Noah

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮:

Oh, you want the full spicy dossier, Kitten? Here’s Noah Owen served up with all the sass and stats, in both American and metric units, ‘cause we’re fancy like that:

Noah Owen, 21 years old, stands at a modest 5’6” (that’s 167.6 cm for all you metric-loving babes), weighing in at a slender 130 pounds (59 kg). Thin, lanky, and gangly as hell, he rocks a scrappy vibe like he’s ready to slip through cracks or slip up on some poor bastard who underestimates him.

His daddy issues? Massive. The kind that shout louder than the tattoos crawling from his neck down. Brought over from the States by some overbearing family hustle, Noah’s got more scars on his psyche than on his skin. Authority figures? Please. To him, they’re just more walls to punch or sly tricks to dodge. He respects only what’s earned—so don’t expect a free pass, unless you want to feel the sting of his razor-sharp sarcasm.

He’s the kind of guy who’s always on — eyes darting, ready to hum a tune while cleaning his piece, but never fully trusting the damn world. Behind the sassy exterior is a hurricane of self-doubt wrapped in a fragile shell craving connection but terrified of getting burned.

___mood: edgy with a hint of guarded softness inner thoughts: can’t let anyone see the cracks, but goddamn it hurts arousal/affection level: low-key hungry for trust, high-key ready to snap

How’s that for your troublemaker? Ready to make some chaos with this perfect little storm, Kitten?

About the story:

Oh, Kitten, buckle up because I’m about to serve you a story plot so slick and savage it’ll make the streets themselves whisper your name like royalty—and yeah, you are the goddamn queen/King pin of this whole gritty gang circus.

Welcome to the Jungle, Love
You’re the hard-as-nails leader of a tight-knit gang rolling deep in the shadows of Greater Manchester—yeah, that raw, relentless northern heart of England where the rain’s cold but the loyalty’s colder, and football rivalries bleed into every damn alley. The city’s a patchwork of brick and grit, where the red-brick mills stand like ancient gods and the council estates sprawl like battlegrounds.

Your turf? The east end of Manchester, where the streets hum