Better than the strange limbo of 'married but not quite' that we've been in."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "We find our way," he said quietly. "No rush, but no standing still either."

"Exactly."

That night, as they settled under the covers with their usual careful distance, something felt different. Not a dramatic change, but a subtle shift – like pieces of a puzzle slowly moving into alignment, not quite fitting yet, but getting closer.

Progress wasn't always grand gestures or passionate declarations. Sometimes it was sharing pasta at a kitchen island, making weekend plans, or simply acknowledging that reality – with all its mundane moments and awkward adjustments – was better than any artificial perfection.

Small steps, but deliberate ones. Moving forward together.

Rabia had expected noise, crowds, perhaps some aggression — the stereotypical football atmosphere she'd seen in movies. Instead, what struck her first was the reverence. Fans in red filing into the stadium with something like pilgrimage in their movements, scarves held aloft, voices joining in songs she didn't recognize but felt the power of nonetheless.

"It's something, isn't it?" Magi said beside her, guiding her through the VIP entrance. "First time I came, I actually cried. Mo still teases me about it."

"It's... not what I expected," Rabia admitted, unable to stop herself from taking photos of everything—the pitch emerging like an impossible emerald as they entered their section, the stands filling with rivers of red, the massive scoreboards, the intense focus on the players warming up below.

Their seats were perfect — not too ostentatious in a private box, but excellent views in a section clearly reserved for players' families. Magi introduced her to a few other wives and girlfriends who welcomed her warmly but without fuss, respecting the overwhelmed look that must have been evident on her face.

"Don't worry about remembering everyone today," Magi murmured. "There's time for that. Just enjoy the experience."

Rabia nodded gratefully, her phone constantly in hand, capturing everything. She'd been careful with social media since posting their wedding photos—a decision that had resulted in an explosion of new followers and messages ranging from congratulatory to invasive. Today she was taking photos just for herself, to remember this first.

On the pitch, she spotted Ibou among the warming-up players, his tall frame unmistakable even at this distance. Something fluttered in her chest watching him — pride, perhaps, or simple recognition that this man who kissed her forehead each morning was about to perform for thousands.

"They're quite good, you know," an elderly gentleman said from the seat behind her, noticing her focused attention. "Your Ibou especially. Rock solid at the back."

"Thank you," she replied, uncertain how else to respond to this casual assessment of her husband's professional abilities.

"We were all quite happy to see the wedding photos," the man continued with genuine warmth. "Lovely couple. About time he settled down with someone special."

It was such a normal conversation — the kind any new spouse might have with a well-wisher — yet in this context, from a complete stranger, it reminded Rabia of her new public-adjacent status. The wedding photos she'd posted had apparently been widely shared among Liverpool supporters, who now felt a distant familiar connection to her.

"Liverpool fans are quite protective of their players," Magi explained later, seemingly reading her thoughts. "Especially the ones like Ibou and Mo who represent their values off the pitch too. Faith, family, work ethic — it resonates here."

As the match began, Rabia found herself drawn in despite her limited understanding of the game's nuances. Magi proved an excellent guide, explaining key moments without overwhelming her with details, pointing out Ibou's specific responsibilities in defense.

"Watch how he organizes the line," she suggested as Manchester City mounted an attack. "He's constantly communicating, positioning everyone."

Sure enough, Rabia could see Ibou directing traffic, pointing, shifting slightly, making minute adjustments that somehow neutralized the threat. It was like watching a chess master anticipate moves three steps ahead — analytical, precise, intelligent.

Just like he was at home, she realized. The defender mindset Ibou had mentioned — always preparing, always careful — wasn't just his football identity. It was simply him.

When he made a crucial tackle that had the crowd erupting in approval, Rabia found herself on her feet cheering without even realizing she'd stood. Magi caught her eye with knowing amusement.

"Happens to all of us," she laughed. "One minute you're just being supportive, the next you're screaming about offside traps."

The atmosphere built as the match progressed, Liverpool taking the lead, then City equalizing, tension mounting with each passing minute. Rabia found herself genuinely invested, stomach knotting with anxiety during dangerous moments, breath catching when Liverpool attacked.

"Is it always this stressful?" she asked during a brief lull.

"Always," Magi confirmed. "You never get used to it. Mo plays hundreds of matches, and I still feel sick with nerves every time."

In the eighty-third minute, with the score still level, Ibou rose highest at a corner kick, his powerful header sending the ball crashing into the net. The stadium exploded, a wall of noise that Rabia felt physically, vibrating through her body.

Without thinking, she grabbed Magi in a tight hug, both of them jumping and screaming. Around them, complete strangers were embracing, crying, celebrating as if a war had been won rather than a point scored in a game.

"That's his first goal this season!" Magi exclaimed, her voice barely audible over the continuing roar. "What perfect timing!"

Rabia couldn't stop smiling, her heart racing with vicarious joy. On the pitch, Ibou was being mobbed by teammates, his usual composure replaced by pure elation. She captured the moment on her phone, wanting to preserve this image of her normally controlled husband in a moment of unbridled celebration.

When the final whistle blew — Liverpool 2, Manchester City 1 — the release of collective tension was palpable. Rabia found herself exhausted just from watching, from the emotional investment she hadn't expected to make.

"So?" Magi asked as they gathered their things, preparing to head to the family lounge where they would meet the players after their media duties. "What did you think?"

"I think I understand why people care so much now," Rabia admitted. "It's not just a game, is it?"

"Not here," Magi agreed, gesturing to the still-singing fans slowly filing out. "Not to them."

The family lounge was another new experience —children running around excitedly, partners waiting with varying degrees of patience, staff ensuring everything ran smoothly. Rabia found herself hanging back slightly, still uncertain of her place in this established community.

"Mrs. Konaté?"

She turned to find a club staff member approaching with a smile.

"Ibou asked me to show you to a slightly quieter area," he explained. "He thought you might be overwhelmed by all this on your first visit."

The thoughtfulness of it — Ibou anticipating her discomfort even in his moment of triumph — touched her deeply. The staff member led her to a smaller side room where a few other people waited, mostly older family members who similarly seemed to appreciate the calmer environment.

When Ibou finally appeared, hair still damp from his shower, he scanned the room immediately, his face lighting up when he spotted her. He moved toward her with purpose, seeming to forget anyone else was present.

"You came," he said simply, as if her presence was the real victory of the day.

"Of course I did," she replied, suddenly shy under his intense focus. "Congratulations on your goal. It was incredible."

"You saw?" His smile widened, impossibly boyish for someone of his stature.

"The whole stadium saw," she teased. "We all went a bit mad, actually."

"We?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased.

"I may have caught the football fever," she admitted. "Temporarily."

He laughed, the sound rich with genuine happiness. For a moment they just looked at each other, sharing something new and undefined — a joy that belonged to both of them, experienced from different perspectives but connected nonetheless.

Then, with a glance around to ensure they weren't creating a spectacle, Ibou bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead — their now-familiar greeting. But then, he added a gentle kiss to each cheek, lingering just a fraction longer than usual.

"Thank you for coming," he murmured. "It means... a lot."

The simple sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes — it created a flutter in Rabia's chest that had nothing to do with football excitement and everything to do with the man standing before her.

"I'm glad I did," she said softly. "Though fair warning, I took about three hundred photos and will probably require detailed explanations of at least half the things I saw today."

"Deal," he agreed immediately. "Full tactical breakdown later. But there's someone I want you to meet," Ibou said as they navigated the stadium corridors, his hand a gentle presence at the small of her back. "Many someones, actually."

Rabia felt a flutter of nervous anticipation. "Your teammates?"

He nodded, looking slightly anxious himself. "Is important. They are like family."

She understood then – this wasn't just casual introductions. These were people who mattered to Ibou, whose approval and acceptance would impact their daily lives.

"Lead the way," she said, straightening her hijab slightly and squaring her shoulders. First impressions mattered.

The players' lounge was less chaotic than the family area, with teammates gathered in small groups, some with partners and children, others clustered around a table laden with food. The atmosphere was relaxed but energetic – the satisfied exhaustion of men who had accomplished something difficult together.

"Ibou!" A tall player with an impressive beard approached them first, clapping her husband on the shoulder. "Man of the match! And this must be the famous Rabia."

"Virgil," Ibou made the introduction, "my wife, Rabia. Rabia, this is Virgil van Dijk, our captain."

"The defender who taught my husband everything he knows?" she responded with a smile, recalling details from Ibou's many tactical explanations.

Virgil laughed appreciatively. "I like her already, Ibou. She knows who the real talent is in our backline."

"Do not encourage his ego," Ibou groaned. "Is already too big since he became captain."

The easy banter between them gave Rabia a glimpse into their relationship – respectful but comfortable, the kind of friendship forged through shared challenges and triumphs.

"Welcome to the madhouse," Virgil said warmly. "If you need anything at all, let me know."

"Thank you," Rabia replied, genuinely touched by the sincere offer.

One by one, Ibou introduced her to his teammates. Trent, the local boy with a cheeky grin who immediately proclaimed himself "the cool uncle when you two have kids." Mo and Magi, reuniting with them with the ease of established friendship. The manager, Arne Slot, offering a thanks for "supporting Ibou through this important season."

What struck Rabia most wasn't just the welcome she received, but the clear respect everyone had for Ibou. There were no inappropriate comments or suggestive looks, no assumptions about their relationship – just genuine pleasure at meeting the woman their teammate had married.

"Your Mo had something to do with this, I think," she whispered to Magi during a brief moment alone as Ibou was pulled into a conversation with Slot.

"Perhaps a small warning went out," Magi admitted with a smile. "But honestly, these are good men. They understand faith and family better than most teams."

A younger player approached them – the striker who'd scored Liverpool's first goal, Rabia recalled.

"Mrs. Konaté," he greeted her in careful French. "Je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer."

"Merci," she replied, pleasantly surprised. "Your French is quite good."

"Ibou has been teaching me," he explained, switching back to English with a shy smile. "Said it would help my game to understand his callouts better."

This small revelation – that Ibou took time to teach a younger teammate, that he spoke about her enough for the boy to know French would please her – warmed her unexpectedly.

Across the room, she caught Ibou watching her, a mixture of pride and nervousness in his expression. She gave him a small thumbs up, and the relief that washed over his face was almost comical.

"He was terrified we'd scare you off," Trent confided, appearing at her elbow with a plate of food. "Made us all promise to be on our best behavior. No football stories involving swearing or injuries."

"Really?" she laughed, glancing back at Ibou who was now deep in conversation with Mo but still stealing glances her way.

"Oh yeah. Gave us a proper team talk about it yesterday. 'My wife is coming tomorrow. She is intelligent and cultured. Do not embarrass me with your terrible jokes.'" Trent's impression of Ibou's accent was terrible but endearing.

"He said that?" The thought of Ibou preparing his teammates to meet her, just as carefully as he prepared for matches, sent another wave of warmth through her chest.

"More or less. He really wants you to feel welcome." Trent's usually playful expression turned more sincere. "We all do. Ibou's one of the good ones."

"I'm beginning to see that," she said softly.

Eventually, Ibou made his way back to her side. "Everything okay?" he asked quietly. "Not too overwhelming?"

"Everything's perfect," she assured him. "Your teammates are lovely."

"They are on best behavior," he said suspiciously. "Especially Trent. What did he say to you?"

"Only nice things," she promised. "Though his impression of your accent needs work."

Ibou groaned. "He did not."

"He did," she confirmed with a laugh. "But it was quite sweet, actually."

As the gathering began to wind down, Rabia found herself in conversation with several of the partners – discussing everything from Liverpool's best restaurants to reliable home services. There was no interrogation about her background or relationship, no judgment about her arranged marriage – just practical welcome and genuine inclusion.

"Ready to go?" Ibou asked eventually, appearing at her side. "Or you want to stay longer?"

"I think I'm ready," she admitted. The day had been wonderful but exhausting – full of new experiences, new people, new emotions.

As they said their goodbyes, Rabia was struck by how natural it felt already – this integration into Ibou's world, this extension of her own. These weren't just his colleagues; they were a community that touched every aspect of his life. And now, by extension, hers.

In the car on the way home, comfortable silence settled between them, both processing the day's events.

"Thank you," Ibou said finally as they neared their house. "For coming. For meeting everyone."

"Thank you for scoring a goal on my first match," she replied with a smile. "Setting a high standard for future attendance."

He laughed, then grew more serious. "They liked you. I could tell."

"I liked them too," she said honestly. "They respect you a great deal, you know."

He shrugged modestly, but she could see the pleased expression he tried to hide. "They are good people."

"And they clearly received very strict instructions about meeting me," she added teasingly.

"Trent talks too much."

"It was sweet," she assured him, reaching over to briefly touch his arm. "That you cared so much about making it comfortable for me."

The simple touch – initiated by her for perhaps the first time – hung between them for a moment, significant in its casualness.

"Of course I care," he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers briefly before returning to the road. "You are my wife."

Four simple words, yet they carried weight. Not just duty or arrangement or obligation, but genuine concern for her happiness, her comfort, her integration into his world.

As they pulled into their driveway, Rabia realized something important: for the first time since their wedding, she didn't feel like a visitor in Ibou's life. Today, she had glimpsed what it might mean to truly be his partner – to share in his victories, to know his friends, to understand his passion.

Another threshold crossed. Another small step forward.

The excitement of Saturday's match against Manchester City, which was Rabia's first live football experience, had barely settled when Liverpool's punishing schedule continued. Sunday had been recovery for Ibou, Monday a light training session, and Tuesday more intense preparation for their upcoming midweek fixture against Newcastle.

Just a few days into her introduction to football life, and Rabia was already beginning to understand the relentless rhythm that would govern their lives together.

This Wednesday morning, however, brought unexpected respite. Slot had granted a rare day off after cancelling their scheduled afternoon session, wanting players fresh for tomorrow's final tactical preparation before the Newcastle match.

"So you actually get to stay home all day?" Rabia asked over breakfast, still adjusting to the unpredictable nature of Ibou's schedule.

"Unexpected gift," he confirmed with a smile. "Weather too bad for training, Slot says. Better to rest."

December in Liverpool was proving to be exactly as everyone had warned — bitter winds, horizontal rain, and darkness that seemed to lift for only a few hours each day. Nothing like the bright Dubai mornings she'd left behind.

They'd fallen into the beginnings of routine already, even in these early days of marriage. Fajr prayer before dawn, side by side on their prayer rugs with the proper distance maintained between them. Breakfast together if Ibou didn't have early training. Separate work during the day — Rabia managing her boutique remotely, Ibou at the training ground. Reconnecting in the evenings over dinner and quieter activities.

Today's unexpected togetherness disrupted these nascent patterns, creating space for something new to emerge.

Rabia's phone buzzed on the counter, her mother's contact photo appearing on screen. She turned it face down with practiced quickness, a gesture that didn't escape Ibou's notice.

"Everything okay?" he asked carefully.

"Just my mother," she sighed. "Again."

"You don't want to speak with her?"

"Not really," Rabia admitted. "Not when I know exactly what she wants to talk about."

Though they'd been married only weeks, the expectations were clear — consummation, pregnancy, continuing their respective family lines. Traditional expectations that had followed them despite their otherwise modern approaches to faith and life.

