Masterlist | My Indelible Friend Masterlist | I write about you and bog man (Hozier x reader). Requests are always open!!!!! | Archive window.dataLayer = window.dataLayer || []; function gtag(){dataLayer.push(arguments);} gtag('js', new Date()); gtag('config', 'UA-174556716-1');
may I please ask for a headcanon where Andrew falls for a girl who doens't like technology that much (doesn't have social media, prefer paper books instead of digitals,and didn't know who he was in the first place) it's just a cute concept that I think it'd be nice : )
soooo I basically read this and heard bookshop meet-cute in my head and wrote nothing related to this request. but here it is, kind of, I guess?
There was an old bookshop in Dublin, gloriously disorganised with tables cluttered to the brim with second-hand books. The newer books, those with uncracked spines and fewer fingerprint smudges all over their well-thumbed pages, were actually organised by genre but that was where the organisation ended. There were even books on the floor, underneath tables, at the bottom of the bookcases.
Plants, both fake and real, trailed all over the place, high up on shelves above the bookcases, across the windowsills. Painted in dark colours that should’ve looked foreboding, but instead were softened by the golden glow of lights dotted around the high ceilings and smaller ones on the bookcases themselves. It looked cosy rather than claustrophobic.
There was a long desk, also piled high with books, where a modern till threw the aesthetic but it was recaptured by the young lad behind the till, long hair piled on top of his head, wearing a holey jumper and glasses perched upon his nose.
Andrew was glad he’d dipped into this bookshop to escape the sudden, thundery burst of summer rain.
He shuffled further into the store, looking around at his leisure, running fingers through his damp hair. He’d just picked up his third poetry book when the smell of cake and coffee wound around his nose. He looked right to see a thin, rickety staircase, next to a lift with full bookshelves painted on the doors.
The smell was so gorgeous Andrew took the stairs two at a time, to open up to a medium sized room, interspersed with a wooden tables and chairs. On the left side, a counter painted the same darks as downstairs, covered in cakes and with an ancient looking coffee machine behind it. A retro kettle stood beside it and a whole wreath of mismatched mugs. Not even artfully mismatched, some were huge with funny slogans, some were kitsch and twee and some were so old the pattern had faded. On the right-hand side, was a large fireplace with some performative logs in the hearth and a huge vintage mirror leaning against the wall on the mantlepiece. The windows covering the whole of the far wall had stained glass at the top, turning the light hitting the summer rain against the window a kaleidoscope. Someone had taken over two tables under the window seat, piles of paper surrounding it, kept in place by sugar pots. It felt like he’d just walked into their living room.
Andrew walked over to the counter and blinked when a woman appeared wearing something similar to the bloke downstairs. She gave a dreamy smile, got him his preferred cake, and allowed him to pay for his three poetry books there.
As he sat down, he looked around, hunting down sugar, only to see them all on the tables covered in paper. Paralysed by social indecision, it took a minute for Andrew to get up, walk over and hover until noticed.
“Oscar Wilde.” He said.
“Excuse me?” She peered up at him, blinking rapidly. She shook her head, as if to get rid of cobwebs, and offered a smile.
“Um that’s the answer to what… um… links those three streets.” He blushed all the way to the top of his ears as she peered up at him very intensely. With an excited noise, she looked down and scribbled on another piece of paper. The beam she sent his way is much warmer than the wary smile from before.
“Thank you! My phone, it’s broken, not that I use it much anyway, I’m no good at tech, but I can’t search these things. I thought the maps here might be helpful.” She waved her arms around to indicate the masses of papers. Andrew thought it might be frustration, but the ease of her shoulders said otherwise, “love a good paper trail though.”
She turned her attention to the next question. It looked like a treasure or a scavenger hunt of some kind.
It took a minute more of hovering for her to look up again, doing that same dumbfounded blinking.
“Would you like to join in?” She cocked her head to the side, reminding him of his dog so much Andrew felt a rush of fondness.
“Oh! I just wanted sugar for my coffee. May I?”
“Of course! Oh god sorry, no one was here when I took them all. Please, take one.”
Andrew was sure he imagined the look of disappointment but didn’t stop himself, as his fingers curled around the sugar pot, asking, “what are you doing?”
She launched into an explanation of the complicated Dublin treasure hunt game she was playing. It was meant to be a paired exercise, but her friend had dropped out, unable to take the full week of dedication required to be in with a shot for the prize. It was several hundred euros worth of Dublin experiences, like cocktail classes in the Jameson distillery, raising money with the entry fees for a housing charity. By the end of the explanation, Andrew had moved his coffee, cakes and books over and was pouring over the clues and maps with her.
