#hozier

[aaloosshitposting]

"If I were orpheus I wouldn't look back"

But we look back everyday- rechecking emails, making sure a friend is still behind you, checking to see if you remebered to pick up your keys. It's second nature, a habit of care.

It was second nature for him too. He looked back, not out of weakness, but love. For what is love, if not to look back?

[redwolf17]

🙃 Regular reminder that while Hozier has amazing love songs, he is ALSO very outspoken about his leftist politics, specifically anti-fascism, anti-racism, reproductive rights, Palestinian rights and more.

Take Me To Church and Foreigner’s God are scathing critiques of organized religion, specifically the Catholic Church and the colonization of Ireland.

Moment’s Silence is about oral sex but it’s ALSO about how that specific sexual act is often distorted to a show of power rather than that of love.

Nina Cried Power is an homage to various (mostly Black) civil rights activists from the US and Ireland and a call to follow their path.

Be criticizes anti-migrant policies and Trump and his ilk.

Jackboot Jump is about the global wave of fascism and about protest and resistance.

Swan Upon Leda is about reproductive rights and the violent colonial oppression of Ireland and Palestine.

Eat Your Young is about the ruinous way the 1%/capitalism and arms dealers prioritize short-term profit over everything else to the detriment of the youth/99%

Butchered Tongue is about Irish and other indigenous languages being suppressed and erased by imperial powers.

If any of the above surprised you, please, please delve deeper into Hozier’s music, you’re missing such an important part of his work.

[fablerenown]

Listen, I have seen many a posts to the tune of "Hozier is a fae god!" Or "Florence is a fae god!" And I am here to tell you that neither of them are fae gods. Paramours, probably, maybe members of an Entourage, but gods? No.

You want to know who an actual fucking fae god is???

Kendrick Lamar.

The pettiness. The creativity. The persuasiveness. The accuracy. He had 110 million people across the nation today singing "a minooooor" like it was fucking nothing. This man has cast a thousand-year curse on Aubrey Graham's bloodline that cannot be undone through mortal means.

Now, THAT is some fae god level shit.

[malfiora]

The trees deny themselves nothing that makes them grow / No rain fall, no sunshine, / No blood upon the snow

indeed.

i think it's fucked up that there are plants that decided they wanted to eat meat

[familiar-like-my-mirror]

On today's episode of "liked by Hozier"

[unreal-unearthed]

absolutely FERAL nobody’s soldier from quebec

🎥 roxannejarry1

[pallestythesimp]

as a big hozier fan i went fucking crazy on this part especially because i had been saying for quite a while that eat your young was very sandman coded

Desire in The Sandman Season 2

[treeteaofversailles]

Talk - Hozier

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MDNI! This is my original work. Please do not post to another site or to AI. Thank you and happy reading!

Summary: Dr. Li Shen is an eloquent man until it comes to you, dear Reader. 

Tags: Smut (mostly Zayne’s imagination), deepthroating, oral sex (f/m receiving), Zayne imagines fucking Reader in his doctor’s coat. Jealousy, pining from Zayne, Zayne is a pervert, friends-to-lovers (ish), Zayne thinks many dirty things about Reader. Reader just wants the man to say “fuck”. 

A/N: I can’t get the way he talks so formally out of my head and Talk has been playing on loop on my way to work… 

Zayne is very Talk Hozier coded. Especially this line*.

Change my mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*So I’ll try to talk refined, for fear that you find out, how I’m imaginin’ you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Zayne Li Shen was a notoriously eloquent man. It was as if he grew up purely digesting thesauruses, the Brontë sisters’ or Jane Austen’s novels, or watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. He studied medicine, yet he put all the literature majors to pure shame. 

No one could seem to remember a time when Dr. Zayne spoke uneloquently. 

You’ve been best friends for as long as you can remember and it drove you up the wall sometimes because whenever you joked with him, he rarely went for the crude and brash humor that you touted. His jokes were funny; you didn’t want to discredit the cardiac surgeon, but you just wanted him to make one vulgar joke. Just one. 

You even had access to his home, to his most intimate spaces, and yet you’ve never heard him use any vulgarity. He’s never even so much as cursed when he hurts himself. If anything, he reprimands you for your foul language. 

You stubbed your toe once on the leg of his table and hissed a rather loud, “Shit!” while he was reading. And without batting an eye, he replied with: “Language”. 