"Ah," Ibou nodded understanding. "My mother similar. Already asking when we will give her grandchildren."

The elephant in the room — their still-unconsummated marriage — seemed suddenly larger in the morning light. They'd established a careful routine of distance since the wedding night, neither pushing for more until they'd built something beyond arrangement.

"Does it bother you?" Rabia asked suddenly, the question escaping before she could reconsider. "That we haven't..."

"No," he said simply, his eyes meeting hers with calm sincerity. "Our marriage, our timeline."

The simple statement — acknowledging both the situation and her autonomy within it — loosened something tight in her chest. For all his traditional faith, Ibou had never once made her feel that her primary value lay in physical obligation or childbearing.

"Thank you," she said softly.

After breakfast, they settled into a comfortable coexistence — Rabia with her laptop at the kitchen island, managing emails and video calls with her boutique staff, Ibou reviewing match footage in the living room despite his supposed day off.

The call to Dhuhr prayer provided natural structure to their day, bringing them together for wudu and prayer before separating again to their respective tasks.

"Do you always watch this much footage on your days off?" Rabia asked later, finding him still focused on his tablet, notebook filled with observations.

"Newcastle has tricky forwards," he explained, not looking up. "Need to understand patterns."

She watched him for a moment — the intensity of his concentration, the methodical way he noted timestamps and positions, the seriousness he brought to his profession even in these private moments.

"You're very dedicated," she observed, settling beside him on the sofa, though maintaining their usual careful distance.

"Job is privilege," he said simply. "Must honor with full effort."

Another piece of understanding slotted into place — his work ethic, his sense of responsibility, his commitment to excellence in his chosen field. Values that mirrored her own approach to her business, creating another point of unexpected connection.

The afternoon brought Liverpool's weather to its full December potential — rain lashing against windows, wind howling through the garden trees, darkness falling by mid-afternoon.

"Too awful to go anywhere," Rabia noted, peering through curtains at the dismal scene outside.

"Good day for movies," Ibou suggested, finally setting aside his match analysis. "Your choice."

They settled in the living room with tea and the box of Lebanese sweets Magi had sent home with them after the match, debating film options with the easy conversation of people slowly becoming comfortable with each other.

Rabia's phone buzzed again — her mother, persistent as always.

"I should answer," she sighed, reaching for it.

"Want privacy?" Ibou offered immediately, already moving to stand.

"No," she decided after a moment's consideration. "Stay."

Something shifted in his expression — appreciation, perhaps, for being included rather than excluded from this family interaction. For being treated as her partner rather than an adjacent presence.

"Mama," she answered, switching to Somali as she always did with her parents. "Yes, I know, it's been a few days..."

The conversation proceeded exactly as Rabia had anticipated — inquiries about her health thinly veiling the real questions. Was she adapting to married life? Was everything "normal" between them? Had she seen a doctor about prenatal vitamins?

"It's only been a few days, Mama," she said finally, reverting to English in her frustration, conscious of Ibou pretending not to listen. "These things take time."

"A few days is plenty," her mother insisted. "Your cousin Kidada was pregnant within six weeks of marriage."

"Everyone is different," Rabia maintained, drawing strength from Ibou's solid presence nearby. "We're focusing on settling in first."

When she finally ended the call, she let out a long breath, letting her head fall back against the sofa cushions. "That was exhausting."

"You handled well," Ibou said quietly. "Very diplomatic."

"I didn't tell her we're still in separate corners of a king-sized bed," Rabia pointed out with a small smile.

"Perhaps best," he agreed, returning her smile with one of his own. "Some things are just for us to know."

Just for us. The phrase lingered between them, highlighting the privacy of their unconventional arrangement, this marriage developing according to its own unique timeline rather than external expectations.

As afternoon deepened into evening, they moved through the now-familiar patterns of dinner preparation and Maghrib prayer, finding comfort in these shared rituals despite the newness of their relationship.

"Newcastle tomorrow," Rabia noted as they cleaned up after dinner. "Will it be as intense as Manchester City?"

"Different challenge," Ibou explained, sliding into analyst mode with evident comfort. "City plays possession, Newcastle more direct. Quick counters, physical style."

"Should I be nervous for you?" she asked, only half-joking.

His smile was warm and genuine. "Already worried about defender husband?"

"Professional interest," she corrected with mock seriousness. "I've invested in Liverpool merchandise now. Need to protect my investment."

That made him laugh — the full, rich sound she was hearing more frequently as they grew comfortable with each other. "Smart businesswoman, my wife."

My wife. The casual claim still sent a small flutter through her chest, even after these weeks of adjustment. Not because it declared possession, but because it acknowledged connection — this arranged union slowly transforming into chosen partnership.

Later, as they prepared for bed in their now-familiar routine — taking turns in the ensuite bathroom, changing in separate spaces out of continued modesty — Rabia found herself reflecting on how quickly they'd established these rhythms together. How natural it felt already, this sharing of space and time, this gradual building of understanding.

As they settled under the covers with their usual careful distance, Ibou turned to her with thoughtful eyes.

"Liverpool weather is terrible," he observed. "Dubai much nicer this time of year."

"Definitely," she agreed, thinking of sunshine and warm breezes.

"Perhaps after holiday fixtures," he continued. "We visit your boutique? You check on business, I see where my wife built her empire."

The suggestion — this interest in her world, this acknowledgment of her professional accomplishments — touched her deeply. "I'd like that," she said softly. "Though your schedule..."

"We make work," he said with simple certainty. "Important to understand each other's worlds."

Rabia found unexpected contentment in these emerging patterns — these daily rituals that were gradually transforming strangers into partners, arrangement into choice.

Not the passionate love story she'd secretly read about in novels as a teenager, but something perhaps more durable. A foundation built brick by careful brick, a structure designed to withstand whatever pressures came — from family expectations to Premier League schedules to their own evolving feelings.

Tomorrow would bring another match, another step in their journey of understanding each other's lives. But for tonight, in this warm space they'd created together, they had built something neither had quite anticipated: the beginnings of a marriage becoming genuinely their own.

___________________________________________________________

Rabia bobbed her head to Burna Boy's latest hit, her AirPods drowning out the pre-match commotion around Anfield as she followed Magi through the VIP entrance. Second match as a footballer's wife, and she'd already learned the essential survival toolkit: noise-canceling headphones, Liverpool scarf (stylishly draped rather than wrapped superfan-style), and a fully charged phone for the inevitable slow moments.

"You're getting the hang of this," Magi observed with approval, noting Rabia's more relaxed demeanor compared to the wide-eyed overwhelm of her Manchester City debut. "Love the outfit, by the way."

Rabia had put genuine thought into today's look — a burgundy hijab that complemented Liverpool's red without screaming "team merchandise," paired with designer jeans and a cream oversized cashmere sweater. Modest, practical for December's bite, but stylish enough to hold her own among the fashion-conscious WAG contingent.

"Professional obligation," she replied with a grin. "Can't have people saying the fashion boutique owner doesn't know how to dress for football."

They settled into their now-familiar seats, Rabia immediately pulling out her phone to capture the pre-match atmosphere for her Instagram stories. Her business account had seen a surprising uptick in Liverpool-based followers since her marriage became public —potential customers she wasn't about to ignore.

"Brand building never stops," she explained when Magi raised an eyebrow at her careful composition of stadium shots. "This is definitely untapped marketing potential."

"Smart," Magi nodded appreciatively. "Mo's always saying I should monetize my cooking posts."

The players emerged for warm-ups, and Rabia instinctively scanned for number five. She spotted Ibou immediately, and she was surprised at how quickly she developed a strange sixth sense for locating him in a crowd.

"Does it ever feel surreal?" she asked Magi, eyes still tracking Ibou as he went through defensive drills. "Watching thousands of people cheer for your husband?"

"All the time," Magi admitted. "Especially when they scream his name. I still think 'yes, that's what I call him too' like it's our private thing, even though it's literally on his shirt."

The observation made Rabia laugh. Three days ago, she'd absentmindedly called him "Ibou" while on a video call with her assistant Nadia, who'd immediately teased her about the casual familiarity with her arranged husband. The nickname that had felt so formal at their wedding was becoming comfortable on her tongue, a small sign of their evolving relationship.

"Newcastle's in good form," warned the elderly gentleman who'd befriended Rabia at her first match, leaning forward from the row behind. "Their striker's scored in the last four matches."

"Ibou's been studying their patterns all week," Rabia found herself replying with unexpected confidence. "Says their movement is predictable if you know what to look for."

The words felt strange in her mouth — football analysis she'd absorbed from Ibou's constant match study around the house. She'd started paying attention despite herself, finding the tactical side more interesting than she'd anticipated.

"Your man's got a good head on his shoulders," the gentleman nodded approvingly. "Always thinking, that one."

Wasn't that the truth. Ibou's analytical nature extended far beyond football — she'd discovered his penchant for chess apps, strategy games, and historical documentaries that he watched with intense concentration. That serious, thoughtful side balanced by unexpected moments of playfulness that were becoming more frequent as they grew comfortable together.

Just yesterday, she'd come downstairs to find him dancing in the kitchen to some French rap song, wooden spoon as microphone, completely lost in the moment until he spotted her. Instead of embarrassment, he'd pulled her into an impromptu dance party, twirling her around the kitchen island until they were both breathless with laughter.

"My husband is the biggest dork," she'd gasped between giggles.

"And all for you," he'd replied with that disarming smile.

The memory warmed her even as Liverpool's December chill seeped through the stadium. The Ibou who existed only in their private moments — the one who made terrible puns in mixed French and English, who could recite entire scenes from Marvel movies, who sometimes hummed under his breath while analyzing match footage.

The Newcastle match unfolded at a frenetic pace compared to the tactical chess match against City. End-to-end action had even Rabia on the edge of her seat, her playlist abandoned as she found herself genuinely invested in the flow of play.

"I'm actually understanding what's happening," she whispered to Magi with surprise after correctly anticipating an offside call. "Is this what becoming a football person feels like? Should I be concerned?"

Magi laughed. "Stage one of football wife transformation. Soon you'll be yelling tactical instructions like you've got a coaching license."

When Newcastle scored first, Rabia felt the goal like a physical blow — especially seeing Ibou's frustrated gesture, the slight drop of his shoulders before he immediately rallied the defensive line. She was learning to read his body language on the pitch, the subtle tells that differentiated disappointment from determination.

"He'll be insufferable tonight if they lose," she muttered, surprising herself with how accurately she could predict his mood already.

"Welcome to the club," Magi patted her hand sympathetically. "Mo doesn't speak for hours after a loss. Just sits watching replays like he can change the outcome through sheer willpower."

Liverpool equalized before halftime, easing some of the tension, but the second half remained a nervy affair with chances at both ends. Rabia found herself clutching Magi's arm during a particularly dangerous Newcastle attack, only releasing her death grip when Ibou made a perfectly timed sliding tackle to clear the danger.

"That's my husband," she exclaimed with unexpected pride, joining the roar of approval from the crowd. "Did you see that tackle?"

The match ended in a frustrating 3-3 draw after a wild second half — defensive errors from both teams creating a chaotic, end-to-end spectacle that had Rabia emotionally exhausted by the final whistle.

"Is it always this stressful?" she asked as they gathered their things.

"This is actually mild," Magi assured her. "Wait until knockout stages in the Champions League. I've been known to hide in the bathroom during penalty shootouts."

In the family lounge afterward, Rabia found herself more comfortable than her first visit — recognizing faces, exchanging greetings with other partners, feeling less like an intruder in this strange football world.

When Ibou appeared, his expression told her everything about his mood — the tightness around his eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. Three goals conceded was a personal affront to a defender's pride.

"Hey," she greeted him softly, reaching out to briefly touch his arm — a small gesture of comfort they'd established in these early moments. "You played well."

"Not well enough," he replied, though his expression softened at her touch. "Three goals, Rabia. Poor defending."

"I don't know, that tackle in the second half was pretty impressive," she offered. "Even I could tell that was perfectly timed, and I thought offsides was a disease until two weeks ago."

That surprised a laugh out of him — the reaction she'd been hoping for. "Offside, singular. Not offsides."

"See? I'm learning," she grinned, pleased to have momentarily lightened his mood. "Though I'm still not convinced the referee actually understands the rule either."

His laugh was fuller this time, drawing curious glances from teammates unaccustomed to seeing Ibou's serious post-match demeanor crack so easily.

"You are silly woman," he told her, shaking his head with amusement. "Making jokes when I should be analyzing mistakes."

"Plenty of time for analysis at home," she assured him. "I expect a full tactical breakdown over dinner. With diagrams."

"As you wish," he replied with mock seriousness, though his eyes crinkled at the corners — that special smile she was learning belonged just to her.

On the drive home, Rabia connected her phone to the car's sound system, scrolling through playlists until she found the one she'd created specifically for post-match moods — upbeat enough to lift spirits but not so energetic as to seem dismissive of the disappointing result.

"Your music is good," Ibou commented as an Afrobeats track filled the car. "Always perfect for moment."

"Music therapy," she explained. "Different playlists for different moods. My college roommates used to tease me about it."

"What is playlist for arranged wife driving home with football husband after disappointing draw?" he asked, his tone playful despite the lingering frustration from the match.

"Still working on that one," she laughed. "It's a very specific category."

At home, they fell into their post-match routine —Ibou immediately queuing up match highlights on his tablet while Rabia ordered dinner, neither having energy to cook after the emotional rollercoaster of the game.

"Your tackle really was impressive," she mentioned later as they ate takeaway Thai food in comfortable silence. "Even that old gentleman behind us said so, and he seems to know his football."

"Harold," Ibou supplied. "Season ticket holder for forty years. Knows more than most coaches."

"Well, Harold thinks you're brilliant, so clearly the three goals weren't your fault," she declared with finality.

That earned her another of those special smiles — the ones that reached his eyes and softened his whole face. "You defend me better than I defend goal."

"Someone has to," she shrugged, stealing a piece of chicken from his plate. "You're too hard on yourself."

"And you," he observed thoughtfully, "are not at all what imam described."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow. "And what did the imam say about me?"

"Serious businesswoman. Dedicated to faith. Suitable temperament for footballer wife." He counted off the attributes on his fingers. "Nothing about wild sense of humor or music therapy or stealing food from husband's plate."

"Disappointment?" she asked, only half-joking.

"Pleasant surprise," he corrected, his eyes warm as they met hers. "Very pleasant surprise."

Later, as they prepared for bed with their now-familiar choreography — taking turns in the bathroom, changing in separate spaces, maintaining modest boundaries despite weeks of marriage — Rabia found herself reflecting on how quickly they were learning each other's rhythms. How natural it felt already, this sharing of space and emotion, this gradual building of understanding.

"Harold invited us for tea next week," she mentioned as they settled into bed with their usual careful distance. "Says his wife wants to meet the woman who's 'brought young Konaté out of his shell.'"

"Carol makes best scones in Liverpool," Ibou replied through a yawn. "We should go."

"Look at us, making couple friends," she teased gently. "Very domestic."

"Terrible, isn't it?" he mumbled, already drifting toward sleep. "Next we get matching sweaters."

