fri’s mind

[gallagherish99]

fanfics · music · mancunian propaganda

⋆. ˚ frida | 🇦🇷 | 24 | liam girlie ⋆. ˚ production managment masterlist | req closed gcest dni

If you’re here, grab a drink, sit close, and let’s spiral together over fictional dynamics involving real men who would 100% ruin our lives irl.

[gallagherish99]

but anyway… back to our regularly scheduled programming 🖤

i don’t think i’ll be able to sleep tonight, so there’s a very good chance i’ll end up editing some of the fics i have sitting in my drafts.

fair warning though… most of them are painfully depressing.

which, considering my current emotional state, is probably the only thing i’m capable of posting for the foreseeable future 😭

so… stay tuned.

the football arc may be over, but the emotional damage is only just beginning.

[gallagherish99]

well…

these things happen. sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.

but this team gave absolutely everything they had.

congratulations to Spain on winning their second World Cup. they were a fantastic team throughout the tournament and deserved to lift the trophy.

as for us, we get to keep all the beautiful memories.

we lived the dream in 2022, and this has been another incredible World Cup for Argentina and for all of us who got to experience it together.

i couldn’t be prouder of this team, our captain, and everything they represent.

we’ll see what the future has in store.

VIVA ARGENTINA. VIVA MESSI.

peace and love 🇦🇷🖤

[gallagherish99]

GIRL WHERE ARE U

girl i’m hereeeee 😭🖤

i’m so sorry for disappearing this badly, but i am currently fully consumed by the world cup. i think i’ll be back to normal on monday. or maybe not. honestly, i have no idea anymore.

BUT, just to keep you all on your toes... for those of you who remember that i had completely emptied my drafts, well...

look at this now:

i'll be back

[vampirefart]

[gallagherish99]

omg she is so pretty i love she

[gallagherish99]

A KA FINAL HERMANAAAA

Hoy más que nunca te pido Liam x Reader x lichaa

POR DIOS HERMANA ESTAMOS EN LA FINAL QUE PASE LA SIGUIENTE COLA JUGUETONA !!!!!

Dame unos dias que baje la espuma y te prometo que escribo TODO junto. necesito encontrar inspiracion mas alla de en este momento hacer un fic de de paul x messi aJSJASJAS

[gallagherish99]

good morning, my beautiful online friends 🖤

so...

WE MADE IT TO THE FINAL!!!!!! 🇦🇷

i know i have a lot of followers who were supporting England, and i sincerely hope this doesn’t destroy our relationship because the English team played an incredible match.

but, as Liam said, the better team won.

the truth is that the whole thing was incredibly emotional for me, especially because of everything i mentioned the other day. this particular match brought back so much history between our two countries, and the days leading up to it were honestly overwhelming.

hearing veterans talk about what the match in 1986 meant to them, and what yesterday’s match represented after all these years, was something i don’t think i’ll ever forget.

i don’t even have the words to describe this Argentina team. they’re genuinely good people. humble people. all they want to do is play football. they hear every horrible thing people say about them and somehow transform it into something beautiful for their own people.

it’s incredible.

as for the fics, i’m going to remain missing for a little longer. i know that’s what most of you are waiting for, but i probably won’t return to my secret life as a writer until next week.

i hope you understand and forgive my complete football-induced disappearance.

VAMOS ARGENTINA. UN ULTIMO PASITO. 🇦🇷🖤

[sohm-al]

how many followers do i need to get random asks god be nosy u little shits ask me about my personal life this is fucking boring getting nothing

[gallagherish99]

i want to clarify something, because over the last few days i’ve been seeing a lot of attacks against my country on this app, and honestly, it bothers me and hurts me in equal measure.

i was born and raised in Argentina. i have lived here for 25 years. i have suffered my country, loved my country, defended my country, with all its good things and all its bad things.

we are intense people. everyone knows that. there’s a reason people call Argentina the country with the best crowd in the world, and even through something as simple as that, you can understand how passionate Argentinian people are.

we are a country that does not ask you to be born here in order to be Argentinian. we accept people who want to live here, people who want to support us from the other side of the world, people who feel close to us even if they weren’t born on this land.

of course we have problems, like every country does. i’m not denying that. but if there is one thing we will always defend, because we have suffered it in our own bodies and in our own history, it is the fight against imperialism, whether it happens on our land or anyone else’s.

that is why support for Palestine will always be present here. that is why the rejection of the United States and its interference will always be present here. that is why, whenever powerful nations try to violate the rights of autonomous peoples, we will stand against it.

i know i’m not going to change the propaganda that is being sold internationally about my country. but it gives me peace to know that i will always defend it. and i am very calm knowing that Argentina is not what some people are trying to say it is.

peace & love

[gallagherish99]

guys… is… that… chest hair???????? because if it is i have to touch myself tonight i mean happy easter

[gallagherish99]

world cup IV

pairing: dilf!liam gallagher x pregnant!fiance cw: nothing really wc: ~3k author's note: and somehow, right as this little Gallagher World Cup trip comes to an end, England have made it to the semi-finals against Argentina. reader may have survived Miami, Jude Bellingham and Liam’s medically supervised football operation, but I’m not sure this family will survive the diplomatic crisis ahead. congratulations, England. I’m ridiculously excited, deeply unwell about what’s coming, and once again: long live football.

