zayne introducing you as his wife (based on this ask)
"my wife gifted me this watch for our monthly anniversary."
"greyson, would you like to have this flavoured tea? my wife prefers coffee."
"i'll discuss it with my wife and let you know."
the entire hospital knew one thing by now: dr zayne had a wife who was responsible for half his vocabulary. but who?
at the rest station, someone finally blurts the question out.
zayne simply gestures to you and that alone invites exaggerated gasps. more so upon learning that you were a nephrology specialist. did no one know you were married...?
"were you even friends before?" greyson addresses the matter like he's witnessing a medical anomaly. oh so it's worse.
...which is insulting because you literally arrived together this morning and routinely shared lunch. how obvious could you make it?
"perhaps we should hold hands more often." he solemnly suggests.
"not obvious enough." you scoff. "we should kiss more often."
his ears turn pink. "i'm afraid i wouldn't be able to let you go if we did." zayne offers you a shy yet mischievous smile.
"then we should practice at home." you smirk, taking his hand in yours as you finally arrive at your car.
"after you, my wife." his cheeks are already tomato red.
“I still can't believe that you managed to lose your voice too,” you comment, pressing a soft peck to Zayne's burning forehead as you wrap the duvet tighter around your tangled bodies. You frown upon realising that his temperature hasn't faltered since you last checked it, hoping the medicine he's taken will take effect soon.
“I love you, you know that, right?” he whispers fondly, his voice barely audible over the dulcet pitter-patter of the rain falling outside your window. His eyes are soft at the edges as he peers at you, the area around his nose tinted a bright red from the number of times he's abused it with the tissues that now lay in a pile next to him. Yet, even in this disheveled state, you almost want to groan at how beautiful Zayne looks.
As if saying it once isn't enough, Zayne's hands reach under the duvet aimlessly until they find yours, interlocking your fingers together as he brings them up to his lips. He presses a delicate kiss to each of your knuckles before mumbling, “I love you so, so much.”
The sensation of his lips brushing against your fingers sends jolts through your chest, your heart warming at how gentle he is with you even after all this time.
“I love you too, but please stop talking because it's not going to make your voice any better,” you scold, taking notice of the growing scratchiness evident in his voice. The irony of having to lecture a doctor about taking care of himself isn't lost on you, but Zayne doesn't seem particularly inclined to listen.
“If you think me losing my voice is somehow going to stop me from saying how much I love you, you're wrong.”
What does Zayne even wear at home😭😭 my man has only 3 kinds of outfits
1. Doctor clothes
2. ONE single set of pyjamas
3. Extravagant costumes from special events/past lives
LET'S TALK ABOUT ZAYNE'S WARDROBE! // HCs
aside from his mandatory Akso attire, I believe he has a whole collection of dress shirts and straight-cut pants. the colours don't have much variation and are always in the range of dark colours (eg. black, navy blue) and stark white shades. he definitely has several black fitted button-ups, and gets them custom made to his measurements. he doesn't feel like much of a shopper until it comes to sportswear.
speaking of sportswear,
wow. WOW. looks like he prefers his in dark colours or with high contrast neutrals. I know he likes a good pair of sneakers, but not so much that he collects them. he definitely has some choice pairs of running shoes since he jogs a ton and is very much into wellness and all that. he's also likely to have his specific pick of brands he buys from; he's a very decisive, routined and discipline-heavy guy so that should be right up his alley.
also! he definitely keeps some staples in his wardrobe like turtlenecks and cardigans.
my baby looks so cozy! you see that belt? he has other belts. he has like atleast ten belts neatly hung in his closet. he's wearing dress pants here again, straight-cut and not too much variation in colour. he seems to like his cardigans in neutral colours, paired with white t-shirts of varying necklines. so he definitely has several white t-shirts in his closet, half-sleeved.
he seems to be styling his fits a little in eternal attachment and by cherished longing; he went for a full colour blazer, vibrant with motifs AND a brooch? WOW. like you said, he definitely has some select outfits for events that are extravagant and different from his everyday choice. and a variety of blazers in his wardrobe; as part of daily wear.
now that we've established a general framework for his fits, we get to the burning question: what does zayne wear at home?
along with pajamas, he owns a robe...yippie!
two robes, because this one's of a more satin/silk material and the previous one was fluffy.
in the next pic: he's at home here! we see another red statement cardigan. i think he likes red and beige, as opposing to his frequent black, navy blue and white-centered fits. but he's wearing a dress shirt and pants... but do not fear. he owns sweatshirts!!!
finally, we found what else he wears at home! you've got his pajamas, his robes, and his sweatshirts. now, does he have sweatpants? probably. i'd like to headcannon that he wears his t-shirts now and then too!! so there you have your answer :)
premise zayne promised himself he would find a cure for her, so he undergoes literal hell to find it.
tags/cw grief, death, stress, burnout, a lot of angst, if you glimpse hard enough suicidal thoughts, a very anxious zayne. This is definetly not me doing therapy to myself because I hate medschool
soundtrack happy life by Roland Faute
Everyone knew studying medicine was hard. When he first told the people in his close circle he was even considering it, everyone cheered and applauded, but warned him. And he knew.