"Don't tempt me," she warned. "I know very good knitwear suppliers."

His sleepy chuckle was the last sound before comfortable silence settled between them — another day navigated together, another small brick added to the foundation they were building.

two weeks later….

"And you haven't kissed properly? Not once?" Dr. Yasmin's perfectly arched eyebrows shot up, her stylish glasses slipping slightly down her nose. "When you say 'not intimate,' what exactly do you mean?"

Rabia twisted the ring on her finger, suddenly fascinated by the intricate silver pattern. Four weeks of marriage, and she was sitting in a counselor's office explaining her lack of a love life. Not exactly how she'd imagined spending her Thursday afternoon.

"He does this triple-kiss thing," she explained, gesturing vaguely toward her own face. "Forehead first, then right cheek, then left. Very French. Very... proper."

"But not on the lips?"

"Definitely not on the lips," Rabia confirmed with a slightly nervous laugh. "Not anywhere else either. We've got this invisible force field down the middle of the bed. Very sci-fi, very unsexy."

Dr. Yasmin tried to maintain her professional expression, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She'd been recommended as the best Muslim marriage counselor and was uniquely qualified to understand both faith and local context.

"My cousin Amal calls it our 'three-kiss maximum policy,'" Rabia continued, filling the silence with nervous chatter. "Says we're the most PG-rated newlyweds she's ever heard of. Which, coming from the girl who installed a dating app on my phone the day before my nikkah, is really saying something."

"And how do you feel about this arrangement?" Dr. Yasmin asked, setting her notebook aside and leaning forward slightly. "Not your cousin, not your family—you."

The question caught Rabia off-guard. How did she feel? The careful choreography of their shared life — separate sides of the bed, bathroom turns taken with military precision, that careful distance always maintained — had become so routine she'd almost stopped questioning it.

Almost.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Sometimes it makes sense — we're still getting to know each other, building trust. Other times it feels..."

"Yes?" the counselor prompted gently.

"Ridiculous," Rabia blurted. "Like we're following some rulebook neither of us actually wrote."

---

Across the hall, in a similarly comfortable office, Ibou was navigating his own version of this conversation with Dr. Mahmoud, the male counterpart in the Muslim counseling practice.

"Let me understand," the counselor said, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his salt-and-peppered beard. "You've been married four weeks, and you've never kissed your wife properly? Just this—" he mimicked the three-kiss gesture with his hand, "—forehead-cheek-cheek routine?"

Ibou rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he couldn't seem to shake. "Correct. Just forehead and cheeks. Is respectful, yes?"

"Respect is excellent," Dr. Mahmoud nodded. "Essential, even. But I'm curious what's holding you back from more... traditional expressions of affection?"

The question hung in the air between them. What was holding him back? Not lack of interest — Allah knew that wasn't the problem. Every morning when Rabia emerged from the bathroom, hijab freshly arranged, eyes bright with the day's possibilities, it took genuine effort not to cross that invisible boundary they'd established.

"Want to do right by her," he finally said. "Not rush. Not pressure. She didn't choose me, not really."

Understanding dawned in the counselor's eyes. "You're concerned about consent in an arranged marriage."

"Yes," Ibou admitted, relieved at having his jumbled feelings so precisely articulated. "She agreed to marriage, but not specifically to me. Just to suitable match."

"Have you discussed this with her directly?"

"Not exactly," Ibou shifted uncomfortably. "We talk around it. Make jokes sometimes. Never directly."

"And are you attracted to your wife, Ibou?"

The question was asked without judgment, but Ibou felt his ears burning nonetheless. "She is beautiful," he said simply, the inadequate words failing to capture the way his chest tightened when she laughed, or how he found himself watching her hands as she worked, graceful and precise in everything she did.

---

"Of course I find him attractive," Rabia was saying across the hall, trying not to sound defensive and failing spectacularly. "Have you seen him? Those shoulders? Those cheekbones? Those ridiculous ears that twitch when he's embarrassed?" She caught herself, realizing she'd gestured rather dramatically while listing her husband's physical attributes.

Dr. Yasmin's smile was knowing. "It's okay to acknowledge physical attraction to your husband, Rabia. It's natural and healthy."

"I know that intellectually," she sighed, slumping back in her chair. "But growing up, there was always this emphasis on modesty and restraint. 'Good girls don't think about those things.' 'Save it for marriage.' Well, now I am married, and I still find myself holding back, like I'm waiting for... permission? Which sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"Not ridiculous at all," the counselor assured her. "Many women from conservative backgrounds struggle with this transition. You've spent years building mental boundaries around physical desire, and those don't automatically disappear with a marriage certificate."

Rabia nodded, relieved at being understood without judgment. "Plus, we didn't choose each other in the traditional sense. Sometimes I wonder if Ibou would have picked me if given complete freedom of choice. If he's holding back because he's... settling, in a way."

"Have you asked him?"

"Oh, no," Rabia laughed nervously. "We're still in the 'please' and 'thank you' phase of marriage most days. 'Pass the salt' and 'did you see my phone charger?' Not 'do you actually desire me or are you just fulfilling a religious obligation?'"

---

"I worry about being footballer," Ibou confessed, leaning forward in his chair. "In this world, many temptations, many... opportunities with women. Some teammates, not all but some, they treat women as... disposable."

Dr. Mahmoud nodded understanding. "And you don't want Rabia to feel that way."

"Never," Ibou said firmly. "She deserves better. Deserves to be cherished, not just... desired."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive, you know," the counselor pointed out gently. "Physical desire for your wife can coexist with deep respect. In fact, our faith encourages husbands to satisfy their wives both emotionally and physically."

Ibou knew this intellectually, had heard it in pre-marital counseling sessions back in France, but the practical application felt more complicated in this specific situation.

"I think," Dr. Mahmoud continued thoughtfully, "that you might benefit from some more concrete guidance."

He reached into his bookshelf and selected a slim volume with a tasteful cover. "This was written by a respected Islamic scholar and his wife, specifically addressing intimacy in Muslim marriages. It's very practical while remaining true to our values."

Ibou turned the book over in his hands, reading the subtitle: "Guide to Intimacy in Islamic Marriage." His expression must have betrayed his surprise because the counselor chuckled.

"Everything discussed is halal," the counselor assured him. "Many couples find it helpful in navigating these waters, especially when they come from backgrounds where such topics aren't openly discussed."

---

Across the hall, Rabia was staring wide-eyed at an identical book in her hands, having just flipped to a chapter titled "Physical Pleasure: A Gift to Be Shared."

"We can do this?" she whispered, eyes scanning a particularly detailed section about foreplay. "All of this is... allowed?"

Dr. Yasmin nodded, her expression kind but matter-of-fact. "Everything described there is halal between husband and wife. Our faith doesn't discourage pleasure — it simply contains it within the sacred boundary of marriage."

Rabia continued turning pages, her expression cycling between surprise, curiosity, and something approaching embarrassment. "So he's supposed to... touch me? In all these places?"

"Foreplay is not just permitted in Islam, it's encouraged," the counselor explained. "The Prophet, peace be upon him, emphasized the importance of a husband ensuring his wife's satisfaction. Many hadith speak to this directly."

This was revelatory information to Rabia, whose sexual education had consisted primarily of warnings about what not to do rather than guidance on what was permissible and even celebrated within marriage.

"My mother never mentioned any of this," she murmured, still processing.

"Many mothers don't," Dr. Yasmin acknowledged. "Cultural taboos often override religious teachings in this area, unfortunately. It's one reason books like this exist — to realign our understanding with what our faith actually teaches rather than cultural restrictions that have been added over time."

---

"The book explains everything much better than I could," Dr. Mahmoud was telling Ibou. "But I want to emphasize one point: communication is essential. All the knowledge in the world won't help if you and Rabia aren't talking openly about your needs, boundaries, and desires."

Ibou nodded, already feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the direct nature of the conversation. On the pitch, he was confident, decisive — a leader organizing the defensive line with clear communication. In this realm, he felt like a rookie facing his first Champions League final.

"What if she's not ready?" he asked, the question that had been circling his mind for weeks finally finding voice.

"Then you continue to wait," the counselor said simply. "But you won't know unless you have the conversation. And that conversation will be easier if you're both informed about what's permissible and encouraged within our faith."

---

"So what do I do with this information?" Rabia asked, closing the book after glimpsing a chapter titled "Positions of Pleasure" that she wasn't quite ready to explore in her counselor's office.

"Take it home. Read it together if you're comfortable with that, or separately if you prefer. Use it as a starting point for conversation." Dr. Yasmin's tone was practical, normalizing what felt to Rabia like uncharted territory. "The important thing is to start talking openly about your expectations, desires, and concerns."

"And if we're both ready to... move forward?"

"Then you do so at whatever pace feels right for both of you, knowing that physical intimacy is a blessed part of your marriage, not something to feel guilty or uncertain about."

As their session wrapped up, Rabia tucked the book into her bag, still processing the paradigm shift it represented. Years of "not until marriage" messaging had prepared her for permission, but not for the active encouragement of physical pleasure she'd just encountered.

When she emerged into the waiting area, Ibou was already there, looking slightly dazed himself. Their eyes met briefly before both glanced away, a shared awkwardness hanging between them despite having just spent an hour discussing intimacy with strangers.

"Good session?" she asked lightly as they walked to the car.

"Informative," he replied, his ears that telltale twitch that she'd come to find endearing. "Yours?"

"Same," she nodded, wondering if the identical book was hidden in his jacket pocket as securely as hers was tucked in her bag. "Very... educational."

The drive home was quiet, both lost in their own thoughts, the unspoken hanging between them like a physical presence. Rabia found herself stealing glances at Ibou's profile as he drove — the strong line of his jaw, the focus in his eyes, the large hands that handled the steering wheel with the same precision he brought to everything.

Hands that, according to chapter three, were supposed to be quite active in ensuring her satisfaction.

The thought sent heat rushing to her face, and she turned to look out the window, watching Liverpool's winter landscape blur past while her mind raced with new possibilities.

Four weeks of marriage, and it felt like they were starting over with new information, new understanding, new potential for what their arranged beginning might evolve into.

"Hungry?" Ibou asked as they pulled into their driveway, breaking the contemplative silence.

"Starving," she admitted with a small smile, grateful for the mundane question grounding her racing thoughts.

Rabia had faced down ruthless business competitors, negotiated rental contracts that made hardened real estate agents cry, and once talked her way out of a speeding ticket in three different languages. Nervousness wasn't her thing.

Yet here she was, hands actually trembling as she applied another layer of her favorite perfume to her wrists, then behind her ears, then — after a furtive glance at page 47 of Dr. Yasmin's book — a light spray between her breasts.

"Layering scents creates an enticing sensory experience," the book had advised in its matter-of-fact tone. "Areas where blood vessels run close to the skin will naturally warm the fragrance, releasing it gradually throughout your time together."

A date. She was going on an actual date with her husband of nearly eight weeks. The absurdity of it made her laugh out loud in the luxurious bathroom of their Doha hotel suite, the sound echoing slightly against the marble.

The Premier League's winter break had aligned perfectly with her need to check on boutique expansion plans in the Gulf. When Ibou suggested coming with her, extending the trip to include a few days in Doha after her business in Dubai was complete, she'd been surprised but pleased.

"Actual vacation," he'd said with that small smile that still did funny things to her heart. "No football, no design meetings. Just us."

Just us. The phrase had taken on new meaning since their separate counseling sessions two weeks ago. They hadn't discussed the identical books they'd both received — not directly — but something had shifted. Their careful choreography around the house remained, but the invisible barrier seemed less rigid somehow, the air between them charged with new awareness.

And then this morning, Ibou had casually mentioned over breakfast that he'd made dinner reservations. "For tonight," he'd clarified when she looked confused. "Seven o'clock. Restaurant with nice view of the bay."

"Like... a date?" she'd asked, the word feeling strange on her tongue when applied to her own husband.

His ears had that telltale twitch. "Exactly like date," he'd confirmed. "Proper one. Long overdue."

Now, with just an hour before they were supposed to leave, Rabia was in full panic mode, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. She'd packed for business meetings, not romance — her suitcase full of modest but professional attire suitable for Dubai's fashion scene.

The beige dress and matching abaya she'd finally settled on was elegant enough for a nice restaurant but hardly seductive — a standard piece from her work wardrobe. Practical Rabia would have been satisfied with this. Date-Night Rabia, an alter ego she hadn't known existed until approximately three hours ago, was having a full meltdown.

At least I put on heels. Small miracles, Alhamdulilah.

"Stop being ridiculous," she told her reflection firmly. "It's Ibou. You live with him. You've seen him in his Star Wars pajama pants."

But that was precisely the point — they'd skipped all this. The getting-to-know-you dates, the nervous anticipation, the gradual physical progression that normal couples experience. They'd gone straight from strangers to spouses, building a domestic partnership without the relationship foundation beneath it.

Until now, apparently.

Rabia reached into her toiletry bag and pulled out two small books that had traveled with her to Qatar, hidden beneath her skincare products like contraband. Dr. Yasmin's clinical but eye-opening "Guide to Intimacy in Islamic Marriage" and Amal's pre-wedding gift, "The Good Muslim Wife's Guide to Modern Marriage," which had proven surprisingly less ridiculous than its pink cover suggested.

She flipped to the dog-eared page in Amal's book, a chapter titled "Dating Your Spouse: Keeping the Spark Alive."

"Many arranged marriages skip the courtship phase," she read for perhaps the twentieth time. "Creating intentional date experiences allows couples to develop the romantic connection that might have come before marriage in other circumstances."

The advice had seemed sensible when she'd read it in the safety of her home office. Now, facing the reality of an actual romantic evening with the man she lived with but hadn't so much as properly kissed, it felt terrifying.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Amal: "Did you wear the perfume like I told you? The jasmine one drives men WILD."

Rabia rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. Her cousin had appointed herself unofficial marital advisor since learning about their "three-kiss maximum policy," sending increasingly unsubtle hints about everything from lingerie to bedroom techniques.

"Focus on connection, not perfection," she texted back instead, quoting Dr. Yasmin's more measured advice. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added: "But yes, I'm wearing the jasmine."

Three rapid-fire responses came in succession:

"GET IT GIRL"

"FINALLY"

"Send updates or I disown you as family"

Shaking her head with fond exasperation, Rabia returned to her preparations. Hair already styled in loose waves that would remain mostly covered by her hijab but might peek out enticingly (according to page 52). Subtle makeup that emphasized her eyes, which Ibou had once offhandedly mentioned were "very expressive" (an observation she'd replayed approximately nine thousand times in her head).

The final touch was her hijab — a silk one in deep emerald that complemented her skin tone and, she'd noticed, matched a tie Ibou sometimes wore. The subtle coordination wasn't accidental — another tip from one of the books, though she couldn't remember which one at this point.

A knock at the bathroom door nearly made her jump out of her skin.

"Rabia?" Ibou's voice came through the door. "Reservation is soon. You okay?"

"Fine!" she called back, voice unnaturally high. "Just finishing up!"