You wanted to throttle the beautiful doctor and get him to use vulgar language. Yet every time you egged him on, he just smiled gently at you and shook his head before using even more refined language. 

“What’s a four-letter verb that starts with ‘f’ and ends with ‘k’?”

“Fank,” Zayne replied simply. 

You blinked at him. “What?” 

“Fank. It means to put a sheep into a pen. It’s a Scottish word.” 

You smacked your forehead with your datapad and groaned, not seeing his smile. 

What you didn’t know was that Zayne did have a vulgar side to him. Especially when it came to you. His darling best friend. His deepest fantasy. 

While you were too busy mouthing off about something he’d said—he couldn’t remember what he said to get you to suddenly brat at him—Zayne was too busy staring at your lips and imagining how they’d look when they were wrapped around his cock. How pretty your lips would stretch around his girth, shiny with your spit as you kept taking him down. He wanted to give you something worthwhile to do instead of being a brat to him. 

When you got quiet, Zayne just replied with, “You have quite the energy today, darling.” 

He once helped adjust your hair, watching as the soft strands slowly curled around his slender fingers. He couldn’t help imagining how they’d feel when he’d tighten his hand into a fist, yanking your head back at the same time he gave a particularly hard thrust, just to watch your mouth fall open as a wanton moan of his name tumbled from your pretty mouth. 

He simply said, “Your hair is quite satiny. You seem to be following my advice on hair supplements and treatment."

Zayne watched your fingers knotting his tie for him in the morning and bit the inside of his lip to not pull you into the bedroom to tie up your hands with the same piece of fabric against the headboard. How he’d hurriedly undo your hard work just to get your fingers yanking on his hair as he plunged his tongue into your alluring pussy. His eyes then fixed to your tongue, poking out from the corner of your lips as you concentrated deeply. He imagined how your tongue would look as it stuck out and he covered it in his cum. 

Zayne just thanked you with a soft smile, “Your fingers are very adroit. You would be a very good surgeon.” 

You’d playfully swatted at his chest and rested your hands there for a while, laughing at a joke he couldn’t remember. He was too busy enamored with your pretty hands on him, and imagining how they’d feel as you raked your nails down his chest when he drove you over the edge, arching your back as you came. He pictured your hands in the exact placement as you rode him, your hips grinding and bouncing as you used him for your own pleasure. 

“That made you laugh?�� Zayne asked. 

“You make me laugh,” you rolled your eyes at him. 

You wore a pair of shorts that revealed far too much of your thighs to say that you were just a “platonic friend staying the night”, and he was bombarded by the images of your thighs covered in a myriad of his kisses and bites, painting your skin in his adoration and deep devotion to you. He’d picture your legs shaking under his hands as he pried you open to get a taste of your sweet nectar all over his tongue, or held open over his elbows as he drove his cock deeper into you, marking you so deep and so full you’d never be able to forget his love. 

“You have been working out,” Zayne swallowed thickly from his couch, digging his nails into his legs. “Let me know if you need help stretching.” 

You’d come into his office once in a full-body sundress and flounce around the room, eagerly talking about your upcoming plans to go meet with your friends. He was nodding and humming along, his eyes trapped on the way the long and delicate fabric swished around you. His eyes snapped up to meet yours when you mentioned Caleb’s name. Suddenly, he wanted to bend you over his desk, make you hold up your long skirt, and fuck you until your voice was broken with his name alone on it. He wanted to make you wear his doctor’s coat and take pictures of you as you came around his cock, creaming and staining his dark pubes with your sweet cum. 

All he said that day was, “I hope you have fun with them. Send me pictures, darling. I’d love to take you on such trips on my free time, too,” Zayne said. His promise only made you light up even more. 

He felt guilty, imagining such filth about you. He felt guilty as he furiously pumped his cock to the picture of you in your beachwear, your body still dripping with the seawater. He felt guilty as he came hard on his bed, crying out your name, his body snapping into a perfect arch as ropes of hot and thick cum splashed high on his chest and abs. 

He dropped his phone once, too busy muffling his moans in your hoodie as he covered the soft fabric in his cum. He felt guilty when you’d knock on his door meekly asking if he needed help because you heard something hard fall. He’d reply that he was fine and silently beg for your forgiveness when he began to stroke his cock again, hardened just from the sound of your voice. 

Zayne talks refined, but only because he fears that you’ll find out all the ways he’s imagining you. 

