High Drive.
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Warnings: Zayne x MC, angst, slightly dysfunctional established relationship, sex mentioned, happy ending though
A/N: New to LADS fandom here! This is my first time posting my writing online. Very, very indulgent with a reader who developed a low sex drive. I’m honestly not a lore nerd and kind of skims the game, so apologies for any mischaracterization! Art by me : - )
W/C: 2467
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Zayne needs you, but he doesn’t know what to do.
Years of courtship and connection had been full of fervour and joy. The wedding was faultless; the honeymoon, exceptional. You were perfect. The two of you had your messy moments afterwards, yes, but nothing has ever made Zayne doubt the bonfire of passion burning bright. Nothing until now.
It’s understandable, really. Love shifted from setting hearts ablaze to illuminating every corner of your lives. You were still you, his jasmine and moon, still ever understanding with Zayne’s late nights and toothaches as you nuzzled your snowman until he melted.
But maybe he’s been taking you for granted. Lately, you’ve been… slowing down.
Every time he comes home crawling over you on the couch, every time his fingers dip underneath the hem of your shirt, every time his voice drops to that husky whisper under half-lidded eyes, you’ve pulled away and given him a questioning smirk. One that usually promised more behind closed doors now never delivered. And even worse, these days your smugness has worn down its playful edge for the exhaustion underneath; you’re always fast asleep before his shoes pass the front door.
You’re tired, he knows. Duties of a hunter pile up eventually when someone as ambitious and hardheaded as you gets promoted. Now, you come home almost close to when Zayne’s shift ends—he often catches you entering the building just as he arrives at the streets of your shared abode. He used to be giddy with daydreams of midnight bingsu dates, harbourside stargazing, or simply being able to slide into bed with you awake to tighten your arms around him. But no—you’ve always marched straight to bed and knocked yourself out the second home welcomed you. Your cute snores are insufficient for the connection he craves.
It’s been weeks. No more making love, let alone fucking.
No—he had no right to demand this. To you, sex has always been about physical gratification. Of pleasure and climax and animalistic union. But to Zayne… god, how he wished his heart didn’t depend on these moments buried inside you to feel seen.
This is how he connects with you. To Zayne, a man that knows how deep his flaws run best; how harsh his words cut, how curt his actions, how quietly he loves and explodes in moments of intimacy when emotions unravel and devotion overwhelms… without your body close to his, he felt himself wither day by day. Unneeded, unwanted, unworthy of love.
He feels wrong. Feels stupid for not being able to just enjoy the quiet moments with you, to love the mundane hours of claw machine dates and afternoon tea and reviewing separate paperwork together like it’s enough. To him it isn’t. It should be. And fuck does he feel ugly for it—he’s being ungrateful, he’s taking your love for granted, he’s using you for your body—
Every spiralling thought drove the sharp scalpel of frigid winter deeper into his chest.
And you couldn’t see that. ‘Didn’t want to,’ an ugly caricature of him jeered. Do you know what he truly means when he wants your bodies to tangle? Do you feel his love at all when he moans your name?
Did you…have someone else?
No, you’d never. It’s not your fault; you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve done enough loving someone like him. You’ve spoilt him enough that he’s grown greedy.
Maybe you believed that you didn’t have to try now that you two are bound by contracts and rings. Maybe you’ve stopped trying.
Maybe his advances had never been welcomed in the first place.
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“Darling,” he whispers into the night, held back and quiet. Your eyelids are still, breath short next to where he lies under covers; you’re not asleep—yet.
“It’s… been a while,” he begins, familiar warm bass masking the anxiety threatening to overwhelm. Partners shouldn’t feel this way around each other, but he did. Did you notice?
“…Mhm?” You murmur, breathless from shallow dozing underneath your shared macaroon-patterned blanket, one that you’ve gifted him within your first year of dating. He clutches the edge a little too tight, as if whatever passion was left behind from the countless intimate nights before underneath these sheets could seep out now and help remind you of what he misses. What he doesn’t dare speak aloud for fear of shame and worse—rejection.
He shifts from his arm to his back, staring into the ceiling to choose his words. He’s never been good at this, he knows. People usually scowl at him by the time the second sentence leaves his mouth, but you never did. You always know what he meant, right?
