indie | semi-selective | oc from the outer banks universe.
moodboard ✹ carrd ✹ playlist
❝ you don’t have to fix everything.
but if it’s broken, i’m not walking away. ❞
— ozzy
NAME: Dawson “Ozzy” Andrew.
AGE: 21.
PRONOUNS: he/him.
D.O.B: October 5th (Libra).
ORIGIN: The Cut, Outer Banks.
OCCUPATION: boat mechanic | salvage diver | treasure hunter.
SPEAKS: English + fluent Spanish.
STATUS: single, pansexual (men leaning).
ABOUT:
Ozzy Andrew grew up on salt water and second chances. Son of a dead mechanic, named Wade Andrew and an overdose ghost mother, Elise Pierce, he’s been surviving on instinct since he was thirteen. Ambidextrous, emotionally constipated, and more loyal than smart — he’s a quiet, knife-carrying Pogue with scars on his hands and too many secrets behind his eyes.
He lives in a half-collapsed shack near the marsh and works under-the-table jobs fixing engines, salvaging junk, and occasionally helping the Pogues not get arrested. He plays the harmonica when he thinks no one’s listening, collects broken compasses, and still wears his mother’s ring around his neck.
He’s closest to JJ Maybank (childhood best friend, disaster soulmate), tolerates John B and Pope, has a complicated rivalry with Kiara, and a long-standing, unsaid something enemy vibes with Sarah — but with them, he feels like family.
Everyone call him Ozzy (earned from "Osiris," an inside joke about his resurrection-level luck).
VIBES:
☼ wet hair and bruised knuckles
☼ cassette tapes and thunder in the distance
☼ hammock sleepovers and unspoken feelings
☼ gold coins, ghost maps, and pirate stories
☼ “i’d kill for you” energy but mumbled under his breath
WANTED CONNECTIONS:
✹ pogues who trust him / used to not trust him (jj / pope)
✹ someone who finds his dad’s old map and lies about it (sarah)
✹ a kook he shouldn’t be kissing (topper)
✹ someone who sees through the whole tough act (kiara)
✹ partners in petty crime (jj)
✹ soft late-night fluff, shared blankets, emotional tension (sarah)
✹ someone he’d tell what happened the night wade left (john b)
fairy-coded | frost herself | oc inspired by marvel's red room.
moodboard ♡ carrd ♡ playlist
❝ i used to think the cold was punishment.
now i wear it like a crown. ❞
— mishra
🎧 mishra igorovna morozova, or just mish, sometimes mishy — 24, she/they, pansexual, enfj-t, sagittarius. born under a december sky in sayanogorsk, russia ❄️ now living quietly somewhere warmer.
HER ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
﹅ 5'1" (154cm)
﹅ long wavy ginger hair (dyed; she used to be blonde)
﹅ light blue, doe eyes / button nose / pouty mouth
﹅ freckles, curves, a soft belly she’s learning to love
﹅ frostbite scars on her fingertips + legs
﹅ tongue, bellybutton, and ear piercings
﹅ one tattoo on her lower back
🧸 personality — shy, patient, endlessly kind. she listens more than she speaks, always ready to help, always trying to understand. a little naive, a little too trusting, but there’s brilliance in her softness. she laughs easily. she cries easily. she is trying. smarter than what anyone thinks.
BACKSTORY ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 💔 ꒱ ˎˊ˗
a child of frost and silence: born into a house of forced love and hidden violence. her mother sent her into the cold during fights, said her father was cruel; years later mishra learned it was the other way around. sent away in america at six to live with her aunt and at ten, she was taken back to russia and discovered the truth — the bruises, the hunger, the endless dance lessons until her feet bled. frostbite on her skin, loneliness in her bones. she ran away at nineteen, hiding in america. reunited with millie, her childhood friend, she began to heal — piece by piece, petal by petal. she still struggles with food, still startles at loud noises, still wears her trauma gently; like lace.
but she’s alive. she’s warm now. she crochets pink thread into blankets and that's progress.
AESTHETIC ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🩰 ꒱ ˎˊ˗
soft pink knitwear, morning light through sheer curtains, old ballet shoes, freckles, tearful laughter, crochet flowers, royal & the serpent lyrics, quiet cafés, rabbit plushies, glitter tears.
“she’s learning that softness doesn’t mean weakness.”
Ozzy’s the kind of guy who takes his time—especially when it’s late, quiet, and the world feels far away. He’s not rough, not when it counts. Not when he finally has you stretched out on the creaky mattress in his shack, salt air drifting in through the open window, the bonfire still flickering faint outside.
You’re already soft under his hands, breathing slower now, sunk halfway into his sheets and halfway into him. And he’s just… looking. Taking you in like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real. His fingers trail up your thigh lazily, the tips calloused but his touch featherlight.