Miami was hot enough to make Liam personally offended. Like the weather had looked at his entire existence and decided to start a fight.

“This place is takin’ the piss,” he said, standing near the hotel window with his sunglasses on indoors.

I was sitting on the bed, seven months pregnant, trying not to cry because my England shirt did not fall over my bump the way it had fallen over my body before I had become, apparently, a luxury apartment for a very active baby.

“It looks stupid,” I said.

Liam turned immediately. “What?”

“The shirt.”

His eyes moved down to my stomach, then back to my face. “It looks like a shirt.”

“That’s the problem.”

He stared at me, visibly trying to calculate the correct answer and not get murdered. “You look good.”

“I look huge.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Thank you, Liam. I had forgotten.”

“No, I mean…” He stopped, rubbed a hand over his face, then crouched in front of me. “You look pregnant. With my baby. In an England shirt. That’s not a bad thing.” I sniffed, furious at him, the baby, the shirt, Miami, and possibly FIFA.

“I just wanted to feel normal.”

His hands rested carefully on my knees. “You’re goin’ to a World Cup quarter-final in Miami with half my family while carryin’ my child,” he said. “Normal left days ago.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not.”

Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door. Gene’s voice came through first. “Are we alive in there?”

Lennon followed. “Dad, if you’ve made her cry over her clothes, Molly’s going to kill you.”

Liam closed his eyes. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

I wiped under my eyes and stood slowly. Liam stood with me, one hand already moving to my waist. “Easy.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re fine fine or walkin’ fine?”

“Both.” He looked unconvinced. “Almost.”

“That’s more honest.”

We left for the stadium too early. Which meant we were there before the crowd got bad, before the heat got worse, before I could even think about pretending I was fine without three people immediately accusing me of lying.

“No rushing,” Liam said as the car pulled up to the private entrance.

“I’m not rushing.”

“No heroic walks.”

“I’m walking normally.”

“No getting excited and forgetting you’re seven months pregnant.”

I looked at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes,” he said, entirely unashamed. “And I sound right.”

Molly handed me water from the back seat. Anaïs handed me a small fan. Gene was already filming the group like this was a documentary about a very expensive nervous breakdown.

Lennon looked at Liam. “You know this is football, not a birth plan.”

“It’s both if she starts bein’ stubborn,” Liam said.

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” he said, taking my hand as we stepped out. “That’s the issue.”

Inside, the stadium felt unreal. Cool corridors, concrete echoes, distant chanting growing louder with every step. Somewhere beyond the walls, the World Cup was already alive, pulsing like a heartbeat.

I had wanted this so badly. I had begged for it, manipulated the entire family, used the baby for emotional leverage, reminded Liam, several times, that this was possibly my last chance to do something completely mad before becoming someone’s mother.

And now I was actually here, seven months pregnant, holding Liam Gallagher’s hand, about to watch England at the World Cup with his entire family behind us.

I pressed one hand to my stomach. The baby kicked. “Oh, they know,” I whispered.

Liam looked down immediately. “What?”

“They’re excited.”

“They’re trapped inside you at a football match in Miami. They’re confused.”

Before I could answer, a woman with FIFA credentials approached us, smiling politely until her eyes moved from Liam to Noel, then back to Liam again.

“Mr Gallagher?”

Liam looked like he instantly regretted every album he had ever released. “Yeah?”

“Since you’re here early, we can take you down for a few minutes to watch the England players warm up. It’s a controlled area, not crowded.”

His head snapped toward me. “No,” he said.

“Liam.”

“No.”

“She said controlled.”

“She said players.”

Gene stepped forward. “We have to.”

Lennon nodded. “Absolutely.”

Molly glanced at me. “Can you stand for a few minutes?”

“Yes.”

Anaïs looked at Liam. “There’s your medical approval.”

Noel smiled faintly. “Democracy’s spoken.”

Liam stared at all of them like they had personally betrayed him. “You’re all weak.” I put both hands on my bump and widened my eyes. He closed his. “Don’t.”

