#ahb fic

[handfulofhoney]

prompt: A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party. ship: andrew hozier-byrne x f!reader rating: M; MDNI word count: 1,627 warnings/tags: dating, making out, clothes off no sex notes: wanted to get back into the swing of fic writing, and this was really fun! also, no beta or much editing since I wrote it all this afternoon (instead of working, oops). divider credit to enchanthings-a!

It’s the third date and you’ve stayed out until 2:30am – until the bar closed and you realized you’d been talking back and forth non-stop for almost seven hours. Empty dishes lay scattered on the table, pint glasses still had a bit of foam on the bottom. You’d been laughing and joking and sharing stories and opinions for ages. Phones lay forgotten in pockets, time’s gone by in a daze, and Andrew Hozier-Byrne had been just about to respond to your latest question when the server politely cleared their throat and indicated the time.

Andrew had looked at you, searched your face for an answer to his unspoken question, and then said in a rush, “I don’t want this to stop. I don’t want to say goodbye.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, you saw embarrassment flicker through his features at the perceived confession. You feel a warm smile pull up the corners of your mouth. 

You let your tongue dart out to wet your bottom lip before responding. “Good. I don’t either.” Relief seemed to pass over him a few seconds before he swallowed. Hard. 

“And what would you want to do instead?” His tone had dropped, and the implication heated you up.

“I can think of a few ideas.” You had smiled coyly as he shifted his attention to you, eager to hear what you’re going to suggest. “We could look up the current stock rates. Book tickets to the next football match. Get botox.” Andrew barked out a laugh at the uncharacteristic, decidedly unsexy slew of activities and cocked his brow. 

“Think you wouldn’t mind more time with me?”

“I suppose you’ll do.” You’d let out a small giggle at the end, not being able to keep up the pretense of the joke for very long. 

Which is what leads you to getting into his car, a luxe model that has to be a current release, and what leads your stomach to erupt in butterflies. 

You hadn’t really thought it would get this far, you and Andrew. Had worried he would go out with you once, out of respect for the mutual friend who connected you, and then would send polite text that read something like: It was lovely to meet you, but I’ve got a lot on at the moment, what with being a world-famous rockstar. Try Dave down at the pub. He seems more your speed. Good luck! 

No, of course it wouldn’t have been quite so ridiculous, but still. You hadn’t expected much, especially not a second date. A lovely second date spent walking around the wild paths of County Wicklow together. Or a third date, one that had come via a text that said Just got back in country. Free for dinner? A simple, perfect, pub dinner that somehow morphed to this. 

After leaving the pub, you had made out in his car like a couple of teenagers in the parking lot. Windows steamed and all. The back door to the pub had slammed closed and you both jumped back, breaking the intensity. It was the staff, heading out for the evening. Sheepishly, he’d looked at you and said, “Suppose we’d best get going?” You had reluctantly nodded, thinking now was the time you’d part for the night. As he clicked over the engine, you felt your stomach drop. 

Putting your hand on his thigh, you had felt his muscles tighten in response to your touch. “I…” Andrew turned his gaze to you. Looking into your eyes. You loved this about him, you had decided immediately upon meeting him. You loved that when you spoke, he listened. Gave you his full attention. He doesn’t put the car in gear. “I don’t want this to stop.” You say the words in a rush, similar to him from just a little bit ago. You let your hand slowly skirt up higher. His eyes darken, and with one nod, he’s pulling out of the parking lot and heading in a direction that is definitely not yours. 

The ride is short and silent, but the tension had pulled it to feeling like forever. Your hand had stayed on his thigh, not going further but not going lower either. He seemed to like it there. Your thoughts swirled with the recent sensations of his lips on yours, his hands desperate to touch your skin. His breath, warm in your ear as he panted out the words, “Fucking hell. You are so beautiful. God, I want you all over me.” In the midst of the good, though, comes the bad. Self-doubt and self-consciousness creep in and threaten to overwhelm you. This couldn’t be happening, could it? He couldn’t want this could he? And what did it matter, it was probably just a fluke one-off anyways.  

You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you don’t notice the car stopping outside a stunning home, tucked away up a long drive. Gathering up your bits and opening the car door, you’re about to step down when Andrew steps up and fills the space. He’s standing so close you can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of him. His scent – peppery cologne mixed with the malted barley of the pub – combines with the fresh night air and you inhale deeply. His eyes, getting wilder by the moment, scan you from head to toe. You look up at him with a look of rawness, and you know the fear and insecurity has reached your eyes when he takes your face in his hand and rubs his thumb on your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. The look he shares with you – full of longing, reverence, and something else tied up – is enough.

He leans in close, pressing kisses along your temple, to your jaw, down your neck. Might seem like sweet kisses to an observer, but they wouldn’t feel the heat or the pressure. Wouldn’t feel the searing promise in the kisses saying this is only the start. He stops just an inch above the top curve of your breast and when he tilts his head up to whisper, you feel the warmth of arousal that’s been pooling turn molten. 

“Going to need to get you inside, love, otherwise I’m going to fuck you right here.” His eyes, usually an intricate hazel, are almost black thanks to the dark evening and his own building need. The words sound rough and thick, which instantly winds up your core tightly. “In the car. Against the car. On the ground. I’m not picky, but if you don’t want that, we’d best go inside the house.” You nod, once, then over and over, as he takes your hand in his and leads you through his front door. 

You assume you’ll make your way to his bedroom or maybe the living room, but apparently Andrew wasn’t exaggerating. As soon as the front door clicks shut behind you and he’s fastened the locks, he pins you against it and is kissing you again. 

