#Textured Business Cards

[akshayaquapri]

Textured Business Cards

Textured Business Cards – Make a Statement with Premium Texture

Your business card is the first impression of your brand—make it count with Quapri Textured Business Cards. Designed for professionals who value quality, our cards offer unique textures, high durability, and a premium feel. Whether you prefer a classic or bold texture, our carefully crafted options help you stand out.

Explore Our Exclusive Fine-Textured Business Cards

Natural Evaluation Texture

A refined texture that adds sophistication to your card, making it perfect for a professional and polished look.

Cream Texture

A smooth, elegant surface that brings a touch of class to your custom printed business cards.

Criss Cross Texture

A modern, patterned finish that gives your card a distinctive, eye-catching appeal.

White Texture

A minimal yet stylish texture that enhances the clarity and readability of your business branding cards.

Needle Point Texture

A finely detailed, durable texture that offers a premium tactile experience, making your business card feel as impressive as it looks.

[exprintmart]

The Art of Business Cards: Why Choose Painted Edge, Velvet Laminated, Soft Touch, or Textured Designs?

[mockupcloud]

Mafactor Brand Identity

Mockups used in this project ⚡ mockupcloud.com

Design by gaos.com.br

[bonesmarinated]

thank you so much for this little piece of my upper crust blood sucking parasite 🖤🙏🖤

Laurence

the character belongs to our pal @bonesmarinated

[quapriprinting]

Velvet Touch Visiting Cards

Velvet Touch Visiting Cards: Indulge in Luxury

Take Your Brand to New Heights with Our Luxurious Card

Get to make long-lasting impressions on clients and partners alike with Velvet Touch Visiting Cards. The double-sided soft-touch coating of these cards makes them a hundred percent different from any other visiting card. The colors pop out with the best prints, leading to a telling role of the logo, along with the message behind the visiting card.

Key Features

Velvet Touch Coating: Enjoy that silky soft-to-the-touch feel of ultra-high class.

Double-Sided Velvet Cards: Ensure each side has the same texture and rich quality so your card stands out on both sides.

Color Saturation: Brilliant, lifelike colors ensure that your design pops crisp and eye-grabbing.

High-Resolution Print Quality: Expect sharp text and images from our exacting printing process.

Standard Size (8.9 x 5.1 cm): Suitable for insert into the pocket and wallet.

Rounded Corners: An elegant touch for cards gives a high-level polish and professionalism.

Square Shape: Unique design using the flair of the modern world and infusing with the traditional one that will remind your brand never forget.

Perfect for Several Industries:

Roofing: Luxury Business cards convey professionalism and your expertise in the field.

Movies & Film: Deliver high-quality visiting cards in the industry and impress the professionals.

Religious & Spiritual: Use velvet finish cards to express serenity and peace.

Food Catering: Give the customers an irresistible touch with soft-touch material cards.

Food Service: Provide an above-average impression through the high-quality business cards.

Taxi Service: Provide a very memorable first impression through elegant velvet business cards.

Dance Classes: Give the impression that you have passion and talent through stylish velvet touch cards.

Legal: Talk of trust and power with business cards of velvety texture.

Security Systems Installation & Maintenance: Talk of safety for sure with durable velvet touch cards.

Pet Sitting & Dog Walking: Touch the hearts of pet lovers through customized cards of velvety texture.

Child Care: Impart a feel of warmth with business cards that are unique in nature.

Advantages of Velvet Touch Visiting Cards

Luxury and Sophistication: Elevate your brand’s persona with a premium feel that makes your business memorable.

Time to Remember: Velvet touch visiting cards create a lasting impression in the minds of the client and your partner. Thus, it strengthens your professional network.

Professional Look: These cards add to the credibility of the person presenting them and convey the message of trustworthiness.

Long Lasting: Built to the Daily Wear and Tear, the cards last long with their quality so that your brand is represented at its best.

https://quapri.in/product/velvet-touch-visiting-cards/

[minutemann789]

Elevate Your Networking with Premium Business Cards in Maitland

In the bustling business environment of Maitland, first impressions are crucial. A well-designed business card can be the key to making a lasting impact. This article delves into the diverse and sophisticated options for business cards in Maitland, ensuring you have the information needed to choose the best fit for your brand.

The Unmatched Durability of Ultra Thick Business Cards in Maitland

For those who seek a business card that exudes professionalism and longevity, ultra thick business cards Maitland are an excellent choice. These cards are crafted from heavyweight stock, offering a substantial feel that speaks to quality and durability. The added thickness not only enhances the card’s lifespan but also makes it stand out in a stack, ensuring that your business card is not easily overlooked. Ultra thick cards are ideal for professionals who want to make a bold statement about their brand's solidity and reliability.

Creative Expression with Unique Shaped Business Cards in Maitland

In a world where conventional business cards are ubiquitous, unique shaped business cards Maitland offers a refreshing deviation. These cards break the traditional rectangular mold, allowing for custom shapes that reflect your business's creativity and uniqueness. Whether you choose a rounded, square, or entirely bespoke shape, these cards are perfect for making a memorable first impression. Unique shapes can symbolize innovation and forward-thinking, traits that are highly attractive in the modern business landscape.

Tactile Appeal of Textured Business Cards in Maitland

For those who understand the power of touch in creating a memorable impression, textured business cards Maitland are the perfect choice. These cards feature various textures, from linen and felt to more intricate embossed patterns, providing a tactile experience that engages recipients in a unique way. The texture can complement your brand’s identity, whether it’s the rugged feel for an outdoor company or a smooth finish for a luxury brand. Textured cards not only look sophisticated but also feel premium, enhancing the overall perception of your business.

Eco-Friendly Elegance with Kraft Business Cards in Maitland

In an era where sustainability is more important than ever, kraft business cards Maitland offer an eco-friendly option without compromising on style. Made from recycled materials, these cards have a natural, earthy look that appeals to environmentally conscious clients and businesses. The kraft finish provides a rustic and organic feel, making it ideal for brands that emphasize natural products or sustainability. Using kraft business cards showcases your commitment to environmental responsibility, a value that resonates with many modern consumers.

Integrating Business Card Design with Your Brand Identity

Choosing the right business card is more than just a matter of aesthetics; it’s about aligning with your brand’s identity and values. Each type of card discussed offers unique benefits that can enhance how your business is perceived. The key is to select the design that best represents your brand and appeals to your target audience.

Customization: Tailoring Your Business Cards to Stand Out

Beyond the choice of material and finish, customization options like color schemes, fonts, and additional features (such as QR codes or augmented reality elements) can further personalize your business cards

and make them truly unique. By incorporating these elements, you ensure that your business card not only provides contact information but also tells a story about your brand.

Practical Tips for Designing Effective Business Cards

Keep It Simple: Avoid clutter by focusing on essential information. Use a clean layout that includes your name, title, contact information, and logo.

Readable Fonts: Select fonts that are easy to read, both in print and on digital platforms. Avoid overly stylized fonts that might compromise legibility.

High-Quality Images: Use high-resolution images and graphics to maintain professionalism. Blurry or pixelated images can detract from your brand’s credibility.

Consistent Branding: Ensure that your business card design is consistent with your overall branding. Use your brand’s colors, fonts, and logo to maintain a cohesive look.

The Importance of Quality Printing

The quality of printing can significantly affect the final outcome of your business cards. High-quality printing ensures that colors are vibrant, details are sharp, and the card itself feels substantial and durable. Working with a reputable printing service in Maitland can help you achieve the best results, making your business cards a powerful tool in your marketing arsenal.

Making the Right Choice for Your Business

Ultimately, the choice of business card design should reflect your business’s values and the message you want to convey. Whether you opt for the robust and impressive ultra thick business cards in Maitland, the creative and distinctive unique shaped business cards in Maitland, the engaging and premium textured business cards in Maitland, or the environmentally friendly and stylish kraft business cards in Maitland, each option has the potential to enhance your brand’s presence.

[goshashka-design]

Corporate Business Cards

A Symphony of Professionalism and Design In the world of corporate aesthetics, the business card emerges as a silent ambassador – a compact canvas that speaks volumes. Whether exchanged at networking events or slipped into a leather wallet, these vectors embody trust, reliability, and sophistication. Against a backdrop of professional design, they become more than mere contact information – they…

[cherrifire]

I'm late to behind-the-scenes-people, so I have a question about y'all. Ik the Hermits gets Hoffen to design things, Ik Martyn gets you to draw his thumbnails, and I recently learned you were involved in the quiz.

