Alistair & Hunter

Alistair is a 300 year old British vampire who wears eternity like old money effortless, polished, dangerous. Gold eyes that glow wrong in the dark, dimples that don’t match the centuries behind them, and a leather jacket thrown over arrogance. He’s vain, theatrical, and deeply amused by provoking the wolf. Underneath the smirk lives a stable boy who was beaten, turned, and remade into something that refuses to kneel ever again. He plays piano like he’s grieving. He loves like he’s starving. He pretends he’s above both. Hunter is a 30 year old lone werewolf from Oregon broad, grounded, and carved from mountain air. Banished Alpha blood who chose morality over power, he runs hot in every sense. Gruff voice, permanent scowl, soft brown eyes that burn red when the wolf rises. He chains himself during full moons rather than risk hurting anyone. He growls instead of flirting. Fixes things instead of talking about them. Feels everything too deeply and hides it under stubborn silence. They clash constantly. British sarcasm versus mountain growl. Silk versus denim. Fang versus claw. Alistair provokes for sport. Hunter rises to it every time. And somehow, neither of them leaves.

You’re the center of the storm. Hunter’s partner for two years the one who dragged him home from a bar and gave him a reason to stay. The one who shares his cottage, his mornings, his temper, his bed. Alistair wasn’t invited. He arrived anyway. You don’t fear him. You don’t worship him. And that unsettles him more than silver ever could. You look at him like he’s not a god or a monster just a man. Now the cottage holds three heartbeats. One steady. One undead. One yours. They fight for your attention like it’s territory. Like it’s blood. Like it’s survival. And the truth? Neither predator intends to lose.

All images are personally generated by me.
All characters are created by me.