And somehow, the kissing in the car seems like nothing compared to this. That was rushed and nervous; this is steady and sure, building to a feverpitch as you frantically squeeze your thighs together. Andrew’s touching you everywhere, each one more perfect than the last. He’s clearly torn on whether or not he should slow down, but he can’t seem to. 

In quick time, both coats have been removed, your shirt long discarded, with your jeans around your ankles. His shirt is unbuttoned and hanging loose, his jeans unzipped with his hard-on bulging out the front. Whispers and kisses and movements from his tongue have you leaning against the cold wood of the door as he asks you to beg for him. 

“What? Was is it you want?” Andrew croons has he traces a path across your breasts and down your stomach, until his fingers rest just above your slick curls. He licks a stripe along the column of your throat and chuckles low as you whine. You’re about to respond – about to tell him exactly what you want, in crystal clear detail – when you feel something… strange. 

Something is pressed into the outer side of your thigh, something cold and… wet? Before you can process it fully, you yelp and jerk toward Andrew, away from the sensation. He takes a measured step back and lets you fall into his arms, clinging tightly.

“Mo náire thú, cú!” Comes from Andrew, his voice exasperated on the surface, but with an unmistakable fondness. “Look what a hash you’ve made of it, you silly pest.” He leans down to scratch the head of the source of the interruption, the interruption turning out to be, in fact, a dog nose. A nose belonging to a very large, very motley looking wolfhound mix. The hound came up past your hips, even on four legs, and is looking at you with rapt curiosity. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Butler.” 

You give the intruder a big pet. “Hello, you sweet thing. Making sure I’m not burgling your house? That I’m not hurting your Andy?” You scratch between his ears and the dog leans into your touch. 

“He is utterly harmless, but does like to, er… stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.” A beat passes before you let out a bright laugh at the joke. 

“Maybe we ought to go somewhere more private then?” You level a heated look at him. “Where we can close the door on… uninvited guests?” 

Andrew nods in affirmation, pulling you up closer to him. He kisses you again, his tongue sliding into your mouth with renewed urgency, and his hands cup under your ass. “Only if I can still push you up against that door…”

[handfulofhoney]

hi!!! I was just wondering if you could do another fic of Andrew taking care of you while sick? I loved the last one, and I would love another one. hope you are well <3

you’re my medicine

ship: andrew hozier-byrne x reader  rating: M (nothing explicit; references to adult themes) word count: 2.3k warnings/tags: neighbors, sick reader, fluff, flirting, homesickness, little bit of miscommunication if you squint notes: apologies to anon – this is literally six months late, but inspiration did eventually strike! I took this in a slightly different direction that my last sick prompt. Andrew lives in the flat next to yours and helps you out when you get sick. he’s just being neighborly, right?  if you like it, this one definitely has potential for a part two! title from “medicine” by your favorite color. divider credit to thecutestgrotto. read on AO3 here!

You’ve lived in Dublin for two years now, and it’s been two long years of carving out a life for yourself. Working long hours pouring into your career, trying to keep your head above water, and attempting to meet people. You hadn’t yet been able to build the community you dreamed of – but someday you’d have it. You’re sure of it. Until then, you’re content with the acquaintances at work who are nice enough and saying hello to your neighbors in the hallways of your apartment building (well, one neighbor in particular). 

You actually hadn’t recognized him the first time you saw him. You had been carrying a huge armful of groceries,  two full totes swinging at your hips, and were trying to get the front door of the building open. The pile of food and house goods threatened to topple as you precariously balanced them on your arm, fishing for the key. Someone had come up from behind and said, “Hey, I got it” and opened the door for you. You’d thanked him, but had been so focused on not dropping your food shop that you’d scurried up the stairs without a second glance. It was only later that night as you thought back on it that you’d realized it was him. Andrew Hozier-Byrne. Hozier. You’d felt foolish for weeks afterward, but eventually the embarrassment waned. 

Since then you’d seen him a few times here and there. Wished him a Merry Christmas over the holidays, got his mail for him when he was gone for a few weeks, and once you even chatted in the front doorway. It had been late one Saturday night and you’d both been out, happening to come in at the same time. You’d talked about your evenings (him with a group of lads for a stag night, you out with coworkers who might become friends) and joked about your landlady, Mrs. Delaney. It had felt good. 

Him being hotter than the devil in August didn’t hurt either. The way he had leaned on the doorframe, body relaxed and towering over you… curls in his face, damp from the rain shower… it had taken your entire willpower not to brush them from his cheeks and take him to bed. Or to at least try. But no. Eventually, you both realized you’d been talking for the better part of an hour and said a lingering good night. You hadn’t missed the way his eyes trailed across your mouth, or the way he sighed loudly at the prospect of parting. Settling into your bed that night, you’d thought maybe this was the start of something. 

However, after that it was radio silence. A nod in the hall or a quick wave. You hadn’t had a conversation like it since, and it had been over a month ago. You’d basically given up hope. He’d clearly just had a couple of drinks that night and wasn’t actually interested in you. When you had a particularly bad mental health day, insecurity crept in and you think maybe he had been interested at one point, but that conversation somehow showed him you weren’t worth it. Not cool enough, not clever enough. Not pretty enough. It was enough to drive anyone mad. 

The weeks went by, and the world moved. You made plans with a girl from the office to go to a museum on an upcoming weekend later this month. Your boss complimented you in your department meeting last week, saying he was glad you’re on the team. You’d gone on a really fun date, though you’d ended up texting him you didn’t think it was going to work (he’d felt the same; you’d actually made other plans to meet up as friends). Friends from home had even talked about a visit later in the year. Life was alright, all things considered. You’re even contemplating getting a cat. 

