Chainsaw Man Black Hair Guy Novels & Stories

Long and agile. "𝓱𝓸𝓵𝔂 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓻. 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓱𝓸𝓽!" I slapped my cheeks lightly and shook my head. He was just a huge and brute man with no possession of civility. His hair was long and black. Well beneath his neck. And he had tied into into a pony.

“Nothing at all. Fuck. Stay behind me, Nate.” “Won’t help much,” said a new voice, this one deep and clipped. “Since I’m also behind you.” Ian spun so fast he knocked me over, and I went right back into the same fucking bush. I landed on my back. There, a few feet away from where my very vulnerable ass had been, was a guy just as big as Ian. Just as tall, anyway, though where Ian was bulky, this guy was lean, like a fencer or a swimmer. The sword strapped to his back made up the difference, though. Black hair, black eyes, and a weird long split robe thing, also black. Apparently Freckles had a good, six-foot-plus and terrifying reason for not being scared by Ian’s claws and fangs.

I asked looking around still wide-eyed. "Oh! Here comes one. This's-" she was cut off yet again by my excited form. "Chase, the black ranger. All-time skateboard champion!" I finished it for her. "Thanks," Chase replied with a broad smile and turned to Ms. Morgan, "See? She addressed me as a skateboard champion," he puffed out his chest. Just like on the television, he was really handsome with black beady eyes, lavender lips, and dark brown hair along with his black clothes also not to forget the headphones around his neck giving off that 'cool guy' vibe.

Hahaha", they all laughed as their leader wouldn't stop pissing me off. "Move your feet" I screamed and instantly... I couldn't believe that my voice did that. Only I said that, but my voice came out in multiple different sounds. How did my black hair turn white..? I didn't mean anything as my aim was nothing but the coat. I looked up at the leader of the gang, he was really shaken. His dancing feet were still on my coat as I drew the coat and he landed on his butt. He was on the floor, still shaking and breathing heavily. His frightened men tried to move him away saying "she's a ghoul". Their leader crawled away a bit to continue his fleeing journey and the guy in the black suit showed up b

The blade tremored violently and began ringing. "You still have energy for that. You're pretty good." A low, scratchy voice was heard from the dark. An old man in black appeared from a dark corner. The old man had white hair and a beard. He looked haggard and frail, but his eyes were sharp and intimidating as he gave off a sense of danger. "Who are you?" Chase stared coldly at the old man. Even though the old man was hidden in the shadows, Chase could see his face.

Cole replied, not sure how to take that as he silently studied him. The man had witch black hair like most in the pack and the hair was long and braided - a signature look that he perceived to be uniform now. His voice was gruff and low, sounding like someone with a bad cold. His eyes were charcoal black and a slashing scar across his left brow made him look quite formidable.

I nodded a bit and was about to continue walking when I heard a voice. "How about playing with us?" It says. We quickly turned around to see who that person was, and then we saw three guys with their black clothes, smirking at us. I looked at them from head to toe. One has red hair, cool but it doesn't suit his skin color. One has a black hair, and I think he is the most handsome guy among the two and the other one has blonde hair, and for a guy, he is small. Are they wolves? A rogue specifically?

This signaled the bartender to look in our direction. I gasped when his eyes met mine. He looked like a guy in his early twenties, and good-looking too. Like Peter, he had shoulder-length hair. The only difference was that he had auburn hair. Another thing I noticed was that his hair was tied in a ponytail. It was very unusual for a man to have such hair color, but that didn’t make him any less beautiful. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that made his muscles visible to everyone and a bandana on his head. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang, if you were to ask.

I called, my voice barely rising above a whisper, cracked and uncertain. The door swung open, and a man stepped inside. Not Rex—this one was leaner, his ash-blond hair catching the warm glow of the fire, his light grey eyes sharp and assessing, like a predator sizing up its next meal. He carried himself with an effortless grace, but there was something off about his smile—it curved his lips but never quite reached those cold eyes. I recognized him from the fragmented stories I’d overheard in my father’s pack house. Cassian Blackfur, Rex’s half-brother. The whispers painted him as a manipulator, a schemer who thrived in the undercurrents of power, always plotting in the shadows cast by his mo