[jubiiee]

“and so I fall in love just a little bit”

end season 1-beginning season 2

[lifemod17]

📸: BillWoodcock | x

Rock The Park Festival || 07/08/2025

[godfrey-the-chaos-duck]

YOOOO THEY'RE AT A HOZIER CONCERT

Date night part one! Crowley’s pick, a concert featuring a certain bog man who loves to sing about religious trauma, any guesses who it is?

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share The Space With Simple Living Things - Hozier x fem!reader

Chapter 7: Daisies - Loyal Love

Summary: After a night of some internal turmoil, Andrew seeks out some advice of his own.

Word Count: 2800

Author's Note: WE ARE SO BACK!!!! guys i can't believe it's been *checks watch* 5 months since i posted about these blorbos. lets just say yeah. ao3 curse is real. anyways we are back in the groove and i cannot WAIT for yall to read what's in the future. as always, i hope you enjoy 🖤

tag list: @celery-grace @gayandfairycore @deathmybride @harry-bowie-mercury @hodgepodge-musings @blue-eyed-bug @secretttytttttttttt @dinner-n-dxatribes @wub-wub-wub-wub-wub @padfootblackswh0r3 @axel-the-boy-witch @notmanagingmymischief

you know the deal, fic below the cut :)

He swore that writing songs wasn't this addictive in college. Though in reality, Andrew couldn't swear anything about that time. His college years were a blur — as most times spent around friends and less-than-legal substances are. But he was sure that if he had remembered, there would’ve been an inkling in his mind, a voice that warned him of its compelling nature: This is a rabbit hole you can't come back from. This one hobby will be more addicting than any substance you've ever taken. Put the pen down.

He would, occasionally, write about previous heartbreaks or even previous heartbreaking, but those were merely a verse or two, maybe a chorus if the subject was especially emotional for him. An exception and not the rule.

This was opposed to you, the one person who had pages upon pages dedicated to you. Since he had started writing again a few months ago, Andrew had filled up around three-quarters of the journal, and there were pages that were flooded with his ideas, with the words that spawned when he thought about you. The worst (really, most enticing) part was how naturally it came to him. It wasn't uncommon for a line to come to him in the middle of sketching a design for a client, or even worse, in the middle of tattooing a client. He’d often be stuck repeating the phrases over and over again until he could get his hands on a pen and paper. Once he did, he would cling to writing like a drug. If only he had a little voice in his head he could've listened to.

As he turned over the memory of the rest of the day in his head, his thoughts lingered on his every action. He prayed you hadn't noticed the ink on the side of his hand, seeping into his palm. The same palm that had smudged a fantastic lyric earlier on that day, and the same hand that had jotted down an idea right before he left to visit you. The same hand that wrote about longing to hold yours. And the same hand he would sooner cut off before telling you any of that information.

He happened to be particularly proud of a few lines, though they were few and far between. He had grown attached to one line, one that he would hopefully develop into one song. It was hastily scribbled on a random page, in handwriting messier than usual:

All the fear and the fire of the end of the world, happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl.

When he revisited his notebook that very night, this line seemed to capture him in a trance. He could feel a narrative surrounding it. There was a story screaming at him, inspired by the end of the world. The perseverance of love despite everything and anything that could go wrong.

The words poured out of him, spilling onto the paper and flooding his notebook. He had never written so quickly in his life. Some of his words would be unintelligible, he was sure, but he didn't care; no one else was going to read this, so he could be as messy as he needed.

In his fervor, he was able to knock out an entire song. It meant he stayed up until midnight to do so, but sacrifices must be made for the sake of art. He sat and stared at the words on the page and felt a strange sensation of… discontent. There was something missing. Just words couldn't do the topic justice. He needed something he had been dreading since he started writing. He needed a melody.

He knew just where his guitar was hiding: in the back of his closet, following his “out of sight, out of mind” mentality for the other artistic things he indulged in. Quickly, he stood up and went to his room, opening his closet door. It took a bit of digging, but there it was, nestled behind sweaters and jackets on hangers: his guitar.

He picked the acoustic guitar up, sparing it from leaning against the wall, stuffed away in the back of his closet. He was not as strong a man as he thought. At least, he was not as resistant to temptation as he thought.

Considering the fact that he never thought it would see the light of day again, his guitar was in good shape. This was the only circumstance it would be considered in good shape. Out of tune, banged up, and an actual spiderweb built in between the neck of the guitar and and the wall. One more wake-up call for Andrew: clean his closet.