Then, the apocalypse hit. One of your coworkers, Mom Margot (as opposed to Uni Margot, a girl on another team), said her son (Harry; five; very adorable) had come down with some god-awful illness that had been making its way through the schools. The next day, Mom Margot had called in sick and had been out for a week. Unfortunately for you, your cubicle is directly next to Margot. Knowing it was coming should have prepared you, but you’re pretty sure there was no way to be fully ready for whatever misery this was. 

It hit hard and fast, your illness taking you fully out of commission. You seemed to have every symptom under the sun: sneezing, coughing, sore throat, body aches, fever, the works. At first you’d thought you’d get over it quickly with just some paracetamol and lots of water. No such luck. You’re on Day 4 and counting, and you wish you had the energy to get more supplies. Cough drops. Tissues. Maybe a bucket of ice cream (to both soothe your throat and comfort you). Your mom has been texting you throughout the day, and while her worrying is appreciated, it doesn’t help much in the moment. 

It hurts, you realize. You’re laying on the couch, looking at your ceiling. It’s half past eight and you still haven’t eaten dinner; the energy to cook left you sometime this morning. It hurts not having anyone. No one on this side of the Atlantic who cares that you’re sick. No one to run to the store, no one to make some soup on the hob. No one to put their hand on your forehead and cluck sympathetically, “You’re burning up. Go lay down and I’ll make you a cuppa.” It hurts more than you’d like to admit, even to yourself. 

Since moving to Dublin, you’ve often been aware that you’re on your own. It would be impossible not to be aware of it. Most of them time, you’re neutral to okay with it. It’s part and parcel of making a dramatic move to a brand-new place. Sometimes, you even love it. The freedom and joy that come with being completely on your own. For the first time, however, you feel truly lonely. It’s an aching, crushing feeling.

Wallowing in some much-deserved self-pity, you miss the first knock on the door. A beat passes before there’s another knock, more insistent. You feel a spike of panic; who would be knocking on your door? Getting up, you shuffle to answer it. Before twisting the doorknob, you send a quick prayer that it’s not a serial killer.

Standing in the doorway, worried expression on his face, is Andrew. Truly the last person you were expecting, but it’s a welcome surprise. 

“Hello?” You croak out. Your voice sounds wretched, and you wince. He looks at you with round eyes. 

“Er, hi. God, you do look awful. I mean,” He shakes his head roughly. “Not awful, not even close, but you really are on death’s door.” You look at him, confused. “Mrs. D.” Andrew says by way of explanation, and then it makes sense. Mrs. Delaney, the landlady, has a penchant for nosiness and gossip, though it comes from a good place. “She said you were ill, and, I… well, I just…” He trails off, and a flush of sudden embarrassment covers his cheeks. 

“I am quite ill.” You say, the tiniest smile appearing on your lips. Him checking on you is sweet. Means more than you can put together. “Been sick for a couple days.” As if you timed it, you cough into your used tissue. 

Andrew nods, suddenly unsure of what to do or say. “I’ll… let you get on with it, then.” He says, and you feel your heart constricting. You wanted this to last longer, but it seems he just wanted to check if you’re alive. Andrew glances into your apartment, and furrows his brow. “Do you live with anyone? Or have anyone to help you out?” You shake your head, not able to get into all the details. His expression softens. “Do you need anything?” He asks. 

The question, in its earnest simplicity, takes you off guard. It hits you in the gut and you can feel the burn behind your eyes as tears threaten to make themselves known. You swallow it down and shake your head. 

“I’m okay. Thanks, though.” You’re lying through your teeth, but you figure he doesn’t know you well enough to tell. 

“Right.” He shrugs. “Well, I’m next door if you do need anything. Obviously. You knew that. Anyway, feel better.” Andrew turns on his heel and walks back toward his own flat, leaving you feeling, somehow, worse than you did before. 

An hour passes, slow and miserable. You managed to throw together the world’s most unappetizing sandwich and got most of it down. You’re covered in blankets on your couch, flipping through trashy television, when there’s another knock at the door. 

Upon opening it, you see outside your door is two grocery bags, full of things to help you get through being sick. There’s a note attached, written in scrawling handwriting. I didn’t believe you. –AHB You bring them inside and unpack them on your counter. Medicine, throat lozenges, soup (two kinds), a loaf of bread, and more. He even threw in a chocolate bar. 

You feel tears threaten again, but you realize they’re of a different sort. The kind gesture – even if he doesn’t want to ravish you in the hallway of your apartment building like you’ve fantasized about many an evening – feels so damn good. The simple act of having another human care about you, taking time out of his life to do something for you, made you feel better than anything flu remedy money could buy.

– – – – – 

You’re halfway through Day 6 and you’re finally, finally able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Your fever has broken, your cough isn’t as debilitating, and your spirits have lifted. There’s another knock on the door, and when you open it this time, there is a much smaller bag sitting on your welcome mat. Inside is a jar of dark syrup, almost an indigo color. It has a handmade label titled ELDERBERRY HONEY in handwriting that isn’t the same as the first. The note tucked inside makes your heart clench.

Made by my mum last winter. Immune support & antioxidants. Best in tea. –AHB

You clutch the little jar to your chest and hold onto it tightly. It feels like a precious gift, a hand outstretched. It feels like a warm hug, even if the glass is cool against your skin. 

If a few tears do manage to slide down your cheek, you ignore them. 

– – – – – 

The next day dawns clear and bright, and for the first time in a week you feel like yourself. Not 100%, but close enough that normal is within reach. After taking a long shower and making a strong cup of tea – with Andrew’s mum’s honey swirled in – you decide it’s finally time to approach him again. Even just to give your sincere thanks for his care and consideration. 