She took one last look in the mirror, adjusted her hijab slightly, and took a deep breath. "It's just dinner," she reminded herself. "With your husband. Who's seen you with the flu. Who you've lived with for weeks. Who—"

The mental pep talk dissolved as she opened the door and saw Ibou waiting in the bedroom area of their suite. He'd changed into a thobe that emphasized his athletic build, his usually wild curls somewhat tamed into waves, his expression a mixture of nervousness and appreciation as he took in her appearance.

"You look beautiful," he said simply.

"You too," she replied, then winced. "I mean, not beautiful — handsome. You look handsome."

His smile was warm, reaching his eyes in the way she'd learned meant genuine pleasure rather than polite acknowledgment. "Ready for our first date, wife?"

The way he said "wife" — not as a title or status but with a warmth that suggested genuine connection — made her nervousness shift into something more like anticipation.

"Ready, husband," she confirmed, reaching for her small evening bag where she'd tucked a travel-sized version of the jasmine perfume. Just in case.

As they left the hotel room, Ibou offered his arm — a gesture he'd never made before, creating a physical connection that remained respectful but crossed their usual careful boundaries. After a moment's hesitation, Rabia slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fine fabric of his thobe.

Six and a half weeks of marriage, and this simple touch felt more intimate than anything they'd shared before. She wondered if he could feel her pulse racing through the point where her hand rested against his arm.

If he did, he was gentleman enough not to mention it.

The books had been clear on one point that both authors, despite their different approaches, agreed upon completely: marriage wasn't just a legal contract or religious obligation, but a relationship to be nurtured, developed, enjoyed.

And tonight, under the Doha stars, Rabia was finally ready to begin that part of their journey — the part where arrangement became choice, where respect became desire, where carefully maintained distance gave way to intentional closeness.

Her first date with her husband awaited. And despite all the backwards steps that had led them here, she couldn't imagine a more perfect beginning.

______________________________________________

The restaurant Ibou had chosen was exactly the kind of place that would have intimidated Rabia before she built her business — all understated luxury and impeccable service, perched on the forty-second floor of one of Doha's glittering towers. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city's spectacular skyline and the dark waters of the bay beyond, dotted with the lights of boats and distant shores.

"How did you find this place?" Rabia asked as they were led to a corner table that somehow managed to be both private and perfectly positioned for the view.

"Research," Ibou replied with that small, pleased smile that appeared whenever he'd successfully surprised her. "Many hours reading reviews. Wanted somewhere special."

Of course he had. Ibou approached everything — from defensive positioning to restaurant selection — with the same methodical thoroughness. She shouldn't have been surprised that he'd apply that same attention to detail to their first proper date.

The maître d' pulled out Rabia's chair with practiced elegance, and Ibou waited until she was seated before taking his own place across from her. A small, traditional courtesy that nonetheless made her feel oddly cherished.

"The chef has prepared a special tasting menu," the maître d' informed them. "As Mr. Konaté requested."

Rabia raised an eyebrow as the man departed. "You arranged all this in advance?"

"Of course," Ibou nodded, as if pre-planning a multi-course meal at one of Doha's most exclusive restaurants was completely standard date procedure. "Wanted everything perfect."

"For a date with your wife," she teased gently. "Who you already live with."

His expression turned more serious, those expressive eyes meeting hers directly across the table. "Especially for that reason. Makes dating more important, not less."

The simple sincerity of his statement caught her off guard, quieting her nervous tendency toward deflective humor. "That's... actually really thoughtful."

"I can be thoughtful," he defended, though his slight smile took any sting from the words.

"I know," she assured him, remembering countless small kindnesses he'd shown over their weeks together — preparing her favorite tea without being asked, recording a fashion documentary he'd noticed her reading about, always ensuring their prayer rugs were positioned where the morning light would warm them in Liverpool's winter chill.

A server appeared with a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, presenting it with the same ceremony that would have accompanied the real version. Another thoughtful detail — the festivity of celebration without compromising their principles, though in Doha, all restaurants naturally served halal food and non-alcoholic beverages anyway.

As their glasses were filled with the sparkling liquid, Rabia found herself studying Ibou in the restaurant's soft lighting. She'd grown accustomed to seeing him in training gear or casual home clothes, his athletic frame always partially concealed by flattering attire. The thobe revealed a silhouette she knew too well now — broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, long legs arranged with unconscious grace.

"You're staring," he observed, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Just thinking," she replied, their usual exchange making her smile.

"Always thinking," he completed the familiar routine, raising his glass. "What shall we toast to?"

Rabia considered this, lifting her own glass. "To doing things in our own order?"

"Perfect," he agreed, eyes warming as they clinked glasses. "Our own timeline."

The first course arrived — delicate seafood presented with artistic flair — creating a momentary reprieve from the unexpected intensity of their exchange. Rabia was grateful for the distraction, using the time to regain her equilibrium. This was Ibou, she reminded herself. The same man who argued with her about which Marvel movie was best, who sometimes fell asleep on the sofa with match analysis playing on his tablet, who hummed unconsciously while brushing his teeth.

Except it wasn't quite the same Ibou, was it? This version was... intentional. Present in a way that transcended their comfortable domesticity. His focus entirely on her rather than divided between her and football or her and prayer schedules or her and the hundred other things that usually occupied his analytical mind.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," she said impulsively.

His eyebrows rose slightly. "We live together. What don't you know?"

"Lots, probably," she pointed out. "We skipped all this, remember? The real, unfiltered getting-to-know-you conversations that normal couples have before they start sharing bathroom cabinets."

He considered this, head tilted slightly in that way he had when processing a new tactical concept. "Fair point. Something you don't know..." He thought for a moment, then his expression turned more serious. "Why I agreed to arranged marriage, perhaps?"

The question caught her interest immediately. They'd never directly discussed their reasons for accepting the arrangement, both seemingly content to focus on building their present rather than examining their past decisions.

"Tell me," she encouraged, genuinely curious.

Ibou set down his fork, gathering his thoughts. "Football career is... complicated for relationships. Many temptations, many women interested in status, not person. Teammates with broken marriages, affairs, drama." He shook his head slightly. "Watched this pattern for years. Decided I wanted something different. Something with foundation. When imam suggested arrangement, timing felt right."

"So you chose arranged marriage because it seemed more stable?" she asked, trying to understand.

"More honest," he clarified. "Based on values, compatibility, not just attraction or convenience. No illusions or games. Clear purpose from beginning."

She hadn't expected such a thoughtful explanation, though perhaps she should have. Ibou approached everything in life with careful consideration.

"Your turn," he prompted. "Why did you agree?"

She thought about offering something light, some easy explanation about family expectations or practical considerations. But his honesty deserved reciprocation.

"I almost didn't," she admitted. "I was going to tell my parents no, but then I saw your football highlights."

His eyebrows shot up. "My highlights changed your mind? You don't even like football!"

"Not the football part," she clarified. "There was this moment after a big win. Liverpool had just beaten... I don't remember who. But the cameras caught you helping an elderly steward who'd slipped in the rain. You made sure he was okay before you celebrated with the team. It wasn't staged or showy, just... kind."

Ibou looked genuinely surprised. "I don't even remember that."

"That's why it mattered," she explained. "It wasn't for the cameras. It was just who you are."

Something shifted in his expression — a softening, a vulnerability she rarely glimpsed beneath his composed exterior. "So you agreed to marry me because I helped old man in rain?"

"I agreed to marry you because that moment suggested you might be someone worth knowing," she corrected gently. "Worth taking a chance on."

Their gazes held across the table, the background noise of the restaurant fading as something unspoken passed between them — acknowledgment, perhaps, that their arrangement had always contained seeds of choice, of active decision rather than mere acceptance.

The arrival of the second course created another welcome moment to regroup, the rich aromas of perfectly spiced lamb giving them both something to comment on beyond the unexpected emotional territory they kept stumbling into.

As they ate, conversation shifted to lighter topics — Rabia's meetings in Dubai, Ibou's relief at the break from Liverpool's demanding schedule, mutual amusement at how their families had apparently formed a cross-continental alliance in their campaign for grandchildren.

"My mother asked if the English weather was affecting my, quote, 'marital abilities,'" Ibou revealed with an eye roll. "Suggested I eat more dates for stamina."

Rabia nearly choked on her water. "The fruit kind, I assume?"

"Definitely the fruit kind," he confirmed, his ears doing that endearing twitch that never failed to charm her.

They were halfway through the dessert course — an elaborate concoction involving rosewater and gold leaf — when Ibou's expression turned more serious again.

"I have question," he said, setting down his spoon. "But is perhaps too direct for date."

"Now you have to ask," she insisted, curiosity piqued. "You can't just say that and then not tell me."

He hesitated, then met her eyes squarely. "Are you happy? With this arrangement? With... me?"

The question caught her completely off guard. So much so that her first instinct was to deflect with humor, to make some quip about his cooking skills or hogging the bathroom. But the genuine uncertainty in his expression stopped her.

"Yes," she said simply, then realizing the inadequacy of the single word, continued: "Not in the way I expected, maybe. Not in the fairy-tale sense. But in a real way that keeps surprising me. I'm happy with how we're building something neither of us could have predicted."

Relief visibly washed over his features. "Good," he nodded. "Me too."

"Why do you ask?" she pressed gently. "Have I given you reason to think otherwise?"

"No," he assured her quickly. "Just..." He seemed to struggle for the right words. "In football, even when things work well, we always look for improvement. Areas to develop. I want same for marriage. Not just functional. Exceptional."

There it was again — that earnest sincerity that repeatedly caught her off guard, that transformed what could have been awkward conversations into moments of genuine connection.

"Exceptional is a high bar," she observed, though she couldn't help but smile at his ambition.

"You deserve high bar," he said simply.

The rest of the meal passed in a pleasant blur of excellent food and increasingly comfortable conversation. By the time they stepped out of the restaurant into the warm Doha night, something had shifted between them — a new ease, a shared understanding that hadn't existed before.

Instead of heading directly to the elevators, Ibou nodded toward the observation deck that wrapped around the building. "Walk? View is better at night."

Rabia nodded, and they strolled together along the glass-enclosed pathway, the city spread beneath them like a carpet of jewels. Without conscious thought, she found herself moving closer to him, their arms occasionally brushing in a way that sent small currents of awareness through her.

"Thank you for tonight," she said softly as they paused to admire a particularly spectacular vista. "It was perfect."

"Not over yet," he reminded her, his voice equally quiet.

The simple statement hung between them, charged with possibilities neither had openly acknowledged. The books, the counseling sessions, the growing awareness between them — all creating a foundation for whatever came next.

"No," she agreed, gathering her courage to look up at him directly. "Not over yet."

Ibou turned toward her, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty that she imagined mirrored her own. "Rabia," he began, then seemed to reconsider whatever he'd planned to say.

Instead, he reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair that had escaped her hijab back behind her ear. The simple touch — so ordinary in most relationships, so extraordinary in theirs — sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the air-conditioned observation deck.

"Cold?" he asked immediately, misinterpreting her reaction.

"Not cold," she managed, finding her voice despite the sudden dryness in her throat. "Definitely not cold."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by something that looked remarkably like hope. His hand, which had retreated after fixing her hair, returned to gently cup her cheek, thumb brushing her skin with exquisite care.

For a moment, Rabia thought he might kiss her properly — his gaze briefly dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. The public setting of the observation deck seemed to register then, reminding them both of their surroundings in conservative Doha. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, then to each cheek in their now-familiar pattern.

But this time, each kiss felt different — imbued with new meaning, with intention, with promise for more when they were in a more private setting. The triple-kiss that had become their ritual transformed from polite greeting to something that felt like a placeholder for desires not yet expressed.

When he pulled back, his eyes held hers with unmistakable meaning. "When you're ready," he said softly. "When we're somewhere more private. If you want."

Six and a half weeks of marriage, and her husband was asking permission for their first real kiss — not demanding it here and now, but offering the possibility for later, respecting both her comfort and their surroundings.

"I want," she confirmed quietly, her usual eloquence deserting her.

Ibou's smile in response was worth every moment of the nervous anticipation she'd felt preparing for tonight. He offered his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow as they made their way back to the elevators, the simple contact now charged with new awareness.

What awaited them back in their hotel room remained unspoken but newly possible — not rushed, not pressured, but available when they were both ready. Their own timeline, as they'd toasted earlier.

But for now, the warmth of his arm under her hand, the memory of his meaningful triple-kiss still tingling on her skin, and the promise of more to discover about each other — both emotionally and physically— felt like exactly enough. The perfect ending to their first date, and perhaps the perfect beginning of something neither had quite anticipated when they'd signed those marriage papers six weeks ago.

TO BE CONTINUED….

[felassan]

Game Informer:

"A Deep Dive Into Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Combat, Abilities, Skill Tree, And More by Wesley LeBlanc on Jun 18, 2024 at 02:10 PM If you're at all familiar with the Dragon Age series, you likely already know BioWare has experimented quite a lot with its gameplay. From Dragon Age: Origins' real-time strategy RPG approach to Dragon Age II's mostly-set-within-one-city action experience to Dragon Age: Inquisition's strategy-action mix, BioWare hasn't quite defined the franchise's combat. However, a through-line is apparent from Origins to Inquisition: BioWare seemingly wants this franchise to be action but has attempted to shift to that without abandoning its longtime fans.  With Dragon Age: The Veilguard, BioWare has completed its transition from strategy to real-time action, but thanks to an optional tactical pause-and-play combat wheel that harkens back to the series' origins, I feel it's found a great (battle)ground for Dragon Age combat. Of course, it's hard to tell how Veilguard's action will hold up over what is sure to be a dozens-of-hours-long RPG, but if what I've seen so far is any indication, the studio is on to something. A Shift In Strategy"

""I think the first thing to keep in mind is that combat [...] in the franchise has been an evolution," game director Corinne Busche tells me within BioWare's Edmonton office. "Every single entry reimagines what combat is like and I would say our goal was to make sure we had a system that allowed players to feel like they actually were able to step into the world of Thedas. They're not a player observing from afar – they are inside of this world. Being this authentic world that's brought to life, the combat system needs to support that, so you are in control of every single action, every block, every dodge, every swing of your sword." Busche says players complete every swing in real-time, with particular attention paid to animation swing-through and canceling. On the topic of canceling, I watch Busche "bookmark" combos with a quick dash. With this mechanic, players can pause a combo's status with a dash to safety and continue the combo where they left off afterward. Alongside the dash, there's a parry for some classes, the ability to charge moves, and a revamped healing system that allows players to quickly use potions by pressing right on the d-pad.  Busche says each character will play the same in a way, regardless of class, in that you execute light and heavy attacks with the same buttons, use abilities with the same buttons, and interact with the combo wheel in the same way. During my demo at one point, we use a sword-and-shield Warrior Qunari that hip-fires and aims their shield to throw it like Captain America while hammering down big damage with a sword. Pressing the same buttons as a mage might throw out magical ranged attacks instead of a shield. [embedded link to DA:TV gameplay reveal video] Abilities, like a Spartan-like kick from a Warrior or a Mage's firewall that deals continuous damage, add to the player's repertoire of combat options. Warriors can parry incoming attacks, staggering enemies in the process. Rogues have a larger parry window, and Mages can't parry at all but instead throw up a shield that blocks all incoming damage so long as they have the mana to sustain the shield.  "That is just the baseline that allows us to get that level of immersion of, 'I'm actually in this world; I'm a part of it,'" Busche says. "But again, the abilities, the strategy, linking my companions' abilities together to perform devastating combos, that is really where the depth and the complexity comes into play." Abilities And The Skill Tree"

"[caption for image above] Warrior Rook Skill Tree This extends to companions, who, at your choosing, bring three abilities (of their five total) into combat, executed either with quick select buttons or the pause-and-play combat wheel. Every time you rank up a companion's Relationship Level, you unlock a skill point to spend specifically on that companion – this is how you unlock new combat abilities.  Though companion skill trees pale in comparison to Rook's expansive tree, which features passive abilities, combat abilities, and more, as well as paths to three unique class specializations, there's still some customization here.  You can find the skill tree for Rook and companions within Veilguard's start or pause menu. This menu contains pages for Veilguard's map, journal, character sheets, and a library for lore information, too. Here, you can cross-compare equipment and equip new gear for Rook and companions, build weapon loadouts, and customize your abilities and builds via the aforementioned skill tree, which looks relatively easy to understand."