The FIFA woman gestured down the corridor. “It’s this way.” So we went.

The pitch opened in front of us bright and green, the stands slowly filling around it. England players were scattered across the grass, jogging, passing, stretching, moving through drills under the lights.

Then Noel went very still beside us.

“What?” Liam asked.

Noel didn’t answer, he was looking toward the pitch. Two players had started walking over. To us. Harry Kane lifted a hand.

Gene whispered, “No way.”

Lennon grinned. “This is brilliant.”

Liam’s face shut down immediately. “No.”

But Harry reached us before Liam could reject an entire national team. Jude Bellingham was beside him, smiling, carrying two folded England shirts.

“Liam,” Harry said, offering his hand. “Good to see you.”

Liam shook it like he was trying very hard to behave in public. “Alright.”

Noel looked more awake than he had all day. “Harry,” he said, reaching out. “Good luck today.”

“Cheers, mate.”

Then Harry glanced between him and Liam. “The lads wanted to send these over. Bit of respect, really.”

Jude stepped forward and handed one shirt to Noel, then one to Liam. England shirts, signed. One Kane and one Bellingham.

For one rare, dangerous second, both Gallagher brothers went quiet at the same time.

Noel looked down at the shirt in his hands. “That’s very kind of you.”

Liam cleared his throat. “Nice one.”

Then Jude looked at me. “Congratulations, by the way.”

My entire brain fell down a lift shaft. “What?”

He nodded toward my bump, still smiling. “The baby.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. Thank you.”

He stepped forward to greet me properly, one hand light and polite at my arm, his cheek brushing mine in the quickest, most harmless kiss imaginable. Then he pulled back and winked. My face went so hot so fast I was surprised the stadium lights didn’t flicker. Gene made a noise behind me, Lennon turned away immediately, Molly closed her eyes, Anaïs touched my back like she was trying to stop my soul from leaving my body.

Jude smiled, diplomatic and lovely. “First World Cup match?”

“Yes. First one. Ever,” I said much too quickly. “I’ve watched them before, obviously, just not from inside the stadium. Which is usually where people watch them, I know, but I mean in person. And the baby’s first one too, technically, although I don’t know if that counts because they can’t actually see anything from in there.”

Harry was smiling, visibly trying not to laugh. I pointed at Liam before my mouth could be stopped. “He said I was too pregnant for this.”

“Did he?” Harry asked.

“He did,” Gene said.

“She is,” Liam replied.

“I’m fine. The doctor said I was fine, and we have water, and seats, and about nine people watching me breathe, so statistically I’m probably the safest pregnant woman in Miami.”

Liam touched my arm. “Alright, love.”

“I’m just explaining.”

“You’ve explained plenty.”

Jude smiled at me then, eyes dropping briefly to my bump. “Pregnancy really suits you, though. You look lovely.”

My entire face caught fire. “Oh,” I said brilliantly. “Thank you. That’s very nice. You’re very nice. I mean, you look nice too. Not pregnant. Obviously. Just generally.”

Gene choked behind me, Lennon turned away. Liam looked at my face, then at Jude, then back at me. “Right,” he said, sliding an arm firmly around my waist. “That’s enough international relations for today. Cheers, lads. Good luck. See you later.”

“Liam,” I hissed as he started steering me away.

“Nope. You’re done.”

Behind us, Harry was laughing. Jude glanced at my stomach again. “Good luck with the baby.”

“Good luck with the match,” I said. “Not that you need luck. You’re very good. I mean, everyone is. The team. Football-wise.”

Liam leaned close to my ear. “You done?”

When Harry and Jude walked back toward the grass, Liam turned to me. “Football-wise?”

I covered my face. “Don’t.”

“You told Jude Bellingham our unborn child understands football from inside a person.”

“I panicked.”

“He kissed you and you turned the colour of a fire alarm.”

“It was a normal greeting.”

“He winked.”

“I’m pregnant and overwhelmed.”

“You live with me.”

“That’s different. You’re annoying.”

Noel made a small sound.

Liam pointed at him. “Don’t.”

I glanced back at the pitch, just for half a second. Jude was jogging backwards, laughing at something another player said.

His hand slid over my bump, possessive and careful at the same time. “Come on, little trouble,” he muttered. “Let’s get your mum away from bad influences.”

By the time we reached our seats, he looked like he had survived war. Not the match. Just Jude Bellingham saying congratulations to my bump.

The match itself was chaos. Beautiful, horrible, impossible chaos. Gene shouted himself hoarse before halftime. Lennon kept pretending he was above it and then forgot himself every time England got near the box. Molly watched the game and me with equal concentration. Anaïs somehow became both emotionally invested and medically alert.