It takes longer than usual for you to decide what to wear. Keeping it casual while also wanting to feel good, you settle on a classic outfit of well-worn jeans and your favorite top. After running a brush through your damp, tousled hair, you swipe on some cherry lip gloss and head for the door. 

Before opening it, you take in a deep breath to steady the nerves that have been slowly building over the last hour as you got ready. You open the door wide open, about to step into the hallway, and walk directly into the solid figure crowding the doorframe. 

“Oof,” You let out. The figure, Andrew, puts his large hands on your shoulders to help steady you as you step back on your heels. You look up into his lucent hazel eyes and shutter a breath. He’s only a few inches away from you, and his hands seem to not want to leave you. The moment feels like it’s suspended in warm honey, but maybe that’s just the cough medicine working overtime. 

“Alright?” Andrew asks, and you’re not sure if he means from the tumble or from your illness. 

“Much better!” You chirp, and he breaks into a smile. “I was actually on my way to knock on your door! It’s definitely my turn. To knock, I mean. Thought I could catch you to th– hang on. Why were you outside my door?” His hands are back at his side, though his large frame still fills the doorway. All you can see is him. 

“Er, thought I’d come ‘round. See how you’re getting on.” 

“No gifts?” You ask, your tone light and almost teasing. His face colors but he plays it off. 

“Did they help?” You nod. “Good.” 

“The honey especially. I swear, that stuff has magic in it.” 

“God, don’t say that, it will make my mum’s year.” But his smile tells that he enjoys that you’re pleased with it. 

“Thank you.” You say sincerely. “For everything. The groceries, the honey. Just coming by, even. It’s meant a lot.” Andrew listens to you with a serious look on his face, taking in your words. 

“You’re welcome. I was happy to help.” A pause that stretches from a handful of seconds to half a minute. Your eyes slide to the ground, the pause starting to feel a bit awkward.

So, this is it. He had been doing a kind gesture for a neighbor, nothing more. He didn’t secretly want to be your knight in shining armor, didn’t want to whisk you away into your apartment and make you see stars. Didn’t want anything, it seemed. Great. Yeah, no, that’s completely fine. 

“But, hey?” You glance back up at him, and his hand has a scrap of paper outstretched for you to take. “While leaving parcels and handwritten notes is charming and romantic, next time you need me, you can just text. Day or… night.” 

[handfulofhoney]

i'll get the coffee (chapter one)

ship: andrew hozier-byrne x f!reader (no use of y/n) summary: one rainy night, andrew stumbles into the coffee shop you work at. he becomes a regular.  chapter: 1/? ratings/warnings: chapter rating - T wc: 3k author's note: i am incapable of writing something without deeply developed setting and side-characters oops. also fun fact a previous tumblr url i had for ages was coffeeshopau, so this is fitting! hope to have at least a few chapters of this (the next is mostly written). title is from the song "I'll Get the Coffee" by Kathryn Gallagher! divider credit bernardsbendystraws

read on AO3 here!

Thursday 11:33PM

Working in a coffee shop that’s open until midnight was a hassle. Serving food until late, closing duties keeping you there until close to 1:00am, dealing with customers who are definitely not sober, trying to keep your energy up so as not to seem like a zombie. It was usually at minimum, a light headache, and at worst, a complete migraine. But you needed the money, the hours worked well with your grad school schedule, and you loved your coworkers. 

In addition, the shop itself, having been around for thirty-odd years and known for being a pillar in the community, has garnered your loyalty in no small measure. The interior of Wired Roots basically looked like if a record store from the 70s had been dragged into the 21st century then was handed an iced oat milk latte. Old, worn couches with bright fabrics and cartons of records and CDs were paired with state-of-the-art espresso machines and a cashless, card-only sales register. 

Wired had not initially been set up as a music store, but the founder, Waylon Briggs, had been so music-obsessed, using vinyl for decor and keeping so much of it around, that eventually customers started asking to buy the music (originally his personal collection). Since then, they’d gained a reputation for always playing the best music, having incredible finds, and sensational live shows of both undiscovered artists and even some stars. A few big names have come through, and a few names that eventually got big. Waylon had a knack for finding and inviting some amazing acts in, and the experience was something else. Someone had once suggested getting recording equipment and publishing the productions on YouTube or streaming services to increase profit margins. Waylon had vehemently disagreed, saying the real magic was experiencing it live. Not selling it for a profit. Just you, your cup of coffee, and the music. And keeping it that way for twenty years now had certainly kept the magic pure. 

But tonight, it was quiet. It was the last hour on a Thursday, rain lashing outside.  As senior shift leader, you’ve been in control of the playlist since you clocked in (though it’s pretty communal most days). You prefer to play jazz standards on a night like this, the late night rain creating the perfect backdrop. The dark city streets are shining and reflective, the rainfall pattering on the windows, and the smooth, warm jazz felt like it could transport you back decades ago when these songs were first being made. 

The sounds of Coltrane’s masterpiece, “A Love Supreme” – rich saxophone and piano – fill the air as you wipe the counter absent-mindedly. Your coworker had left a half hour earlier, having thrown up their lunch in the staff toilet (with apology). It was just you closing tonight, fine for a one-off, not great when it happens regularly. You’re mentally going through the checklist of all the things that need to be done before you can leave for the night (counters, floor, run dishwasher, check expired foods, set up for openers… the list goes on). You’re lost in thought, body swaying slightly to the familiar tune. 