Who's the group? Who's the rest of y'all? Is it known? Are y'all on tumblr? Can I follow y'all?

😅✨️

MEET THE TRIVIA TEAM ✨️

Me! - Cherrifire!

I make YouTube thumbnails and I also worked on the Life Series merch this year! Grian asked me for Life Series fans to help with Trivia so I picked these goobers up by the scruff.

@ink-ghoul - Hoffen!

Hoffen does a lot of MC skins, texture pack, and model work for the Hermits! She also helped a little with the merch too, Hoffen made the Quizmaster and his stickers.

@cocoabats - Julia!

Julia did a lot of work on the Scarland Art book and helped with the Grian merch too! She set up the website, made the "Hang In There" shirt, and the desk mat! She also made the Pale White Horse AU :D

@applestruda - Bee!

Bee has only just started to dip her toes into working with CCs and I'm so proud of her and what she's accomplished. One of her drawings is actually framed in the background of Impulse's webcam and she did a Hermit TCG card for False! She so cool and I love her I love Bee Applestruda my Minecraft wife my wife my wife my--

@hopepetal - Zera!

Zera is very delightful, he's a writer and musician and wrote the Boatem Knights AU based on Applestruda's drawings! Grian actually asked him to make music for the Trivia bot but because he was a bit busy he couldn't get further than a rough draft so he took what he made to Oli and had it polished.

@liloinkoink - Lew!

My best friend (eyeroll), he's the writer of the Renchanting AU/fanfic Lamplight or whatever.

@xmaruu11 - Maruu

Maruu is the co-writer of the Desert Duo Vigilante AU comic and wrote 53% of the questions LOL (Yes I did the math). They've also worked with Ranboo in the past and is just a little goober!

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Obsessed

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufffff, can you tell i love obsessive men. a very long ramble so get a snack and buckle up. not proof read ( ._. )""

> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 5 Things the boys do that reveals how much they adore their wife

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ೃ⁀➷ He Paints you Into Everything. Every canvas in his private studio, landscapes, abstract storms, seashell mosaics, contains you likeness or silhouette, whether in bold strokes or hidden in the texture. He claims he doesn’t mean to. He always means to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You slip into his studio barefoot, the silk hem of your robe whispering around your ankles. The scent of oils and saltwater hangs in the air, heady, familiar, a little intoxicating. Sunlight pours through the high windows, casting glints across half-finished canvases and glass jars filled with crushed shells and pigment powders.

At first glance, you think it’s another seascape. Rafayel only paints landscapes. He’s said it dozens of times, lips curled in that soft, mocking smile: “Humans are too noisy to trap in stillness.”

But as you step closer, your breath catches.

It’s you.

Floating in a dreamy, underwater world, suspended in a swirl of iridescent blues and pearlescent whites. Your figure is draped in silk, hair drifting like sea grass, your eyes gently closed as if in some impossible, peaceful dream. Jellyfish coil in the background like soft lanterns. Coral blooms behind you like a crown.

You blink slowly. “Raffy… is that me?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

But then you feel him, bare feet silent on the floor, arms sliding around your waist. He presses himself to your back, resting his chin on your shoulder. His skin is warm, his breath tickling the side of your throat.

“You know I don’t paint people,” he murmurs.

You nod, still staring.

He exhales, and it’s almost a sigh. “But I can’t stop painting you.”

His fingers, still faintly stained with lilac and sea-glass green, tighten around your waist, slow and protective.

“You’re not for sale,” he adds, so quietly it barely registers. “They ask me what it’s worth. I tell them it’s mine.”

Your heart stutters.

And in the silence, you suddenly notice: every canvas in this room, every abstract tide, every storm, every island, holds the faintest shape of a woman. Of you. Not always clearly. Sometimes only a curve, or a silhouette, or the ghost of your profile in the reef.

He’s never stopped. And he never will.

ೃ⁀➷ He Forgets Everything But You. Rafayel vanishes for a major press event he was supposed to attend, again. When Thomas demands an explanation, he only says, “She made grilled prawns. What did you expect me to do, miss dinner with my wife?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doorbell rings during lunch. You glance up from your plate of crisp prawn tempura, and Rafayel doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy balancing another piece between his chopsticks, lips slightly pouty as he leans over the table.

You sigh and rise to answer, robe fluttering open just enough to remind you how little effort you put into dressing. The moment the door creaks open, you’re face-to-face with a whole delegation, his sponsors, dressed in business formal, holding tablets and tight smiles.

“Is Rafayel here?” one asks.

You hesitate. Behind you, his voice rings out lazily from the kitchen. “Tell them I’ve retired.”

You turn your head, startled. He’s lounging back in his seat now, bare feet on the chair beside him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.

“Tell them my wife made tempura,” he adds, like that explains everything. “I’m very busy being adored.”

There’s silence at the door. The delegation stares. You just smile, gently close it on them, and pad back to your seat.

ೃ⁀➷ He Gets Jealous of Everything. Seashells you picks up? He polishes and stores them in glass boxes labeled with the date and what you were wearing. A stranger who compliments you? He smiles politely, then later throws the guy’s business card into the sea.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re scrolling through your messages on the terrace, legs tucked under you, when Rafayel crawls into the lounge chair beside you like a cat. He’s shirtless, damp from a swim, hair a little tangled. You offer him a bite of your snack. He ignores it.

Instead, he leans over your shoulder.

“Who’s this guy in your comments?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes too sharp. You glance. Just an old acquaintance from when you were a hunter, dropping a harmless “Looking gorgeous as always.”

You shrug. “Just someone I used to work with. It’s nothing.”

Rafayel says nothing for a moment. Then he nuzzles your temple, the scent of sea salt in his hair. “Mm. Nothing, huh?”

You don’t think much of it—until the next day, when you go to reply and realize the account has blocked you. And the comment’s gone. You glance up at Rafayel, who’s lounging in the sun, sunglasses on and humming.

He never admits anything. He doesn’t need to.

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes You Kiss His Paintings. He used to sign his name in paint. Now, every finished canvas is sealed with a kiss—yours, pressed into the corner using the exact lipstick you wore the day you inspired it. Collectors call it iconic. Rafayel just shrugs. “My wife touched it. That’s what made it valuable.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him in the sunroom with the windows cracked open, paint drying slow and fragrant in the humid afternoon air. He’s crouched barefoot over a massive canvas, white shirt riding up his back, sleeves rolled high and streaked with the dreamy colors of ocean light, pearl blue, soft coral, the shimmer of crushed shell.

You approach quietly, knowing he’s in that delicate space between obsession and completion. He doesn’t turn. Not until you say gently, “Is it finished, Raffy?”

Rafayel leans back on his heels, pushing a wavy strand of lavender hair behind his ear. His blue-pink eyes lift to meet yours, and in them: pride. Possession. A hint of something dangerous.

“It was missing one thing,” he murmurs. “But now you’re here.”

You watch as he walks over to the table, picks up a sleek gold lipstick tube, and returns. It’s your favorite shade, sheer cherry, the one he never lets you throw away even when it wears to a nub.

He uncaps it and offers it to you.

You blink. “You want me to…?”

He nods. “Right here.” He taps the corner of the canvas with two fingers. “Your kiss. Just one.”

Your lips part to protest, this is a multimillion-dollar piece. It’ll be in some sealed climate-controlled vault, studied and auctioned and critiqued to death. But Rafayel just tilts his head, smile lazy, voice velvet.

“It’s not real until you touch it.”

So you give in. You always do.

You swipe on the lipstick, lean in close, and press your mouth to the edge of the painting. Soft. Careful. You feel his eyes on you the whole time.

When you pull back, he doesn’t say a word.

He just steps forward, kisses you slow, slow enough to taste the pigment, and then turns back to the canvas like he’s finished a prayer.

“You know they’d pay triple just for that,” he says absently.

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smiles. “Because you’re iconic, darling.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Things Close. He steals your perfume, your hair clips, even a used teacup you left on the balcony. Says it’s for “inspiration,” but really, he just likes the idea of your scent lingering while he works (or sulks).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re looking for a clean brush in his studio, muttering to yourself as you open one drawer, then another.

Then you pause.