“Right! Next one, ‘alums of these hallowed halls include the previous answer, Bram Stoker, Hozier and ex-Taoiseach Leo Varadker’. Who the hell is Hozier?” She whispered underneath her breath, but Andrew caught it and completely froze.
What did he do here? In Ireland, people had such a great disrespect for fame that they were more likely to roll their eyes at him than fawn, so he never really expected it. However, he’d never been in a situation where someone, not only didn’t know who he was, but also asked him who he was.
“You know,” he tried for levity; it would feel too much like a lie by omission not to mention it, especially as it was a requirement now, “I ask myself that every day.” Who the hell is Hozier?
The woman looked at him with narrowed eyes again. Andrew could see her wondering what on earth she was missing.
“Oh, um,” he slowly extended his hand as he realised, they hadn’t actually introduced themselves yet, “I am Hozier. Well, I’m Andrew but also Hozier. Also, this is wrong. I um dropped out. I’m not technically an alum.”
“Like Prince? Like, one word singer? Or one word actor?”
“Singer.”
“Oh,” Andrew could see her mentally turning over the information in her head before shrugging it off, “cool. What’s the answer, then?”
To be so dismissed wasn’t offensive. It was just a quiet acceptance that made a smile slowly spread across his face.
The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to solve all of the clues together. There were so many and not once did she cheat by pulling out her phone. All clues to be solved by Instagram picture clues were done on his phone as she had absolutely zero social media presence.
In fact, the only time she pulled out her phone was to give over her phone number for WhatsApp, having caved to peer pressure with the promise of free texts, and take his number in return. A texted promise of meeting the next day to drive around Dublin, playing detectives, solving the rest of the clues.
Hi there! I remember reading a fic about Andrew's interview with Tommy Tiernan and his partner was mad that he sang when he was sick. I can't seem to find it anywhere, any thoughts? Thanks!
I thought I had that one in my likes but I cannae find it, but I remember it.
Another one to throw to the public - anyone write or know who wrote this?
I love randomly remembering that your writing exists cause I can just spend a whole bunch of time rereading it ten times over again cause it's that amazing
Oh thank you! This is very sweet! Hope you're doing well! 💙💙💙
so i apologize deeply for the fact that this is a day late, but hopefully it can still mean something. i literally wrote it this afternoon and it is unedited, so sorry about that.
Enjoy +-800 words of fluff about Sam and Andrew being lowkey about Valentine’s day!
guys. guyyyyyys. that ‘latest tweet’ is from October omg i’m so so so sorry. please love me still? (I’ve also combined the two if that’s okay?)
calling this one we deserve a soft epilogue in honour of that poem and the line. because that’s what we’re all deserving of in this world right now too.
Today was an off day. Andrew knew it as soon as he woke up. His head was clouded, and his heart was numb. These days were getting less frequent; they’d been so many when you’d left. It had been three months and they were slowly dissipating. To the relief of all of his family of course, prone to melancholy introspection as he could be.
Still, today was going to be an off day again, so he laid in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Not really thinking of anything. Just existing numbly in the space. Vaguely wishing he could feel more.
Andrew turned on his side with a groan, reaching an arm across the empty bed to grab his phone. He’d taken to sleeping in the middle of the bed, so the space hadn’t felt so large sleeping alone. It was only ten in the morning. He sighed and rolled back onto his back.
It took a few more moments but he eventually dragged himself from the bed. It was a promise he’d made to himself, his friends and his family. On off days, where everything felt harder to do, he promised he would at least get out of bed. He’d shower, he’d change, and he’d eat breakfast. Then, the day was his to while away the day as he pleased.
This is how he knew he was getting a little better. Today, he would go to the beach instead of staying inside, wandering the house like a ghost.
A/N: This angsty fic is brought to you by a party of one by brandi carlile induced breakdown. buckle up and i hope you enjoy the read! (wc: 3.3k)
ao3
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The car cruised along a quiet road. The sky was tinted a featureless dark blue as night enveloped the grey skies of the day. It was a silent car ride home from the grocery store, a trip that neither of them wanted to take, but takeout could only sustain them for so long.
Andrew stared blankly at the winding tarmac road ahead of them, one hand on the steering wheel and the other kept on his lap. She opted to look out of the window at the blur of trees and houses whizzing by. Silences like these were thick, impermeable. Saying anything would feel like a strange interjection and it had already taken enough energy out of her seeing him follow her begrudgingly on this grocery trip.
