PitBabe Cast: Imagines

AlanJeff: King of the Hallows

I've seen Alan with grease-stained hands, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from hours under the hood. I've heard him bark orders across the pit, watched him lead our team like a legend reborn. But nothing—nothing—compares to seeing him behind the wheel, well that's what I think though I've never seen him race. I've seen him drive, but not a racing type of drive.

The infamous "King of the Hallows," once the terror of every racetrack from Bangkok to even international tracks. Now our crew chief, my boyfriend, and the man I never knew I'd love with every part of me since the day I stepped into the X-Hunter garage.

I'd begged him for this.

"Just once," I'd said. "Let me see what it was like. Let me feel it."

He'd raised an eyebrow. Smirked. And said, "Buckle up, ai'nuu."

And now here I was—seatbelt snug, heart thudding like a second engine—as we idled on the X-Hunter practice circuit. Alan sat in the driver's seat like he was born in it, one hand casually on the gearshift, the other draped over the wheel, like the car itself bent to his will. His gaze locked forward, predatory and calm, and I felt the gravity of who he used to be crash down on me like a wave.

This wasn't just Alan, my Alpha. This was him. The king.

"You ready for this?" he asked, casting me a side glance. His lips curled, smug and playful, but his eyes? His eyes were hungry.

I swallowed hard, nodded. "Yeah," I said, though my voice cracked like the first raindrop in a storm.

Alan leaned over. "Hold on tight," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

The ignition roared to life.

It wasn't just noise—it was a scream. A living, breathing thing that growled beneath us, vibrating through my chest and bones. He shifted into gear with a flick of his wrist, and then—

We were flying.

The world blurred. I was shoved back into my seat as the car launched forward, a screaming bullet on slick, sun-baked asphalt. Wind whipped at us even through the cabin, and all I could do was clutch the harness and laugh like I'd just jumped off a cliff.

Alan didn't drive. He commanded. His hands danced across the wheel with surgical precision. His foot worked the gas like an artist coaxing sound from a piano—gentle one second, brutal the next. And I realized, in awe, that this wasn't just speed.

It was power.

He came into the first curve like he was teasing it. Feathered the brakes, then slammed the throttle at the apex. The rear tires screamed, and suddenly we were sideways, sliding into a high-speed drift that felt like slow motion. Smoke curled up around us, the tires painting fire onto the track.

I gasped.

But Alan didn't flinch.

He was laser-focused, eyes locked ahead, fingers tightening just the right amount. The world spun—and then righted itself as we tore out of the corner in a controlled burst of momentum.

"You okay over there?" he shouted, half-laughing over the engine's roar.

"Are you kidding?!" I yelled back, voice cracking. "This is insane!"

He just grinned—and pushed harder.

What followed was a ballet of chaos. Turns we should've braked into, he powered through with brutal elegance. We drifted inches from the guardrails, engines screaming in protest, smoke rising in our wake. The car tilted, trembled, but never lost grip. Because Alan wouldn't let it.