And Liam? Liam hated Miami and loved every second of the match. He complained about the referee, about people standing in front of me, even when I was also standing, about the noise, about the big screen showing Jude Bellingham too many times.

“That’s unnecessary,” he said.

“It’s a replay.”

“It’s propaganda.”

“It was a good pass.”

His head turned slowly. I knew my mistake before he even opened his mouth. “A good pass?”

“Don’t start.”

“You watchin’ tactics now, are you?”

“I’m watching football.”

“You’re watching him”

Gene leaned forward from the row behind us. “She is.”

“Gene,” Molly warned.

Lennon grinned. “No, let him cook.”

Liam pointed back without even looking. “Both of you. Silence.”

Then Jude appeared again, laughing at something near the touchline, and the camera lingered just long enough for half the stadium to lose its collective mind.

He leaned closer. “You alright? Need water? Air? A minute alone with the screen?”

That was it. I turned toward him slowly. His eyebrows lifted, pleased with himself, like he thought he had won.

I leaned in, my mouth close to his ear, one hand resting over my bump. “You better hope Jude keeps appearing on those screens,” I whispered, “because you have no idea what’s waiting for you at the hotel.”

Liam stopped breathing. Completely. For one glorious second, Liam Gallagher had nothing to say. Then his hand tightened on my waist. I pulled back and smiled sweetly at the pitch. He stared at me. The screen changed back to the match. England moved the ball forward. The whole stadium started shouting.

Liam didn’t even look. “You can’t say shit like that to me in public,” he said lowly.

“You started it.”

Noel glanced over from two seats away. “Everything alright?”

Liam didn’t take his eyes off me. “Fantastic.”

I took my water from Molly and drank like nothing had happened. Liam watched my mouth. Then he looked back at the pitch, furious at football, Jude Bellingham, Miami, pregnancy, and possibly God.

“Behave,” he muttered.

I smiled. “You first.”

A few minutes later, the heat, the noise and the fact that I had been standing far longer than anyone had allowed finally caught up with me. A sharp pull caught low in my side, followed by a wave of dizziness strong enough to make the pitch tilt.

I grabbed Liam’s arm and he turned instantly.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just give me a second.”

“That’s not nothing.”

I tried to breathe through it, but the crowd surged to its feet again and suddenly there wasn’t enough air anywhere in Miami.

Liam’s entire face changed. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit. Down.”

The halftime whistle went almost at the exact moment Molly and Anaïs reached for me. Between the three of them, I was lowered into my seat like I had become an unexploded device. Molly pressed cold water into my hands. Anaïs opened an electrolyte drink and made me take slow sips while Gene appeared with one of the glucose sweets they had packed for emergencies.

“It was just a stitch,” I said once the dizziness started easing.

Liam crouched in front of me, one hand locked around my knee, looking like he had aged ten years in thirty seconds. “You grabbed me like the baby was comin’.”

“I got dizzy.”

“Same level of panic.”

By the time the second half started, I felt normal again. Gene and Lennon were shouting before the ball had even properly moved, Noel was arguing with the referee from several rows away, and I was back on my feet with everyone else.

Liam never fully returned to the match. One hand stayed at my waist, and every few minutes, even while the entire stadium lost its mind, I caught him looking at me instead of the pitch.

Then England scored. The stadium exploded. Everyone around us jumped, shouted, grabbed whoever was closest. Gene practically tackled Lennon. Noel’s boys nearly lost their drinks. Molly screamed once and then immediately checked that I had not been knocked over.

Liam shouted toward the pitch, wild and bright, then turned to me first. His arms came around me carefully, one hand at my back, the other over the bump.

“You see that?” he said to my stomach. The baby kicked under his palm. His face changed. “That’s right,” he said, grinning. “Proper football.”

Noel looked over. “For God’s sake, don’t let him start.”

By the final whistle, my feet hurt, my back ached, and England had somehow held on.

The stadium was still roaring when it started. A few voices first. Then a whole section. Then almost everyone. Wonderwall.

I turned before I even meant to. Liam and Noel had ended up beside each other during the last minutes of the match, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending it had happened by accident. They were looking out at the pitch, quiet for once, their faces lit by the stadium screens and the flash of phones around us.

Then the camera found them. The reaction was immediate. People cheered louder, some laughed, some sang harder. On the giant screen, Liam looked up first and made a face, half annoyed, half amused. Noel shook his head but he was smiling. Liam glanced at him. Noel glanced back. For one strange, ridiculous second, they looked like boys again. Just Liam and Noel, standing beside each other while an entire stadium in Miami sang their song back at them.

My chest filled so suddenly I had to look down.

The baby kicked under my hand. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I know.”