He had to tune it by ear, since it was collecting dust for the better half of a decade, only used if someone pressed him about it. The days of his fingertips becoming calloused by pressing on the strings and strumming were far behind him. He knew they'd soon be approaching him, as well.

Once everything was all tuned and ready, he set up his phone to record. He started this adventure plucking at strings, placing fingers on random combinations of strings and frets until something stuck. If something sounded right, he kept it. Although it was brief, the melody he had created turned out… good. Satisfactory, at least. It was soft, temptingly so. It deserved lyrics just as gentle — the lyrics he had written in a rush before came to mind. Now, when he wrote, they were songs, lyrics meant to be matched to melodies. It was definitely something he needed to get used to.

He couldn't put the feeling he had into words. When he tried, the only words he could conjure up in his mind were negative. It pained him to think this way, but he couldn't resist it. He was cheating on his passion, his love, the very art form he had chosen to make a living with. But God, did writing feel good.

He needed to get it off his chest. Everything. His internal battle of the arts, his feelings for you, his constantly frazzled train of thought. In his time of need, there was only one person he could think of turning to.

He snatched up his keys and left the flat, taking the elevator down. He could even feel a growing appreciation for whoever had to compose elevator music. What was happening to him? He stepped out of the elevator and briskly walked to the parking lot. When the cold night air hit his lungs, he exhaled, breath visible in front of him. Thank goodness he got to his car quickly, soon warming up as he sat in the driver's seat.

Andrew twisted his key, turning on the ignition, and began to drive.

He lightly knocked a few times, letting his knuckles hit the door — it was too late to ring the doorbell. Though he knew it was unlikely he'd be turned away, it was a matter of courtesy.

He waited a moment, one that might have lasted a bit too long, before rhythmically tapping his knuckles against the door again. This time, he heard shuffling behind the door, and immediately adjusted his gaze, lowering it so that when the door opened, he would make eye contact with the woman on the other side. He had gotten pretty used to it considering he'd done it for most of his life.

“Hey, mum.”

The beam of sunshine that was his mother's face looked back at him, a gentle smile on her face.

“Andy! It's great to see you, but goodness, it's late. Is something the matter?”

He pursed his lips in thought, trying to chose what words to say to explain his situation.

“I don't think so? Nothing’s the matter, in particular. I just… I wanted to talk to you. Needed your opinion on something.”

“That's what I’m here for. Come in.”

Andrew entered slowly, lowering his hood and taking off his shoes by the door. He would be there a while, he knew it. Might as well get comfortable. He looked around quickly, taking in the state of the house before something caught his eye: a new bouquet, in the same vase and placed on the same windowsill as the bouquet that led you two to meet. He took a few steps closer, leaning in to properly admire them.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

“Yeah. They're gorgeous… ehm…” He trailed off, blanking on the name. Raine picked up where he left off.

“Daisies. I got them from a florist a few days ago.” At the mention of a florist, Andrew's eyes widened with fear, which was quickly shut down. “Don't worry, I didn't get them from your little girlfriend or anything, just another place while I was out of town.”

He let out a sigh of relief upon hearing she hadn't visited you, though the label she had used for you was less than ideal. He took a step towards her.

“Mum, she's not my girlfriend. You know that, right?” he corrected her.

“I’m well aware that she's not your girlfriend. Yet.”

“Mum, please!” He rolled his eyes. It felt so juvenile, being with his mother and dismissing discussion of a crush. When he was in love, he really was no better than a teenager. Raine began to walk to the kitchen, where they both sat down on opposite sides of the kitchen table. As if she knew he was coming, there was a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the middle. He couldn't bring himself to eat in this state, but the gesture was nice.

“Andrew. I don’t like to think about it much, but you are a grown man. You should know at this point that denial will do you no good.”

“What do I have to be in denial about?”

“You know. This girl, you like her. You call me every day to talk, and all our conversations circle back to her. I’m not sure how much longer you can pretend.”

Another sigh escaped Andrew, though now it was more of annoyance rather than relief. He began to explain himself, the words flowing out once he started to speak.

“Alright. Fine. I like her. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I’ve only known the woman for a few months, and she already has this grip on me, this incomprehensible hold on my heart? That I can’t stop thinking about her, can't stop creating for her? That she's made me so… so crazy that I started writing songs again, just about her? Is that what you wanted, mum?” Andrew rambled, nearly ranted. His frustration was not truly aimed at his mother, but rather his own fear. He felt like this and was too scared to admit it. He had never even said it aloud. Well, not before that moment, at least.

