could i request a little blurb of ozzy’s reaction to male reader getting jumped/getting into a fight with the kooks? love your writing and ozzy as a character sm 🫶 ty ty!
Ozzy didn’t hear it from you first. That’s what made it worse.
He heard it from JJ. Or maybe Kiara. It was a blur—just a passing mention, like it was supposed to be no big deal: “Yeah, they jumped him. Fuckin’ Kooks. Think he cracked one of their noses, though.”
Ozzy went quiet. Too quiet. And then he was gone. No one even had time to stop him.
You were still icing your jaw when the door slammed open and there he was, flushed and pissed, breathing like he’d sprinted from the Cut. His eyes flicked over you in a split second—your split lip, the bruised cheekbone, the torn hem of your shirt—and something in him snapped.
“What the fuck, man?” he breathed out, voice harsh and low. “You didn’t even tell me?”
You sat up straighter, wincing. “Oz, I was gonna—”
“Yeah? When? After they finished the job next time?”
He looked like he was two seconds from going insane—or maybe going back out to find the guys who did it. And honestly? He might’ve. You’d seen Ozzy angry before, but not like this. Not the kind of angry that came from fear. From helplessness.
You reached for his wrist. “Oz.” He flinched when you touched him, but he didn’t pull away. His hand dropped, letting you guide him closer. “I handled it,” you said, softer now. “It wasn’t as bad as it looks.”
His jaw clenched. “It looks fucking bad.”
“I got a few good hits in. One of them's probably gonna be sipping through a straw for a week.” That finally pulled a sound out of him—something between a bitter laugh and a groan. His eyes flicked to yours again, and all the heat behind them cracked.
Ozzy wasn’t mad at you. He was mad the world was still like this. Mad that he hadn’t been there. Mad that you got hurt at all.
“You gotta let me know,” he said, quieter this time. “You don’t get to go through shit like that without me.”
You tugged on his sleeve. “Sit down?”
He sat beside you, restless and twitchy, legs bouncing. You leaned against him slowly, testing the bruise along your side, and his hand settled on your knee like an anchor.
“I’m okay,” you said. He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned in and kissed your temple—quick, firm, almost angry in how tender it was.
“I swear,” Ozzy muttered, voice shaking now, “next time they even look at you wrong, I’ll end ‘em.”
You smiled a little. “Yeah?”
He pulled you in closer. “Yeah. You don’t mess with mine.”
And that was it. You knew the fire in him was real—but so was the way he held you after, gently, like he was afraid even breathing too hard might make you hurt worse.
You were his, and he’d burn the world down for you.