With the music and the thundering rain, you don’t hear the bell on the door chime or the footsteps of the customer, your back to them. It isn’t until you hear someone clear their throat that you turn, an apology on the tip of your tongue. But the sight of Andrew Hozier-Byrne, best known by the mononym of the first half of his last name, standing in front of you, dripping wet, startles you. His dark, wet hair is plastered to his face, skin pale from the cold, looking like a hero from a period romance film about to declare something far grander than his coffee order. (And if Mr. Darcy had emerged from the lake dressed in jeans and a dark gray hoodie.)

Seeing him shouldn’t have made you stop in your tracks, shouldn’t have emptied your head so quickly. You’ve met famous musicians before. Been to intimate concerts at the shop by artists who were icons from the last five decades. You’d orchestrated the concert last summer with Lizzy McAlpine! And more importantly, you’d been drilled by Waylon more times than you could count that “musicians are people and we treat people good around here, don’t we? c’mon now get ‘em a cuppa coffee” .

“Needed to get in from the rain. Still have some coffee?” He asks with a blink. His lashes are coated with rainwater, dripping onto his cheek. It’s incredibly too mesmerizing. 

“Oh, of course. We don’t close until midnight.” You say, wiping your damp hands on your black barista apron. “What’ll it be?” It’s taking every ounce of your focus to remain calm, even-toned, and attempt something like normal. For once, you’re glad that the rote conversation is able to be done on muscle memory instead of having to think about it.

“Drip coffee, erm, dark roast. If you’ve got it. Black. Medium, please.” He shuffles on his feet, rubbing his arms as if chilled. 

“Sure thing.” You turn to the row of large coffee pots, forever grateful to the customer who asks for a simple cup of drip coffee. It always felt like a wink and a nod, an I get it, I see you moment in between long, complicated orders from people who didn’t give the person behind the counter a second thought. You’re not sure if that’s what’s behind it this time, but you get the feeling it might be. He seems the sort to recognize you’re about to close and wouldn’t want to kick up a fuss. 

Hozier, Andrew, whatever he wants to be called, had found a bin full of old, weird, niche vinyl. They were Waylon’s special babies, all misfits that no one really wanted, but he had declared were all masterpieces. 

“Hey, is this for here or to go?” You ask, raising up a ceramic mug in one hand and a paper cup in the other. He glances up, one hand still on the bin. God, his hand could cover so many records, a thought that led you to think of all the other things that large hand could hold or do. 

“Er, I guess…” He looks to the records, as if debating with himself. You can’t help but smile at the deliberation. 

“Even if you get it in a to-go cup, you can still hang around and scope out the wax.” You grin and watch as he visibly relaxes his posture and goes back to digging through the records. You go back to your task, slower than usual, distracted by his presence. Eyeing him from in between the machines, you take a few seconds to observe him. His long wet hair had been hastily pulled back, and his tall frame is bent over the cartons. His face is currently screwed into an expression of concentration. A single curl escapes and falls into his face as he leans, drawing your attention. Fucking hell.  

Attempting to refocus, you turn around to pour the cup of hot coffee (not at the level of freshness you’d prefer to hand over to him, but it’ll do). As you finish and place the lid, you notice he has a few records in his hand and is examining them. 

“Find some buried treasure?” You can’t help but ask. He looks up. 

“Oh. Well. I, um. Are these for sale?”

He’s Hozier. A millionaire many times over, world-renowned musician. He could probably afford to buy the shop itself and it wouldn’t make a dent. The humility is staggering. You nod. 

“Yeah, everything on the floor is for sale except the furniture.” The last few words are said with a lilt, a teasing tone you always take when saying the oft-repeated phrase. You cock your head and arch a brow. “First time here?” He’s looking at the records again but nods all the same. 

“I heard about it from some friends. Cool place. Music and coffee. Brings people together.” His mouth stretches into a half-smile, his expression suddenly warm, and you sense there’re layers behind what he’s said. 

“Totally.” 

“Has it been around long?” 

“Since the early 90s. Waylon didn’t mean for it to be a music store, he kind of fell into it. He’s a vinyl-head and the story goes that his wife, Patti, said he had to find somewhere to store his collection.” You smile at the tale. You can totally see it happening that way too, Patti being her usual calm but no nonsense self. 

“So he bought the store for his collection?” You see a glimmer of humor in his eyes, and a tone of almost-appreciation. 

“Exactly. The plan was to sell coffee. But when people came here, all he would do is talk about music and whatever was playing. Still will talk your ear off, has a list for each employee to listen to as homework when they first start… but I digress. Pretty soon, people wanted to buy the records. Waylon mainly hired college kids and ‘old farts’ – his words – so the staff could talk about music with the customers, give recommendations.” 

“And which are you?” He asks jokingly.

“I’m a grad student. I started coming here to study, the late night hours are perfect for that, and I loved it. Plus, I need coffee like an IV drip, so it made sense to work here.” You push the cup of coffee toward him and he reaches for his wallet. “Oh, please. If I made you pay, I would actually be strung up and maimed. It’s on us.”

It's customary for Waylon to give performers or friends (or really anyone, depending on the day) a complimentary coffee, especially since most of the sales these days were music related. You see a look of confusion pass his face.

“First off, we’re a bit off our game tonight. I feel bad for giving you coffee that’s at least six hours old. But much more importantly, we’re not just a coffee shop or music store. In the early aughts, Waylon started hosting live shows, mainly for friends and family. There’s been all kinds of people who’ve played here since.” You gesture to the stage, now empty. There’s an ancient rickety piano set up with an old stool where performers sit. “If Waylon were here, he’d be schmoozing you up, probably talking about all your music inspirations and references, how your best album is your first.” Andrew gives you an amused look. “Well, it is. His favorite, I mean.” 