Liam turned toward me then, still caught on the big screen, and his face softened when he saw me. Noel noticed too. Neither of them said anything.

The song kept rolling over the stadium, loud and imperfect and alive, and for once, no one ruined it. Not even Liam.

When the chorus hit again, Liam looked at Noel and lifted the signed shirt in his hand a little, like he was making a point. Noel rolled his eyes, but he lifted his too. The crowd saw it on the screen and lost their minds.

Gene shouted, “That’s insane.”

Lennon was filming, but not to tease this time. Some moments demanded evidence.

Anaïs had one hand pressed to her mouth. Molly leaned into Gene, smiling like she was trying not to cry.

Liam looked around at all of us. His kids, Noel’s boys, his brother, me, the baby. This ridiculous little army that had crossed an ocean because I had wanted one mad thing before becoming a mother.

“You happy?” he asked, low enough that only I could hear.

I looked at the pitch, the lights, the flags, the song still shaking through the stands. Then I looked at him. “Yes.”

He nodded once, like that was all he had needed.

The walk back was slow. Molly and Anaïs flanked me like security with lip gloss. Gene and Lennon kept replaying the goal between themselves. Noel walked ahead with his boys, quieter than usual, the signed shirt tucked under one arm. Liam stayed beside me the whole time.

At the hotel, everyone spilled into the hallway half asleep and still buzzing.

Gene wanted food. Lennon wanted sleep. Noel said he wanted silence, which was rich coming from a Gallagher in a hotel corridor. Anaïs hugged me and told me to rest. Molly kissed my cheek and said, “No heroics tomorrow.”

“Yes, mum.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

When the door finally closed behind us, the quiet felt almost impossible. I sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled. Liam crouched in front of me without being asked, taking off my shoes carefully, one at a time. The man who had hated Miami from the second we landed. The man who had turned one football match into a medical operation. The man who had brought water schedules, compression socks, car services, shaded routes and half his family because fear looked better when disguised as logistics. The man who had stood between me and Jude Bellingham like one midfielder could threaten an entire household.

“You did good,” I said.

He looked up. “Course I did.”

His hands rested on my ankles. “You did too.”

“I watched football.”

“You crossed an ocean seven months pregnant because you wanted to feel like yourself for a minute.”

That hit harder than I expected. My throat tightened. Liam noticed immediately. “Don’t cry,” he said.

I laughed through it, wiping under one eye. He sat beside me, one arm moving around my shoulders. I leaned into him, heavy and happy and completely done. “I wanted one mad thing before becoming a mother,” I said.

His hand found my bump. “You got it.”

“At first I thought it had to be separate from all this,” I said. “From the baby. From being someone’s mum.” He went quiet. “But it wasn’t separate. They were here for all of it.”

Liam’s thumb moved once. “Little trouble’s first World Cup.”

“They’ll never remember.”

“No,” he said. “But we will.”

Outside, Miami kept roaring. Down the hall, someone laughed. Gene, probably. Then Noel’s voice cut through the wall, sharp and tired, and Lennon started laughing too.

Our family, refusing to be quiet even through hotel doors.

Liam sighed. “I still hate Miami.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You loved today.”

“I loved you lovin’ today.”

I turned my face into his shoulder. “That’s worse.”

“Yeah,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “I know.”

The baby kicked once more. Liam looked down. “Alright, boss,” he murmured. “We’re goin’ home soon.”

I covered his hand with mine. “Not yet.”

He sighed like I had asked him to buy the whole city. Then his fingers laced through mine. “Not yet,” he agreed.

[gallagherish99]

hello my girlssssss 🖤

just so you understand the context of what is about to happen in the next few days, both historically for my country and therefore personally for my life, Argentina is going to face a country in the World Cup that has a very long and, for us Argentinians, very painful history.

i don’t want to get too deep into historical events here, but next wednesday we play against England in the World Cup semifinal, and for us, and especially for our captain, that means a lot.

on the other hand, today we won the quarterfinals with a beautiful goal from Julián Álvarez, who, for those who don’t know, came from River Plate and that's MY TEAM !!!!!! not only that, but every time Oasis came to Argentina, they played at River’s stadium. in 2009 and last year too.

so everything feels like a very strange, very mystical connection and today i am choosing to believe.

now, what does any of this have to do with our little corner of fics and stories? honestly, nothing.

i just wanted to share this emotion with you because my brain is completely consumed by football right now. BUT tomorrow the last part of the World Cup trip is coming, with Liam, the kids, and reader who absolutely cannot stand them anymore but is also completely in love with the whole situation.

