mechanic!hollis x fem!reader
MASON HILL ROAD, WOODSTOCK
Your 1961 maroon Chevrolet Impala you’d inherited from a deceased relative for your sixteenth birthday bumbled down the winding, rural road scape of Woodstock - you were on your way to your friends’ house, a group assignment due the following day.
It was when you’d driven through a particularly vicious pothole that your vehicle had finally given out on you, a deflated gurgle strangled out of the engine along with a sputter of thick, ashen smoke.
Luckily, you had been following a road where that were lay-by aplenty, swiftly using the last ounce of your cars’ dwindling energy to swerve out of the road, tires squealing against the tiring tarmac, only to be muffled by swallowing mud.
A guttural, deep mechanical sound of immense concern then followed - a defeated death rattle, and it was here, in the middle of a sweltering summer day, where you realised you were truly screwed.
“No, no, no!” You whined, desperately pushing heeled feet against the pedals, with no response, only the hollowed groans of un-lubricated metal against metal, your palm hitting the dashboard out of frustration.
Finally accepting that your car had given out on you completely with no opportunity to resuscitate, you clambered out - suede heels sodden with mud, untamed fern and bramble snagging at your bare legs.
“Shit! You piece of-,” You cry out, now-filthy shoes smearing mud across its exterior, metal bodywork clanging pathetically under your affliction.
You had already began to sweat - unbuttoning your cardigan and tying it around your waist, back of your hand swatting away beading sweat from your forehead.
Attempting to familiarise yourself with your new surroundings and subdue a simmering internal panic, you step around your car - smoke still withering in the balmy summer air, reflecting in stray sunbeams that filtered through the dense brush encapsulating you.
You’d yet to have been taught by your mother what to do in a mechanical emergency - your father in the military overseas, leaving you uneducated and hopeless, alone on the side of a desolate road with the smoking corpse of your car.
A signpost. Aging, splintering wood jutting in different directions, base slightly slanted, like it had been hit but then reinstalled lazily on the other side of the road.
You weren’t sure how you’d managed to see it, as it was actively being swallowed entirely by unruly greenery, vines staking their claim, making the already weathered painted lettering even harder to decipher.
You squinted, eyes still adjusting to the bright summer light - attempting to read each destination.
GREEN’S CONVENIENCE STORE - 2.7 miles.
WOODSTOCK PARK - 4 miles.
FRAZIER & SON MECHANICAL SERVICES - 0.6 miles.
You sighed in sheer relief, spinning on your heels to retrieve your purse from the passenger seat, determined to voyage to this recently-discovered mechanics.
Maybe they’d also have a landline there too, so you could call your friend and apologise for your unintentional tardiness - accepting the fact you’ll probably receive a failing grade tomorrow.
It was around a ten minute walk - you, skittish as cars whipped past you, almost ushering you into the nettle bushes that rimmed the roads, hands clutching your forearms as you prayed a stray driver wouldn’t fly round a blind corner and take you out.
Your skirt whipped against your knees with every determined step, dry mud crumbling off your now-stained shoes, sweat accumulating at the base of your neck as you had your back turned to the sun.
Reaching the mechanics, it was what you’d imagined - just a little more quaint. Definitely family-owned, based off the name alone - situated in a dusty cul-de-sac, an almost-missable turnoff from the narrow Woodstock backroads, hidden by thick brush gating around the mouth of the building.
It was reminiscent of a barn, sun-aged, chipping green planks of wood encasing multiple rusted, well-loved workbenches - oil-slicked tools strung up with nails on the walls. A car already situated inside, trunk up.
Glad to be out of harms way and out of the road, you wipe your clammy hands on the front of your dress, retightening your ponytail that despite everything, flounced behind you.
At first, the building looked empty.
Heavy-duty, worn tools discarded - metal parts you couldn’t even name scattered across the planked flooring - engine analysers, various tubes, shelves of differing wrenches and sockets that looked decades old.
Grease stains practically everywhere, battered beams segregating different technical stations, horseshoes and car-themed printed calendars pinned to them, multiple appointments scribbled down in almost-unintelligible handwriting.
Windows clouded with age, sills a thin layer of grit and dust - atop them, little pin-up models of cars - collected.
A radio sputters and crackles; some alternative rock station - heavy guitar and unintelligible lyrics and intermittent static hum from the one of the corners of the garage-esque building.
The air was thick; polluted with the chemical stench of motor oil, gas, exhaust fumes, maybe even the remnant odour of a smoked cigarette or two - heavy on your untainted lungs, you clear your throat, nose scrunched.