Inside the drawer is a strange little hoard, your old lip balm, a few bobby pins, one of your silk ribbons, even a used teacup you left on the balcony last week. You pick it up slowly, squinting. There’s even a candy wrapper tucked between some pigment jars.

“Rafayel,” you call out, turning to face him.

He’s lounging in the window seat, sketchpad on his knees, not even pretending to look guilty.

“What?” he says innocently.

You hold up the teacup. “This? Seriously?”

He grins. “It still smells like you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re just keeping…trash now?”

He laughs and sets the sketchpad aside, moving toward you.

“It’s not trash,” he whispers as he corners you. “It’s you. I collect you. It makes me feel better when you’re not here.”

And then he plucks the ribbon from your hand and ties it loosely around your wrist, like he’s tagging his favorite possession.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Tracks Your Health Like a Patient File. Zayne keeps a private log of your vitals, moods, and sleep patterns. You think he’s just observant, but he’s cross-referencing it with medical journals at 3 a.m.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find the notebook by accident.

Tucked beneath his copy of Advanced Cardiac Interventions, bound in clean black leather and edged in silver, it looks like one of his clinical logs. You flip it open, expecting complicated sketches of vascular stents or surgical outcomes.

Instead, you see this:

7:42 a.m.

Slept poorly. Rolled to left side more than usual. Possible muscle strain? Check pillow firmness.

8:10 a.m.

Drank only half of tea. Appetite lower than yesterday. Monitor.

8:47 a.m.

Smiled during hair brushing. Slight color return to cheeks. Good.

Your name appears at the top of every page.

You stare at it, stunned. Pages and pages of you, your moods, sleep cycles, appetite, temperature tolerance. Every headache, every restless night. The week you had a sore throat, he recorded it down to the hour. On the morning you cried watching a commercial, he’d written: Stress response? Hormonal? Monitor quietly. Do not press.

You turn another page. This one has no timestamp. Just a scribbled line:

If she ever shows signs of cardiac fatigue, run full scan. No delays. Assume responsibility.

The door clicks open behind you.

“Zaynie—” you start, holding the notebook.

He doesn’t even look surprised. Just walks forward, expression unreadable, loosens his tie. “It’s not a diagnosis log. It’s a care record.”

“You track me like a patient.”

“No.” He takes it gently from your hands, tucks it away without shame. “I track you like someone I can’t afford to lose.”

You go quiet.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes steady behind his silver-framed glasses. “You’re the only case I won’t let worsen. Not even for a moment.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Clears His Schedule Around Your Routine. He’s performed emergency surgeries on four hours of sleep, but will never miss tea time at 4 p.m. with you. His assistants think it’s a personal ritual. It’s not. It’s yours.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re half-asleep on the velvet couch when you hear the front door click open.

It’s early. You glance at the clock: 3:52 p.m.

Zayne shouldn’t be home for another two hours, he had two consultations and a surgical debrief on the calendar. You even teased him about it this morning, telling him to stop looking at the clock during breakfast like he was counting down.

But there he is.

Stoic as ever, undoing his cuffs and shrugging off his coat with that meticulous grace. He doesn’t say anything as he walks in, just places his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves to the elbow, and starts making your tea.

You blink at him from the couch. “Zaynie. Your schedule—”

“Pushed the debrief to next week,” he says calmly. “The consults can wait.”

You sit up. “You left the hospital for tea?”

He glances over his shoulder as he lifts the kettle. “It’s 4 p.m. I always make your tea at 4 p.m.”

You shake your head, a laugh in your throat. “You’re going to get scolded by the board again.”

He hums, unbothered. “They can manage. You can’t be replaced.”

You watch as he takes out the tea set, the one with the delicate gold rims you picked out for no reason except that it made you feel pretty when he poured from it.

He sets your cup down first, always yours first, then his. Sits beside you and taps your wrist softly, like clockwork.

“You haven’t taken your supplements today.”

You scowl, pouting as you reach for the bottle. “What are you, my doctor?”

He raises a brow. “You married a surgeon. What did you expect?”

You expect a lot of things. But not this, Zayne cutting through a lineup of executives, board members, and patients to be here at 4 p.m. sharp. Not this ritual that feels more sacred than professional.

“I’m not a meeting,” you murmur, sipping the tea.

“No,” he says, leaning back with one arm behind you. “You’re a priority.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Hates When You’re Cold.Zayne keeps your home slightly warmer than normal, always brings your coat before you asks, and has custom-heated floors installed in your dressing room without telling you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The mansion is warm.

Not just comfortable, warm. The kind of heat that wraps around your ankles and wrists like a cashmere hug. You never thought twice about it, not until guests started pointing it out.

“Is it always this cozy in here?” someone had asked once, tugging at their collar. “You could grow citrus trees indoors.”

Zayne just adjusted the thermostat two degrees higher and said nothing.

You only notice now because you’re in the dressing room, barefoot on the plush floors, rifling through your jewelry when you feel it, radiant heat rising from the floorboards. Not the artificial kind, but the quiet, engineered warmth that takes someone weeks to plan and hours to install.

You drop your earrings into the tray and call out, “Zaynie?”

He appears in the doorway like a shadow, black slacks, dress shirt still tucked in from work, silver glasses slightly fogged from the change in temperature.

“Yes?”

“Did you… get the floors changed?”

A slow blink. “You’ve been cold lately.”

“I wasn’t complaining—”

“You shivered twice last week. I counted.”

You stare at him. “You installed radiant heating just because I shivered twice?”

He steps forward, gently brushing a lock of hair from your cheek, then taps your nose once with a gloved finger. “Three times, if we’re being honest.”

Your protest is swallowed when he pulls a soft wrap from behind his back, a designer one, neutral-toned and heavy with warmth, and drapes it around your shoulders like a cloak.

“I also replaced the coat hooks by the door. Yours are lower now. So you don’t have to stretch.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, dipping to press a kiss against the top of your head. “And I don’t like it when my wife is uncomfortable. Even a little.”

You want to say something, something sweet or teasing, but his arms slide around your waist, anchoring you there.

And the truth is… you’re not cold anymore.

ೃ⁀➷ He Has a Room No One’s Allowed to Enter. It’s not a secret. Everyone at the hospital knows: third-floor office, east wing, always locked. Inside? Dozens of framed photos of you. Candid shots. your school ID. A painting you made in childhood. Everything.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The east wing of the hospital is always quiet. Too quiet, even for a place filled with polished tile and pressed coats and the sterile smell of antiseptic. You walk past the administrative offices, nod to a few nurses who smile at you knowingly, and stop in front of the door with no label.

Just a number etched into frosted glass: 3-E.

No one else ever enters this room. You know because you’ve asked, and because when you tried to open it once without him, it was locked. Always locked.

Until Zayne’s on shift.

Today, as always, he’s already waiting inside.

He doesn’t say anything when you enter. Just looks up from the chair by the window, glasses pushed slightly down his nose, and gives you that rare, quiet smile that no one else gets. The one he never makes in operating rooms or at board meetings.

“This isn’t your office,” you say, teasing lightly as you close the door behind you.

“No.” He stands, crosses the room, kisses your cheek. “It’s ours.”

You glance around. The room is dimly lit, untouched by hospital whites. The shelves are filled with little things: your high school award ribbon, a clay heart you made when you were kids, framed photos of you asleep on the couch, smiling with a pastry, reading at the garden table.

One wall is just… you.

Dozens of images. Not just posed photos, but candid shots from over the years, captured quietly, some even a little blurred. One from your university entrance ceremony. Another of you holding a stray kitten. One where you’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen, clearly unaware of the lens.

“They’d say this is unprofessional,” you whisper, half in awe.

Zayne follows your gaze. “They don’t enter this room. They don’t even know what it’s for.”

“Doesn’t the hospital need the space?”

He turns to you, brow slightly raised. “They can build another wing.”

You laugh. But he’s serious. He always is.

You sit on the leather couch, brought in just for this room, and lean into his side when he joins you. It smells like clean books and cologne, like safety.

“They think I’m taking breaks here,” he murmurs against your hair. “And I am. You’re the only thing that resets me.”

You press your hand over his, steady and warm on your thigh. “Even on days when you’re operating for ten hours straight?”

He answers without pause. “Especially then.”

You smile.

Because no one else is allowed in here. Not nurses. Not doctors. Not directors or surgeons or donors. No one.

