#in what world am I supposed to believe Mickey was getting blow jobs from other guys

[biblionerd07]

I tried watching some of the Ian/Mickey scenes from season 11 and it made me ill. These are IMPOSTERS. That is not Ian and Mickey!! Especially Mickey!!! Look at how they massacred my boy. But one of the most frustrating parts is that if you watch the deleted scenes it shows that someone in that writers’ room DID know how to write Ian and Mickey but the producers or whoever makes that decision were like “nah, no meaningful conversations that show how much they love and respect each other and are working on their relationship. These fans who’ve been watching the characters struggle for a decade want them to continuously argue and beat the shit out of each other and act like they hate each other!”

#John wells if I ever catch you #there were a very few small spots of goodness and I credit ONLY Noel and cam for that #they were doing their level best #some of the things they had coming out of Mickey’s mouth made me want to drive my head through a wall #in what world am I supposed to believe Mickey was getting blow jobs from other guys #and making a joke out of Ian’s bipolar???? #like the one time they remembered they even wrote Ian as bipolar and it was for a shitty line where Mickey throws it in his face #it feels like every season is a whole new show and not connected at all to the others #and then it starts feeling like every EPISODE is a whole new show that’s not connected #why was there like a goofy soundtrack as Mickey’s literal Nazi abusive rapist father moved in next door #Noel was giving us everything and they made a joke out of it #and then they made a joke out of Mickey being conflicted and crying after terry died?????????? #I want to kill them #Ian saying frank was worse than terry????? girl in what world?????? #Mickey was NEVER insecure about bottoming and he was always adamant about how much he loved it but suddenly it’s an issue #from ‘liking what I like don’t make me a bitch’ back when he could barely LOOK at Ian to…this #also Ian used to be very sweet even when he was being stubborn and self-righteous and even violent #but they really lost his sweetness #and I know it wasn’t just cam growing up bc there were glimpses of it in the way he chose to have Ian move and hold onto Mickey #but the writers seemed hell bent on all of the characters being so horrible to each other #in the early seasons they could sometimes be cruel and selfish even to each other but underneath it all they loved each other #and it feels like when they decided to lean solely into goofy comedy that lost that #it’s just sad to see a show that started so good end so badly #I’ve seen people talking about a spinoff with Ian and Mickey and I don’t even fucking want it with these writers #maybe if cam and Noel were producers and got to choose the storylines #they’re the only ones I trust

[weloseeveryweek]

season review

Champions of Europe.

That, ostensibly, is how any United fan will start a 2016/17 review. I say that. I know, just like everyone else, we aren’t, really. We’re champions of second-tier Europe, winning a competition by beating sides like Rostov and Zorya and Anderlecht. We won the most mickey-mouse trophies of them all - the Community Shield and League Cup - and we finished where we’d spent most of our time in the league, marrying sixth place in a love story still better than twilight.

Not, perhaps, the most illustrious for a team who hadn’t spent a single season without European football before Fergie left.

We’ve been in a transition period ever since 2013 when last we won the league, and I don’t know how much longer it’s going to be. It seems forever since Moyes took over and aspired his way to seventh; whenever the conversation turns to bad football experiences, watching MK Dons thrash us 4-0 at 3am in the morning always ranks up there. While it’s gotten a little better (Van Gaal, in particular, was an expert in lifting spirits with his near-impeccable record against Liverpool) it is by no stretch of the imagination where we ought to be.

I remember our twentieth time in vivid detail. It was way past my bedtime, and at that point I was still living with my parents and studying for exams so I was supposed to be asleep. I woke up at about 4am to find out that we’d beaten Villa and the party was in full swing. I remember my phone literally burning up with how much I was using it (all data, because my parents used to switch off the internet at night), reblogging photos and watching videos of the celebrations, Carrick wrapped in his flag, Evra and his rubber arm, the lads lined up in a row bouncing up and down singing that old refrain.

It was the best I’d ever felt about United. I can’t even begin to describe what it feels like to win a league title (sorry, Liverpool fans). It was better than the Europa league, and I hadn’t even watched the game. If I had known that I wouldn’t have that feeling for the next three years, and god knows how long after this, I’d probably have treasured it even more.

But that’s the thing - no one knew what would happen after Sir Alex left. There were other departures that hurt us too, of course. Losing Scholesy was a huge blow, as we’d already found out after his first retirement. Losing the backroom staff was a catastrophe almost on the scale of Sir Alex. But nothing was worse than losing the manager himself, the force of nature who had conditioned the players to perform far above their quality, such that we would always, always win regardless of circumstances, of players, of odds.