He was just a kid, but he knew.
Hell, everyone knows.
“You must be so smart to be studying that career. He knew, but he didn’t know if smart was the right word. Maybe, perhaps, stubborn.
They say it would be hard. It was
They asked if he slept or ate well. He didn’t.
By the time he was in his second year, Zayne had already learned that the body was a machine that broke too easily. Too much potassium outside the cell? You die. Too little? You die too. People are not built to watch it break over and over again.
It is genuinely hard to be alive knowing everybody dies, it’s a shame getting by when you know things wont be alright. And yet he lies, to his parents when he tells he’s fine, to his patients when he said he had faith in the treatment, he lied to himself when he said this was worth it.
And then he looked into her eyes, her goddamned eyes. Why was he so obsessed with them either way? He knew her, of course, he knew she had a heat disease, but he was no Caleb. He did not grow up with her, he was not his childhood friend. If she even had to choose, she would never choose him. Yet, he was sacrificing his life to save hers.
To say he became obsessed would be an understatement. Before even graduating he was already being mentored by the best cardiologists in the country, flying to Antarctica to find protocores, burying his head in papers and blood to even find a cure.
Before he even wore that damned white coat, the shifts, the caffeine, the sterile corridors there was her. There were two kids skipping stones, sharing music, playing to be pirates or even presidents, and then he moved.
He stopped answering. No fight, no explanation, just fell straight into silence. Perhaps it was the guilt of not knowing what to do with her heart, of the fright of falling in love.
Then he had to dissect the heart for the first time and he truly knew he was in love. Maybe not with her, she didn’t even know where he was. But he definitely thought of her, of every breath she took around him, of the conversations grandma had regarding the worry her heart brought. He had to leave, not because he was overwhelmed by the blood but because he was overwhelmed by her.
Then medicine consumed him, people aged around him and semesters passed like seasons. The lawyers and writers were getting married, he was learning to stop feeling during autopsies, to talk to grieving families, and to shut the crying. Still, sometimes between the lectures he would glance at the empty seat and imagine her there, writing or drawing in her sloppy handwriting.
He even tried to date. The girl had kind eyes, a nice smile, and yet when he laughed it didn’t echo the way her laugh did. It didn’t last a month.
By his final year she was not there as much as she previously was. He could imagine her, all grown up, sitting by the desk and swinging her legs “still looking for a cure?“. Of course, still.
Then he went through residency, a war disguised as routine. He worked, ate, slept in the same hospital, existing somewhere between adrenaline and apathy.
During one endless night shift, he fell asleep in the on-call room and dreamed of their childhood—her sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, painting her nails black, asking, “Do you think people can disappear without dying?”
He woke with tears on his face.
Later that night, while charting vitals, he looked up and saw her standing at the end of the hallway. The fluorescent light flickered. She was older now, how she might have looked if time had kept her close.
Years later, Zayne had everything he thought he wanted: patients, respect, exhaustion that passed for purpose. But he moved through life like a ghost.
Sometimes, after long surgeries, he’d walk outside and imagine calling her. He didn’t even have her number anymore, but he’d still pull out his phone and stare at the screen.
He told himself that if she ever called back, he’d have something worth saying. Something other than I still think about you when I fix broken hearts.
One evening, after a particularly long day, he went to a small coffee shop near the hospital—the kind of place they used to go to after school. The air smelled like rain.
And there she was.
Sitting by the window. Reading a book.
He froze. His pulse spiked. It had been over a decade, but he’d know her anywhere.
He approached slowly, afraid she’d vanish like all the other times, and with a fragile voice he dared to call her name.
She looked up, surprised—but it wasn’t her. Similar eyes, softer voice. “Sorry?”
He backed away, heart hammering. The barista asked if he was okay. He wasn’t.
Outside, the sky had turned the color of bruises. He heard her voice again, inside his head this time.
“You’re tired, Zayne.”
“I know.”
“You should have let me go.”
He didn’t answer.
That night he dreamt of her—not the girl she was, but the woman she might have become. She was sitting in his childhood park, the one where they used to talk about leaving town.
When he sat beside her, she smiled. “You finally made it.”
“To what?”
“Where you thought you’d be happy.”
He looked at his hands, steady but scarred. “It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”
“It never does.”
He turned to her, and for the first time, she looked fragile. Transparent.
“Why do you keep coming back?” he asked.
“I don’t,” she said gently. “You bring me.”
The words echoed long after he woke.
A few days later, between rounds, Zayne passed an empty patient room. For some reason, he stopped. The sunlight through the blinds cut across the floor exactly the way it had in his dream.
He stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something warmer, like childhood, maybe.
And there she was again, leaning against the wall. Same denim jacket. Same eyes that looked both real and impossible.
“I thought I was done seeing you,” he said.
“You are,” she replied. “I just came to say goodbye.”
