Bald Taper Fade Black Male Novels & Stories

Each step echoed with purpose, unhurried, almost too controlled. A figure stepped in behind Marcus. Tall. Well-dressed. His black blazer was tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down neatly at the waist, the fabric whispering quality. His posture was straight, too straight, suggesting military precision or someone trained to command without speaking.

Sitting, were five people who looked displeased. “Good evening,” Alpha Tyler, one of them greeted, rising. He was a male with dark hair that has been covered by silver hairs. He had a deep scar on the cheeks of his right shoulder blade. He tried too much with his dressing, making him look like a teenage having a conflict with his skinny jeans and shirts which he left four buttons to the top open. His hair was sleek and parted on the side. “Good evening, Elder Zayn.” Behind him, he whispered, “wait here. We will be out in no time.”

Though I didn't turn around, I kept myself alert, not knowing what to expect. "So, Laia Parkers is already here." A crisp clear male voice resonated from behind. A primly rose up and turned behind to face the owner of that quite interesting voice. In front of me stood a man about 30. He was simply dressed in black trousers, a white t-shirt and a grey blazer. And as for his visuals, I would give him a 10 out of 10. It looked as if he had walked straight out of a novel, -quite large eyes with black pupils, sharp nose, neat lips, a quite small face which kinda proportionately matched with his tall physique. Maybe this is what they call the 'divine proportion' or the 'golden ratio'.

He was tall, easily six-three, with a presence that seemed to swallow the air in the room. He wore a black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and dark trousers that showed the strength in his legs. His hair was black, messy, falling over his forehead in a way that felt unstudied. When he moved forward, the light caught his eyes. They were the color of a storm at midnight, silver mixed with a deep, bottomless black. A faint scar ran through one of his eyebrows, a jagged detail that made his face look less like a dream and more like a threat.

And then he stepped out. Tall, about Mason’s height, or maybe a few inches shorter. He had a black pair of pants resting on his waist, a blue shirt, his hair, and a touch of black… yeah, his hair was grey with a touch of black and it doesn’t look dyed or tinted. He looks chiseled, does he go to the gym? And oh my god… he is hot and handsome. “Why is a Zaddy coming out of your mother’s apartment at this ungodly hour?” Ava whispered.

Right in front of us, like he had stepped out of the shadows—literally. He was younger than I had expected. He didn’t look worn down like King Earthlian did, but not as young as King Sebristien did either. His raven black hair was cut short, the light shining off of it making it look both a tad blue and purple, like the light couldn’t help but flirt with it. It was mostly slicked back, looking like there were some waves in it, but a few strands had flopped forward, falling together over his forehead. His black blazer and pants looked like they had been made just for him. He was almost scraily handsome.

The light of the moon was still bright and Ibekwe knew he shouldn't be alone. He moved his hand to the lesion that stood in front of his forehead. He ran his fingers around it and touched it. Although he could not see it, he knew that the scar was still the same and had not changed. He dropped his hand down, trying to remove every doubts that were growing in his mind. Osisiakalaka was right. He had to filter all the teachings he had heard from Peter Stonefield. He thought of what Osisiakalaka had told him when they sat in the shrine for his final ritual. He remembered how Osisiakalaka had pressed his lips and told him that his scar would leave his forehead within the next three days. He had

He groans heavily running his large hands over his face and through his thick jet black curls. "Look, I don't know what to do. But we gotta do something!" He sounds and looks just lost as I am. But so handsome in this water. I love his hair it's in the style of a faux hawk fade and I really want to run my fingers through it. He has the Puerto Rican flag shaved into the left side of his head and 'Boricua' shaved on the right. His barber has mad skills. I'm thinking about taking my brothers to him for their back to school haircuts.

the man says with a sad smile. Blossom? Where have I heard that name before? How do I know this man? Or how does he know me? He’s 5’7” with black hair that’s shaved at the sides and back, deep dark brown eyes, peachy-gold skin, a pointed nose, a sharp jawline, and rounded chin. He has a tattoo going down his left side and inside his left bicep. He’s only wearing a pair of sweatpants and he is covered in muscles.

He was the one who begged me to be his fake girlfriend and barely two hours into this arrangement he is suddenly confessing things like he actually means them and somehow I am the problem. A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it because this fucking bastard, it really is a thing with the Blacks, being unbelievably dense. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Kade Black, you’ve got to—” I cut myself off when I notice him pulling his shirt off, revealing blacked out tattoos across his chest and just as I expected full sleeves inked down his right arm. His body is lean and defined in a way that becomes impossible to ignore once he is no longer fully dressed and for a second my brain comple