Your heel catches against an uneven plank, an unpleasant scraping noise that was splitting in the still air that made even you flinch.
On queue, a figure emerges from beneath one of the stagnant vehicles, appearing literally at your feet.
“Jesus!” You jump back, clutching your purse to your chest - back almost colliding against one of the wooden pillars.
“Shit, ‘m sorry! Didn’t mean t’scare you.” A hurried, masculine voice uttered - quickly standing to his feet.
You sigh, attempting to swallow down any sense of embarrassment after quite literally jumping out of your skin.
“Well, I was just wondering if you could help me.” You slowly begin, before realising what, or who, was before you.
He was slender, lean muscle freckled from assumably working in heated conditions - bearing a white tank top stained to oblivion with what you could only presume was grease and oil, dark streaks across the front from where he maybe wiped his hands.
A pair of equally tired denim work trousers hung low at his waist, cracking leather belt with a dulled brass buckle - dirtied rag hung accessibly from a pocket.
Two dirty-blonde braids, shoulder-blade length beneath a backwards cap - Frazier & Son Mechanical Services embroidered atop it in cursive stitching.
Heavy-duty leather boots, creased and barely-tied, smeared with heavy dust.
“You’re a bit young to be working on such..” You glance to the car he was working beneath now - Cadillac. Brand new, basically. You wondered briefly what was wrong with it.
Trailing off, he half-laughs, half-scoffs at you, instinctively wiping his hands on said pocket rag - depositing the wrench in his hand to the nearest work surface.
“I’m ’bout the same age as you, probably.” He rakes across you, now - mid-length sundress, flowy blouse you’d tied haphazardly around your waist. A matching headband to your own thin, floral statement belt.
Layered pearl necklaces - probably real. The only thing that looked remotely out of place about you was your mud-stained suede kitten heels, faint rogue spatters ruining your white lace-trimmed socks.
He nods to himself as if a joke before him had written itself, turning away from you - in search of another tool.
“My father runs this place.” He gives you your context, explaining the ‘& Son’ title. “Y’got an appointment?”
“Not quite..” you mutter, “My car, it’s just down there.. it’s-,”
You watch as he retrieves the tool he was looking for, before lowering himself back beneath the car - hands gripping the rim to slide his body beneath it - biceps contracting, sheening with sweat, scuffed with oil, every inch of him.
“Well, it’s broken.” You conclude, knitting your fingers together nervously, “And, and- I have no other way to get home!”
“Broken?” He drawls, voice slightly echoed from under the car - followed by a light rhythmic clanking, something being reinstalled.
“Yes, broken! I was just driving, and then I hit a nasty pothole, and then the engine just gave out!” You exclaim, voice erratic at the edges, “I have places to be, I-,”
There was no response for a brief moment - just metallic noises and shuffling, the occasional sigh and soft grunt that came with pursuing intensive labour.
“Hollis?” Another voice emerged, a side door swinging open, clanking against the edge of an obstructive worktop, atop tools rattling at the impact, “Where’s the damn-,”
The older man stopped in his tracks - dressed almost identically to the younger boy, who you were was his father.
The man’s expression shifts into something warmer than previously - brow lifting, crinkled eyes, fleshy crevices ridden with grit and dust easing - a new customer.
“Ah, how may we help you t’day, Sweetheart?” He paces over to you, adjusting the branded hat atop his head with blackening fingernails, “Apologies for the impoliteness. My son - Hollis - he’s still in trainin’.”
His dad slams a hand suddenly against the roof of the car Hollis was working on, a not-so-subtle warning regarding his dismissiveness towards you, prompting the boy to reappear from beneath the car again.
He now raises begrudgingly, standing beside his father - taller, still.
“Apologies, m’aam.” Hollis bites out, an insincere smirk - faint smile lines appearing that were reminiscent to his fathers’.
“Now, how can we help?” Hollis’ father beams, suddenly available to take on any task you were about to toss before them.
- It had taken both Hollis and his Father a good half an hour to successfully push your car to the garage.
“Oil pan’s damaged.” Hollis speaks, barely having to take a look at the car - only its external symptoms.
“- Caused the engine to overheat. Bearings are probably damaged also.”
“Well done, son.” His father commends, slapping him on the back, “Hollis has ‘ya all sorted, don’t ’ya son?”
Hollis timidly nods, a hand wiping his cheek absentmindedly, further smearing a stripe of oil there.
“John?” A woman beckons, but you can’t see her - probably his wife, you noticed a picket-fenced red barn double the size just behind the garage, they lived there.