He felt something twist in his chest. “Why now?”
“Because you’re finally ready to let me.”
He wanted to argue, to ask where she’d gone, why she’d stopped writing, whether she ever thought of him—but the words felt useless. She stepped closer, smiled that old, tired smile.
“You turned out okay,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the room was empty.
The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It just was.
Zayne finished his rounds in a daze. For the first time in years, the hospital didn’t feel haunted.
He still thought about her sometimes—the girl who left without saying goodbye, the phantom that followed him through every exam, every heartbeat he ever tried to mend.
He understood now that she hadn’t really left him. He’d been the one holding on, replaying a memory until it looked like a ghost.
That night, as he walked home, he passed a group of med students laughing on the corner. They reminded him of himself once, young, hopeful, still believing medicine could save everything.
He wanted to tell them something, but all he said was, “Get some sleep.”
When he reached his apartment, he opened an old drawer and found a faded photo, two teenagers on a park bench, sunlight in their eyes. He smiled.
He didn’t frame it. He didn’t throw it away either. He just put it back, gently, and closed the drawer.
Outside, the city hummed. Inside, his chest felt light.
In the mornings, Zayne still woke before sunrise. He still drank bitter coffee and read patient charts. But the air in his mind was clearer now.
Sometimes, just before sleep, he’d hear her laugh, not as an echo, but as a memory, something warm that didn’t hurt anymore.
With what little social media presence Zayne has, I imagine he uses the same professional photo for even his personal socials. When he and MC get together, MC does an overhaul on his personal socials to make it look less like a linked in page LOL
thinking about zayne coming home from work and finding you touching yourself. he was frustrated enough at work, and this certainly didn't help. he approached the bed, kneeling at the foot of it, and that's when you finally noticed him.
"i see somebody was never taught patience." zayne tsk'd as he loosened his tie from around his neck, "you knew i would be home soon, yet you just couldn't wait."
you swallowed hard, as zayne grabbed your legs, pulling you down the bed so you were within reach. he ran his hands down your body - from your breasts, down your stomach. his movements were so slow, they almost tickled, causing you to squirm in his grasp. a smirk pulled at his lips, but he didn't say anything.
he brought his hand down between your legs, running his fingers through your wet folds. wasting no time, he inserted one finger, knuckle deep. he began to pump his finger in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace, humming in content as you begged him for more.
"z-zayne," you moaned, "please don't tease me."
you attempted to move your hips so you could grind into his hand, trying to get the friction you so deeply desired. however, zayne's free hand came up to hold your hips and keep you in place.
"ah, ah, ah, baby. you'll take what i give you." zayne taunted you, "if you're able to do that, then maybe i'll let you cum tonight."
independent + private roleplay blog for ZAYNE, owned by infold game's LOVE AND DEEPSPACE and as perceived by ALVEIO ( minor ). crossover + oc + fandom + headcannon friendly. low activity due to school + sporadic motivation spans.
Zayne is fussy.
cw. MDNI! unprotected sex (p in v)
Your husband looks cool on the surface, yes. but inside, he’s in a whirlpool of countless thoughts just pulling him deeper. And that won’t do.
“my love, did you take your multivitamin—” before he can complete the sentence, you make a sprint towards him and place a gentle kiss on his lips.
he’s startled. And then melts into a puddle of goo as he giggles softly. He brushes his nose against yours and places a kiss on the cool tip of it.
he doesn’t think much of it until he finally catches on when you keep interrupting him with kisses.
“don’t forget to—” kiss. “I’m serious here, y—” kiss kiss. He admits defeat with a sigh and pink ears.
“have you eaten yo—” kiss. “I understand what you’re attempting here but—” wet kiss. And then two more.
——
“mmh—” your head falls on his shoulder as his lips find your temple to stifle a moan. His cock splits you open as you bounce on it. He’s putty under you.
His palm runs over your back, settling at the back of your neck, cradling your head while you take him to the hilt.
Gravity forces his tip to kiss your cervix each time his cock is pummeled into you. his brows furrow, another thought bubbling. you were hell-bent on fucking each one out.
“you sho—” you pull back to kiss him messy now, before he finishes his thought—drinking up his words. “nghh i—” his jaw clenches.
“hush, my sweet.” you murmur. His hands slide low, gripping your hips as he swallows back sounds that erupt as deep grunts. How could he be quiet when your pussy has him in such a deliciously syrupy grip.
His finger finds your clit, pinching it once. “hah—! s’deep nghh—” your head lolls back, eyes fluttering shut. But he doesn’t let you. he grips your chin, pulling you into a greedy kiss. Spit and tongue and teeth.
His hips move below you, plowing into you deeper and deeper and deeper—
“m’cu—cumming! Your voice cracks. One more thrust, one more kiss to your womb and he’s finishing in you.
You pull his face closer, calming your breath as you come down from your high—nose to nose.
He lets out a breathy chuckle.
“If the punishment feels this good, my love, I’m doomed to repeat the crime.”