“…I’ve missed you, my jasmine. I’ve missed… your touch, your kisses, your attention.” Each word sounded more stupid as they hung aloud. You have been kissing him, greeting him in the mornings, and responding to his texts and calls when you could. He shouldn’t really ask for more, not when you’ve already worked to the bone. That part he hates even more.
He doesn’t dare continue—I’ve missed how we used to be.
But then you flip him on his side again, your arms around his body wordlessly.
“Wait, I didn’t mean—” “Shhh, love.”
The nickname alone instantly freezes his protest.
Your hand dips into the front of his pyjama sweats, your sleepy body pressing along his tense back. He hates how his breath immediately hitches, mind melting under your touch. This wasn’t what he wanted, no—he wanted you, the love of his life, the reason for his existence, the crux of his purpose.
But you seem to have no intention of holding his heart. Your other hand doesn’t caress his chest nor link fingers with his as usual. Just a drowsy, exhausted wife who’s jacking off her husband so he can sleep… ‘and stop bothering her’. He thinks that’s what’s inside your mind. Zayne doesn’t get you anymore.
And that scared him more than anything.
He wanted to stop you. Wanted to say he didn’t want just this; he needed you. But it felt so good: the slender curve of your digits, the plush warmth of your hand, the way you linger just how he likes along the hilt of his cock while your thumb circles his leaking tip. He could feel that cold wedding band trace up and down his length, making him squirm when it hitched on veins—a taunting reminder of his soul laid bare. His body desired it; he didn’t. But he never stopped you.
Just listened and obeyed. The act alone erupted back the glaciers of control they’ve spent so long melting away together; his freed dominance over you, built on a lifetime of trust and learning, catapulted back to the starting square. He can’t let loose anymore, not when he no longer knows what you want, not when he’s lost where boundaries end and begin. He can’t be free, can’t be Zayne… because being Zayne meant wanting sex and troubling you. That's what's going on, isn't it?
So he lets you work him. Let your hand squeeze out the final spurts of pathetic white onto the triple-ply tissue cushioning his sex. Let you take a final short breath before sleep eclipses you the moment his pleasure faded, let you fully forget the exhaustion of the day…
Before he lets a tear slip silently down his cheek, a neglected husband is cradled in your arms.
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One last try.
Zayne gingerly unwraps plastic from the small box.
Maybe… maybe at least you’ll still worry about him. Maybe it’s not just him who goes crazy over your health and heart. Maybe you’ll take care of him, love his body, his soul, and him like you used to.
He takes the alcoholic chocolate intentionally this time. ‘New low, Zayne,’ the voice inside him sneered again. The candy almost lodged in his throat as he swallowed his guilt.
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You came home earlier than usual, a nice 9 pm instead of the usual 11. You hummed, two large pudding milk teas in hand as you thumbed the keypad with the other. Relaxation awaits in your imagination: a steaming hot bath with your husband, then ice-cold desserts while cuddling in front of some boring documentary until you fall asleep. Sounds perfect for a lazy Friday night, if he comes home early at all. You understand, though, especially with your own schedule mirroring his these days. You’ve never blamed him for it before, just like he doesn’t fault you now.
… You do feel bad, though. Your snowman has been growing more quiet around you lately, his hands lingering on your back less and less. Work had bulldozed you the past month, leaving him unattended, and tonight would be the beginning of a long apology to your husband.
And apparently your Zayne did come home early today—the stars aligned! But he’s already tucked tight in bed, his hair tousled like a bird’s nest, his ears peeking out beet-red…hm?
“Honey? Hi… When did you come home?” You pad gently towards his side before settling the drinks beside the bed, your hand instantly coming to card through his silky hair. He cowers deeper underneath the sheets, seemingly unwilling to meet your eyes… or couldn’t. “…Is something wrong?”
He doesn’t answer, but the way your touch disarmed him told you more than he could say. So you tug down the sheets gently from his head, careful and tender not to startle, only to find a dizzily drunk Zayne in bed, silk sleeping robes reserved for ‘special occasions' half opened to reveal his heated chest…where your own nighttime uniform is stuck to his body.
Your eyes widened, your body startled with the reminder. He’s drunk…and needy. Need—how long has it been since your body felt that? How long has it been since you and Zayne—oh. Oh no.
He clutched the lacy nightdress like it was his lifeline. Eyes still averting yours even as he evidently heaved, and even clearer were the roars between his legs. But he doesn’t reach for you like he used to. Doesn’t even dare to look at you. His legs shift against himself like his arousal was disgraceful.