His confession lingered in the air, creating a new atmosphere. Raine had opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Andrew had successfully rendered his mother speechless. His gaze went down to her fingers, now drumming against the table in thought. When she finally found the words, she spoke in a lower tone.

“You’ve really started writing again?”

Andrew nodded with a face of defeat.

“Every. Damn. Day. Couldn't stop if I tried. And I’ve tried.”

Her fingers continued to tap, a sign she was deeper in thought than Andrew expected. They sat in silence, a nervous expression on Andrew’s face and a concentrated one on his mother's. He finally piped up.

“So… what's the diagnosis, doc? Is it fatal?”

“Andrew. You are in love, my dear. There's not much I can do about that.”

He sighed, knowing his mother’s words were the harsh truth. He knew those words I Love You were lingering somewhere in the back of his throat. It was a matter of if he would say them or choke on them first.

“I’m frightened, Mum. I don't know how you can be scared of love, but I think I am. Scared to be open again, I suppose.”

The woman opposite him nodded, like she had felt the same emotion decades before he had.

“I know the feeling. I know it all too well. To love someone is to make a choice: you either open up, you let your skin get soft, and you end up getting hurt, or you close them off. Keep yourself protected. Take the risk of never taking a risk.”

“Or? There has to be one more ‘or’,” he replied. If those were his only two options, he wasn't happy with either.

“Or… you let someone in and it works. You think your father charmed me the first time we met? It took years of my showing up to his gigs until I realized I was willing to knock down my walls and let him in.”

“And wasn't that hard? To let him in without knowing what he'd do.”

“Of course. When your skin gets softer, it makes it easier to bruise, doesn't it? But, you don't always bruise. Sometimes it lets you feel comfortable.”

Andrew nodded pensively, turning over her words in his mind. Maybe letting you in, letting you under his newly soft skin, could be a good idea. He got up from his seat, becoming restless. Raine copied her son and did the same.

“I don't want to bruise.”

“Nobody does. That's a risk you have to be willing to take.”

He nodded once more, pursing his lips in thought.

“I think I’ll take the risk. I’ll do it scared, but I’ll do it.”

She broke into a smile, a toothy grin that practically radiated from her. There was a shine in her eye, a glassy look that indicated she might cry. She couldn't help it.

“I’m so proud of who you are,” Raine admitted, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Come here, love.”

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck and latching on to her. If a stray tear ran down his cheek at the moment as well, neither of them minded. She patted the back of his head, the other hand rubbing up and down his bed. Andrew felt his tension dissolve, as if he could finally breathe again. When he finally pulled away — only done once he felt he was ready to let go— Raine left a kiss on his cheek. She looked up at him as he headed towards the door.

“Goodbye, my Andy. Best of luck.”

“Thanks, ma. I’ll need it.”

By the time Andrew had parked in the parking lot of his apartment complex, he'd tried about every method in the book to distract himself. Each and every thing he tried was to no avail. Turning on the radio made him think about writing songs, but sitting in silence gave him too much free time to sit with his thoughts. Caught in a catch 22 of his own creation, he couldn't feel his breathing return to normal until he turned his ignition off.

He sat in silence, running through the interaction with his mother again. There had been flowers in a vase when he entered; if he could remember, he could find out what they meant. It took a hot minute, but the name finally popped into his head. Daisies. What were daisies? Pulling up Google he hurriedly typed away, asking his search engine what the meaning was. His screen glowed back at him, and he scowled; the answer taunted him. Loyal love. God, the universe was laughing in his face at the moment.

Maybe it was a sign. He was taking more things as signs and not coincidences recently. Flowers on the street dictated how his day would go. A stray sighting of a crow was an omen. He was searching for meaning in the simplest of things. All because of what you’d unknowingly done to him.

All because he loved you.

The thought of those words strung together in one sentence gave him the chills. He loved you, yes, but could he summon the courage to admit it? Could be even form the words? Of course he could. He’d just written a whole song on the matter, hadn't he? The real question was if he could form the words in front of you. That question didn't need an answer just yet. But he was sure he’d get it soon.

[unearthbaby]

the unreal unearth era 🤎✨

[vanamonkukka]

unreasonably beautiful man. we can not keep letting him do this to us

[skellzulla]