Vamos Argentina, un pasito mas! 🇦🇷

[gallagherish99]

fever, knickers and other emergencies

pairing: dilf!liam gallagher x f!younger reader cw: fluffy fluffy author’s note: leaving you a little something I wrote over the past few days while on sick leave from work. I’ve had the kind of flu that has kept me almost completely horizontal for the last 72 hours, but I’m slowly coming back to life just in time for tomorrow, when my children continue their fight for the cup. so yes, this is the direct result of a very high fever, crying into tissues, and desperately wishing I had a boyfriend to look after me while I complain and blow my nose every thirty seconds. naturally, I had to write both sides of it: one day Liam is the sick, dramatic disaster, and the next it’s reader’s turn to fall apart while he tries very hard to be useful.

LIAM'S TURN

Liam had not answered me since the night before. At first, I assumed he was busy. Then I assumed he had fallen asleep with his phone somewhere under him, which happened often enough that it did not immediately qualify as suspicious.

By midday, my messages were still sitting there unread.

Are you alive?

Nothing.

This is becoming rude now.

Nothing.

I called him after a couple of minutes. It rang long enough that I nearly hung up, and then there was a rustle on the other end.

“What?.” His voice was barely there.

I sat up straighter. “What happened to you?”

“Nothin’.”

“You sound awful.”

“Cheers.”

There was another rustle, followed by a cough he clearly tried to smother away from the phone. “How long have you been sick?”

“M’not sick.”

“Liam.”

“Got a cold.”

“A cold that has apparently taken your ability to answer messages?”

“I was asleep.”

“All night and all morning?”

“That’s generally how rest works.”

He sounded irritated, but not properly irritated. There was no force behind it. Just exhaustion, congestion and the bruised dignity of a man who had been betrayed by his own immune system.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry.”

“Do you have anything in the house?”

“Course I do.”

“What?”

“I’ve got crisps.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m coming over.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Don’t need you fussin’.”

“Good. I’m not coming to fuss. I’m coming to stop you living on crisps and self-pity.”

“I’m perfectly capable of lookin’ after meself.”

He started coughing again before he could finish the sentence. I waited. When he finally stopped, I said, “Very convincing.”

He hung up on me, of course.

I went anyway. He took so long to open the door that I was already reaching for my phone to call him again when the lock finally turned.

Liam stood there in an old tracksuit, hair flattened on one side, eyes swollen with sleep. His skin looked flushed beneath the grey light from the hallway, and there was an angry red patch beneath his nose from wiping it too much.

He looked less like a rock star and more like someone who had lost a week-long argument with a duvet.

“You look dreadful,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “You came here to insult me?”

“I came because you stopped communicating with the living.”

He stepped aside without admitting that he was letting me in.

The house was dark. Curtains closed, television playing quietly to no one, a mug of cold tea sat on the coffee table beside a mountain of tissues, two remotes and an unopened bottle of cough medicine. He had built himself a small kingdom of misery on the sofa.

“You haven’t even opened the medicine.”

“Couldn’t get the lid off.”

I turned to look at him. He looked away. That was when I realised how ill he actually felt. Liam would ordinarily rather bite through plastic than admit a bottle had defeated him.

“Sit down,” I said.

“Was sittin’ before you arrived.”

“Then this should be an easy adjustment.”

He gave me a dirty look but lowered himself onto the sofa anyway, pulling the blanket back around his shoulders.

I went into the kitchen. There was very little food and an impressive number of beverages that were completely useless to a sick person.

From the doorway, he said, “You’re makin’ a lot of noise.”

“I’m opening a cupboard.”

“Aggressively.”

“You have six jars of mustard and no bread.”

“I like mustard.”

“You cannot eat mustard by itself.”

“Not with that attitude.”

I found enough ingredients to make something resembling soup, put the kettle on and opened the medicine for him.

When I returned, he was stretched across the sofa with one arm over his eyes, breathing heavily through his mouth. I set the dose down beside him.

He moved his arm just enough to inspect it. “What’s that?”

“Poison.”

“Knew it.”

“Drink it.”

He stared at the little plastic cup with deep suspicion. “You don’t even know if I need it.”

“You’ve been coughing like an engine trying to start since I arrived.”

He sat up slowly, took it, swallowed, then looked personally offended by the taste. “That’s vile.”

“You’re very brave.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“Then stop behaving like you’ve been wounded in battle.”

He sank back into the cushions. For all his complaining, he let me replace the cold tea. He ate half the soup without arguing once it was in front of him. He even allowed me to open the curtains slightly, although he accused the daylight of being “unnecessary.”

As the afternoon wore on, he became quieter. The television kept playing, but neither of us watched it. I sat at the opposite end of the sofa, answering emails while Liam drifted in and out of sleep.