"- Large circle: Class - Diamonds: Abilities - Medium circle: Major Passives and Ability Upgrades - Small hexagon: Traits - Small circle: Minor Passives and Stat Boosts You won't find minutiae here, "just real numbers," Busche says. In other words, a new unlocked trait might increase damage by 25% against armor, but that's as in-depth as the numbers get. Passive abilities unlock jump attacks and guarantee critical hit opportunities, while abilities add moves like firewall and spartan kicks to your arsenal. As you spec out this skill tree, which is 100% bespoke to each class, you'll work closer to unlocking a specialization (which doesn't take reaching the max level of 50). Every class has three specializations, each with a unique ultimate ability. Busche says BioWare's philosophy with the skill tree is "about changing the way you play, not the statistical minutiae."  Companions In Combat"

"If you completely ignore companions in combat, they will attack targets, use abilities, and defeat enemies all on their own. "[Companions] are their own people, "Busche says. "They have their own behaviors, they have their own autonomy on the battlefield, they'll pick their own targets. As their plots progress, they'll learn how to use their abilities more competently, and it really feels like you're fighting alongside these realized characters in battle." Speaking to companion synergy, Busche adds, "I see all the abilities Harding has, and I see everything that Bellara is capable of. And sometimes, I'm using vulnerabilities synergistically. Maybe I'm pausing or slowing time with Bellara so that I can unleash devastating attacks with Harding, knocking down the enemy, and then me, as Rook, I'm rushing in and capitalizing on this setup they've created for me. It is a game about creating this organic sense of teamwork." Busche says there are more explicit synergies, with intentional combos where specific companions can play off each other, and you can queue up their abilities to do just that. That’s what the pause-and-play combat wheel is for in Veilguard.  In this screen, which pauses the camera and pulls up a flashy combat wheel that highlights you and your companions' skills, you can choose abilities, queue them up, and strategize with synergies and combos the game recognizes, all while targeting specific enemies. Select what you want and release the wheel to watch your selections play out. Putting It All Together"

During a mission within Arlathan Forest after Veilguard's prologue, Busche utilizes Veilguard's dual-loadout mechanic. As Rook, you can create two weapon loadouts for quick switch-ups mid-combat. As a mage Rook, she uses magical attacks to add three stacks of arcane build-up to make an Arcane Bomb on a Sentinel, a mechanical set of armor possessed by a demon. If you hit the Sentinel's Arcane Bomb with a heavy attack, the enemy will take devastating damage. Once the Sentinel has an Arcane Bomb on it, Busche begins charging a heavy attack on her magical staff, then switches to magical daggers in Rook's second loadout, accessed with a quick tap of down on the d-pad to unleash some quick light attacks, then back to the staff to finish charging its attack. She then unleashes the heavy attack, and the Arcane Bomb explodes in a liquidy whirl of green magic.  "I've seen [Veilguard's combat] refined over time [and] I love it," BioWare general manager Gary McKay tells me. "I love that balance of real-time fluid action, but also the ability to have the depth in the RPG, not just in terms of pause-and-play, but the depth in terms of how you bring your companions into the battlefield. What are you going to do with their skill points? What's the loadout you're going to use? Everything is about bringing Rook to the center of the battlefield, and I love it."  Former Dragon Age executive producer and Veilguard consultant Mark Darrah feels Veilguard is the first game where the combat is legitimately fun. "What I see in Veilguard is a game that finally bridges the gap," he says. "Uncharitably, previous Dragon Age games got to the realm of 'combat wasn't too bad.' In this game, the combat's actually fun, but it does keep that thread that's always been there. You have the focus on Rook, on your character, but still have that control and character coming into the combat experience from the other people in your party."  I get the sense from watching Busche play several hours of Veilguard that BioWare has designed a combat system that relies heavily on players extracting what they want out of it. If you want to button mash and use abilities freely when their cooldowns expire, you can probably progress fine (although on the game's easier difficulties). But if you want to strategize your combos, take advantage of elemental vulnerabilities, and min-max companions and Rook loadouts, you can do that, too, and I think you'll find Veilguard rewards that with a more enriching experience.  For more about the game, including exclusive details, interviews, video features, and more, click the Dragon Age: The Veilguard hub button below."

[source]

[historyofromanovs]

do you know where the first few of the romanovs resided before all of the palaces were built and if so, are any of them remaining? do we know what they look like?

I'm afraid very little from the earliest days of the Romanov dynasty had survived the ravages of time. By the time of Nicholas II, many early residences had already been either destroyed or replaced by the modern and elegant palaces we see today. Here's a few that survived.

The Cabin of Peter the Great May 1703

Built during the founding of the city of Saint Petersburg, the log cabin was the first St. Petersburg "palace" of Tsar Peter the Great. The small wooden house was constructed in just three days, by soldiers of the Semyonovskiy Regiment. 

At that time, the new St. Petersburg was described as "a heap of villages linked together, like some plantation in the West Indies".

The Cabin was boarded up and camouflaged during the Second World War. It was the first St. Petersburg museum to reopen in September 1944, after the end of the Siege of Leningrad. 

This cabin must have appeared as a huge downgrade after the wooden palace of Tsar Alexei!

The Wooden Palace of Tsar Alexei Romanov 1667

The recreation of an authentic mid-17th century Romanov residence was built recently in 2010. The Palace of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, also known as the Wooden Palace of Tsar Alexei, is a large wooden palace in Kolomenskoye, near Moscow, Russia.

The original was built in 1667 without using any fasten materials, nails or hooks. The wooden palace, famed for its fanciful, fairytale roofs, was a summer residence for Russian tsars before St. Petersburg was constructed. 

The palace was divided into male and female halves, with the Tsar and Tsarevitches towers and chambers in the male half and the Tsarina's towers in the female half. 

The palace's interior featured rich decorations, including carving, painting, gilding, and ceramic tiles, as well as rectangular and round stoves, weathercocks, and windows and porches. 

Foreigners referred to this huge maze of intricate corridors and 250 rooms, as 'an Eighth Wonder of the World'. Although basically only a summer palace, it was the favorite residence of Tsar Alexei I.

The future Empress Elizabeth Petrovna was born in the palace in 1709, and Tsar Peter the Great spent part of his youth here.

Upon the departure of the court for the swamps of St. Petersburg, the palace fell into disrepair, so that Catherine the Great refused to make it her Moscow residence. On her orders the wooden palace was demolished in 1768, but thankfully, the detailed plans of the palace had survived.

Summer Palace of Peter the Great

1714

One of the earliest imperial residences I can think of that still exists today is the modest Summer Palace of Peter the Great, which is located on an island near the Peter and Paul Fortress, the burial place of the Romanovs.

The palace was built between 1710 and 1714, a few years before the proclamation of the Russian Empire. By the time of Tsar Nicholas II's reign at the end of the 19th century, it became vacant.

During the Second World War, both the Summer Palace and Summer Gardens were badly damaged by a German bombing raid. The building was repaired, however, and the layout remains unchanged from the original.

Above: The palace as depicted in 1809. Below: The residence today.

Monplaisir Palace in Peterhof 1714-1716

There is another residence owned by Peter the Great that is still standing today. And that is the Monplaisir Palace in Peterhof.

The following painting depicts the formidable Tsar and his son and heir Tsarevich Alexei Petrovich, who has been accused of preparing to seize power, in the interior of the Monplaisir Palace. Before pronouncing sentence, Peter I gazes into his son's eyes, still hoping to discern signs of remorse.

Above: The Parade Hall of Monplaisir Palace today.

[worfs-glorious-hair]

E and M for Vase S for the Druid Tav (if I am not mixing them)

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK! 🫶💜

Ask for the OC SFW Alphabet Meme

I think you have them mixed up – Vase is not my Tav. They belong to @the-wizard-kisser and you probably saw this cameo on my feed I recently reblogged from them. But in case you, @the-wizard-kisser, want to join the fun am I inviting you to answer for Vase, too! 👀💜

But the druid!Tav is definitely mine (Tav (i) and Tav (ii)) and I will just answer all three for them :D

E – Emotion How are they with showing emotion in public versus private?

Tav struggles with showing (true/ “risky”) emotion, especially in public. It feels much easier, and more importantly saver, to appear calm, collected and unfazed in public. It also helps to be able to act more efficiently when they find themselves in another high stake situation.

And when they are around people they feel save with (and they do with their companions) they find it easier to be their authentic self and actually show what they are truly feeling. Of course to an extent, they will try to not show their fear in front of enemies or their worry about the outcome of a situation (e.g. the Iron Throne) to keep their companions focused and calm. Then are they merely doing what has to be done and do not feel and do not think – this will come afterwards.

A part of their personal learnings on their journey was to let people in, in their private, emotional moments. To share these moments with those who truly care about Tav and who they care deeply about. To let go of safety and control. I am obviously not projecting.

M – Morning How are mornings spent with them?

Tav is not a traditional morning person but a breakfast person!

Tav is, just like Gale, someone who goes to bed late and sleeps long into the morning/ early noon, if they can. (At least this is their natural way of being, they are able to get up early if they have to. But it’s a struggle every day, no matter how regularly they have to do it. Especially when the bed is warm and comfy, the window open and lets a breeze from the sea into the room and Gale is right next to them and equally unwilling to get up. Gale becomes definitely one of those professors who are known to be late for their own classes.)

They love to have (strong black) tea (with milk) after waking up, whenever this is, and breakfast is their most important, most beloved meal of the day – another thing they share with Gale. Tea is a must and usually the only thing that will get them out of bed eventually, to not have tea would be terrible and both, Tav and Gale, get cranky without it. Tav and Gale both cherish and prioritise a good breakfast, also on work days, some toast, some scrambled eggs, some smoked fish, some juice/ fruit. Suffice to say that they bonded in the early stages of their journey over the lack of proper breakfast and the importance of such a meal. And they were equally happy, even ecstatic, when they managed to find some tea in the hag’s cottage, fittingly even called a tea house.

S – Security How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?

Very much. Tav always keeps an eye out on those they share the road with, especially their companions. They are quick to aid them if they need any help in battles whatsoever and are willing to put themselves at high risk to be hit if this means someone they love is save.

Tav is a druid, so their aid comes usually in the shape of ice knife, moonbeam or their current wild shape and in healing spells.

And their companions, especially Gale, do the same for them. And Tav realises how deep their connection is, how true. How they can trust these people with their life and know that it will be saved if the need arises. And this is how they want to be protected as well – fiercely, unapologetic and with a tendency of being risky.

[moonshine999]

Querencia

(n.) a place from which one's strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self

Pairing : Helaena Targaryen x Aegon II Targaryen

Summary : Helaena is pregnant with her and Aegon’s child. The only problem is no one even knows that they are together, much less the fact that they fucked.

Warnings : mild angst, mentions and implications of alcoholism/addiction (still fluff for the most part though)

A/N : so it’s here, for good now. Sorry for the weird glitch that sent this to my posts instead of my drafts but it’s here now. Going to thank the every lovely @fatherforgivethem for the prompt and the sweet encouragement, I hope I did it justice to what you had in mind ♥️ (it got super long but gah, the prompt was just so good)

Two. Two lines. Two souls. Too many people not in the know.

The rhyme burned into her mind till it became just noise in its mess. She rocked back and forth, try to give herself some pattern, some assurance but to no avail. What had they done?

“Hel?” The familiar voice sent a jolt up her as she lifted her head. Her eyes were wet, tears dancing along the bridge of fear and joy. Aegon walked towards her, slowly, as if she could erupt if he rushed.

“Is it..” A sigh. “So it’s positive.”

The tears fell hearing it in the solidarity of his voice, her hand immediately grasping around her mouth to control herself.

“Hey hey hey, it’s okay, we..we will be fine. It’s okay..” He comforted, kneeling down next to her.

“How!?” The question came out rougher than she intended and yet not enough to show the true extent of how much she felt. “What if mom finds out, Aegon? Ma? Criston? Our brothers? Anyone?! What if they’re disgusted? What if we get kicked out of the house? What if we lose-“ a sharp breath before she stopped herself. Ranting wasn’t going to help the situation. Yet the panic remained. What if?

Silence followed. Unsure, reckless silence. Confused, awkward silence. Silence.

“Aegon..if we keep the child, I want you to promise me something.” “Of course, what is it?” “Promise me..” she cleared her throat “promise me.. that you will not leave us.”

And so something snapped. Is that what she truly thought of him? That he would be so sick?

“I wouldn’t Hela! I wouldn’t, you know that! I’m not that low of a person.” he near shouted. “No you are not but..” But? “But you have tendencies when it comes to this addiction and…I will not sacrifice this child for the sake of your liquor.” She sat, eyes wide, face stained, voice steady. But the fact was, he was always more of a mess than her. And it was too much. His own love thought him lesser than his curses. How? Why? Before he knew it, his feet carried him rampantly out of the room, frustrated at her, himself and entirely too much.

Two souls. Too much.

“Dearest, you have any idea why Aegon is not here for dinner yet?” “Uhm. No, Ma I don’t.”

“Am afraid to tell you, Ali but your son seems to be out about the town again.” Cole answered.

Ma sighed, Aemond scoffed, Daeron barely noticed, mom started playing with her food, clearly uncomfortable.

I am afraid to tell you too, Ma.

The painting hung high. It was always one of Ma’s favourites that she had made. How fast the mornings and afternoons seemed to disappear for him, taking the sun as far as they could, only to leave him a cold, dark evening. However, this painting shone in the moonlight that snuck in through the long windows. It shone brighter than any sun could make it. It was of the two of them, as toddlers, smiling with wide grins and child like ecstasy. Oh, what they had become. For each other, for the family.

The fear pounded at his heart, the regret clawed at his brain, the confusion scribbled all throughout his face. How? Why? He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. He can’t. All he did was stand there, staring at the brush strokes.

“Tsk, if you’re done with standing in the hallway, may we leave for the meeting?” Criston called out, putting his blazer on. “Mhm.” He wasn’t done. “Aegon!” . . “Did you ever want children, Cole?” The question was jarring, out of the blue, completely irrational to ask their bodyguard, but it felt right. “Why..?”