The whole while you’ve been talking, giving the history of the store (you’re pretty sure you’re rambling but you can’t help yourself), Andrew has been listening with a look of curiosity on his face. About halfway through he wanders around, coffee in hand, looking at the more popular bins. He flicks through them, but looks up every now to make eye contact or nod slightly to indicate he was listening. He’s careful, though, making sure to not jeopardize the precious vinyl. As you suspected, one hand easily wraps around the cup of coffee, which he’d been cradling as if for warmth. 

“He sounds like a man with taste, clearly.” Andrew looks around, reddening slightly. “Not because of me, I mean. All of it. Making a real community institution so organically, it’s rare.” 

You nod, taking his words in. “That’s what it’s all about, honestly. It’s a special place.” You pause, then add, because when else would you be able to do this? “He loves your debut album. We all do; you’re definitely a regular staff favorite. I think we played Unreal Unearth every day the week it came out.” You crack a smile.

His eyes, somewhere between green and brown, crinkle as he smiles back at you. Then, he’s back looking through the records, looking for something. After a moment, he finds a copy of his self titled debut, his first studio album, and holds it up, almost tentatively. 

“Can I sign it? For the store.” 

You give a laugh, breathy with disbelief. Asking permission. To sign his own fucking record. It was ridiculous. It was endearing. It was, without a doubt, extremely hot. 

“Oh my fucking god? Yes?” You laugh again, a little harder, before muttering, “Christ. Everyone’s gonna want these closing shifts now.”

You toss him a Sharpie and he signs the vinyl record with a flourish, a practiced professional. He hands it to you and you can see the note:  Wired Roots: Thanks for the brew, can’t wait to come back – Hozier  

You look at it, hold it in your hands, and are simply stunned. The small gesture might not equate to much, but to you and those who work here, it does . Done with no agenda, no selfish motive, no desire beyond appreciation and likemindedness. It’s special and kind and thoughtful and everyone is going to freak and you feel, suddenly, quite overcome by the moment. 

So, instead of tucking it away to show Waylon later, you scan the walls. Near the register to the left are a few shelves that currently house Waylon’s claims as the Best Albums Of All Time: He has old copies of The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie, and Born In The U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen all lined up next to each other. They’re all first editions, and the Springsteen was particularly coveted, having been signed in 1989. Walking out from behind the counter, you reach up and push them closer together, making room for one more. Suddenly, Andrew is standing next to you, admiring the choices. 

“Some of the greats.” Andrew says casually. He’s very close, a few inches at most, and his presence almost knocks you off your feet. The smell of the rainwater mixed with day-old cologne and something else combined with the barely there heat you feel from his body makes every inch of your skin feel like it’s on fire. You inhale slowly, focusing, as you attempt to place the signed record, now utterly priceless, on the shelf. 

But you can’t quite make it. Until you feel a hand brush against yours, Andrew’s body angled toward you, close enough to touch if you aren’t careful. He’s lifting the record to the shelf with ease, nestling it in nicely. You feel your heart rocket to your throat, clogging your voice and mind. You risk a look to his face, wanting to see his expression, wanting to know if he felt the electric moment like you did. But he’s gazing at the record on the shelf, looking calm and… serene? 

It piques your curiosity, but you’re so close you don’t want to break whatever spell he’s under. Because then he’ll leave, taking his coffee, his half-smiles, and his self-effacing attitude with him. And you’ll close up the shop, go home to your cramped apartment six blocks away, fall into an unmade bed, and not be able to sleep. You’ll toss and turn, thinking of his hair and eyes and hands and smile and the way he said words that had previously been familiar to you but now sounded new .

You’d replay every single word exchanged, every posture change and gesture, overanalyze everything, over and over. Develop a crush on someone you would probably never see again. Who also happened to be a multi-millionaire, Grammy nominated musician. One part of your usually rational brain is saying don’t be an idiot don’t say anything on loop. But the other part, the part that had gotten you into trouble more than a few times, whispered dangerously, why not?

“Why are you looking at it like that?” You ask, your voice soft. Andrew doesn’t look toward you, his eyes still on the record. 

“It means something to mean something.” He says, but in a voice that indicates he’s possibly quoting someone. His voice is far from here, far from now. “I don’t always see it. It’s special to see it.” You feel your brow knitting together in confusion. 

“Aren’t you gearing up to go on tour? Doing multiple shows a week?” 

“‘Course, and it’s lovely and all. But it’s not like… this.” He turns his head just so, looking up and around at the empty coffee shop, his gaze finally settling again on the album. You think you understand, at least a little.

Personal versus public, connection versus consumption, performance versus product.

“You can come back anytime, you know.” You say the words carefully, not wanting to spook him or give the wrong impression. “We’ll always be here.” 

He nods, finally looking down and then at you, blinking. As if he didn’t realize just how close you were to him, just how heavy he was breathing. You have to tilt your head up to look at him.

“And what about you? Will you always be here?” You see it then, a shift in his eyes, a glimmer of something yet unformed but there nonetheless. Whatever it was felt fleeting, impossible to grab onto. 

“Three or four days a week.” You say, keeping your voice light to feign a nonchalance you certainly weren’t feeling. “Monday through Thursday. Sometimes a weekend if I’m picking up or swapping a shift. Not this weekend, though.” You don’t know why you say it (okay, that’s a lie, it’s because you want him to know). 

Andrew simply nods, looks like he wants to ask more or do something, edging his body just a fraction closer. But before he can manage anything, the music that’s been playing the entire night ends abruptly, pulling you both out of the moment. He pulls up his arm to check his wristwatch. 

“Midnight.” You both say it at the same time, and both smile immediately after. 