Then he leans down. Doesn’t say anything. Just rests his mouth between your legs, over the thin cotton of your underwear—warm breath, gentle lips, nothing rushed. He kisses you like that, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing the shape of you through fabric.
Like he’s not in a hurry to get past the barrier. He’s content right there. Pressing soft, careful kisses into the damp spot growing beneath his mouth.
“You’re so fuckin’ sweet like this,” he murmurs, voice low and frayed. He palms your hips to hold you steady, rubbing slow circles with his thumb against your skin, just above the edge of the fabric. “So good for me.”
His nose brushes your clothed clit with every kiss, his lips dragging gently across it, and your body jolts under him—he smiles at that. Not smug. Just fond. Like he loves the way you react to him, the way you arch for just a little more.
“Can feel how much you want it already,” he says, soft, like a secret. “Not even touchin’ you yet, and you’re already so worked up.” It’s not teasing.
And he keeps going like that—mouth hot, open, reverent through the fabric—until your hips start to rock up against him and your fingers tangle in his hair. Only then does he look up at you, pupils blown wide, voice rough with restraint.
“You want me to take ’em off, or do you like it like this?”
Because Ozzy? He’s not in a rush to fuck you. He wants to ruin you slow. With his mouth, his voice, and the gentlest praise you’ve ever heard breathed against your soaked underwear.
ooh okayy, I’d love to see ozzy with a male reader if that’s okay? :) maybe a male reader who’s like the exact opposite of ozzy. How they’d connect and stuff? no pressure !!
🦈🥥🪼
Ozzy is quiet.
You're… not.
Where Ozzy lingers in shadows, you light up every room you step into. Loud laugh, messy hair, hands that never stay still. You speak before you think, flirt before you plan, and throw yourself at life like it owes you something. People notice you; you're the boy of Outer Banks. You like that.
Ozzy notices you, too. But not for the reasons you think.
It starts slow — because it has to. You probably flirt with him as a joke at first. Just a little teasing thing at a bonfire, like, “Careful staring at me like that, Andrew. Might think you like me.” And Ozzy just blinks, lips twitching slightly, and murmurs, “Maybe I do.”
You don’t know what to do with that. Because you’re used to people chasing you — not standing still and waiting for you to make the next move.
But something about him keeps you circling back. Maybe it’s the way he listens, how he doesn’t fill every silence with noise. Maybe it’s the way he remembers things — exact details, like your favorite song or how you hate the feeling of sand in your shoes. Or maybe it’s the way he softens around you, like you're the one place where he doesn’t have to be so on guard.
You talk a mile a minute, and Ozzy doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you with this little half-smile, like he’s trying to memorize the way your mouth moves. He won’t say much — but when he does? It lands. Quiet compliments that make your chest ache. Hands on your face like you're something delicate. A kiss you didn’t see coming, pressed to your mouth mid-sentence; because you never expected him to like boys too.
You make Ozzy laugh more. That rough, rare laugh that he usually keeps hidden like a secret.
He makes you slow down — enough to actually feel things.
Your energy gets under his skin in the best way. You're chaos; he's calm. You're fire; he’s still water. And somehow, it works.
He’ll lie in your lap when you can’t sit still. Let you talk his ear off while he draws lazy circles on your thigh. He’ll kiss you when you’re mid-rant, just to shut you up — not mean, just fond. When you get worked up, Ozzy grounds you. When he gets in his head, you drag him back out — loud, alive, and stubborn in the way only you can be.
You’d think someone like you would overwhelm someone like him. But Ozzy?
He just grins, tugs you close, and says, “You wear me out, but fuck… I like it.”
What about Ozzy with fingers in his mouth and male reader... hehehe :3
🦈🥥🪼
Ozzy always acts like he doesn’t need much. Quiet moans. Gentle touches. Just enough.
But the second you press your fingers against his bottom lip and tell him, “Open,” he looks up like he’s starving.
He parts his lips slowly — bashful, almost. You watch the way his lashes flutter, how his breath catches like the moment before a prayer. And when you slide two fingers into his mouth, he lets them in without protest. His lips seal around them, warm and wet, and his tongue moves slow — so goddamn careful — like he wants to savor every part of you.
He looks beautiful like this. All flushed cheeks and heavy eyes, thighs shifting like he doesn’t know what to do with the ache between his legs. You press your palm against his hard cock through his boxers and he whines — around your fingers, desperate and barely holding it together.
“That feel good?” you murmur, thumb brushing over his flushed cheekbone.
He nods. Sucks harder. His tongue swirls like he’s trying to impress you — like he needs to. And maybe he does. Ozzy likes being seen. He likes being yours.