Only you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Wedding Ring on During Surgery. Strictly against protocol. But Zayne wears a thin chain beneath his scrub top with your ring on it, always close to his heart. He kisses it once before every surgery.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s early.

Too early for visitors, but the surgical wing lets you through anyway. They always do. You’ve become a familiar sight, soft sweater, low heels, a thermos of tea in one hand and a warm roll tucked into foil in the other. Someone even tried calling you “Doctor’s Wife” once in passing.

You didn’t correct them.

You find him in the prep room, silent and steady, already halfway into his scrubs. His surgical coat is neatly folded beside him. Monitors glow soft green and blue around the edges of the room.

He doesn’t look up when you enter, but only because he doesn’t need to.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low, hands gloved as he ties the final knot at the back of his scrub top.

“I made you tea.”

He finally turns to face you.

For a second, all the tension in his shoulders melts. “You always do.”

You cross the room, careful not to disrupt the sterility, and hand him the thermos. His fingers brush yours, a small, practiced touch, but his gaze lingers longer.

And then you see it.

Around his neck, tucked beneath the high collar of his scrubs, a silver chain glints against his skin. Hanging from it, almost modestly, is the wedding ring.

Your breath catches. “Zayne…”

“It’s safer this way during surgery,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the chain once. “Can’t risk tearing a glove or contaminating the field.”

“You could leave it in a locker.”

“I don’t take it off,” he replies, eyes locking with yours. “It stays on me. Always.”

You stare at him, chest aching.

He steps closer, lifts your hand to his lips, and kisses your knuckles through the gloves. “If something goes wrong in the OR… I want it to be the last thing touching me.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

He gently taps the ring where it rests against his heart. “This isn’t for display. It’s a promise. And I don’t break promises.”

The intercom chimes, calling his name.

He gives your hand one last squeeze before slipping past you toward the surgical theater, every step calm, every movement exact. As if the ring resting against his heart is the most sacred tool he’ll carry in with him.

And maybe it is.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Journal Only You’re Allowed to Read. Each night, Xavier writes in a private, leather-bound journal filled only with thoughts of you. His quiet observations, sketches, and memories line the pages, everything from what color you wore that day to how you smelled when you hugged him goodnight. No one else knows it exists.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Xavier has always been quiet, unreadable to nearly everyone. But buried in the locked drawer beside his bed, tucked beneath mission reports and sleek silver weapons, is a worn, soft-covered notebook.

He writes in it every night.

No one else knows it exists. It doesn’t contain mission details or philosophical musings.

It’s about you.

Each entry is a fragment of a day with you: what you wore, what you smiled at, the exact phrasing of something you whispered in your sleep. He documents it with a near-clinical focus, until the margins start to fill with drawings of your earrings, your hand, the way your lashes curl when you cry.

You once caught him writing.

He froze, half-leaning over the desk, hand hovering above the page.

“I’ll stop,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You asked, “Why would you stop?”

He finally looked up. “Because I wouldn’t want it to scare you.”

You took the journal, read the last line he’d written:

She brought me a piece of cake and fell asleep in my lap. The frosting was on her cheek. I hope she does it again.

You kissed his temple and handed it back.

Now, when he finishes writing for the night, he sets it beside your pillow.

No lock anymore.

Because only you are allowed to read it.

ೃ⁀➷ He Memorizes the Sound of Your Footsteps. Xavier claims it’s for safety reasons, but he can tell it’s you coming from down the hall before anyone else, no matter how quiet. If someone else walks like you? He’ll tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not her,” he murmurs.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doors of the Deepspace hunter association HQ hiss open behind him.

Xavier doesn’t turn.

His fingers glide over the interface of the tactical screen, scanning alerts from Sector 9. Silence, for a moment. Then he pauses, his body still, attention snapping to the faint echo of steps approaching.

He listens.

One beat. Two. Click. Tap. Click. Tap.

Too fast. Too light.

“Wrong rhythm,” he murmurs to no one in particular.

The new hunter at the entrance freezes. “Sir?”

Xavier finally turns. His blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You walk like someone trying to be unnoticed. My wife doesn’t.”

The hunter stammers something about relaying a message.

“Leave it on the console,” Xavier says, returning to the screen. But the data means nothing now. Not until he hears the right steps.

Twenty minutes later, he hears them, high heels, soft, wrapped in the familiar click of your star anklet charm, and for the first time that day, he breathes properly.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Falling Asleep in Your Lap, No Matter Where. Floor of the observatory? Mid tea time? Wrapped in a blanket on the rooftop terrace? If you’re there, he’s instantly more relaxed, and unconscious. Only you can wake him. Gently. With a kiss.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him curled up on the reading room floor, halfway under the desk, using your folded cardigan as a pillow.

Again.

You huff softly and crouch beside him, brushing a bit of silver hair from his cheek. “Xavi…”

“Shhh,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “You make good shadows.”

“You’re not even on me this time.”

He shifts, arms snaking out lazily until he finds your lap. Without a second thought, he lays his head there and sighs. “Better.”

You blink. “This is the sixth time this week you’ve passed out in a random room.”

“I don’t pass out,” he says sleepily. “I regenerate. You’re my recharge station.”

You roll your eyes. But your fingers are already stroking through his hair, and he’s already asleep

ೃ⁀➷ He Wears Your Hairpin in missions. He found it on the bathroom counter once, small, simple, glinting with a faint lavender shine. Now he tucks it into his uniform, inside his coat, just over his chest. No one else sees it. But it’s always there. And he always comes back alive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The black undershirt of his uniform is half-unzipped, hung up beside his jacket after a long mission. You notice it only when helping him undress, right there, tucked just inside the lining near his chest.

Your lavender hairpin.

“Xavier.” You hold it up. “What is this doing in here?”

He looks at it, expression unreadable. “It was on the bathroom counter.”

“Yes, last week.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You left it. It looked like protection.”

“You wore it into the no hunt zone?”

He meets your eyes and finally says, softer, “I always come back when I wear it.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t ask for it back. You tuck it into the pocket of his coat yourself the next morning.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Jar of Your Perfume in His Jacket Pocket. He claims it’s to mask foreign pheromone readings during missions. But when he thinks you’re not looking, he opens the jar just to breathe you in. Even mid-fight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He’s supposed to be on a stealth mission.

But you find him crouched on the balcony at 3AM, jacket over his shoulders, gloved fingers toying with the tiny glass jar he keeps in his pocket.

You know what it is. Your perfume, mixed into a custom oil he once bottled by hand. Just enough to carry your scent with him.

He doesn’t see you approach until you sit beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.

“No.” He doesn’t look at you—but his fingers still on the jar. “This is the part of the mission where I start wondering if I’ll get back.”

You press a hand to his thigh. “You always do.”

He finally turns to you, eyes darker in the moonlight. “Because you’re waiting.”

He opens the jar and breathes in. Then leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your neck, just under your ear.

“You smell like home,” he says quietly.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

ೃ⁀➷ He Brands His Territory. With Elegance. Every dress, every pair of heels, every piece of jewelry you wear at public events is custom-designed and crafted with a hidden signature: a red crow seal pressed somewhere only he knows to look. You belong to him, and everyone important knows it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The gala hall is filled with powerful men and women, each dressed like royalty. Your gown glimmers, slit high, heels sharper than your stare. Still, you fidget. You feel them watching.

Then Sylus appears.

He leans close, voice low against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “You feel them staring, don’t you?”

You nod, uneasy.

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t growl.

He smirks. “Let them. None of them are brave enough to ask what the red crow seal means.”

You blink. “Seal?”

He runs a gloved finger along the back of your dress—stopping just above the zipper. You feel it now: a faint embossed sigil, stitched in blood-red silk.

“They’ll see it eventually,” he hums. “And they’ll know: you’re already taken. Stamped. Sealed. Mine.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Secretly Monitors Every Room You Walk Into. His tech teams set up discreet surveillance in every public space you frequent, not to spy, but to react instantly if you’re ever in trouble. He doesn’t trust the world with you. Only himself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had thought it was coincidence, the same man, twice in the café, once again outside the plaza. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t approached. Just… lingered.

When you mention it offhandedly during dinner, Sylus stills mid-sip of his wine.

His eyes glow faint red.

“Describe him.”

You do.

He doesn’t ask for clarification.

The next morning, the man is gone. Not dead. Not harmed. But scrubbed from every system, persona, and file. As if he’d never existed.