And we’ve been floundering since. Moyes was an unmitigated disaster, although in fairness to him he was sacked too early and following directly after Sir Alex was always going to be an impossible job. Giggsy was at best a stepping stone. I so desperately wanted to like van Gaal, especially with the knowledge that we could not become a sacking club, but even though he delivered big results and the FA Cup it was not the kind of football that United fans were paying (or not paying - don’t tell anyone) to see.

When Klopp was announced for Liverpool I almost cried. I’d hoped so desperately for him and we ended up getting Mourinho instead.

Mourinho.

Chelsea’s Mourinho, who led them to the worst title defence in history before Leicester trumped that this season. Real Madrid’s Mourinho, who left after underachieving / wrecking the dressing room / driving out their most important player. If you search through my tumblr you’ll probably find a bunch of acerbic jokes about him and his legion of glory hunting rent boys.

I was by no means overjoyed with the decision. In fact I was basically begging for Pep to change his mind and realise that it was the wrong side of Manchester, even though he would have come with his own problems. Mourinho wins trophies, but not much else, and his youth record worried me the most.

How do I feel now, a year and three trophies later? I don’t know. It’s certainly been our most successful post-Fergie season, and he has invested in some youth (although the last game and four debuts came as more of an afterthought, to be entirely honest). If this is a turning point, it feels much more like one than any of the rest that have come before. And believe me, there’ve been a lot. They existed under Moyes and van Gaal, but this is the most protracted spell of Things Are Possibly Going To Get Better thus far.

I suppose that would mean I’m well satisfied with this season. Certainly it gives me great pleasure to point out to errant heathens that we’re the second most successful club bar Chelsea, and I do acknowledge that Mourinho is trying to fit himself into the United philosophy - I suppose it’s different when it’s a job you’ve wanted for ages. At the same time, though, we’re Manchester United. Enough with the complaining about number of games and all that bullshit; look at our squad, our reserve squad is probably (on paper, anyway, you don’t have to tell me about underachieving) better than half of the league’s. The ‘99 treble winners hardly ever changed personnel during their long, hard, game-stuffed slog. Gary Neville started 54 games in that season; Marcus Rashford made 53 appearances this season and 23 of them were substitutions. Jose needs to get his shit together if he wants to make something of his time here, because winning the Europa was a breath of fresh air, but things can go stale very quickly if the window slams shut again.

More than that, though. More than the basics of the week-in-week-out trials and tribulations, the countless draws and ridiculous conversion percentages that make me want to smack someone with a big stick (volunteers welcome). More than our mess of a transfer policy and the ultimate will-they-won’t-they saga that is David x Real Madrid.

When I first came to England I was freaked out of my mind. I talked about this in my first prompt response, but really - I can’t even begin to explain what kind of stabilising effect football had on my life. If nothing else, I was finally in the country where it all began; I was walking on the same soil as my heroes, I could take a train up to Manchester any time I wanted (you think I’m kidding? I hopped on a train the day before my final exam to catch us lose 1-0 to West Brom). It was the kickoff I looked forward to every week, congratulating myself that it was at 3pm and not 3am.

I watched the final of the Europa League in a bar in Belgium with my friend. We had our United kits on, and we were screaming our heads off while the Ajax fans next to us grumbled and this big group of Americans in the same bar looked completely confused. After the game I slumped back, completely emotionally exhausted, but still absolutely fucking buzzing from the fact that we’d managed to pull something out of the bag after all.

It was only much later that I realised the importance of it all, and it hit me so hard like a sucker punch that I just stopped in the middle of the street and got weird looks off people. I was in Brussels because it was part of my graduation trip. I’m no longer a student; I’m going off to the world of working rat racers and stuffy offices. I’m going to be leaving London in two weeks. And, I don’t know, but it felt like such a huge, symbolic moment, that. I, too, am at that proverbial turning point, stepping off the island (in this case literally).

For all the terrible beginnings I have grown to love London so very much. If I had a choice in the matter I wouldn’t even be leaving. Every day I think about the fact that I move out in two weeks and my heart gets heavy and I cry just a little bit more. My fingers are crossed that I’ll be back one day, but if I’m not, then that’s the last game I’ll ever watch at Old Trafford. The last game I’ll ever watch at Wembley. The last time I’ll ever walk down the Thames, looking at the way the London Eye lights up in the evening, Parliament sitting pretty just beside.