Every time I moved, his eyes opened. Not fully. Just enough to check where I was.

The third time it happened, I lowered my phone. “I’m not disappearing.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You keep checking.”

“I’m not checkin’.”

“You’re a terrible liar when you have a fever.”

He grunted and turned his face toward the back of the sofa. A few minutes later, his socked foot pressed against my leg beneath the blanket. I smiled but did not mention it.

When it started getting dark, I closed my laptop and stood.

His eyes opened immediately. “Where’re you goin’?” The question came out rougher than he intended.

I looked down at him. “Upstairs. I was going to change your sheets.”

He relaxed so visibly that something in my chest pulled tight. “Oh.”

“Did you think I was leaving?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were.”

“Obviously.”

I changed the sheets, found him a clean shirt and convinced him to take a quick shower by promising I would not let him collapse and become a tragic bathroom headline.

When he came upstairs, damp-haired and exhausted, he climbed into bed without a single complaint. That was more alarming than the cough.

I pulled the covers over him and placed the water beside the bed. “There. You might survive.”

He watched me from the pillow. His face had lost all its usual sharpness. Just tired eyes following me as I moved around his room.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I know.”

“Could’ve just stayed home.”

“I know.”

He frowned slightly, as if my agreement had made the whole thing more confusing. “Then why didn’t you?”

I sat on the edge of the mattress. “Because you weren’t answering me.”

“I told you I was restin’.”

“Eventually.”

He looked down at the blanket. “I didn’t want you seein’ me like this.”

I almost laughed, but the way he said it stopped me. “Like what?”

“Pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic.” He raised his eyebrows. “You spent ten minutes fighting a bottle cap, but that’s a separate issue.” His mouth twitched. I reached out and smoothed the damp hair away from his forehead. “You’re allowed to be ill, Liam.”

“Hate it.”

“I gathered.”

“Hate needin’ things.”

“I gathered that too.”

His hand came out from beneath the blanket and closed loosely around mine, enough to keep me there. “Stay a bit,” he murmured.

The words were nearly swallowed by the congestion and exhaustion, but I heard them. So I took off my shoes and climbed in beside him. He shifted closer immediately, head settling against my chest, one arm heavy across my waist. I ran my fingers slowly through his hair while his breathing began to even out.

“I'm going to get you sick,” he said, already half asleep.

“Probably.”

“Then I’ll have to look after you.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“I’d be brilliant.”

“You couldn’t open cough syrup.”

He made a faint, offended noise against my shirt. A few minutes later, his grip around me tightened. “Glad you came,” he mumbled.

I looked down. His eyes were already closed. All the resistance had gone out of him. No sarcasm left to hide behind. Just his fever-warm face tucked against me and his hand holding the fabric at my waist, as if even asleep he needed proof I was still there.

I kissed his hair. “I know,” I whispered.

And this time, when he fell asleep, he did not have to wake up to check.

READER'S TURN

I had been sick for two days before Liam noticed. I thought I was hiding it well. I answered his messages, sent him a picture from bed and blamed my voice on having just woken up.

Then he called. “You’re ill.” And it wasn’t a question.

“I’ve got a cold.”

“You’ve got a fever.”

“You can’t diagnose that over the phone.”

“You sound like you’re evaporating.”

I laughed, which immediately dissolved into a coughing fit. Liam went silent. “I’m coming over.”

Before I could object, he hung up.

He arrived twenty minutes later and took one look at me wrapped in a blanket before removing his sunglasses like the situation required full visual assessment.

“Christ.”

“It’s a cold, not my final scene.”

He pressed his palm against my forehead, then my cheek, his expression darkening as though the fever had personally insulted him. “You’re coming home with me.”

“I am home.”

“Not this one.”

I was too tired to argue properly, which Liam mistook for victory.

While I sat on the edge of the bed, he found an overnight bag and began emptying my drawers into it with absolutely no system. A sweatshirt, two shirts, socks, my toothbrush, half my skincare routine.

Then he opened my underwear drawer.

“Liam.”

“What?”

“Do you need to inspect them individually?”

He held up a pair, considered them, then placed them in the bag. “Where’s the pink one I like?”

I stared at him through fever-heavy eyes. “I might be dying, and you’re looking for your favourite knickers?”

“You said you weren’t dying.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

He found them beneath another pair and looked deeply pleased with himself. “Taking these too.”

“I have a respiratory infection.”

“Planning ahead.”

Despite myself, I laughed and he looked relieved. Only for a second. Then he zipped the bag, wrapped my coat around me and guided me downstairs with one hand firmly at my back.

By the time we reached his house, he had already turned his bedroom into something between a hotel suite and a badly organised medical ward. Fresh sheets, water, tissues, medicine, far too many pillows.