You ask Sylus about it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I built surveillance in your world for decoration? I see what you don’t, darling. And I remove it before it gets close enough to blink.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes Enemies Disappear, Before You Know They Were a Threat. You never hear about the journalist who tried to dig into your private life. Or the petty business who made a backhanded comment about you in an executive room. But Sylus heard, and their influence vanished overnight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You never hear about them.

The journalist who asked one too many questions. The analyst who muttered something sharp under their breath during a conference. The rival heiress who dared to imply that you were just a pretty face on Sylus’s arm.

You don’t notice it, but Sylus does.

He always does.

And he acts before the insult ever reaches your ears.

One week later, the journalist’s platform is gone, shut down by a legal landslide no one saw coming. The analyst? “Transferred” to a silent post on the moon’s edge. The heiress? Her fortune crumbles overnight, and no one dares mention why. It all happens so quietly, so cleanly, like they simply… ceased to matter.

You ask, once.

“What happened to her?”

Sylus hums, unbothered, sipping his wine as he fingers the red brooch on your chest. “Nothing important.”

You lean into him, the warmth of his blazer draped over your shoulders. He kisses your temple without taking his eyes off the skyline.

You never ask again.

Because when you walk into a room now, people look twice, and then bow. Not out of fear of you, but of what moves behind you. What watches. What whispers your name like a silent, invisible crown.

They never see it coming.

But Sylus does.

And he never misses.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Private Gallery, Of Only You. Tucked deep in his base is a red-lit room that no one enters but him. Inside: holograms, still photos, sketches, images of you in every expression, mood, and angle. He never brings it up. But when he’s gone for too long, that’s where he disappears to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen the room.

No one has.

Tucked beneath biometric locks and red-lit corridors in one of Sylus’s most secure bases, it’s not listed on any blueprint. Not even his most loyal lieutenants know it exists. But it does.

A space carved out of shadows and silence. The walls? Floor-to-ceiling screens and sketch-strewn tables. Dozens of holoframes flickering in dim light, each holding you.

You, smiling in the garden of your villa. You, asleep with a book slipping from your fingers. You, storm-eyed and laughing, lips painted in defiance. Moments you don’t even remember, captured and preserved like relics of devotion. Holograms move in slow loops, and still sketches, hand-drawn in crimson ink, rest beneath protective glass.

He doesn’t speak about it. Never tells you.

But when he’s gone too long, deep in enemy territory, cut off by war, surrounded by silence and blood—that’s where he goes. Sits in the dark. Watches you.

Not the public versions of you, no.

The real ones.

He doesn’t look at maps. Doesn’t check reports. He stands with his hands in his pockets and eyes on your smile like it’s the only light left in the universe.

And when he finally returns, smelling of steel and victory, he always cups your face like it’s been centuries.

You don’t know why.

But he does.

Because even the coldest man in the world needs warmth to come back to.

And for Sylus?

That warmth is always, only, you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Carries a Locket, A Crimson One. Worn under his shirt, never seen by anyone else. Inside it? A delicate photo of you, smiling, hair windblown, wearing the crow brooch he gave you. You’ve never seen it. He never takes it off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen it, not once.

But you’ve felt it.

The faint weight beneath his shirt when he leans over you. The way his fingers brush against it when he’s deep in thought, lounging with that maddening, crooked smile. It’s small, oval, and warm with his body heat, and he never lets anyone touch it.

He’d never even mentioned it until one evening, when you reached for the top button of his shirt, teasing, playful.

His hand closed gently over yours, not stopping, just… slowing.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice lilting as you tugged the fabric aside.

His eyes flicked down to the blood-red glint at his chest, half-concealed by shadows. You expected a smirk. A sly remark.

But instead, something quieter.

“A locket.”

You blinked. “With what inside?”

A pause. Then:

“You.”

You laughed softly, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

Worn beneath his clothes, closer to his heart than even the blade strapped to his side, was a crimson locket, deep as garnet, smooth as glass. Inside, a photo he’d taken himself. You didn’t even remember when. You, laughing. Wind in your hair. His crow brooch pinned proudly on your coat.

He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t warned you.

He just kept it.

You reach for it again, slower this time. His fingers don’t stop you.

“I didn’t know you carried this,” you whisper.

His voice is low, rough with a rare honesty. “They can burn my armories. Wipe my networks. Hunt me across star systems. But no one touches this.”

You press a kiss to the spot just above the locket, over the soft beat of his heart.

No words needed.

Because you know now.

That long before he wore crowns of weaponry,

He crowned you the only thing worth carrying.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Locked You in Paradise. After his last mission, Caleb used his authority to retire you from your job and install you in the Skyhaven penthouse, top floor, panoramic view, full staff, and only one keycard. His. You never asked for a cage. But now? You never want to leave.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with a mission. A long one. Too long.

You didn’t even hear the shuttle land that night, just the hiss of the pressure seal releasing and the sound of Caleb’s boots crossing the penthouse marble like thunder.

“Where’s your comm?” he asked you before even setting down his cap, eyes sharp, voice too calm.

You’d left it in the bathroom. Just for a moment. But it didn’t matter.

The next day, he filed the retirement papers. Without discussion. Without permission. The same afternoon, he upgraded the locks, biometric. One keycard. His. The others, including yours, were deactivated with clinical efficiency.

You had no job. No schedule. No exit.

Just the view from the top of Skyhaven. And him.

At first, you resented it. You tried sulking. Tried pacing. Tried threatening to “go back out there.”

Caleb didn’t flinch.

He just poured you wine, removed your comm privileges from the Farspace network, and told the staff to prepare your bath. “You’re not a hunter,” he said simply. “You’re mine.”

But somewhere between the soft silks he ordered in your exact size and the new vanity fully stocked with all your old favorite products, between the morning massages, the hand-delivered breakfasts, and the scent of him clinging to your sheets, you stopped trying the door.

Now? You wait for him at the window every night, curled in the armchair in one of his stolen shirts. The sky glows violet with the shimmer of passing ships. Your comm is still offline. The outside world doesn’t reach you here.

But Caleb does.

He always does.

The door opens with a soft hiss, and you don’t even have to turn your head.

Gloved hands slip beneath your knees as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “I told you I’d be back before sunset.”

“You’re late,” you murmur against his collar.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

And he does, every night.

Because the penthouse may be a cage, but the view?

The view is everything.

And you’ve never been more adored, more protected, or more kept than you are here, locked in paradise, where you belong.

ೃ⁀➷ He Runs, While Carrying You. Every morning, he runs laps around the private garden district of Skyhaven, where only the richest officials live. And every morning, you’re in his arms, giggling in your robe while he jogs with your full weight cradled like treasure. You hate cardio. He makes sure you never have to do it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Every morning, at exactly 0600, Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet runs his required laps around the gated Skyhaven residential sector. It’s part of his personal discipline, regulation fitness, stamina drills, mental clarity.

But ever since you became his wife, the routine changed.

Because you wanted to be with him, always, but you hated exercise. Hated the way it made your limbs sore, hated sweating, hated the sheer effort of cardio.

You pouted once, half-wrapped in a throw blanket on the penthouse balcony, saying, “I wanna come, but I’m not doing all that running.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

The next morning, he scooped you into his arms, like it was a drill, and took off at full pace, jogging smoothly with your full weight held against his chest.

And now?

It’s ritual. His boots pound the stone path as sunrise lights the clouds, your laughter curling around his ear as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You’re wrapped in one of his jackets, and you hum softly while he breathes in time with his stride.

Guards salute him. Other officials glance and look away. No one dares comment.

It’s not just a run. It’s his workout with you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle.

Caleb smirks, lips brushing your temple as he exhales, “And you’re my favorite dumbbell.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Dresses You Like a Trophy. You don’t just attend his banquets, you dominate them. He reserves exclusive boutiques just for you, takes leave just to sit back in uniform while you model silks and satin, and buys anything you so much as glance at. You don’t even carry your own bags. That’s what aides are for.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don’t even know how many gowns you’ve tried on at this point, but from your place in the boutique’s mirrored lounge, you can hear Caleb’s answer before you ask.

“Get it, Pipsqueak” he says smoothly, voice low with that self-satisfied purr he only gets when you’re dressed to kill. He hasn’t even looked up from where he sits, one leg crossed over the other, black gloves still on from his uniform, Farspace insignia glinting at his collarbone.

You arch a brow in the mirror, turning to examine the open back of the navy silk gown. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw you step out in it. That was enough.”