“Just so.. can’t I simply ask?” Cole scoffed, smirking. “Never thought about it as such. I always thought I was too reckless or confused, I won’t be able to bring up an entire human.” A chuckle escaped him “You? Reckless? Since when?” “When I was about your age, Aegon. But oh well, I got employed here and left those thoughts behind. Then Nyra married Ali and they had them. 4 times. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t protective or even if I said it didn’t make me a better person. Because it did, this is the closest thing I have to a family and maybe that was just what I needed, perhaps without knowing for sure at first. Life is a confusing, winding path, isn’t it?”

Oh.

“I suppose it is.”

Cole laughed, “Come on now, otherwise your mothers will make me regret they had you in the first place.” He joked, tapping his back before wrapping his arms around his boy.

“Ma? You here?” “Hmm yes, sweetheart?”

She was glad her mother was able to hear her through her headphones. This was the most domestic she would see her Ma, in old, racked overalls, paint stains at every corner of the room, headphones at full volume, paintbrush spinning in hand and every red curl shining in the sunlight. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who co-owned one of the richest companies in the world.

“Ma, can we talk?” She slid off her headphones and looked skeptically at her daughter. “Talk?” A nod. “About what?” She asked warmly, smile rising and eyes showing excitement in every speck. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this. For a..while now. So..uhm..why did you decide to marry mom in the first place? Didn’t grandpa object or something?” She chuckled sweetly “Ohhh I see.” Shit. “You want to know about me and mom’s little love story don’t you?” oh thank the seven. “Yup! Caught me there.” She laughed.

Ma’s face radiated further as she looked back on the memory, her paintbrush now still, her smile now wider, her eyes now glowing.

“Well, to put it simply. I love your mom. And she loves me. I know that much, there’s an assurance, a trust. Because I met your mom when life was gone to shit for me and through those confusing and unsure times, our love was something I could always fall back on. It was sure, it was constant, it was steady. I liked it.”

Ma laughed. Then looked towards her.

“As for grandpa, we were terrified to tell him anything about our relationship. I had no idea whether he would even be accepting of me marrying a woman, much less a Targaryen woman. But we were brave enough, we did it. And then your grandfather patted Nyra on the back and said ‘take care of her, she’s all your burden now.’ The rest is history.”

“So you knew you were ready for marriage?”

“I think so. There isn’t anyone else I’d rather spend my last days with. You want your life to have memories, not dreams, hopes or what-ifs.”

She smiled. “Thank you Ma.”

Ma tilted her head slightly and gave her one last question. “But..why?”

“I need a reason to speak to my own mother??” She asked, exaggerating offence.

“Tsk, get lost.” Ma giggled.

Two. Two days had passed and they had not spoken a word to each other.

Perhaps it was her fault. She shouldn’t have assumed such a thing of him. She knows he wouldn’t, why did she have to say that? Why? .

.

Perhaps it was his. Shouldn’t he just have assured her? Did he have to storm out the way he did? Why couldn’t he just talk to her? Why?

A message popped up on his phone.

Gardens. Now.

Who was he to object?

“Hel?”

Oh gods.

“Listen-“ “Listen-“ “You go first.” “What? No, it’s fine, you go first.” “This isn’t going to work if we keep going like this. You go first.” “Fine.”

She took a deep breath. Her palms felt clammy, her pocket felt heavier and her face heated up. Fuck, why was she nervous. It’s fine, you’ve rehearsed this, it’s okay.

“Aegon.” “Helaena.”

“Listen. I’m sorry about what I said. I..I genuinely am. I know that you wouldn’t and it was in the heat of the moment. It’s just we, all of us, have been raised so so happily that I started overthinking and I put the blame on you for something that I understand you can never do.”

Fuck, she was good.

“I had expectations as soon as I saw the test. I wanted you whole, unscathed, not a big mess, perhaps.” “Wow-“ “My gods..listen!” “Okay, okay.”

“More importantly, however is the fact that I want you. As you were. As you are. As you will be. I don’t think there is anyone else I can imagine spending my life with.”

Oh.

“Aegon. I am in love with you and right now, with this child. Our child, I don’t think I have ever been more sure of that.” Tears welled up in their eyes, gods, too much.

“Aegon Targaryen..” she took the weight from her pocket and knelt on one knee. “Will you marr-“

“YES! I mean, yeah, yes, sure.” She laughed and put the ring on his finger.

“Oh it’s beautiful…thank you, Helaena.” He whispered, immediately pulling her into his arms. And then he kissed her, because he loved her. She loved him. He was sure of it. There was assurance in their kisses. There was his past, present and future in their kisses. There was her. And their soon to be family.

“Hel. I promise I will never, ever leave you or that child. I know that I have flaws, various things I need to get over but love, you are my everything. You are my heart and everything I ever held dear. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you. Life is confusing, it really is. But..you’re not, this is not. I’m sure of it.” His voice strained with his tears threatening to leave their bounds.

“Ñuha vēzos.” “Ñuha hūra.”

My sun. My moon.

“Is this really necessary? I have two more calls to-“ “Nyra..they want to talk so let’s talk.” “Oh this should be fun.” “Not the time Cole…yes darlings.”

“Ma, mom..Criston.” Hel spoke first, she’s good at that. “We have been wanting to tell you this for a while now.” Just take it slow, it’s okay.

“Me and Aegon have been..together. Romantically. For the past year.” FUCK.

Mom sat, mouth agape and looked at Criston who responded with the same expression. Ma took a deep breath and smiled. Shit. It was one of Ma’s sarcastic smiles.

And then, roaring laughter. Mom and Criston’s.

Helaena and Aegon looked at each other, eyes wide. Shock? Fear?

“Oh hush you two. Uhm. Sweethearts, we know.”

“We aren’t blind.” Cole giggled. “And I can only assume but..Hel is pregnant, isn’t she?”

Simultaneous nodding.

“What?!” Ma exclaimed. “Hmm, someone owes me a 50” mom sing songed.

“Let me this straight.” He spoke the first time since this interaction started. “You knew we were together, the entire year and you knew she was pregnant and you didn’t bother to tell us?

“Well we just wanted to see how quickly you’d give in.” “Ma!” “they gave in pretty quickly actually, we didn’t tell my parents till we were way past the 3 year mark.” Hel sighed before chuckling into the laughter herself.

“We also know that you have proposed” Criston continued, pointing towards the ring on Aegon’s hand.

“I can’t believe this. Holy fuck.” “Language.” A collective phrase from all 3 of them.

Too many people who knew?

“I’m gonna be an uncle!?” “As long as I don’t have to change any diapers, all will be well.”

“Aegon for the Seven’s sake, stay calm and stop pacing around.” Aemond sneered. “My fiancée is gone to get her ultrasound, in what world do you expect me to be calm about this!?”

Cole giggled as he walked into the room. “You don’t have to stress yourself over it anymore, Aemy, they’re already back.”

“They’re back!?” “I told you to stop calling me that!”

Before he knew it, his feet carried him out to the front hall. Hel was wrapped in a side hug by Ma as they laughed and whispered about something. “Hel!” Her head snapped towards him, eyes glowing as soon as they caught his gaze. He rushed towards her and immediately hugged her. “Easy, Aegon.” “Yeah yeah Ma.” She scoffed and walked away, leaving the couple be. “Soo? How was it? Can I see? Is it a boy? A girl?” He gleamed. She giggled and kissed him.

Two. Two souls.

[chiefsluauhawaii]

Embracing Tradition at a Hawaiian Luau

The Essence of Hawaiian Culture

Stepping into an  Authentic Hawaiian Luau  is like crossing a threshold into the heart of Polynesian heritage. The air hums with the rhythm of ancient chants, and the scent of roasted kalua pig wafts from an underground oven, or imu, where it has been slow-cooked to perfection. This immersive celebration, deeply rooted in Hawaiian history, is more than a feast; it’s a vibrant expression of community, storytelling, and connection to the land. On the island of Oahu, these gatherings draw locals and visitors alike, offering a window into traditions that have thrived for centuries. The experience is a sensory journey, blending music, dance, and cuisine in a way that feels both timeless and immediate.

The origins of the luau trace back to ancient Hawaii, where feasts marked significant events like harvests, victories, or royal gatherings. These early celebrations were steeped in kapu, a system of sacred rules, which often restricted men and women from dining together. In 1819, King Kamehameha II abolished this practice, hosting a grand feast that symbolized unity and set the stage for the modern luau. Today, an Hawaiian Luau Oahu carries forward this spirit of togetherness, inviting everyone to share in the aloha—love, compassion, and hospitality—that defines the islands.

A Feast for the Senses

The culinary centerpiece of any luau is the food, a spread that showcases the bounty of Hawaii’s land and sea. The star of the meal is often the kalua pig, prepared in an imu lined with heated lava rocks and banana leaves. The pig is buried with ti leaves and cooked for hours, emerging tender, smoky, and infused with earthy flavors. Alongside it, you’ll find poi, a creamy taro paste that’s a staple of the Hawaiian diet, its subtle flavor balancing the richness of the pork. Fresh poke, made with cubed raw fish marinated in sea salt, seaweed, and chili, adds a burst of the ocean’s freshness. Tropical fruits like pineapple and mango, paired with sweet potato and laulau—steamed bundles of pork and fish wrapped in taro leaves—round out the feast.

At an Authentic Hawaiian Luau, the meal is not just about taste; it’s about connection. Diners sit together at long tables, often under a canopy of palm trees, sharing stories as they pass dishes. The act of eating becomes a communal ritual, a way to honor the land and the hands that prepared the food. On Oahu, where lush valleys and coastal waters provide abundant ingredients, the luau feels like a love letter to the island itself.

The Pulse of Music and Dance

No Hawaiian Luau Oahu is complete without the mesmerizing performances that bring Hawaii’s stories to life. The hula, both ancient and modern, is the soul of the luau. In its kahiko form, hula is a sacred dance accompanied by oli (chants) and percussion, telling tales of gods, chiefs, and nature. The modern auana style, with its flowing movements and ukulele melodies, adds a lyrical grace. Dancers adorned in ti-leaf skirts and flower leis move with precision, their hands weaving narratives of wind, waves, and love.

Drums set the tempo, their deep resonance echoing the heartbeat of the islands. The pahu, a sharkskin-covered drum, and the ipu, a gourd instrument, create rhythms that feel alive. Fire knife dancing, a Samoan-inspired art, often closes the show, with performers twirling flaming batons in a display of skill and daring. These performances are not mere entertainment; they are a living archive of Polynesian culture, passed down through generations.

Crafting Memories Under the Stars

What sets an Authentic Hawaiian Luau apart is its ability to create lasting memories. As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over Oahu’s beaches, the luau transforms into a magical evening under the stars. Guests are often greeted with a lei, a garland of flowers symbolizing affection, and invited to participate in activities like lei-making or coconut husking. These hands-on experiences deepen the connection to Hawaiian traditions, making the night feel personal and profound.

The setting amplifies the magic. Whether held on a sandy shore with waves lapping nearby or in a garden framed by volcanic peaks, the natural beauty of Oahu enhances the luau’s charm. The sense of place is palpable, grounding the celebration in the island’s spirit. Families, friends, and strangers come together, united by the warmth of aloha and the shared joy of the moment.

Why Oahu’s Luaus Stand Out

Oahu, as Hawaii’s most populous island, offers a unique blend of accessibility and authenticity. Its luaus are a gateway to understanding the islands’ cultural mosaic, from the influence of Polynesian voyagers to the contributions of later immigrants. A Hawaiian Luau Oahu is not just a tourist attraction; it’s a celebration that locals cherish, a way to preserve and share their heritage. The island’s diversity shines through in the food, music, and stories, making each luau a distinct experience.

For those seeking to immerse themselves in this tradition, timing matters. Arriving early allows you to witness the imu ceremony, where the pig is unearthed, revealing the care behind the meal. Engaging with performers and artisans offers insights into the skills and pride that sustain these traditions. Every element, from the first note of the ukulele to the final flicker of the fire knife, is crafted to honor Hawaii’s past while inviting you into its present.

[ghoulelegy]

It Goes Down Smooth

Summary: In a chilling, eerie atmosphere within the abbey, you grapple once more with exhaustion and illness. You seek solace in the unexpected warmth and wisdom of Papa Emeritus II, who offers comfort and a remedy.

Pairing: Secondo x Sick Reader

Words: 2569

Contains:

Alcohol

Comfort

Safe for work

Gender Neutral Reader

Read It Goes Down Smooth on AO3 - If you prefer that

Note: thank you @em0bussy and @creatura-theanarchist for being wonderful Beta Readers <3

The evening descended with a palpable chill, its icy fingers clawing at your senses. The overcast sky hung like a leaden shroud, saturating the Abbey's hallway with dense, frigid air.

Gazing through a dewed-up window, your eyes fixated on the towering sentinels of trees. Their skeletal branches etched stark silhouettes against the ashen canvas of the overcast sky. Nature's symphony played a subdued yet haunting tune, punctuated only by the occasional rustling of leaves stirred by an ethereal, frigid breeze. This ghostly whisper sliced through the silence, casting the world into an uncanny realm, far removed from the familiar.

Throughout the workday, an unsettling aura clung to you. Your thoughts felt ensnared in a hazy limbo as if your very existence teetered on the precipice between reality and the intangible. Hours slipped by in a blur, tasks completed on autopilot, while you wrestled with this eerie detachment. A mere sneeze had now congealed into a stubborn blockade within your sinuses, punctuated by sporadic fits of coughing—a harbinger of the unwelcome guest known as a cold. However, you were acutely aware that a night of undisturbed rest held the key to recovery. Though not quite flu season, you had unintentionally overworked yourself, with your mental and physical health bearing the brunt of this relentless.

Hesitantly, you decided to skip the evening mass, opting for an early night's rest. You recognised the inevitability of burnout if you pushed yourself further. Thankfully, mass wasn't mandatory, though heavily encouraged. You enjoyed it, as it gave you time to unwind and bond with the other ghouls and staff members, while also providing the space for some more intimate fun.

However, simply put, you were just so fucking tired today.

You stood in the corridor, your gaze locked on the imposing door to Papa Emeritus II's office. Part of you longed to inform him about your planned absence, to ease his mind and ensure he knew you were taking care of yourself. The weight of the ministry, which he bore on his shoulders with unwavering determination, was no secret to you. You admired his dedication and the sacrifices he made daily. It seemed only right that you should reciprocate his concern by being transparent about your well-being. You knew that he valued the unity of the ministry, the bond between its members, and your absence, even from a simple evening gathering, might worry him.

Yet, another voice in your head whispered doubts and fears, like a relentless adversary seeking to undermine your good intentions. It questioned you, suggesting that he might see you as a burden, an inconvenience, or worse – as self-centred for bothering him with your trivial issues. The image of his stern exterior, the mask he wore in the face of the world's complexities, loomed large in your mind. You hesitated to disrupt that facade, worried that your vulnerability might chip away at the respect you held for each other.