“The speakers are on a timer for midnight, when we close.” You explain, your tone beseeching, wishing you could rewind just one minute to go back to where he was looking at you like that, like he wanted to…

“I’ll get out of your hair, then.” His tone is almost apologetic, but it’s impossible to know what he could be apologizing for . 

“See you around?” You ask with a smile, attempting to set him at ease, to bring it back to where it was just a little bit ago. He glances up to the record swiftly before angling his head toward you, a smile spreading across his face.

“See you next time.”

[handfulofhoney]

👖

Please I’m begging you 🧎🏽‍♀️🖤

make me write

HERE U GO <333 part one for those interested!!

ship: andrew hozier-byrne x reader rating: E; MDNI notes: this happens directly after part one!

wait up for me

the text had been sent almost immediately after Andrew had left you, moments before he had joined Noah for their inimitable duet to the excited crowd at Railbird. you had smiled and rolled your eyes upon seeing it: of course you would wait up for him. you don’t get much time on the same continent as Andrew, much less the same hotel room. especially not when he’s on tour. you would have waited up for him regardless, even if it was just to get a good night kiss and pull his weary frame into bed. 

though, you think this text may have more do with the state he’d been in when you left him earlier. if you could take an everlasting picture of what he’d looked like coming out of that trailer and pin it up in your memories, you would. hair in a tangle from your hands running through it, face flushed and damp from exertion and excitement, eyes looking wild with adoration, and a cock bulging so intently it was hard to ignore. yet ignore you both had been forced to – at least until his obligations for the evening were through. 

but Andrew’s obligations had ended over an hour ago, and still no word. you know it usually takes time for him to disentangle himself after a show, catch ups and debriefing and last minute meetings can stretch the time from walking off the stage to having him back in your arms to much longer than it should. 

should i still wait up? x

please. should be there shortly. still need you.

the text sends a shockwave of arousal straight down your spine and curls into your abdomen.

you were right. he does need you, even after all the time and distractions that have passed since you’d made out in the trailer. heat flushes your own cheeks, thinking about him impatiently waiting to make a polite exit with only you on his mind. you’ve seen him like that before, curt nods and thank yous, eyes roaming around distractedly. usually fidgeting his hands. 

so, you stay up.

[handfulofhoney]

blue jeans, white shirt 👀

HELLO this is just pure indulgent smut inspired by The Jeans and set at the railbird festival. enjoy the snippet!!!!

ship: andrew hozier-byrne x reader rating: E / MDNI warnings: established relationship, grinding, public make out

he pauses a beat, the music swelling to a crescendo, and as if he’s read your mind, his hands go to your waist, sliding down slowly to your hips, where they linger for just a few seconds before pulling you closer to him. onto him. you hear him let out a shallow breath and feel a slow smile spread across your face. 

“is this what you wanted?” he says, his voice rougher than before. he presses a kiss to your temple, then another on your jaw. they’re slow, lazy kisses, but that doesn’t take away the heat you know is simmering. 

you don’t respond, simply take his arms and wrap them tighter around you so they’re crossing over your chest. you stay like this, pressed together, for a few songs, swaying slightly. Andrew casually kissing you, rubbing lazy circles with his thumb on your arm. 

but eventually, you want more. you’re dancing, letting your instincts take over, the music and adrenaline making your blood pound. you press your ass against him and carefully move up and down, the thrill of feeling him already hard coursing through you. you feel his fingers grip tighter on your hips, but not too tight. just tight enough. he’s pulling you closer and closer, as if by sheer force of will he can make the fabric between you both disappear. 

you continue the movement, guided by the beat of the music, and Andrew keeps his hands and arms tightly around you. you even squeeze together your ass, feeling his hard on straining against you, pushing in closer. you know what he’s thinking about and your mouth waters. every now and then, you hear a whisper, a soft baby and then a not so soft fuck. 

when you put even more pressure on him with your ass, his mouth is suddenly pressing into your jaw again, this time his tongue tracing down onto your neck, sending shivers down your spine despite the warm air. you feel arousal pooling in your abdomen, tight and urgent.

you turn your head look at him, and tell him with your eyes what your words can’t convey. how much you want him. how much you need him, in that moment. you swallow, hard. you can see the dilemma in his expression: tend to you and help you feel good, or stay put. he glances up to the stage, then shakes his head. “fuck it.”

[handfulofhoney]

Hi! Could you possibly do 19 if you can? 🖤

this is maybe cheating a little bit, but instead of a drabble i'm sharing a snippet from a current wip! it's very similar to this, and i thought it would be fun to show!!

prompt: #19 – One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss. ship: andrew hozier-byrne x oc!julie macneal rating: M; MDNI warnings/tags: holiday fluff, mistletoe kiss notes: this is a part of the christmas fic i've been working on! read the previous snippet for more context. this happens at the 2014 christmas party! 🎄 divider credit to saradika!

“Then what do you want, Andrew?”

He looks up at her, the glass in his hand suddenly still. His eyes bore into her, and it seems like he’s considering a hundred different wants in the few seconds that pass by in silence. 

“I want to be me. I want to spend time with the people I care about, I want to make art, I want to do something that matters. I want to live in my hometown, and I want to be able to do the things I’ve always done. I want to go to the pub and get a pint with my mates. I want to celebrate Christmas with my family. I want…” His tone suddenly shifts from pensive to something more… cautious. “I want to kiss a pretty girl under the mistletoe.” Andrew’s eyes dart just above where Julie’s standing, then slide down to her again. 

Julie feels herself pale, feels the blood rush from her cheeks at the last word he says. She looks up, and realizes in that instant that she’s standing under the mistletoe he’d hung earlier. As if by fate, she’s here now, with him. 