“Shit, that’s your mother - Holl, mind helpin’ this young lady for a tick?” He glances to you, an apologetic smile, “I’ll be back in just a minute.”
He exits out the same side door, leaving both you and the boy alone again.
“It’ll set you back fifty.”
You frown, redirecting your attention to him.
“Fifty?” You echo, confused.
“Mhhm,” He nods, gaze still assessing you, “Fifty dollars. Parts’ hard t’find.”
“Fifty dollars? You’re kidding, right?” You protest, “I don’t even have that!”
Hollis shrugs, picking up the wrench he discarded earlier and twisting it in his palm.
“Work ain’t free. ‘S fifty or we can’t help you.”
You chuckle bitterly. Head shaking in slight disbelief - your mother was indefinitely going to have your guts for garters the second you, if you could, make it home.
“So what? You’re just gonna leave a young girl alone, with no car, in the middle of nowhere?” You cross your arms over your chest, bracelets clinking lightly at the brisk motion.
“And also, your customer service sucks.” You jab, “You’re not exactly the friendliest, maybe take a page out of your daddy’s book.”
Hollis smiles this time - strikingly perfect in stark contrast to his rugged exterior, canines tainting it however - making his expression appear almost wilder.
“M’sorry ‘bout that, doll.” He shrugs, “Not used to pretty things from the city comin’ this way.”
How’d he know that you came from the city? You were entirely oblivious that you wreaked of uptown citizen, and he found that irritatingly endearing.
So perfectly out of place - a rose in a cornfield.
“Well, I don’t want to be in this situation either - but I don’t have a choice.” You fend your corner, “Can I speak to your father? Negotiate?”
“Sure. Won’t get y’far, though.” Hollis informs, turning to your lifeless car, “Price is f’both part costs ‘n labour.”
You huff, lightly pouting.
“Fine. You got a landline at least?”
You ask, to which he nods, tilting his head towards the other side of the garage, where a landline is wired to the wall. Like everything else, it looked as if it were on its last legs.
He listens to your call. Your city girl accent as you complained, cultivated - clear and articulate. Your elevated enunciation and rounded tone. The way you’d elongate your words, each sound poured out girlish and polished - like your exterior.
The mud on your heels was like a smear on a sheet of glass - a crack against porcelain, a stain against satin. Something that you didn’t suit at all - something that you’d yet to grow accustomed to, and yet he was practically basking in it.
This was his environment, and you stuck out like a sore thumb. And speaking of sore, at least that’s what you weren’t on his eyes - quite the opposite.
A bundle of floral patterns, cashmere petticoats, and shimmery eyeshadow - glossed lips parted in protest, permed hair tied behind you, crowned with a coordinating headband.
While you were busy explaining yourself, Hollis reached into his back pocket - crinkled packet of Marlboro reds beaten and battered in his grip as he retrieved a cigarette.
You ended the call, still just as riled-up as you were when this entire ordeal began.
“My mothers’ on her way. And then you’ll get your godforsaken money.”
Now propped up against a work bench, arm outstretched behind him - cigarette lit and resting in his mouth as he watched - cap tilted downwards ever so slightly so his eyes weren’t visible where you were stood.
“Good.” He nods, standing to resume his work on your car, “Not sure when it’ll be done by - y’done quite a number on her.” He ashes the cigarette in what appears to be a forgotten empty beer glass on a trolley.
“Y’don’t look the type to recklessly drive, though.”
“I’m not. It was.. an accident?” You roll your eyes, “How long? Hours? Days?”
Still bearing the cigarette between his lips, he lowers himself beside your car - arm disappearing beneath the undercarriage as if he were feeling for something specific.
“Could take up to a week, jus’ hope the parts are easy t’find.”
“A week? I have school! Scouts, and volunteering!” You exclaim, more towards yourself than at him - the bus was certainly unfavourable.
“That’s sweet.” He tuts, yet he isn’t bothering to look at you, instead retracting his hand, that’s now coated in a slick bout of leaking oil - your cars’ blood, essentially.
“You don’t go to school?” You find yourself asking, since you’d be here for at least another twenty minutes while your mother drove to collect you.
Hollis stands, yanking his rag from his pocket and lazily cleaning his hand off - oil still left in the crevices, but he didn’t care. He was used to it, bore it like a second skin.
“I go to school.” He corrects, “Jus’ not enough. I spend most of my time here helpin’ my dad.”
You nod, absorbing his answer.