So I suppose this season was about endings, beginnings, everything in between. There was some kind of strange, spiritual handover between my life and my team’s. The Mourinho era has begun. God knows what will happen. More trophies, more dressing room fallouts, Wayne Rooney being sent off to China somewhere. There was drama for people who wanted it, boredom for people who weren’t so keen, and while there wasn’t quite as much entertainment as the Louis Saxaphone van Gaal seasons, Fellaini played enough to get a laugh. I, meanwhile, went for two games, caught almost every single one but the last (I even leeched off public wifi in Glasgow central to watch us fuck up 2-0 to Arsenal), integrated Carrick’s testimonial into my graduation trip.

And then it was over; and then we packed up and thought about next year; and then I packed up and thought about leaving.

Unless you achieve something spectacular in that year, a season doesn’t really matter. It becomes a footnote. A wikipedia entry to tell you that your club still exists. Even though we won the Europa - champions of sodding Europe - 2016/17 feels like one of those to me; one where we were not spectacular but firmly middle-road, where any attempt to pretend that we were ever challengers would be delusional. If we aren’t fighting for the league there seems to be no point.

But that’s what it is, isn’t it? Hindsight and the way football plays you for a fool with it. There’s this quote from Nick Hornby in a book I’m reading now, where he goes to watch Cambridge United draw nil-nil with Grimsby, forsaking the comfort and company of Christmas in his parents’ home. On the way back, he says, he realises how incredibly pointless it all was; but on the way there all he could see were the floodlights and the promise of the three points that were rightfully theirs. That is a season - the promise of something. Not all promises will be made good, but just the fact that they are there makes you pick yourself up, rejig the telly, put on your kit one more time.

United, the rock to which I tied my ship, will go on. As will I. We’ve both circumvented the crossroads and who knows what’s going to happen from here on out. I don’t know if the rest of my life is just going to be a string of footnotes. I don’t know if the rest of United’s seasons will ever return to league-winning wikipedia section entries. But there’s one thing I know - the rock will always be there, and as long as it is, my ship cannot sink.

#manchester united #mufc #lmao this got long #football #soccer #prompt response #submission

[wellimhavinga3outof10day]

Lost Lullabies - Chapter Eighteen

Description: Mickey Milkovich, former child star turned action movie star, runs into his old co-star, Ian Gallagher, out on the street in the middle of a winter night. When Mickey takes him in, he doesn’t realize that Ian has the power to completely turn his new life upside down.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Read on AO3

Ian jumped back as Mickey threw his phone at a wall. “Whoa,” he said. He fought the urge to raise his hands in surrender, his heart suddenly beating fast. But he’d dealt with mad men before. He’d dealt with men much worse than Mickey when they were mad. Taking a deep breath, Ian said, “Mick? What happened?”

           Mickey shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. A sound like a smothered laugh escaped him. “Fuck. Fuck, Ian. Just... fuck.”

           “What did Liz say?”

           Mickey sniffed. He raised his eyes to meet Ian’s and Ian felt his blood run cold. If the director could see the way Mickey was looking at him now, he wouldn’t have to yell at them for looking in love. He’d have to yell at them because Mickey looked like he was going to kill him. Mickey shook his head, said nothing.

           Ian swallowed hard. “Does someone know?” It was the worst thing he could think of, the only thing that would make Mickey this upset, this fast. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just rumours. You’ve squashed worse.”

           “It’s not just rumours.” Mickey chewed on his lip. “They have pictures.”

           “From where?”

           “Outside the bar. The fucking stupid mistletoe.”

           Mickey’s phone started to buzz from its place on the floor. His glare was downright murderous.

           “Does it really...” Ian took a deep breath. He wanted to rewind the day until they were back in bed and just stay there under the covers where it felt like the world was so far away. There he didn’t have to think about how deep in the closet Mickey was or how far away they were from being a real couple. From Christmas Eve until yesterday, things had been perfect. Ian wished he could blow that bubble around them again. “Does it really matter?”

           Mickey’s glare moved targets. “Does it really matter? Are you fucking kidding me, Ian?”

