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It was Rogue's turn to do the laundry...finally. For the last ten loads Sting's insisted on doing the laundry and he HATES housework. So now while Sting has passed out on their couch after a mountain of paperwork, Rogue can finally get to the bottom of Sting's sudden interest in washing.
The last few weeks have been hell in his mind, dark thoughts darting back and forth of Sting seeking pleasure in another. He lay awake at night suppressing those thoughts. He knew better. They were mates after all! Dragons only take one mate for life and can't get it up for any other.
Darting around the small house Rogue picked up all their scattered clothing. A downside to being a dragonslayer was having no sense of keeping an area neat and tidy. The raven narrowed it down to hoarding tendencies and forced himself to be aware of such acts. However, it rarely works. By the end of the day or after a job they're both so exhausted they strip and sleep, uncaring of the whereabouts of their clothes.
Throwing the current load in the washer Rogue did one final sweep of the house, double checking all of his and Sting's hiding spots. Yet another frustrating dragon attribute. One of Sting's as it turns out was under their bed and that's where Rogue pulled out a pair of worn boxers. Sting's scent was still fresh, a day old at most, but what surprised the raven were the three large holes! He gaped, shocked that his mate would wear something so old and torn.
Rogue sighed; this must have been what his mate was hiding from him. Why else volunteer to do the washing? Maybe he should let Sting keep them, especially if it means Rogue never has to do laundry again. Then again, the holes barely covered anything. No doubt Sting's ass would be showing through them, they had to go.
Rogue however didn't get very far, making it to the kitchen before strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind, pulling him back into an equally strong chest.
"I thought you were asleep."
"Yea" Sting yawns, clearly haven just woken up. "But you left and I got cold."
"You're a hot water bottle Sting, you don't get cold." Sting never responds, preferring to hold Rogue closer and nuzzling against his neck and taking a deep breath of Rogue's dark scent. The action sent shivers down Rogue's spine causing him to accidently drop the tattered boxers, the quiet flop as it hit the ground loud enough for dragon ears to pick up.
Curiously Sting peeks around his mate to see what he dropped, his mouth dropping instantly before scrabbling away from his mate to retrieve the boxers. Too shocked from the nuzzling and Sting's quick burst of energy all Rogue could do was stare stupidly at his mate as he held the boxers tightly to his chest.
A furious blush painted Sting's cheeks. He was so careful! How did Rogue even find them? It was bound to happen eventually but Sting wasn't about to abandon them now!
Blinking a few times Rogue remembered what he was doing before Sting's interruption. "Sting those are torn. I'm throwing them out."
"No way!" The raven could see the blush on Sting's cheeks, thinking briefly that his mate was adorable flustered.
Sting was like a child at times, and the worst hoarder between the two of them. Rogue could eventually throw things away but only when it became absolutely necessary. Sting on the other hand held onto nearly everything, especially clothing. Any time Rogue's attempted to help his mate declutter his belongings Sting would throw a tantrum and cry. Yes, cry. He was a child, but Rogue had no place to judge. They were dragonslayers after all; they can't help it when instincts take over logic.
Rogue stretches his hand out towards Sting, noticing his mate flinch and pull away slightly, baring his fangs in silent warning. He would never hurt Rogue, but he still wanted to take a stand.
"I'll buy you a new pair" Rogue promised, but Sting just shook his head, taking a step back. "Sting, there are holes in them. You need a-"
"But they give me plus three holy damage!"
Silence.
Tense, awkward silence.
Until Rogue loses his composure two seconds later and finds himself collapsing onto the floor in a fit of laughter, holding his stomach as stitches formed from too much movement. Oh how he loved Sting's ridiculous logic.