#or wasteland (baby)

[hoziercriespower]

Hozier's interview for parademag at Lollapalooza

❝ Is there anyone you're looking forward to seeing? Are you going to watch any performance this year? ❞

[die-o]

It took me millions of years to finish, but they took millions of years to get here, so I think I'm justified. also i did just finish 113 and i need to say, on a related note and in light of that episode, hey Robbie?? is this your play EVERY new character? congrats honestly

[theartofangirling]

[teenagemutantninjafangirl]

hozier did not write the entire wasteland baby album to be called the too sweet guy.

[your-starless-eyes-remain]

forever haunted by hozier's face when he sings "put me back in it" (and by haunted i mean i'm clawing my eyes out)

[deadgirlwalked]

Happy 10 year anniversary to "Hozier" By Hozier!!!

[fawnforevergone]

crazy how hozier compared the fact he couldn't tell his relationship was failing because he was too blinded by love to the idea that icarus could not tell he was dying because he was too enamoured by the sun and we were supposed to just carry on living like everything's normal.

[justgivemeabookplease]

[man-i-love-folklore]

shoutout to whoever made this sign at the concert last night because i am laughing my ass off right now (and also ur right)

[hoziercriespower]

Happy 34th birthday Hozier.

born 17th March 1990 on St. Patrick's day.

[effervescent-fool]

digital painting; tracked time: 5h 57m

[notmysophie]

So I made a Hozier reading list...

This is what I have so far.

For some books I'm still missing sources, and I know it's not complete or ✨️Aesthetic✨️. But if there is anything that you think should be on there, let me know.

[gwendoodlin]

The many faces of Andrew Hozier-Byrne! Drew these from his interview with Lewis Howes which was so lovely! Also if you haven’t listened to Wasteland, Baby! Extended, go do it 🫵

[faerycross]

someone said "hozier doesn't write about love, he writes about devotion" and i haven't slept peacefully since

[dvchvnde]

EXCERPT: JOHN PRICE, WINTER SOLDIER AU.

You're still getting used to the sight of him—bare faced in patches: the beard shorn off into a mere shadow of what it was before; a choice he'd made for himself after scrubbing down in a long shower, refusing any help or medical aid—and he doesn't make it any easier for you in these brief, uncomfortable stages of acclimation you suffer through.

Hands lashing out into dead air. Fingers catching, unyielding and firm, on your skin. Nails—split and jagged; regrown in patches after being ripped off over and over again (for hree years, is the mocking whisper snaking along the nausea when you look at the pinked-tinged beds)—burrowing into your flesh. Anchoring you in place as he bends down, moulds his frame around you. Malleable shadow eating you whole.

Indomitable.

John Price was always an intimidating man.

Towering. Broad. Gruff. Surly. Mean old man was often thrown around amongst the new recruits, ones too scared to voice what they really thought:

Miserable fucking bastard.

His weight thrown around like an extension of himself—all raw, barely contained anger trembling out through the cracks. Lashing thick, brutal lines across his forehead. In the sharp, downward tug of his mouth tucked behind a bed of brunt umbre hair.

He was difficult to deal with on a good day, even when he'd offer that mocking smile of his. A parody of geniality—lips split upwards like a crocodiles maw.

(come, come, put your hand inside this beasts jaws; he won't bite—)

As fucking if.

You've only known him in pieces. Patches. Barely enough to make a whole picture, but you could still fill in the empty spaces with that grizzled anger of his that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

(no wonder he burns so hot—it's all that fury.)

Mostly, he'd come to dress you down in front of everyone watching. Snapping at the sight of your desk—organised chaos a true oxymoron (and for the most part, that seemed to be what he thought of you: a moron)—and how you handled files, and how you waltzed around like you owned the place—

and do you, sweetheart? do you own this place, mm? is that why you never listen to a goddamn thing i tell you?

All-in-all: a miserable fucking man.

And one made of sharp, brutal contradictions. Paradoxes layered over each other. Sealed with fury—of the righteous, pragmatic kind—and reinforced with an utilitarian core. Forlorn hope in the distinct shape of a man, one always readying himself for a pyrrhic victory (but a victory, nevertheless).

Easy, in hindsight, to deal with when you knew how to navigate the frothing gyre of anger and juxtapositions that made up the man who brute force, physicality, to get what he wanted.

By sharp contrast, the version of him who stands before is more enigmatic than the mangled mess of savagery and labyrinthine defenses. Almost unknowable. Unfathomable.

Even more so when he lifts his hand—scarred up, still blistered and bruised from fighting his way through fire and kin to get to you—and presses those mangled knuckles to the swell of your cheek, as tender as a man like him could ever allow himself to be, and runs a soft, shallow line down the side of your face. Eyes—still that same, dizzying blue—darken into liquid sapphire as he stares at you. Inexplicably soft. Lids crested. Half-mast in pleasure as if staring at your face was relaxing. Comforting.

Something swirls in those deep, endless lagoons. Some implacable emotion—all at once too much; too heavy—frissoning over his feature. A paroxysm. You can't catch it. Can't define it.

It's unquantifiable. Unknowable. And yet—

You know, instantly, that John Price would never look at you with something this archaic, this intense, brimming up like geysers in the endless spill of blue that can't seem to look away from you.

This man is not John Price.

But when he pulls you into a kiss—one softer and sweeter than you'd ever imagined the infamous captain could ever be capable of—you let him.

In fact, you kiss back.

And you'd really rather not think about what that says about you.

[izel-scribbles]

cool caption (closeup under the cut)

My mother said she’d get me new markers if i made her a hozier poster with the old ones. So. Here we are. About 3 1/2 hours total