A humiliation of his own body. A last resort of bare vulnerability. And then—“Did you miss me too?”
That should have been playful in any other circumstances. Right now, it sounded like a plea. Please want me.
You couldn’t react when he suddenly tugged you down with him, your body draped over his carelessly, before he flipped you over to pin you underneath. Usually sharp eyes now glossed with defeat, hazel crystals dulled into frosted windows under alcohol’s toll. He wasn’t demanding like the last time this happened, no—just hovering over you with lips parted, awaiting to see what you would do. His forearms barely trapped you down; the way they were tucked low to his chest almost looked like he was giving you room to leave.
“Yes,” you breathe. Zayne doesn’t believe you. That can’t do.
“Of course I missed you, honey,” you try again, and this time, your hands come to cradle his face. Warm skin, present touch—it all surprised him. He had missed this too much.
You feel the heated flesh in your palms, watch his glossed-over eyes, and feel his arousal press to your thigh. Every detail solidified the remorse bubbling inside. How long has it been since you last held him tenderly, not just throwing your legs on him to starfish on your shared bed and sleep? Has he been forlorn all this time (yes)?
“…So this is what it takes?” The question slipped out underneath his breath before he could shove it back deep down into the pit of his stomach, where chocolate stirred him hot from the inside out. That sounded like blame. He didn’t mean to.
You only caught his expression once before he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. Hot breath fanned over the sensitive spot behind your ear, his nose nuzzling you where you’re weak. Your legs finally reacted and gave out, but up there, in your head? It overflowed with guilt.
Zayne has always been an immovable bastion of safety and resolution, a trusted inspiration to all. Today, that crumbled. You’ve never seen him give up before. You have now.
“Am I too much?” That whisper broke your heart clean in two. “No—no, you aren’t Zayne; you’ve never been. It’s me who’s been neglectful, isn’t it?” He slumps into your neck, body warm, yet a lingering membrane of snowflakes stuck to his nape. Your husband’s heart was crying.
“I’m sorry,” his voice cracked, a half-frozen ice cube shattering its hard outer shell for the still-liquid insides to seep out. Sorry for guilting you into loving me. Sorry for letting myself get to this point alone without the courage to talk to you. Sorry for being so needy—for being me.
You read it all from his eyes alone.
He didn’t let you correct him. Lips crashed into yours, not hungry this time but starved. Like a village being offered food deep into drought season. Like a god offered prayer after centuries of isolation. Your mouths smacked and sucked against each other, tongues dancing in fervor that finally seemed to renew. And when you part, a string of saliva connected you still, bodies refusing to let go just yet.
“Stay with me tonight?” He murmured against the corner of your mouth, eyelashes tickling your brow. Against all definitions of coitus, this invitation was completely innocent. No games, no teasing, no blindfolds or chokers or whatever toys you two had gathering dust in the closet. Just body on body, heart against heart. Please.
“Always,” you whispered back, and for the first time in weeks, you saw his eyes soften.
Tonight, your arms tightened around him perfectly.
“I’ll stay with you every single night.”
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“Let’s schedule sex from now on.” You smiled tentatively at your husband on the couch, holding the Reddit thread on your phone like you found the perfect supporting evidence for your thesis. Zayne choked slightly, but looked up from his laptop anyway—you saw his back straighten in excitement.
“My drive has been kind of low, and with yours so high—not that it’s a bad thing, of course—I don’t want you to feel alone. Not again.” You sat beside him now, resolute and certain, a hand over his twirling the wedding ring. Your snowman needs warmth, too, or he’ll die. Probably. Most positively.
“See, this couple does it. I’ll be able to prepare emotionally for the occasion, and you won’t have to doubt if I still love you~” His ears flared up in response, a small smile gracing those beloved lips even as pouting mouth chastised you. “I said I missed you,” he mumbled, before setting the laptop aside to wrap his arms around you instead. Was that a protest at all if he nuzzled against your hair and pressed a kiss to your temple? You know better all too well.
“But yes. Let’s.”
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Wanted to explore a bit on Zayne’s high drive especially with his new myth (that I got R1 (after spending :,)). I took major inspiration from this reddit thread under one commentor’s reply about his and his wife’s different sex drive. If you have any comments feel free to drop them in my inbox (if it works, idk how to use tumblr) and I’ll gladly respond! I’m looking forward to having fun and being active on this site!
