He will if you order him to.
The thought made him smile, and he stretched out across the bed.
Roger would do anything for him—crawl across the floor, beg for a taste of Mickey’s cock…
All too easily, he remembered the rush of filling Roger’s tight hole with his load, and his cock flexed in his pants.
Jesus, what was Roger doing to him?
He tried to will his cock to stand down, and his attention was immediately drawn downstairs when he heard a crash. Bolting from the bed, he drew his guns as he hurried down the stairs to see what was happening.
It could be an attack, the police busting in…
Or Duncan, stumbling in from the back door and losing his grip on an armful of grocery bags with Roger right behind him.
“Honey! I’m home!” Roger declared.
“What the fuck?” Mickey quickly dove in to intercept one of the bags and help Duncan not drop everything. “What is all this shit?”
“Cold’s fuckin’ list!” Duncan huffed. “We got medical tape, bandages, sanitary pads, baby wipes, some fuckin’ extension cord thing, and a fuck ton of food. We even got a fuckin’ lasagna pan!”
“Lasagna?” Mickey snorted, and he took the bag into the kitchen with Roger and Duncan lugging the rest behind him.
Duncan groaned as he set the bags on the counter. “I don’t know, man.”
“Thank you, boys.” Doc Brown pawed through the bags and removed the bandages and other medical supplies. “This will all do nicely.”
“No problem, Doc.” Roger made sure to brush bodily by Mickey as he unpacked the groceries. “How you doin’?”
“Fine.” Mickey offered a small smile and pulled some stuff out to go into the fridge. He paused when he saw it was ground beef, sweet Italian sausage, and ricotta cheese.
Glancing back at the counter, he saw Roger putting away some herbs and spices, including nutmeg.
It was all the ingredients for his grandfather’s lasagna.
“The fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” Roger frowned. “You got the screwiest look on your face.”
“The lasagna pan, the meats.” Mickey looked at the spices to confirm. “This is all the shit for Pops’ lasagna recipe. The one… you know.”
“That you didn’t get to make,” Roger said quietly.
“How the fuck did Cold know?” Duncan frowned. “Did you tell him?”
“No,” Mickey replied.
“Well, you are like constantly lookin’ at your phone.” Duncan cowered when Mickey glared at him. “What? I’m sorry! You do! He probably read it over your shoulder or somethin’.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Mickey scoffed.
“Well.” Roger clicked his tongue and picked up a bottle of wine from one of the bags. “It looks like we should drink this and make some fuckin’ lasagna.”
“I don’t know how,” Mickey snapped. “Pops was gonna tell me, okay? That was the whole point.”
“I could help,” Roger offered. “If you want.”
“The fuck do you know about cooking?”
