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The accordion door opens loudly and crooked, same as always, and Mickey's on him before he gets more than a step over the threshold.
"Hey, Mick, wh-" the rest of that sentence is muffled by the frankly sloppy fucking kiss Mickey plants on him, tattooed knuckles clenching hard in the front of Ian's shirt and yanking, dragging him down so he can devour him more easily.
To his credit, Ian gets with the program quick, wrapping his big arms around Mickey's waist and hauling him in, one hand drifting up to its favorite spots on the back of Mickey's head.
"Fuckin' hot," Mickey manages after a minute, now frantically trying to get their shirts off, Ian's love of skin on skin during sex having become something Mickey craves, too. "Tellin' your brother that. Knowin' you would, fuck."
Ian is mostly sure he's on the same page and risks it, uses his hand in Mickey's hair to grip tight and tilt his head back, forcing him to look up, reminding his tough as nails husband just how much bigger he is, how broad his chest and shoulders are in comparison.
"Nobody fucks with what's mine," Ian rumbles, watching Mickey's pupils blow wide, feels his breath stutter in his chest where it's pressed against his own. He leans in, lips ghosting over Mickey's, tasting his exhalations and the little hitch that always happens when Ian gets possessive, gets greedy about Mickey.
"And you're mine, aren't you, Mick?" He waits a beat, shakes Mickey gently by the hair when he doesn't answer, just falls deeper into that part of himself that wants to be owned, wants to be precious and special to someone. Ian's grin is feral, is menacing, is holding a hint of the violence he promised Lip if he ever put hands on Mickey again. "Say it," he commands, nipping at Mickey's lip. "C'mon, baby, say it. You mine?"
The shuddering breath is loud in the quiet room, the almost-whimper falling from Mickey's lips as he gives in, lets his need for this take over, lets himself feel it and trust that Ian will do as promised, will take care of him. "Yeah, Ian," and it's a sigh, a whisper, all lips and questing tongue where their lips are still touching, open mouthed, tongues touching and saliva sliding between them, filthy to anyone who isn't them, who doesn't get it. "Yours, yours, always fuckin' yours."
Ian growls in triumph and slams the accordion door shut, barely managing before he gets his husband on their bed, knowing he'll spend the rest of their night showing Mickey just how thoroughly Ian belongs to him, too.