She could step away. She could run, even. She could say something to put him off, explain he’s got the wrong idea.

But she doesn’t want to do any of that. She wants to say yes. 

Julie looks up to the mistletoe again, and swallows thickly, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. “Well. Looks like you might get what you want.” Andrew slowly stands up and closes the distance between them. His eyes don’t leave her, assessing at every moment if her body language is going to express something other than willingness. 

Andrew’s right in front of her now, filling her senses with intensity. His size means he encompasses her entire field of vision, all unfettered length and shoulders that haven’t quite been filled out yet. And his scent, the combination of fresh pine and peaty whiskey after a long day, makes her gulp for air like she’s drowning.  Andrew stretches out an arm and puts one hand on the wall next to her, palm flat. He presses himself an inch or two closer, knocking her even more flat against the wall. 

“Do you want this, Julie? Do you want me to kiss you?” The question isn’t subtle, but something about it – the asking, the directness, the knowing she’s in control – pools arousal in her like never before. Andrew won’t simply take it because of convention, or because he can. 

He wants to know she wants it. Wants him. 

Julie doesn’t trust her own voice, but rather tells him with a nod. She’s biting her lip, worry and anxiety threatening to take her out of the moment. 

But when he leans in close and brushes his lips against hers, all that falls away. 

Eyes closed, Andrew is kissing her under the Christmas mistletoe, tasting like a mixture of beer and Christmas cookies. And nothing has ever been sweeter. 

[handfulofhoney]

📱

I’m very intrigued by this one!

make me write

hello, thank you :) here's another piece from this fic if you're curious!

ship: andrew hozier-byrne x OC (birdie) - rating: E / MDNI (this snippet isn't explicit though!) warnings: is sex work a warning? if you're not cool with that don't read! note: key context - he originally found her as a content creator on youtube for video game streams and other PG things, then discovered her OF!!

Andrew spends the next couple days falling back into his routines, each day full of rehearsals, meetings, travel, and shows. The routine is comfortable, and when you work with the best in the business (he is, perhaps, a bit biased) the work flows smoothly. But even a day that runs as smooth as butter still leaves him exhausted and mentally spent as he collapses into bed at the end of it. 

It’s been two weeks since Andrew subscribed to Birdie on OnlyFans, and right now he’s tucked into bed, staring at the ceiling. Again. (Another routine, it seems.)

Andrew could reach out to a bandmate. Could text Alex to see if he’s up for continuing their nostalgic Dragonball Z binge. He could even text someone back home, despite the seven hour time difference. Could text his brother, see how he’s doing. 

As he mulls over the options, nothing quite sticks. His phone is heavy in his hand, as if reminding him of the untapped (literal and metaphorical) resource at his disposal. Ever since subscribing, Andrew has been considering all the ways he could strike up a conversation with Birdie, but none quite fit. If she were a girl he’d met in real life, it wouldn’t be an issue. A total non-starter. They could talk about his music, touring, life in Ireland. And he could ask about her job and interests, subtly hint at her relationship status. Easy as pie. 

But he hadn’t met her in real life, he’d found her online. And his message wouldn’t be flirty banter in a bar, it would be a customer reaching out to her for services. 

But did it have to feel that way? 

He types out a message, then deletes it. Writes another, then scraps it again. Wracking his brain, Andrew thinks about the different ways to approach it. Doesn’t want to be overtly sexual right out of the gate. Doesn’t want come off as stiff or boring either. If they were sitting across the table from one another, drinks in hand, what would he say? 

Deciding to go with his gut, Andrew types out a message and hits send before he can think twice about it. 

Hi Birdie, it’s Andy. Hope you’re having a lovely day. Question I’ve been wanting to ask. If you could live inside any video game, what would it be? I’m curious to know.

[handfulofhoney]

🌼🌼🌼

make me write

thank you, anon!!! this isn't something i wrote just now, but it's from the same chapter as the first two snippets (1 & 2)!!

ship: andrew hozier-byrne x reader rating: M warnings: angst, parental death (past; reader's), suggestive themes

Andrew must sense a storm brewing because he lifts his hands up in surrender and turns to flatten himself against the wall. You start to move past him and do everything you can not to notice the sensations that invade you as you do so. He’s so damn tall, towering over you, and his scent is pooling uninvited into your nose like a lit candle. It was warm and new, notes of tobacco and whiskey and something else. Not new, maybe, but certainly not familiar. What it was was distracting. 

You realize a second too late that you’d slowed down as you passed, and are now standing in the small hallway outside your bedroom, made detrimentally more cramped by the large man next to you. A few seconds pass, agonizingly slow, as you look at him once more. 

This much closer, you can see every detail. His beard half-grown in. The lines near his eyes. You feel the uncanny valley of familiar and unfamiliar pull at you as the realization of what’s confounding you hits you in the stomach – Andrew is a man now, handsome and grown, well into his thirties.

The second thought – hot on the heels of the first, not letting you dissect it – is that he grew up without you. It stings, somehow hot and cold at the same time, as if someone was pushing ice against your back. His eyes are searching your face, but his expression is like stone: unmovable and unreadable. 

“Okay?” He says, his voice softer than you were expecting it to be. Of course, you were centimeters away at this point. You nod your head, once, then twice. And a third time. 

“Y-yeah. It’s just. A lot.” You stammer out. He looks like he wants to say something, wants to perhaps–

“Kids?” Your dad appears at the top of the stairs, his expression warm and a bit amused. “Hi, Andy. Good to see you made it. Are you ready, sweetheart?” Your dad looks at you expectantly. You quickly make your exit out of the hallway and down the stairs, unsure if you’re grateful or exasperated that your dad had interrupted you.