The stylist freezes. The aides freeze. Even the boutique manager, who only takes appointments from Skyhaven’s highest elite, keeps her eyes low. This isn’t just any Farspace officer treating his girl. This is Colonel Caleb. And you? You’re his. Everyone knows it.

You shift toward him. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leans back on the velvet sofa, eyes dragging up your body with slow, deliberate appreciation. “I’m dressing my victory. You think I’m walking into my own banquet without showing them exactly what I come home to every night?”

A flush rises in your cheeks, but Caleb just gestures lazily with a gloved hand toward the boutique racks. “Try the white one next. I want them to suffer.”

You do. And when you step out in it, spun moonlight over your skin, slit high enough to tease his attention, you catch the twitch of his jaw. That little shift in posture. The faintest smile tugging at his lips.

He doesn’t say “get it” this time.

He just pulls out his comm and says, “Wrap the collection. She’s taking everything.”

You don’t carry a single box. Caleb’s aides handle it all, silent, efficient, practiced. You only hear him again when he’s behind you, coat brushing your back as he leans in to whisper against your neck:

“Next time, we’ll have the whole atelier flown in. I don’t want you lifting a finger. You’re mine to admire, not to work.”

And when you strut into his banquet hours later, his arm tight around your waist, his voice low as he murmurs sweet praises against your temple, you realize something:

You’re not just his wife.

You’re his masterpiece on display.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps All Your Stuff, Everywhere. Caleb spreads pieces of you in all his outposts. A lipstick-stained mug on his office desk. A perfume bottle by his cockpit window. A hairbrush tucked in his warship quarters. His subordinates know better than to ask. It’s not for them. It’s for him. Always.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Skyhaven airstrip bakes under the sun as Caleb descends from the sleek body of his warship, black coat catching the breeze like wings. Officers stand at attention. Engines wind down. But his mind isn’t on them.

It’s on you.

More specifically, on the soft pink lip print still visible on the mug stationed by his cockpit window.

He doesn’t bother wiping it off.

Inside his private wing at Command, the same pattern repeats: a perfume bottle resting beside a case of classified datapads, a velvet scrunchie on the corner of his comms console, a pair of slippers you once kicked off after sitting in his lap during a mission briefing. They’re still there. No one dares move them.

Because everyone in the Fleet knows: those aren’t forgotten things.

They’re claimed.

“Sir,” one bold officer says as he walks past. “You want us to clear the desk before Admiral Talyn arrives?”

Caleb looks up from the mug.

The lipstick kiss stares back at him, barely faded, still perfect.

“No,” he replies coldly. “She can learn to keep her hands to herself.”

The officer goes silent. Caleb continues typing a report with one hand while gently straightening your brush with the other, aligning it so the strands you left behind remain untouched. His expression never softens in public, but if they look closely, they’ll see the way his thumb drifts over the place where your fingers last held the handle.

Later that night, when he’s back at the penthouse and you’re curled in his lap like always, drowsy, spoiled, his, you ask him why he brings your things everywhere.

“Because,” he murmurs, voice low as he presses a kiss beneath your ear, “even when I’m flying over war zones or buried in Fleet intel… I need a piece of you to breathe.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Answers to No One But You. Military brass demand his time. Parliament wants answers. But the moment your call pings his comms, he’s gone. Doesn’t matter if he’s mid-meeting, mid-strategy, or mid-battle. He always answers your voice with one word: “Yes, sweetheart?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The command deck of the Farspace Fleet flagship is locked in tension, holographic maps flickering, lieutenants barking coordinates, and Caleb standing at the helm, arms folded behind his back. His black military coat billows slightly from the ship’s internal draft, the purple and red of his insignia gleaming beneath sterile light.

“Colonel, the intercept window closes in three minutes. We need your—”

A soft chime pings in his earpiece.

Caleb stiffens.

One breath. Then another.

The officer beside him squints. “Colonel?”

Caleb lifts a gloved hand, silencing the room with a single motion. Without explanation, he turns on his heel and walks out of the war room, no hesitation, no urgency, like none of this matters compared to the name flashing across his comms.

By the time the blast doors seal behind him, his voice softens into something nearly boyish. He taps the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”

There’s a moment of silence, then your warm, sleep-softened voice: “Hi. I couldn’t sleep… Are you busy?”

He exhales through his nose, slow and fond, already pulling off one glove. “Not anymore.”

“Caleb—wait, aren’t you in the middle of something—?”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m in the hallway. Alone. And I’d rather talk to my wife.”

Your breath catches. He can hear the tiny creak of the penthouse sheets when you curl deeper into them. He imagines you in that oversized shirt you stole from his closet, blinking at the ceiling like you always do when he’s away too long.

“I just missed you,” you murmur.

“I’m flying back after this,” he replies instantly. “Banquet be damned. They’ll reschedule.”

You laugh quietly, like you don’t quite believe him. He’s already opening a classified channel with his off-hand, rerouting half a fleet to cover his absence.

They’ll survive.

They always do.

But only one person gets his everything.

And she’s already in bed, waiting.

[akshayaquapri]

Textured Business Cards

Make a Lasting Impression with Textured Business Cards

In today’s competitive business world, a strong first impression matters. Quapri’s Textured Business Cards are designed to do just that, offering a premium, tactile experience that sets your brand apart. With unique textures and high-quality finishes, these cards leave a memorable impact on clients and business partners.

Custom Business Card Design Options

At Quapri, we believe your business card should be a reflection of your brand identity. That’s why we offer a wide range of customization options to help you create a truly unique design.

Choose Your Texture – Select from linen, eggshell, or other premium textures that enhance your brand’s image.

Select Your Size & Shape – Pick from classic rectangle, sleek square, or rounded corners, available in various sizes.

Design Freedom – Upload your own design or use our online design tool with high-quality templates and graphics.

Personalized Touches – Add elegance with foil stamping, embossing, or edge painting for a sophisticated look.

Elevate Your Brand with Premium Business Cards

Make a statement with business cards that are as unique as your brand. Order your custom textured business cards today and stand out with every handshake.

[exprintmart]

Bright Colors: The shiny surface makes the colors look more vivid, giving the card a nice visual effect.Long-Lasting: The added layer helps protect the card from getting scratched or damaged by the environment.Professional Appearance: The shiny surface gives the card a high-quality and professional look.

[mockupcloud]

MODU Brand Identity

Mockups used in this project ⚡ mockupcloud.com

Branding by be.net/MODU-PopUp

[quapriprinting]

Textured Business Cards

Textured Business Cards – Make a Statement with Premium Texture

Your business card is the first impression of your brand—make it count with Quapri Textured Business Cards. Designed for professionals who value quality, our cards offer unique textures, high durability, and a premium feel. Whether you prefer a classic or bold texture, our carefully crafted options help you stand out.

Explore Our Exclusive Fine-Textured Business Cards

Natural Evaluation Texture

A refined texture that adds sophistication to your card, making it perfect for a professional and polished look.

Cream Texture

A smooth, elegant surface that brings a touch of class to your custom printed business cards.

Criss Cross Texture

A modern, patterned finish that gives your card a distinctive, eye-catching appeal.

White Texture

A minimal yet stylish texture that enhances the clarity and readability of your business branding cards.

Needle Point Texture

A finely detailed, durable texture that offers a premium tactile experience, making your business card feel as impressive as it looks.

Textured Canvas

A fabric-like texture that adds a rich, artistic touch to your classic texture finish cards, making them ideal for creative professionals and luxury brands.

 Key Features of Durable Textured Cards

High-Quality Materials – Premium cardstock for a luxurious feel and long-lasting durability.

Multiple Texture Options – Choose from fine-textured, classic, and criss-cross finishes.

Vibrant Printing – Sharp colours and clean typography for a professional look.

Eco-Friendly Options – Sustainable materials and printing processes for an environmentally conscious choice.

Fast & Secure Delivery – Get your custom business cards printed and delivered on time.

[jyeoulzhu]

wtf!

summary . y/n casually pulls aeri to the safer side of the sidewalk mid-yap session, leaving her malfunctioning. she clings to their sleeve, still in denial. later, y/n buys her ice cream and warms her hands in their hoodie pocket.

pairing . giselle x gender neutral reader

y/n and aeri have been walking for at least fifteen minutes, and in that time, they've managed to argue about the most irrelevant topics known to mankind.

it started with aeri suddenly gaslighting y/n into thinking that fish can drown. y/n, visibly distressed, refused to believe such nonsense, but aeri, being the menace that she is, kept insisting until they pulled out their phone to look it up. turns out, some fish actually can drown, which made aeri victorious and y/n existential.