He continues to familiarise himself with your car, and you perch on an empty, rickety wooden bench - crossing your legs over one another, hands folded in your lap as you patiently waited.
You had quite literally nothing else to occupy yourself with other than to observe him, now pacing around the garage, already formulating what equipment he’d need to start working right away.
Braids twisted and messy - like he’d hurriedly plaited them, his long blonde hair an inconvenience, yet over time, rogue strands had fallen around his face, sticking to the smudges of oil across his cheekbones.
You’d yet to actually meet his eyes properly - in the split second you’d seen them, they appeared dark, shadowed under his cap. But you could be wrong.
“It’s so hot in here.” You observe, backs of your knees even beginning to sweat, your thighs practically cemented together now, “How do you work in this heat?”
Hollis, between tokes of his cigarette, letting it dwindle in his freehand - calloused fingers idling as he places a smaller, thinner wrench between his teeth.
“Used to it.” He answers flatly, muffled, “Ain’t got the luxury of AC like all f’you.”
As he seemingly unscrewed something, he sighed - deep, focused, instinctive. A sound of accomplishment, hard-labour. Aching muscles and sweat-soaked clothing.
Raw, a plea for rest - although he seemed stubborn. The type to stay out working in the sun for hours to earn the approval of his father, who seemed to wear him down.
You clenched your already sweat-sticked thighs together tighter.
You sat in silence for a handful of minutes, you’d even began to count the car-themed memorabilia you could see displayed in the garage. You’d already reached twenty-two items.
When that got boring, you tried to decipher the lyrics of the rock music blaring from the shitty radio - you could make out a repeated chorus verse here and there, but it got to the point where it frustrated you that you couldn’t figure out what was being sung.
What distracted you was the faint hiss of a cigarette being snuffed out - a faint ribbon of smoke releasing into the air, like a minuscule rein-action of your car engine prior.
“What’s a pretty thing like you even doin’ ‘round here anyway?” Removing the wrench from between his teeth, he slides under the car in one swift motion.
“Visiting a friend.” You answer honestly, heel tapping against the flooring, “Was meant to be studying.”
“Smart girl.” He purrs beneath the car, followed by another breathy sound, “Surprised you hadn’t seen this comin’ - your car was barely holdin’ it together, doll.”
“What’d you mean?” You stand now, flesh of your thighs tearing apart at the sudden movement, making you seethe in pain - limping it off as you walked over to your car.
“You hear any funny noises while drivin’ it at all?” He asks, to which you think hard - your eyebrows lifting when you recall.
“Actually, yes.. this like, faint rattling sound - I thought it was just my makeup in the side door.”
“That was your car cryin’ out f’help, basically.” He informs you, “Y’lucky it didn’t set fire when it finally gave out.”
“Really? It’s that serious?” You gawk, knowing literally nothing about motor vehicles. Maybe this was your sign to actually read the user manual. “I’ve never had any problems in the past..”
Resurfacing from beneath your car with a few more additions of oil and grease across his tank-top and trousers, you watch as he pulls open drawers, all rammed full with what you could only summarise as junk.
But one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and you knew that each miscellaneous item you saw probably was a component to something important.
As he shifted back and forth, you were enthralled - truly because there wasn’t much else of interest to look at, but also because it was amusing to you - this was someone in their natural habitat, a profession you were never interested in, let alone considering.
He was truly shaped by this job - wiry build, strong forearms, roughened hands from handling heavyweight tools and combatting engines.
Shoulders and back defined, sloped beneath the thin cotton of his tank from bending beneath cars and lifting heavy parts.
Freckled flesh painted in oil and grease remnants, diluted as they mixed with sweat and continuous wiping away - like war paint.
A natural athleticism to his demeanour and movements, yet it were functional strength compared to the athletes at your high school you’d watch with your friends during lunchtimes on the bleachers.
And despite his standoffish attitude, there was nothing more attractive than a man hard at work.
Tendons flexing as he tightened bolts and twisted the wrench - veins pulsating at the surface of his skin as the occasional laboured breath escaped, followed by the clatter of him tossing retrieved fragments of damaged parts across the room.
“Shit, you been treatin’ this thing like a mustang?” He exasperates, “Undercarriage is fuckin’ skewed.”
“How much more is that gonna cost me, then?” You scowl.
“Ain’t gon’ charge you, honey. Main problem’s the oil pan, ‘n you’re payin’ f’that anyway.”
“So gracious. Thank you.” You playfully jest, before retiring to your seat.
He nods courteously, dipping his cap as he continues to work - sunlight seeping through the clouded windows, haloing behind him.