A pharmacy bag sat on the bedside table beside biscuits, fruit, orange juice and three different kinds of throat sweets.

“You bought all this?”

“Didn’t know what you’d want.”

“So you bought the entire shop?”

“Basically.”

He put me into bed and spent the next hour trying to be useful. He opened the window because I was hot, then closed it when I sneezed. He brought me tea, forgot about it, and returned twenty minutes later with a completely different cup. He kept changing the television channel whenever I closed my eyes because he assumed I was bored.

Eventually, I caught his wrist as he passed the bed again. “Stop.”

“What?”

“You’re making me dizzy.”

He looked genuinely offended. “I’m lookin’ after you.”

“You’re orbiting me.”

That finally made him sit down. For a moment, he simply watched me, all the frantic energy draining out of him now that there was nothing left to organise. “You scared me,” he admitted. The words were quiet almost annoyed.

I reached for his hand. “I’m okay.”

“You will be.”

It sounded less like reassurance and more like an order he had issued to the universe. I shifted beneath the covers and made space beside me.

“You’re going to catch it.”

“Don’t care.”

“You will when you’re the one with a fever.”

“Won’t happen.”

“You act terminal when you have a blocked nose.”

He ignored that and climbed into bed. The moment his arm settled around me, my whole body relaxed. I tucked my face into his chest while his hand moved slowly over my back, finally doing the one thing I had needed from him all afternoon.

“Better?” he asked.

“A little.”

“See? Brilliant nurse.”

“You packed my pink underwear and bought six packets of biscuits.”

“Exactly.”

I smiled against his shirt. He kissed my forehead, frowned at the heat of my skin, then kissed it again anyway.

“Sleep,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes. Just before I drifted off, I felt him pull the blankets more securely around me.

“And don’t worry,” he whispered. “The pink ones are safe.”

I laughed weakly into his chest. “Thank God.”

His arms tightened around me. And for the first time since getting sick, I stopped feeling miserable enough to fall asleep.

[gallagherish99]

que decirte hermana !!!!!!! al licha seguro lo odia liam, pero a julian deberia amarlo si vamos por la logica. igual que hermoso un rage bait a liam diciendole que el licha es mejor jugador que los del city solo para ponerlo celoso.

[gallagherish99]

Had a dream that was completely unrelated but a random tiny side plot in it was me scrolling through tiktok and watching a tiktok Liam posted…

fanfic has consumed my brain somewhere, bc it was of what i assume must’ve been his youngest daughter (about five) filming him and her older two brothers for a tiktok and them looking bewildered as she puts these animal filters on them with the camera all haphazard in that funny way kids seem to hold things. There was this random audio in the back and ppl in the comments were dying laughing.

I woke up and I was like…. this is kinda ur baby fic. At least in the future. This is what ur fic is doing to my brain 💔💔💔 so cute

please, anon, the tenderness you just gave me 😭🖤

first of all, i don’t know if i should thank you or apologise for consuming part of your brain with all the baby lore. second of all, this is probably one of the cutest and most accurate things i could’ve read. for legal reasons, i will not be assuming whether it’s a little girl or a little boy, BUT Liam with a five-year-old who knows how to use a phone better than him? absolutely. the baby holding the camera in the most chaotic child way possible, the angle making no sense, Liam looking completely lost, the older brothers fully playing along because they’re obsessed with this tiny creature, animal filters, makeup filters, random audios, everyone in the comments losing their minds…

that is exactly the kind of future chaos i want for them. and i promise the moment of truth is coming soon. the birth, the baby arriving, the little Gallagher we’ve all been waiting for.

we’re getting there 🖤

[gallagherish99]

para hermana me olvidé de decirte por favor en la pregunta anterior 😭 no pienses que soy maleducada o que te lo demande 😭😭😭 es una sugerencia no más porque me gusta como escribís 🫶🏻

AJAJAJA te entendi a la perfeccion mi reina! despreocupate sos lo mas

[gallagherish99]

hermana necesito un fic de un gallagher con una argentina en mi escritorio mañana... el concepto de los músicos (nacionalidad) ingleses con más alma de argentinos con una mina de argentina... soy el gif del viejo fumando 🚬🙂‍↔️

JAJAJAAJAJAJ aaaa te amo!!!!!!

sabes que estuve pensandolo bastante porque sabes lo que seria que alguno se levante aca y choquen los lenguajes + las culturas !!!! encima que ellos tienen un poco una hiperfijacion con los argentinos.

dejame que lo piense bien y lo armare. por lo pronto se vienen dos cositas con liam que se menciona a argentina pues no puedo con mi genio.