           “No one cares anymore, Mick. We’re not children on the Disney channel anymore. We’re adults.” Ian fought to keep his voice steady, strong. It was hard when Mickey was looking at him like he’d suddenly grown a second head. “Hollywood isn’t the same homophobic place it was a decade ago. Being gay isn’t that big of a deal. In fact, it’s fucking fashionable at this point.”

           “It’s not who I am, Ian.”

           “It is who you are! You’re gay, Mickey. You’re gay.”

           “I know I’m fucking gay, you stupid shit.” Mickey sighed and started to pace. “I’m saying the person you’re talking about, the fashionable gay star on the red carpet, that’s not me, Ian. That’s not my image. That’s not what I do for a living.”

           Ian opened his mouth to respond, then had to admit, “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

           “Gay actors, Ian. That’s what I’m talking about. Gay actors get the shitty sitcom roles and the side roles in rom-coms and the one or two that are really good and shut their mouths about their sexualities? They manage parts on crappy teen dramas.” Mickey shrugged. “That’s not the kind of acting I do. I’m an action star. People pay to see me shoot guns and fuck women. They don’t wanna watch that shit knowing I’m picturing your pasty white ass instead of some chick’s vagina.”

           “Change your image, then.”

           “I don’t want to.”

           “Why not? You fucking hate your job, Mickey. You hate being an actor, you told me yourself. So what does it matter if you’re getting paid to shoot a machine gun on a movie screen or kiss a couple guys in a shitty sitcom? It’s still money.”

           Mickey shook his head, eyes crinkled in surprise and disgust. “I don’t want to kiss other guys, Ian. I want to kiss you.”

           Ian sighed and crossed his arms. “Just not on a magazine cover?”

           Mickey licked his lips. “I don’t think you understand how much of my career is built on reputation. I get roles because casting directors think I’m still some Southside trash bully who’ll be convincing on screen as a gangster. If I come out, if people see these pictures... no one’s gonna believe that coming from me. No one’s gonna think I’m tough or badass or can kill a guy with a bottle opener.”

           “You can kill a guy with a bottle opener.”

           “Not the point.”

           Ian settled back against the wall, his eyes following Mickey as he walked the length of the room again and again. He knew their five minutes were up. Any second now some poor PA would knock on the door and get the full force of Mickey’s wrath.

           “I don’t know what any of that has to do with being gay,” Ian said. “Gay men aren’t automatically weaker.”

           “They are in Hollywood.”

           “But that’s such bullshit! Don’t you want to change the scene? Don’t you want to show them your sexuality doesn’t define who you are?”

           “You think I’ll have a chance?” Mickey laughed, short and bitter. “The change will be overnight, Ian. The pictures will hit and suddenly all of the movie roles I’ve been offered will be pulled. The next set of scripts I’ll get will be for sitcoms and rom-coms. Interviewers will start to ask me about my opinion on gay rights and the LGBT community and what the fuck am I supposed to say? I don’t know anything. And when that becomes painfully clear, when people know for sure that I don’t have the righteous anger it takes to be a gay icon, I’ll be wiped right off the fucking slate. No more acting, no more money. I’ll be type cast into oblivion.”

           “You don’t even like acting.”

           “It pays the fucking bills.”

           “And how much money do you have hidden away, Mick? How much have you been saving? Because you’re not exactly living in a fucking mansion with gold-plated teeth.” Ian tried to catch Mickey’s eye but failed. “Are you telling me you can’t live the rest of your life on what you’ve already made? Or maybe, what you’ve already made and some slightly shittier job that you might actually like?”

           “And what? Be the mechanic everyone knows as that washed up movie star? The gay guy who couldn’t handle the spotlight and ran?” Mickey spat on the floor. His phone buzzed again. “No. I may not like acting but I like the movies I’m in. I like my life, Ian. And I’m sorry, but I’m not throwing it all away for you.”

           “I wouldn’t ask you to.” Ian forced out the words even though he felt like his heart had just shattered in his chest. He forced himself to breathe, steady himself. Right here and right now wasn’t about him. “Not for me. But for you.”

           “The fuck does that mean?”

           A knock came on the door followed by a small voice. “Excuse me? The director wants you back on set.”

           “Tell him to fuck himself in the ass,” Mickey snapped.

           Ian sighed and turned to the door. He opened it only enough to poke his head out and meet the eyes of the terrified girl on the other side. “We’re kind of in the middle of something. Maybe ask him if he can start in on the Christie/Tabitha scene?”

           She nodded and backed away quick, still terrified.