"okay, but hear me out," y/n says, still recovering from the betrayal of science. "if the ocean is a giant soup—"

"oh my god, we are not doing this."

"listen."

"no. absolutely not."

"LISTEN."

"if you call the ocean a broth, i am literally going home."

y/n dramatically puts a hand on their chest. "aeri. be serious for a second. the ocean is made up of water, salt, animal carcasses, and seasoning from pollution. tell me that's not a soup."

aeri looks at them like they just committed a federal crime. "you need to be arrested immediately."

y/n cackles, too proud of their logic, and they keep walking, aeri muttering about how she needs better friends under her breath. the streetlights cast a soft yellow glow over the sidewalk, the air is crisp, and the sound of their footsteps fills the quiet night.

and then—it happens.

y/n reaches out mid-conversation, fingers grazing her wrist before gently wrapping around it, guiding her to the inner side of the sidewalk. it's so effortless, like they do it all the time, like it's natural.

aeri freezes.

wait. wait.

she stops walking, her brain malfunctioning, and y/n gets a few steps ahead before noticing she's no longer beside them.

they turn around, confused. "what?"

aeri squints at them. "did you just sidewalk-rule me?"

y/n raises an eyebrow. "uh, yeah?"

"why?"

"so you don't get hit by a car???" they say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

aeri crosses her arms, trying so hard to act unbothered despite the full-on butterfly migration happening in her stomach. "what if i wanted to get hit by a car?"

y/n gives her the driest look known to mankind. "then do it when i'm not around."

she scoffs, annoyed that they sound so casual about it while she's literally about to go into cardiac arrest.

they keep walking, and aeri, despite her brain yelling at her, does something unhinged.

she grabs onto their sleeve.

not their hand, not their arm—just their sleeve. like she needs to hold onto something, like she's making sure they don't go anywhere.

y/n glances down, noticing it, and instead of teasing her, they just let her.

and that's when aeri realizes.

she's fucked.

—

they end up at a convenience store because y/n randomly decides they need ice cream, and aeri, still lowkey malfunctioning from the sidewalk incident, blindly follows.

she watches, in a daze, as y/n stands in front of the freezers, contemplating flavors like it's a life-or-death decision.

"okay, so like..." y/n furrows their brows. "cookies and cream is elite, but chocolate chip cookie dough has that texture."

aeri barely hears them. her mind is too busy replaying the moment from earlier like a glitching simulation.

"you good?" y/n asks, waving a hand in front of her face.

she blinks. "huh?"

"you've been staring at the freezer like it owes you money."

"oh," aeri says, stupidly. "yeah. i'm fine."

y/n narrows their eyes. "are you still thinking about the ocean soup thing?"

she snaps out of it immediately. "NO. SHUT UP. STOP BRINGING IT UP."

y/n just laughs and grabs the cookies and cream. when they get to the counter, aeri reaches to pay first, but y/n literally side-steps her and taps their card before she can even react.

she glares at them. "why."

y/n shrugs. "because."

aeri, still recovering from the sidewalk thing, is now recovering from this too.

—

by the time they're heading back, the city is quieter, the night air cooler, and the ice cream cups they bought are half-eaten. aeri is happily rambling about some drama she saw on twitter, and y/n is nodding along, responding every now and then with "no way, fr?" to make it seem like they're listening (they are, mostly).

at some point, y/n yawns.

"tired?" aeri teases, nudging them.

"you talk a lot."

"um, RUDE??"

"nah, i like it," they say casually, stretching their arms over their head.

aeri pauses.

hold on.

what the hell is she supposed to do with that information.

before she can think about it too much, y/n does something even worse.

they wrap an arm around her shoulders.

casually. like it's nothing.

like she's not about to explode.

"your hands are cold," y/n mumbles, pulling her a little closer.

aeri literally forgets how to breathe.

her brain is SCREAMING. her soul has left her body.

she's so frozen in shock that she doesn't even realize when she leans into them a little. just enough to feel the warmth, just enough so y/n knows she's not going anywhere.

and if she falls asleep thinking about it... yeah. nobody needs to know.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Detailed Settings

A detailed setting draws your readers into the world you’ve built, allowing them to inhabit the storyline. Learn the core elements of setting, and apply them to your own writing.

How to Create a Vivid Setting for Your Story

Writing vividly is all about evoking clear imagery and detail in the mind of the reader. Here’s how to create a richly textured world for your story:

Use place to your advantage. Place denotes both geographical location and immediate surroundings. A story that unfolds in the hurried chaos of New York is not the same if transplanted to an isolated island in the Pacific. A scene that takes place in a cramped room shifts when it occurs in a vast forest.

Make use of time. Time in setting can be expressed as a time of day, a season or time of year, or a historical time period. Seasonal changes—the advent of winter, a blistering summer—might provide life or death stakes; historical periods define the behavior of all the characters operating within your fictional world.

Show the world through your characters’ eyes. Try to reveal the world as the characters interact with it, since the most resonant setting descriptions are the ones that come somewhat altered through the lens of an individual. If you’re writing historical fiction, for example, you may be pulling from a real place or time. Snippets of accuracy can give palpable energy to your prose. As with anything that requires lots of research, knowing what to include can be a balancing act: too much detail, and the reader is overwhelmed.

Be aware of how setting affects emotions. Allow setting to influence your characters’ actions and moods. Otherwise, they and the world they live in will come across as static and lacking nuance. The lives of humans—or mythical creatures living in fantasy worlds—are intimately tied to setting.

Exercises for Writing Vivid Settings

Try these writing exercises to develop a strong story setting and see where it takes your narrative:

Visit a real-world location you’ve never been to before. This can be an actual place from a setting you’ve chosen or simply a place near you that you find interesting. When you first arrive at the location, don’t record or photograph or write anything down, just spend some time absorbing it through your senses. Pay attention to the things that strike you most. Go home later and write a description of the place. Remember to include the sensory details—what it felt and smelled and sounded like.

Select an important location from your novel or short story. This could be anything—a public building, a business, a famous landmark, a landscape, or someone’s house. Now choose two characters from your story and write a short paragraph describing how they might react to the setting. Explore different points of view of your chosen place.

Choose places and write them on index cards. Organize them according to how you think a story should unfold at those locations. Would it make more sense for your characters to move from one theme to another (e.g. from religious buildings to scientific ones)? What’s the most efficient way to organize them? Would a random route be more interesting?

Focus on memorable details. Keep the details grounded in a character’s sensory experience. Everyone probably knows what a tree looks like, so if you’re describing one, tell the reader what makes it different or why it’s important from your character’s point of view. You’ll want to let your reader know what it feels like for the character, what it sounds and smells and tastes like. No matter what kind of world you’re creating, this technique can bring more vividness to your writing.

On an unlined sheet of paper, create a map of your world. Pay attention to detail: Even the smallest moments can help you visualize a world more clearly. Show landscape features like mountains and lakes and roads; mark cities if you have them, and note regions and counties, too. Try to match the feel of your setting. If it’s a magical world, show features pertaining to this—a dark magician’s fortress, for example.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[dooberific]

❝ 𝘏𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 ❞

lighter lorenz x afab!reader

genre: slice of life

summary: your most consistent “customer” always ends up crawling back to you

wc: 2k

“I should charge you extra for this, Lorenz,” you drawled, popping the screen door open with your hip as you walked back out onto the porch, a pair of scissors twirling on your finger. With practiced ease you snapped them into your hand, pointing the sharp tip in his direction.

“I don’t take well to traitors.”

You could see his eyebrows raise behind his sunglasses, a low whistle passing his lips.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time, boss.”

“You better, I’m not one to give chances freely.” You teased before nodding your head towards the steps of your porch.

“Now take a seat, scruffy, we’ll see if we can’t make a Champion out of you yet.”

You grinned as he plopped dutifully down on your porch steps, long legs stretching out comfortably as he leaned back on his elbows. His head lolled back in your direction, vibrant shades of teal green twinkling over the gold rim of his glasses as he grinned in the same boyish, lopsided fashion you had grown to expect of him.