You curl your fingers just enough to hook the corner of his mouth. He groans deep in his throat, hips bucking into your hand, and you swear his whole body goes warm with it. He doesn’t even flinch when you pull your fingers out with a soft pop and bring them lower, trailing them down his chest, tracing the line of his stomach. His breath stutters. His legs fall open.
“You want it?”
Ozzy nods. Desperate. Aching.
But he waits. Doesn’t move until you tell him to. His cock is twitching beneath your hand, already leaking, his pretty mouth swollen and glistening.
You don’t tease him this time. Not when he looks that wrecked from just a kiss on your fingers. You jerk him off slow, using the same fingers he just sucked clean, and he keens for it — back arching, fists twisting in the sheets, whispering your name like a vow.
And when he comes — biting your shoulder, voice cracking, fingers digging into your skin — it’s with that same overwhelmed look in his eyes. You kiss him soft after. Thumb across his lip. His mouth still wet from you. “You’re so good for me,” you whisper. And Ozzy — flushed, fucked-out, breathing hard — just smiles.
“I’d let you do anything,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. And you believe him. Because when it comes to you, Ozzy doesn’t hold back.
Not when he’s got your fingers in his mouth. Not when he’s shaking beneath your hands. Not when he’s yours.
you mention a lot how ozzy likes things slow and lazy, what would he be like with a hyperactive reader?
🦈🥥🪼
Ozzy never tells them to slow down.
Not once.
Even when they are is practically buzzing with energy — talking a mile a minute, tugging his sleeve to drag him somewhere, pointing out seashells and gulls and cloud shapes — he doesn’t shut it down. He just watches with that quiet little half-smile, like he’s letting their joy settle somewhere in his ribs.
He’s calm, sure. But he’s never cold. And with them, he tries.
If they want to run across the beach barefoot, he’ll jog behind, boots kicking up sand, grumbling about it the whole time — but when they turn to look at him, he’s laughing.
If they want to swim even though the water’s freezing, he’ll curse under his breath, peel his shirt off, and wade in chest-deep just to be near them.
If they’re talking circles around themselves, jumping from story to story without breathing, Ozzy listens. Always listens. Nods when they pause. Offers a soft, “Wait—go back to the part with the raccoon,” just to let them know he’s paying attention.
He doesn’t match their speed — not exactly. But he finds his own rhythm inside theirs, patient and grounding. He’ll steady their ankle under the dinner table when they bounce it too hard. He’ll brush their hair out of their face when they talk too fast and forget it’s sticking to their mouth.
He’ll say, “You’re doin’ that thing with your hands again, baby,” and wrap his own fingers around theirs, gently stilling them without ever asking them to stop being who they are. Sometimes, he just pulls them into his lap when they’re vibrating too hard for the world to hold.
“Breathe,” he whispers into their neck. “You don’t gotta move to mean something.”
And when they do finally burn out — when they crash hard and fast like they always do — Ozzy’s there, already stretched out with a blanket and his hoodie open. Arms wide. No questions.
“C’mere,” he says, soft and gravelly. “Let me be the still for a minute.”
Because Ozzy’s not afraid of fast. He just wants to be the place they land when they’re done outrunning the tide.
Ozzy isn’t the type to rush into anything, but once he’s got you beneath him — lazy kisses, your body bare and lit by whatever sliver of moonlight leaks into the room — he gets hungry. Not fast. Not messy. But slow, deliberate, and deeply focused. He wants to watch every reaction he pulls from you.
Wants to see what you’ll do when he takes his time — and when he puts his fingers in your mouth? That’s when it starts to really show.
It always begins the same: his hand on your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your lips. He’s half on top of you, looking down like he’s trying to read a secret written across your face. Then, without saying a word, he slips two fingers into your mouth — slow, almost teasing — and watches as your lips part to take them in.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, eyes dark. “Just like that.”
He loves how shy you get. Loves how your breath hitches when his fingers press against your tongue, how your mouth works around him — soft and obedient, like you’re offering him every part of yourself. He’ll press a little deeper, eyes never leaving yours, then pull back just enough to drag your spit down your chin.
And then?
He’ll take those same fingers and slide them between your legs — slick with your saliva, warm against your skin, pushing in slow and deep. “Look how excited you are,” he mutters, groaning softly at the feel of you around him. “All that from just my fingers in your mouth, huh?”
Ozzy gets off on how intimate it is. How filthy and sweet it feels at the same time. He’ll do it again and again — thumb resting on your lower lip, your mouth red and swollen, his fingers soaked from your tongue and your cunt. It’s control, but not cruel. It’s indulgent. Gentle. Worshipful.
And when he finally does slide inside you, it’s with a kiss and a whisper: “Still got more for me, don’t you, baby?”