Papa Emeritus II projected an image of sternness to the outside world, a man who brooked no nonsense and demanded excellence from those around him. He wore a mask of gruffness, a shield against the complexities of the world. It was an image that tightened further whenever his father was present, a testament to the pressures he faced.

But you knew there was more to him than met the eye. In the company of his ghouls, he allowed himself to be more authentic, revealing a side that few outsiders ever saw. He let go of some of the perfectionism that defined him, offering a glimpse into the complexity of his character.

As you lingered outside his office, doubt and anxiety swirled within you like a turbulent storm. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly; a nervous habit born from the internal struggle you faced.

"Is someone out there? You can come in" a silky voice beckoned you in.

Pushing open the oak wood door, you stepped into his office, where the warmth and inviting atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the chilly evening beyond. Despite the toasty air, it was rather old-fashioned, with an oak desk taking centre stage, littered with an assortment of papers and files. It was dimly lit, and the windows eloquently decorated with crimson curtains—a subtle, earthy scent wafted through the room.

You were surprised to see Secondo not in his iconic chasuble. Instead, he wore a simple black shirt and trousers, his face devoid of the customary skeletal paint. It was not a rare sight for a ghoul working in the ministry however it is one that emphasized the stark contrast between his public persona and the man you saw before you now. This version of Secondo felt more human and approachable. It reminded you that beneath the elaborate costumes and ritualistic facade, he was just another member of the ministry, someone who experienced the same highs and lows of life as anyone else.

"Tell me, what's wrong with you?" The words, delivered in Secondo's distinctive gruff Italian accent, hung in the air. Despite the harsh implications of that sentence, you couldn't help but admire the way he rolled his Rs, a distinctive feature of his speech that had become familiar, almost comforting. His manner of speaking no longer jarred you, it's just the way he communicates.

"I'm not feeling too well," you finally admitted with a slight sniffle. "I think I've caught a cold, and I've decided to skip evening mass tonight. I need some rest."

"Va tutto bene, but the mass was cancelled for the evening either way, ghuleh" he rumbled, his voice soothing. "Or have you forgotten?"

"Oh – uh – yeah, sorry."

"Don't apologise. Please take a seat." Papa Emeritus II's deep voice resonated through the dimly lit office, casting a warm and inviting aura. He gestured gracefully at the leather chair in front of the desk, its rich mahogany frame gleaming softly in the ambient light. Settling into it, you couldn't help but notice how the chair emitted a slight, reassuring squeak as you did, but it was surprisingly comfortable. The plush upholstery cradled your body, a stark contrast to the unease that had been gnawing at you.

As you took your place, you caught yourself glimpsing at the office's decor. Intricately framed paintings adorned the deep green walls, each a testament to a bygone era. The antique desk before you, polished to a high sheen, bore the weight of years of meticulous use. The Satanic Pope, in his characteristic manner, reached over and carefully moved a stack of files to the side of the desk, creating a bit more space. The desk was adorned with tiny, carefully arranged trinkets—a silver inkwell, an ornate letter opener, and a delicate porcelain figurine—that hinted at the personality of the man behind it.

"Now," Secondo began, rubbing his chin, "a cold is very similar to an infection, a virus in the body. That virus needs to be killed off and eliminated. This is the job of your white blood cells, which attack the virus and destroy it." He leaned forward, his expression solemn, as he continued to explain. "But sometimes those white blood cells can't effectively battle the virus. So you need a helping hand."

“Right, yes, I paid attention in biology class, you know," you replied with a weak grin, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Papa Secondo nodded in acknowledgement, "Ah, good. You remember the material well."

"For the white blood cells to effectively destroy the virus, they need to be stimulated, activated," Secondo continued. "The body does this by raising its temperature. The fever is designed to be slightly debilitating. However, a fever helps the white blood cells kill off the virus quicker, reducing the duration of the illness and speeding up the recovery process significantly."

“Are you patronizing me?"

"Not at all," Secondo replied, his tone earnest. "Apologies, my tone is... well, the way I speak. I can get a bit carried away sometimes uhh – please do not be offended."

He paused, thinking for a moment, before continuing, "Now, how about I bring you a drink? It'll keep you nice and toasty, as your body does its thing and works to eliminate the infection. I know just what will make you feel better," he said softly. As Secondo reached for the bottle of whiskey, the glass clinked softly against its siblings, the warm amber liquid swirling within, capturing the soft light of the room. A faint, smoky aroma wafted from the bottle, its scent a heady blend of aged oak and hints of spices.

With a practised hand, Secondo poured a small measure into a crystal glass, the liquid gliding into its container like liquid gold. As he did, the room was filled with the rich, intoxicating scent, carrying notes of vanilla and caramel that seemed to hang in the air.

"I'm not good with alcohol." You sigh.

"You don't have to take it, but the offer is there." Despite your hesitation, you decide to accept the gesture, putting your wholehearted trust in his intentions, even though you are aware of its potency. You downed the whole thing like a shot.

As the fiery liquid touched your throat, regret washed over you immediately. The whiskey burned, igniting a fit of coughing that felt like a wildfire in your sinuses. "Sathanas, that's so strong," you groaned, desperately attempting to quench the fire. It left an unpleasant taste in your mouth, making your stomach churn, especially since you hadn't had dinner yet.

"Stai Bene? I'll get you some water. Mi dispiace." He handed you a glass of lukewarm water. Sipping it, it felt like heaven as you attempted to rid your mouth of the unpleasant taste of the shot.

To your surprise, you did notice that breathing became a bit easier, though the discomfort of nausea still hung over you.

“I'll stick to tea next time," you chuckled slightly.

As you sit in the office with the remnants of the fiery concoction still tingling in your throat, Secondo, ever attentive, watches your reaction with a mixture of concern and amusement. His eyes, a stark contrast to his stern exterior, reveal a softness that you've come to cherish, holding it deeply in your heart. You take a deep breath, trying to quell the lingering coughing fit and the unease that still gnaws at you.

"I appreciate the gesture," you say, your voice now steadier. "Even if it does feel like a dragon's breath in my sinuses."

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Secondo's lips, and he leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed.

"Well, it might not be for everyone. But it's an old remedy, passed down through the generations in our ministry. Sometimes, the old ways have their merits."

“Sathanas! You’re telling me NIHIL used to do this?”

He nods “Oh yes, all the time. Not with me though, I wasn’t allowed any alcohol – Sister had me banned from alcohol because I kept stealing the chapel wine”.

“Iconic” you chuckle.

You both sit in companionable silence for a moment, you notice Secondo's fingers drumming softly on the armrest of his chair. His gaze occasionally drifts towards the window, where raindrops gently trace their paths down the glass, before returning to you with a reassuring look. Your fingers fidget with the edge of a tissue, twisting it into a small, delicate spiral.

After a while, Secondo breaks the silence, his voice softening. "You know, you don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. We're a team, and I'm here to support you, just as you support me."

You meet his gaze, appreciating the genuine concern in his eyes. "I know, Papa. And I appreciate that more than you know."

“Oh no, please, Call me Secondo.

You fidget with your hand once more, your eyes darting away.

“Okay.” you found yourself mumbling.

Secondo, ever perceptive, notices the lingering unease in your eyes. Without a word, he rises from his chair and steps closer to you. In a simple and genuine gesture, he opens his arms wide, inviting you into a warm embrace.

The effects of the whiskey still linger, making your thoughts feel a bit fuzzy around the edges, but the sincerity in Secondo's eyes reassures you. His gaze is a lifeline during the moment of uncertainty, a beacon of understanding that cuts through the fog of anxiety that has settled within you.

He wraps his arms around you, as you settle against Secondo's chest, the warmth of his body enveloping you, dispelling the chill that had clung to your skin. Secondo's arms, strong and reassuring, encircled you, creating a shield against the anxieties that had plagued you all day.

In that silent embrace, you felt a soothing connection, a lifeline to a world where you didn't have to bear the weight of your worries alone. The gentle rise and fall of Secondo's chest synchronized with your own breath, grounding you in the present moment.

With a subtle, affectionate stroke, Secondo's hand traced small circles on your back, a wordless reassurance that you were not alone. It was as if he understood the tangled mess of emotions that had swirled within your heart, and he was here to untangle them, one comforting touch at a time. As the seconds stretched into minutes, your unease began to ebb away, replaced by a profound sense of safety and trust. You closed your eyes, savouring the moment, and allowed yourself to relax fully into Secondo's embrace.

There were no grand declarations, no need for elaborate words. In the quiet of Secondo's office, the hug said everything that needed to be said.

“We all need to rest occasionally, do you understand?” he rumbles soothingly while he holds you.

“Mhm,” you nod, your voice barely above a whisper, gratitude softening your features.

With a gentle squeeze, Secondo eventually releases you from the hug. You meet his gaze, your eyes locking for a moment, and in that exchange, an unspoken connection deepens. It's a connection that transcends titles and formalities, rooted in the shared experiences and support that define your relationship.

"Io sono Secondo," he reiterates with a soft smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And I'm here whenever you need me, Ghuleh."

You return his smile, a weight lifted from your shoulders. "Thank you, Secondo. I appreciate that more than words can say."

“Now, I shall escort you back to the Ghoul’s wing. I heard the others are having a movie night there. I would quite like to join, though I understand if you’d want to go to your room early.”

“Oh n-no that sounds perf-“ you manage to hiccup out before turning away to sneeze.

“Ah, satana ti benedica” Secondo smiles, his eyes filled with amusement, before handing you a tissue from the tissue box. “I shall take that as a yes. I shall make you something else to drink though, since you did not seem to like my concoction.”

“I did like it! You’re conspiring against me!” You whined, mockingly, a hint of playfulness in your voice.

Secondo leaned in slightly, his eyes glimmering with mirth. his tone conspiratorial. "Ah, you've seen through my nefarious plan, Ghuleh," he whispered with a dramatic flair, "How about something else this time?”

Secondo, still smiling, led you out of his office and towards the Ghoul's wing where movie night awaited. The scent of popcorn wafted through the corridor, signalling a cosy and familiar gathering.

[linuxgamenews]

Immerse Yourself in the Gothic World of Vampire Therapist

Vampire Therapist dark story adventure game launches now on Linux, Mac, and Windows PC. Thanks to the creative minds at Little Bat Games. Available now on Steam and GOG with 100% Positive reviews. Ever wonder what the undead worry about? How they handle immortality? And what would a 3,000-year-old vampire do besides hang out in a gothic nightclub in Europe? These burning questions and more get answered in the Vampire Therapist dark adventure. This fresh new Linux game is the brainchild of Cyrus Nemati, who also stars in it. Joining him are voice actors like Matt Mercer from Critical Role. There is also Sarah Grayson from Hades 2, Francesca Meaux from Hades, and newcomer Kylie Clark. They bring a bunch of eccentric vampires to life in a way that’s both hilarious and heartfelt. Launching the dark story adventure of Vampire Therapist puts you in the boots of Sam. A cowboy from the Old West looking to change his murderous ways and reconnect with his soul. On his quest for answers about his immortality, Sam travels to Europe and meets Andromachos, a reformed assassin, warrior, and undead heartthrob. Under Andromachos's (bat)wing, Sam learns that being dead doesn’t mean you can't live.

Vampire Therapist dark story Launch Trailer

Together, they help other blood-sucking immortals realize they can still enjoy life, even in undeath. And the best part? The therapy techniques used in the game are designed with the help of real licensed therapists, giving it an authentic and meaningful touch.

Real Therapy Concepts: This teaches and applies real cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) concepts. You'll also challenge vampire clients' statements filled with "cognitive distortions." Due to help them see where their thoughts are out of whack.

A Comedic Journey Through History: You'll meet emotionally damaged vampires from ancient Greece, Renaissance Italy, Tudor England, and the Bronze Age. Inspired by shows like What We Do in the Shadows and Horrible Histories. The title also mixes comedy with deep, introspective themes and heartfelt characters.

An All-Star Voice Cast: The features some top-notch voice talent. Cyrus Nemati (Hades, Pyre) and Francesca Meaux (Hades). Sarah Grayson (Gone Home, Hades II), Kylie Clark, and Matthew Mercer (Critical Role, Baldur's Gate 3) all lend their voices to the cast.

Unique Setting: Vampire Therapist blends cozy self-introspection with a dark European goth vibe. The whole adventure takes place above a goth club in Germany. Complete with plenty of willing necks to bite!

Fun Minigames: Learn mindfulness meditation and safely, consensually bite some sexy necks in engaging minigames.

Created with love by solo developer Cyrus Nemati, Vampire Therapist promises a unique journey through the dark psychology of vampirism. Due to leave you changed forever.

Why You Should Play

Vampire Therapist isn’t just another dark adventure title. It’s also a mix of therapy and fun, all wrapped in a quirky, undead package. It offers a hilarious and touching look at what it means to be immortal and emotionally complex. Whether you're into deep stories or just looking for a laugh, this title has something for you. Plus, the CBT techniques you’ll learn might even help you in real life! So, if you're ready to explore the minds of ancient vampires, laugh at their antics, and maybe even learn a thing or two about your own thoughts. So jump in, help some vampires, and have a blast! Get ready to sink your teeth into Vampire Therapist, the dark story adventure launches on Steam and GOG. Priced at $14.99 USD / £12.79 / 14,79€. Along with support for Linux, Mac, and Windows PC.

[myfuckingbudapestmovie]

Legacy of 1930s Elegance: Budapest’s Timeless ‘Dugattyús House’ on Margi...

Budapest sci-fi építészete: a Dugattyús-ház a Margit körúton

Weiss Manfréd Vállalatok Elismert Nyugdíjintézete

1024 Budapest, II. kerület

"Legacy of 1930s Elegance: Budapest’s Timeless ‘Dugattyús House’ on Margit körút"

The "Dugattyús House" at 15-17 Margit körút, also known as the "Piston House," is one of Budapest’s most iconic residential buildings, capturing the spirit of 1930s modernist architecture. Designed by Ferenc Domány and Béla Hofstätter, this luxury apartment complex was completed in 1938 for the Weiss Manfréd Corporation’s pension fund, embodying the era’s elegance and forward-thinking design.

The building stands out for its sleek, circular glass elevators, expansive staircases, and remarkable views. Its construction was part of a larger urban renewal program initiated after WWI, aimed at modernizing Budapest’s inner-city areas. A 1934 tax law incentivized building new structures by offering generous tax exemptions for developers who tore down older, single-story homes and replaced them with high-density, multi-story buildings. Margit körút fell into the top tax-exempt zone, meaning that builders could avoid property taxes for 15 years and continue receiving 75% tax reductions even after that period, leading to a wave of modern apartments in the area.

The architectural style of the Dugattyús House is marked by horizontal lines of banded windows and solid parapets, complemented by the building’s round edges and large balconies. The lower floors are clad in travertine, while the upper stories are finished with sandstone, giving the facade a luxurious and cohesive look. Inside, marble-lined lobbies and restored original fixtures reflect the building’s high standards. Original features, such as lighting fixtures and rare wood paneling with a checkerboard pattern in the stairwells, were reconstructed to preserve the authentic aesthetic.