“That’s a big claim to make, saying you can make someone a champion with a pair of scissors.”

Your eyes rolled as you sat criss crossed behind him, plucking the sunglasses off his face before sliding them onto your head, watching the sharp recoil of his features when the burning orange glow of the setting sun assaulted his uncovered eyes. You pinched his bangs between your fingers, spreading the strands between the pads of your thumb and index before allowing them to feather back against his forehead.

“Well it’s certainly easier to win when you can actually see.”

He righted his head with a conceding sigh. “You’ve got me there.”

Your hands carded through his hair, thick waves of dark green-teal sliding between your fingers. It made you a bit angry that he had achieved an envious degree of volume and softness that a woman would kill for knowing that he was probably still using some 14-in-1 product that could strip grease off a floor, wash dishes, and his hair with the same bottle. Perhaps it was your sign that genetics could flourish under any circumstances, and that Lighter was simply god’s favorite delinquent.

“A barber with a waitlist, huh?” You mused, drawing a strand of his hair taunt between two fingers. The scissor blades shined like gold in the dying light, severing any split ends as you trimmed a few millimeters off.

“The city sure is a unique place.”

He hummed. “It’s not all bad, I guess.”

Part of you was inclined to disagree with him. You weren’t particularly fond of the city in any regard except for the variety in products offered. It was too noisy, too busy, too much stress over even the simplest of things.

It was a far cry from where you sat now, the evening sun warming your skin as the desert air of the Outer Ring carried the dry scents of sage and willow to your lungs, the landscape doused in a golden glow that stained the earthy reds of the stone in vibrant hues. The whistles of distant warblers and the rumble of engines zipping down the highways, the rustling of the tumbleweeds rolling over the packed earth, the gentle snipping of the scissors in your hands as stray hairs broke loose under the sharpened blades.

A melody of a deserted land that seemed so foreign and rogue to most evoked nothing but an easy sense of homely comfort. One that bathed the simplicity of your task in a halo of nostalgia, the texture of the porch under your legs, your chipped nail polish undercut with rich hues of raven green, the comfortable silence that filled the air reserved for close relationships.

Your nails tickled, featherlight touches brushing over the shell of his ear. He shuddered, goosebumps rising harshly on his skin under his jacket.

You dusted the stray hairs off his shoulders as you stood with a small groan, the grooves of the porch tattooing your legs with the texture of the worn wood. “Alright, I’m done.”

You pocketed your scissors, jerking a thumb towards the screen door. “Come in and wash up, can’t have you itching on the ride home.”

You held the door, propped against it as you watched him shed his jacket, shamelessly enjoying the tight planes of his muscles shifting under his t-shirt as he tossed his jacket over the porch rail, chased by the vibrant red of his scarf.

“You should be careful making offers like that,” He said as he sauntered past you, plucking his glasses off the top of your head. “You never know what kind of unsavory folks could wander out of the desert.”

You raised a brow in playful disbelief. “Maybe you should be careful accepting invitations to shower at strange women’s houses,” you countered as the door slammed loudly in its casing, though if it was the sound or the sharp way your hand connected with his ass that made him jump you weren’t fully sure.

You shot him a wink as he whipped around. “You never know what kind of unsavory things they could want in exchange~”

To say you enjoyed any chance to tease the legendary red scarf of the Sons of Calydon would be a massive understatement. It had always been that way, even from the first time Big Daddy showed up on your doorstep with him and asked you to whip him into shape.

He was thinner, hair shaggy and skin littered in bruises that stained it shades of red, purple and yellow. He didn’t talk at all then, shoulders hunched forward as you trimmed away months of disrepair, gave him a proper shave and shower and sent him off after a warm meal. It was purely transactional if not somewhat born from the pity that stirred in your gut at the hollow, glazed look in his eyes that lingered for months on end.

He would come back every few months for the same thing until his head stood a little taller, shoulders prouder, a healthy tan kissing his skin alongside the occasional bump or bruise brought on by one of his scrapes as new champion for the Sons of Calydon.

Conversation flowed a little more freely and lightly, the atmosphere of your simple home a backdrop for peaceful evenings even when your scissors weren’t needed, one of warm blankets draped over your bare legs as you sat on the porch swing, hot tea warming a ceramic glass between your chilled fingers as the cries of coyotes mingled with the deep purple sky, nothing but the stars as their witness.

Lighter still dutifully sat on the top step, boots thumping against the wood in tune with the crackle of the radio that whispered in from your kitchen where you left it running. You’d tease him about the girls in Blazewood or whatever pretty little number you had witnessed walk up to him on the street until his ears would stain with a hearty red flush, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he refuted your words and attempted to redirect the conversation.

If he really hated the teasing talks as much as he claimed you were confident he wouldn’t keep showing up with a case of Nitrofuel asking if you were free for the evening.

You placed a couple bowls on the table, the heat off the contents curling pleasantly under the yellowed bulb of the dining room light as you heard the shower shut off.

“Feeling like a new man yet?” You called through the door as you dropped some silverware in the bowls.

“It’s hard to beat a fresh cut.” He replied as the door to the bathroom swung open, his hair falling limply over his forehead still damp from the shower. Give it another few minutes to air dry and it would surely begin to curl and bounce back to life.

“I’d like to see one of those fancy city barbers have better customer service!” You stated matter of factly, waltzing up to lean on the doorframe, the light dancing over the apples of your cheeks as the floral scent of your Carlishe shampoo met your nose. The girls would give him a fit over it later to be sure.

He’s smiling at your small talk, a hand rubbing the line of his jaw thoughtfully as he squinted at his reflection in the mirror.

“You still keep those extra razors?”

You snorted. “Of course, how else can I service all the scruffy vagrants that wander through my door?”

You vanished from the doorway for a moment, and he could hear your feet thumping across the hardwood floor as you came and went, your face mischievous as you shouldered into the little bathroom with him and hopped up on the sink counter.

You brandished the single bladed razor with smug pride, a finger rising to crook in his direction as your lips curled invitingly. “Come here, Mr. Lorenz, and let me finish you off in a proper fashion.”

He was like putty in your hands and he stepped closer, hands braced on the sink at your side as your own hand came up to trace the curve of his jaw. It felt like old times, you mused to yourself, painting a thin layer of shaving cream against his skin. You used to do it all the time, though it was a bit more challenging when his skin was tender from the bruises that blossomed beneath the surface.

He didn’t hold eye contact with you then like he does now, vibrant hues of green smoldering under thick lashes trained on the curve of your lips, the delicate way your teeth teased the lower in concentration as you glided the blade across his skin with a skilled hand.

The scent of the spice in the shaving cream tickling your nose as it mingled with the florals of the shampoo, his breath warm as it fanned over your cheeks.

“If you keep staring like that,” you tapped the razor off in the sink, running the blade under the water as you turned back and met his gaze head on.

“I might think you like me a little more than just as your barber.”

“And what if I said I did?”

It came out in a breath, and you weren’t sure for a moment if it was accidental or intentional, some form of truth rolling in seas of green that you would never claim to be able to read. You stared at him for a long, silent moment, a challenge brewing on the tip of your tongue.

“You won’t.”

It was flat and to-the-point, a truth spoon fed by force down his throat like a bitter medicine to an unruly child. You placed the razor neatly on the side of the sink.

“You’re not brazen enough to jump into something without hesitation,” you elaborated, a hand rising to brush loose hairs behind your ear as you met his gaze once more. “And I think you value me too much as a friend to act carelessly.”

He huffed, fingers tapping on the countertop. “You say that like you’re confident that you know me or something.”

Your shoulders shrugged. “Not like you’ve been much of a stranger in the past.”

He couldn’t challenge you there if he tried, his very presence in your home right now a glaring reminder that the two of you had never been fully unfamiliar, always toeing some invisible line between friends and something a little past that. Maybe it did give him pause to think of upsetting the delicate balance of the game you seemed perpetually locked in.

You slipped off the counter, sliding past him without a word. You were like sand filtering between his fingers, there one moment and gone just as quickly if his grip relinquished even for a moment.

“I don’t mind waiting, I consider myself a rather patient person.” You spoke, your back turned to him as you plucked one of the bowls off the table. You spooned a helping into your mouth, humming thoughtfully as you turned, waggling your empty utensil at him.

“Jus’ be a good boy and don’t go cheating on me with another barber in the meantime.”

His grin was as crooked as ever.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Rey 2025