           Ian closed the door but didn’t turn back to Mickey.

           “What’d you mean when you said you’d ask me to do it for me?”

           Ian turned and met Mickey’s eyes. He shrugged. “You’ve been in the closet your whole life, Mick. Ever since you were a kid, you’ve been fucking terrified to tell anyone. You’ve been terrified to let yourself feel what you feel, to love who you want to love. You can’t tell me that hasn’t taken a toll on you. You can’t tell me that’s fun for you.”

           “It’s liveable.”

           “But that’s not really living, is it?”

           Mickey stared at him for a moment and then cursed. He flopped back onto the couch and let his head hit the wall. “I can’t do this, Ian. I just... I’m not ready. I might not ever be ready.”

           “Right.” Ian bit his lip. “Okay. Then don’t do it.”

           Mickey laughed. “Wouldn’t that be great? If I could just decide not to like there aren’t pictures coming out tomorrow.”

           “Who cares?”

           “The millions of people who are about to see me with my tongue down your throat, Ian.”

           Ian shook his head and walked over to Mickey. “No. Fuck them. They’re wrong.”

           “There’s picture proof.”

           “Of what? That you kissed me? Who fucking cares?” Ian scoffed. “There was mistletoe for crying out loud. If that’s not an excuse, I don’t know what is.”

           Mickey raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

           “It was late. We were drunk. We stumbled under some mistletoe and you thought, fuck it. It’s tradition, isn’t it? And I’m your best friend. Should you really not kiss me just because I’m a man? What kind of fucking homophobic world do we live in where two guys can’t even kiss as a goddamn joke without people jumping down their throats?”

           “Everyone knows you’re gay.”

           “Which is why you went for it. You knew I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d probably enjoy it. Are you not allowed to kiss your friend platonically just because he’s gay? It was a joke, Mick. Just a joke. Maybe you went a little too far, maybe you forgot you’re a celebrity and you can’t just go around kissing people, but...” Ian shrugged. “We were drunk. There was mistletoe. Frankly, you’re disgusted that people just jump to conclusions about your sexuality because you’re comfortable kissing guys. You’re a good ally. That’s it.”

           Mickey stared at him for a long moment. “You’d be okay with that?”

           “It’s not about me.”

           “Because you don’t sound okay with it,” Mickey continued like he hadn’t even said anything. “You sound pissed as all fucking hell.”

           Ian took a deep breath, shrugged. He sat down on the couch beside Mickey and offered his hand. Mickey linked their fingers together and squeezed. Ian said, “Am I happy that my boyfriend wants to keep me a secret? No, not really. Do I understand? I’m trying to. But Mick, bottom line is, if you don’t want to come out, you don’t fucking have to. You don’t owe these people anything and they don’t get to decide when you make major life decisions. So, if it helps, say that it was a joke between friends. I’ll back you up.”

           Mickey leaned in to peck his lips. “Thank you.”

           Ian squeezed his hand tight. “We should get back to set.”

           Mickey shook his head. “We have a while.” He kissed Ian again, harder and longer. “Let me show you how much I fucking love you.”

           Ian laughed and leaned in to the kiss. “I love you too.” Then he pulled back. “But we’re going to get caught in here. And that’s not gonna help anyone.”

           Mickey nodded. “Okay. Let me run your idea by Liz and I’ll meet you out there?”

           Ian agreed and left the dressing room. After he closed the door, he leaned up against it and forced himself to breathe. He knew he’d done the right thing. He’d offered Mickey the only out he had and Mickey had taken it. Ian really hadn’t thought that Mickey would take it.

           He forced himself to go about the rest of the day as if nothing was wrong, as if everything was exactly as it should be. Like the director was full of shit and there wasn’t a picture of them kissing coming out on the front page of every magazine tomorrow. The thought made Ian’s stomach turn. The last time he’d been on a magazine cover, he’d been lying halfway out of a limo, vomit trickling down his shirt, an insane smile on his lips. There’d been a guy in the limo holding his legs to stop him from cracking his skull on the pavement. No matter how long Ian had looked at that picture for, he couldn’t remember the guy’s name or even having seen his face before. He still remembered the headline: CHILD STAR CRACKS. It hadn’t been the first bad picture by far but it was the last. The one they’d taken before finally giving up on him.

<<Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen>>

#gallavich #shameless #Ian Gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #mine #3outof10 fanfic #lost lullabies #chapter eighteen