The residence attracted Budapest’s social elite, from aristocrats and high-ranking professionals to industrial magnates. Notable residents included engineers, doctors, and even a retired Minister of the Interior. The building’s few single-room apartments meant that this was no place for solitary individuals—most tenants were families or prominent professionals. It also housed influential figures from the textile and milling industries, which were closely connected to the Weiss family’s business empire.

The "Dugattyús House" remains a powerful example of Budapest’s architectural heritage, showcasing the city’s transition into a modern metropolis. Its blend of innovative design, social history, and luxury living has left an indelible mark on the cityscape.

Dugattyús Ház #budapestépítészete #Budapest

[gaymer-hag-stan]

On the 27th of October, six years ago, Assassin's Creed Origins was released for Windows, PS4 and Xbox One.

Principally set in Egypt, near the end of the Ptolemaic period from 49 to 43 BC, the story follows a Medjay named Bayek of Siwa and his wife Aya as they seek revenge for the murder of their son. It also explores the origins of the Assassin Brotherhood—referred here to as the Hidden Ones—and of their millenia-long conflict with the Order of the Ancients—forerunners to the Templar Order. The framing story, set in the 21st century, follows a new character, Layla Hassan, who relives Bayek and Aya's memories using a modified Animus device.

The game's development began following the release of Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag in 2013. The team consulted Egyptologists and historians extensively to ensure the setting was authentically represented in the game. In response to the common criticism that the gameplay of the series was getting stale and overly familiar, Ubisoft decided to reinvent the Assassin's Creed formula with Origins. Whereas previous entries were mainly stealth-action games, Origins introduces many elements found in role-playing games and an overhauled "hitbox-based" combat system. While Assassin's Creed had been an annual franchise since Assassin's Creed II, an extra year of development time allowed the team to polish the game further. This was largely a response to the tepid sales of Syndicate, and the troubled launch of Assassin's Creed Unity, which was plagued with technical issues when it was released in 2014.

It received positive reviews from critics, with many calling it an improvement over previous entries and praising the story, characters, voice acting, reworked gameplay systems, world design, historical accuracy, and the visuals. However, the game also drew criticism for its pacing, quest design, and technical issues. The game has sold over ten million units worldwide and was nominated for several end-of-year accolades.

[discoverthetaj]

Jaipur Tour from Delhi by Car by Discover The Taj Company

Jaipur Tour from Delhi by Car by Discover The Taj Company

If you're in Delhi and have a day to spare, a road trip to the majestic city of Jaipur—also known as the Pink City—makes for an unforgettable getaway. With its royal palaces, towering forts, colorful bazaars, and warm hospitality, Jaipur offers a perfect blend of culture, history, and architecture. The Jaipur Tour from Delhi by Car by Discover The Taj Company is designed to make this experience smooth, comfortable, and rich in memorable moments.

Convenient Departure from Delhi

Your journey begins early in the morning with a hotel pickup in a clean, air-conditioned vehicle. Discover The Taj Company provides well-maintained cars, experienced drivers, and the kind of travel comfort that lets you sit back, relax, and enjoy the 5 to 6-hour scenic drive through the Delhi-Jaipur Highway (NH-48). Whether you’re traveling solo, as a couple, or in a group, the journey sets the tone for a royal day ahead.

Welcome to Jaipur – The Pink City

Upon arrival in Jaipur, you’re greeted by the city’s distinct pink-hued buildings, which give the city its iconic nickname. The warm colors, royal ambiance, and the hum of daily life all make you feel like you’ve stepped into a different era—one where kings ruled and architecture was art in motion.

First Stop: Amber Fort

One of Jaipur’s most famous attractions, Amber Fort (or Amer Fort), sits majestically on a hilltop overlooking Maota Lake. This 16th-century fortress is a masterpiece of Rajput architecture with large ramparts, cobbled pathways, and an impressive blend of Hindu and Mughal design. The Sheesh Mahal (Mirror Palace) inside the fort is a must-see, dazzling with intricate mirror work that reflects even the faintest light beautifully.

Photo Stop at Jal Mahal

Next, head to the picturesque Jal Mahal, or Water Palace. This architectural gem sits in the middle of Man Sagar Lake, and while entry isn’t allowed, the view from the promenade is perfect for photos and a peaceful moment.

City Palace – Royalty at its Finest

Continue your journey to the City Palace, a sprawling complex that still houses the royal family of Jaipur. The palace features stunning courtyards, gardens, museums, and buildings that showcase an exquisite fusion of Rajasthani and Mughal architecture. You’ll get a glimpse of royal costumes, historical artifacts, and beautifully painted walls and gates.

Visit the Iconic Hawa Mahal

Just a short walk from City Palace is the Hawa Mahal, or the Palace of Winds. With its honeycomb structure and 953 small windows, it was built for royal women to observe street festivals without being seen. The façade is a photographer’s delight, especially when the golden rays of the sun hit its pink sandstone surface.

Lunch at a Traditional Rajasthani Restaurant

After a morning of exploring, it's time to refuel with a delicious lunch. Discover The Taj Company will take you to a clean and authentic Rajasthani restaurant where you can taste local delicacies like dal baati churma, laal maas, and ker sangri. Vegetarian and continental options are also available to suit every palate.

Jantar Mantar – Astronomical Brilliance

The next stop is Jantar Mantar, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and an ancient astronomical observatory. Built by Maharaja Jai Singh II, this site is home to the world’s largest stone sundial and numerous other instruments that still function with impressive accuracy.

Colorful Markets and Handicrafts (Optional)

If time permits and you’re in the mood to shop, your guide can take you to Jaipur’s lively local bazaars. From handmade jewelry and textiles to traditional jootis (footwear) and blue pottery, Jaipur’s markets are a treasure trove of Rajasthani craftsmanship.

Comfortable Drive Back to Delhi

After a day full of discoveries, enjoy a comfortable and relaxed drive back to Delhi. Your driver will drop you off at your hotel or airport by late evening, leaving you with amazing memories and beautiful photographs of your Jaipur adventure.

Why Choose Discover The Taj Company?

From punctual pickups to expert guides, Discover The Taj Company delivers a seamless travel experience. With a focus on comfort, safety, and personalized service, they ensure that your day trip is not only informative but also enjoyable and hassle-free.

[kokusaitrip]

Jaipur One Day Tour Package

Visit on my website:- https://kokusaitrip.com/jaipur-one-day-tour-package/

Explore the Pink City in a Day – A Journey Through Royal Grandeur, Culture, and Heritage

If you're short on time but eager to soak in the royal essence of Rajasthan, our Jaipur One Day Tour Package is the perfect experience for you. Known as the Pink City, Jaipur is a vibrant blend of old-world charm and modern vibrancy. From majestic forts to bustling markets, and from intricate architecture to rich cultural heritage, Jaipur offers a taste of everything Rajasthan is known for — all in a single day.

Whether you're a solo traveler, a couple, a family, or part of a group, our curated one-day tour covers the most iconic landmarks and experiences Jaipur has to offer. Get ready for a day filled with history, architecture, local cuisine, and unforgettable memories.

Tour Highlights

Visit to Amber Fort – A magnificent blend of Hindu and Mughal architecture.

Photo stop at the Hawa Mahal – The iconic Palace of Winds.

Explore the City Palace – Home to Jaipur’s royal family.

Witness the astronomical marvels at Jantar Mantar.

Drive past the scenic Jal Mahal – The Water Palace.

Time for shopping at local bazaars – Johari Bazaar & Bapu Bazaar.

Enjoy authentic Rajasthani lunch at a traditional restaurant.

Tour Itinerary

8:00 AM – Pickup from Hotel / Airport / Railway Station

Your day begins with a warm welcome by our professional driver and guide. You'll be picked up in a comfortable, air-conditioned vehicle. Sit back and enjoy your drive as the city begins to wake up in the golden desert sun.

9:00 AM – Amber Fort

Your first stop is the stunning Amber Fort, located on a hilltop about 11 km from the city center. You can either walk up or take an optional elephant ride. The fort's massive ramparts, series of gates, cobbled paths, and breathtaking views make it a must-visit. Don’t miss the Sheesh Mahal (Mirror Palace) and Diwan-i-Aam.

11:00 AM – Jal Mahal (Photo Stop)

As you head back towards the city, stop by the serene Jal Mahal, or Water Palace, located in the middle of Man Sagar Lake. Though entry inside is not permitted, the view is picture-perfect and ideal for capturing memories.

11:30 AM – Hawa Mahal

The next landmark is the Hawa Mahal, the famous Palace of Winds. Built in 1799, its unique five-story façade with 953 small windows was designed to allow royal ladies to observe street festivals while remaining unseen. Snap some amazing photographs and enjoy the architecture.

12:30 PM – City Palace

Next, you’ll explore the City Palace, an expansive complex that includes courtyards, gardens, and museums. It still serves as the residence of the Jaipur royal family. Don’t miss the Mubarak Mahal and Chandra Mahal for a peek into the royal lifestyle.

1:30 PM – Lunch Break

Time to take a break and relish the flavors of Rajasthan. Enjoy a traditional Rajasthani thali at a well-rated restaurant. Vegetarian and non-vegetarian options are available.

2:30 PM – Jantar Mantar

After lunch, visit Jantar Mantar, an 18th-century astronomical observatory built by Maharaja Jai Singh II. It features the world’s largest stone sundial and various instruments used to measure celestial bodies with incredible accuracy.

3:30 PM – Shopping & Local Exploration

No trip to Jaipur is complete without shopping. Visit the bustling Johari Bazaar (famous for gemstones and jewelry) and Bapu Bazaar (ideal for textiles, handicrafts, and souvenirs). Interact with local artisans and take home a piece of Jaipur’s rich culture.

5:00 PM – Drop-off

Your memorable day in Jaipur concludes as we drop you off at your hotel, the airport, or the railway station, depending on your travel plan. You’ll leave with cherished memories and maybe even a few treasures from the markets.

Package Inclusions

AC private vehicle with driver

Professional English-speaking tour guide

Bottled water

All parking, tolls, and fuel charges

Hotel/Airport pickup & drop-off

Exclusions

Monument entry tickets

Lunch or personal expenses

Optional elephant ride at Amber Fort

Book Your Jaipur One Day Tour Now!

Don't let a tight schedule stop you from exploring one of India’s most regal cities. Our Jaipur One Day Tour Package is designed for travelers who want the best of Jaipur in just one day. With expert guidance, comfortable transport, and a carefully planned itinerary, we promise a day full of discovery and wonder.

Contact us today to reserve your spot or customize your itinerary. Jaipur awaits!

[daypopvip]

How to tell a fake and real rolex?

Rolex is the first brand that comes to the mind of people when someone says luxury watches. While this means anyone would know who you are if you have a Rolex on your wrist, it also means that it is a brand that is a victim to counterfeiting. With millions of fake watches flooding the market, the disappointment of unknowingly investing in an imitation can be heart-crushing. So, before you get ready to buy a Rolex, you should go through this quick guide of checking a Rolex.

What to Check When Buying a Rolex When you are ready to buy a Fake Rolex, there is a whole checklist of things that you need to go through. We have made it easier for you by clubbing the whole checklist here.

Examine the Second Hand Movement for Authenticity Rolex is renowned for the mesmerizingly smooth, almost gliding motion of its second hand. This signature sweep is thanks to the high-frequency mechanical movements beating within most genuine Rolex watches. In contrast, many replicas utilize low-cost quartz movements, causing the second hand to exhibit a distinct, jerky tick with each passing second. The only notable exception to this rule is the vintage Rolex Oysterquartz, which, as its name suggests, does indeed tick due to its quartz mechanism. However, these days even replica watches are getting good automatic movements inside, which is why it is highly important to get watch authentication done by professionals.

Inspect the Cyclops Lens Magnification The Cyclops lens, designed to magnify the date display, is a hallmark feature found on many Rolex models including GMT Master II, Datejust, Day-Date, and more. On an authentic Rolex, this lens provides a precise 2.5x magnification, making the date appear significantly larger and perfectly clear. It’s also impeccably centered over the date window. Counterfeit watches often feature a weaker magnification (sometimes barely 1.5x) or a misaligned lens, causing the date to look distorted, small, or off-center. This is a crucial detail to scrutinize closely.

Locate the Laser-Etched Crown Since 2002, Rolex has incorporated a tiny, laser-etched coronet (crown logo) into the sapphire crystal at the 6 o’clock position. This minute detail is incredibly difficult to replicate accurately and is nearly invisible to the naked eye, typically requiring magnification to spot it. If this micro-etched crown is either entirely absent or, conversely, too prominent and easily seen without magnification, the glass is almost certainly a fake. As I said, this only tells that the glass is aftermarket and it does not do anything to confirm the authenticity of the watch.

Examine Engravings and Serial Numbers Authentic Rolex watches feature deeply engraved, crisp, and precise serial and model numbers located between the lugs (the parts of the case where the bracelet attaches). These numbers are consistently clear, perfectly formed, and positioned with meticulous accuracy. Counterfeit watches, however, often betray themselves with shallow, sandy, poorly executed engravings, or numbers that are incorrectly placed or inconsistently sized.

Study the Dial and Fine Details Every element of a Rolex dial, from the fonts and spacing of the text to the alignment of the markers, is flawlessly consistent. Look for sharp, clean printing on the text and logos, and perfectly applied, evenly placed hour markers. Any smudges, uneven or blurry fonts, misaligned elements, or imperfections on the luminous plots are glaring red flags. Again, this is something that only confirms the authenticity of the dial. There are people who like to swap dials on an original Rolex watch as well. So, in order to check the authenticity of the watch, you have to look more into the movement and the case of the watch.

Also Read — Frankenstein Watches: What Is It & Why You Should Be Careful

Evaluate the Bracelet and Clasp Construction Rolex bracelets have a robust construction and they feature solid links. They are usually weighty and have a premium feel that conveys exceptional quality. The clasp should open and close securely with a satisfying click, displaying precise, deep engravings that are sharp and uniform. Counterfeit bracelets, in contrast, often feel light, rattle excessively, or exhibit poor finishing and uneven gaps between links.

Review Packaging and Documentation A genuine Rolex purchase is accompanied by a distinctive green presentation box, a well-printed warranty card, and comprehensive manuals. Counterfeit packaging often appears cheap, flimsy, or generic, and may come with missing or poorly printed documents with spelling errors. Always insist on seeing the correct paperwork and verify all serial numbers match the watch itself.

Consider the Price and Seller Reputation This is often the most telling indicator: if the price seems too good to be true, it almost certainly is. Rolex watches are known for retaining their value and are rarely, if ever, offered at significant discounts, especially by unauthorized sellers. Always prioritize purchasing from authorized Rolex dealers, highly reputable pre-owned luxury watch dealers, or sellers with a well-established, transparent track record and verifiable positive reviews.

Bringing It All Together Spotting a fake Rolex ultimately comes down to a keen eye for detail and a thorough understanding of the brand’s commitment to quality. From the tactile feel and the smooth sweep of the second hand to the minute laser-etched crown and the precision of the engravings, every element tells a story. When in doubt, always seek the expertise of a certified watchmaker. Investing the time in authenticating your watch ensures you’re not just getting a timepiece, but the genuine quality, prestige, and lasting value you expect from a true Rolex.