There was something alluring about someone skilled and entirely dedicated to their craft. How capable he was, the heaviness of focus in his features, how it carried itself; defining his body, how carelessly he got his hands dirty.
He was competent, and confident - and you admired it.
“This’ the nearest mechanic in miles - if you’d broke down further up, you’d be fucked.” He muttered.
“I thought I was, ‘til I read some beat-up sign saying where you were located.” You laughed, “Blessed to have found you and your dads’ place, I guess.”
He laughed lowly, boots scuffing against the floorboards as he shifted beneath your car.
“Blessed.” He repeated to himself, entertained by your word choice. Speaking of blessings..
You sighed, exhausted from today’s ordeal - truly just wanting to go home and have a hot bath, figure out what excuse to give your teacher tomorrow when you turn up empty-handed.
Your dress was starting to feel more like a sweat-collector than a garment of clothing - fabric damp and rigid against your skin, you undid two buttons.
Not enough to show your undergarments, obviously, but enough to expose your upper sternum, glittering with sweat, pearls cool against your sweltering flesh.
For the fiftieth time it felt like, he manoeuvred himself out from beneath your car - now returning tools back to their homes on various shelves and surfaces, part of the work already completed.
He stopped for a brief moment, only to reach beneath a workbench and swing open a small mini fridge - filled with bottles of coca-cola and beer. He took a beer for himself.
Lifting the glass bottle to his lips, he capped the lid off entirely in one swift, practiced motion with his teeth. It made your own teeth feel strange watching him do it.
He took a swig, before glancing over to you - how you’d undone the top of your dress, collar loose, pretty, dainty buttons wilting - upper chest bare, pulverised with sweat, pearlescent - almost matching your necklaces.
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip.
“You thirsty?” He asks, and for the first time, he removes his cap - exposing more ruffled blonde hair, and a set of - as anticipated - syrupy brown eyes, the same colour as the fresh oil that had been weeping out of your poor car, now drenching his clothing.
Heavy lashes, multiple scrapes and scars across his nose bridge and eyebrows that hadn’t been made prominent beforehand - maybe from stray debris, or an accident with equipment.
You swallow thickly, nodding. He picks for you; grabbing a coke. You didn’t seem the type to drink beer.
He also knew you wouldn’t be able to open it - not with those hands, those manicured nails. So he did that for you, also - except, he hit the head of the bottle against the corner of the workbench instead of using his teeth.
It foamed, liquid frothing down the neck of the bottle and soaking into the floor, but it didn’t matter. Once it simmered, he used a clean(er) rag nearby to wipe it down before handing it to you.
You thanked him with a small smile.
“Alright, son - how’s it going?” Hollis’ father paced back into the room, “Sorted out payment?”
“Yes.” You answer before Hollis could, “My mothers’ coming to get me - she’ll pay you.”
“Excellent. We’ll start workin’ on her right away.” Hollis’ father walks to your car, drumming his fingers against the exterior, “Lovely colour.”
Hollis is quiet. He follows his fathers’ movements, sipping his beer - he notices the mud smudges across the drivers’ side door, and then trails his gaze to your dirtied shoes.
Someone had a tantrum. He scoffs to himself, turning his head away from you - braids falling over his face, features defined by the physical remnants of his work turned cosmetic against his skin.
A car peels in to the drive - a woman, older, the spitting image of you; steps out.
“What have you done this time? I told you to take care of this car!” She instantly began to reprimand, to which you cower - embarrassed at being berated like a child before an audience.
“It wasn’t her fault, m’aam.” Hollis stands - placing his beer behind him, nodding to the car, “Undercarriage was rusted to hell. More a manufacturer issue than a handler issue.”
You both knew that was bullshit - you were a heavy-handed driver, who never veered away from potholes because you underestimated their impact.
Your mother stills, before rustling in her purse - pulling out fifty in cash.
Hollis’ father accepts it, shoving it into his jean pocket; saying something after about it most likely being ready in a couple of days.
And then, you’re being ushered into your mothers’ car - you and Hollis share a look, glancing over your shoulder as you’re hauled away.
wow I hate this. I HATE THIS. but I think some of you will like it, so im just throwing it out here.
I know you guys want prophet, but I already had this over halfway written so I wanted to quickly finish this just so I had SOMETHING. ANYTHING new to give to you guys.
im so sorry for ditching u all lol. I know im always making excuses and apologising but I promise my hiatus is against my will im just so busy lol.
anyway. happy reading, pls try to enjoy this in the meantime - prophet update in the works along with some other projects :’)
