#(I can see how child me got mixed up though because Elizabeth I overshadowed both of them)

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

i would like to formally apologize to Mary, Queen of Scots for having thought since childhood that she was Bloody Mary, when Bloody Mary was in fact her cousin

[unholyhelbig]

Ever heard of the song Mrs Jackson can you make that into hizzie! Love you work in the hizzie oneshot series like seriously I live to read those oneshot's.

[a/n: Thank you so much, I still feel like I struggle with their dynamic a bit. I also can’t explain why this song made me think of this type of one-shot, but I for sure got this energy from it.] 

Read on Ao3 | Send me more Legacies Prompts

Title: Miss Saltzman

Ship: Hope Mikaelson/ Lizzie Saltzman

Hope Mikaelson felt the cool edge of drywall push up against the wet of her back. Her legs ached, the apron digging into her stomach as she sat in the small corner of the business office. Different sticky notes in foreign writing littered the walls and a small fan hummed in the corner- but all it did was circulate hot air.

“This has officially been the worst day of my life.” She mumbled into her hands, tasting the salt of sweat against her lips.

The hotel was in the middle of its busiest season; with graduations and regular vacations to the large amusement park that sat thirty minutes from the coast. Every single room had been booked up to capacity and more than half of them called down to the kitchen with ridiculous requests that could be fulfilled with one easy trip to the grocery store.

Penelope worked an easy hand through her sweat-dampened hair. “You’re telling me. Room fifty-four keeps calling down for fresh strawberries because she saw another room with them, and you know Rick is too cheap for shit like that.”

“Rick is too cheap for everything.” Hope moved her hands and put her head against the wall behind her, letting the cool air hit her neck.

Ebony Creek sat at the end of a long city block packed with bakeries wafting with sweetness. There was a bookstore and a small local grocer. All of it was overshadowed by the large sandstone building with emerald awnings and fresh-cut roses.

The kitchen was located towards the back of the hotel, facing an alleyway where her coworkers would pull in heated breaths of nicotine. There was a cool breeze seeping in through the office, the door propped with a plastic bucket once used for large quantities of ice.

Three monotone rings echoed through the small space and Hope had to fight off a groan. Penelope sighed and grasped the phone from the hook. She listened silently for a moment, nodding as if the person on the other line could see her. “Yes ma’am, I’ll send her right up.”

There was a beat of silence after Penelope put the phone noisily back on the hook.

“Hope,”

“No”

“It’s room 237.”

Her breath caught, and it felt like lead in her throat. Hope had grown dreadful of the calls, and that very floor; but the guests there had a permanent stay in Ebony Creek. They paid a good sum of money to have keypads on the doors from the stairwell, to have a personal elevator that brought them to the fanciest rooms that were more like apartments. They rented month to month, and most of them nodded politely at the staff but never made use of them.

Most of them weren’t Elizabeth Saltzman.

She was a modern heiress with extreme taste when it came to extravagance. She enjoyed the post-modern art that hung on the walls of her hallway and deep gold crown moldings at the corners of her rented room.

Lizzie barely ordered anything from the kitchen; but with each phone call, she would request Hope. And each time Hope fixed her a vodka soda with barely any seltzer and bring that with her on a metal tray. Her hands would shake and the ice would clatter.

“Can’t refuse that,” Hope sounded out eventually, rubbing the sweat from her collarbone.

“No, I suppose not. Don’t take too long, alright? We can’t afford to be without you.”

Hope pulled herself to a standing position, not paying much mind to how her legs burned, or the good amount of wetness that built up behind her neck. She quietly mixed Lizzie her drink and pretended not to notice the cooks staring at her with curious eyes- despite knowing the weekly ritual by heart.

Hope set the crystal glass on a tray and walked through the double doors into the shocking coolness of the hallway. She could smell the chlorine of the indoor pool and hear the hum of the vending machines that were marked up in price when all you truly got in return were stale chips and out of date chocolate.

She got into the elevator that leads only to the second floor and found herself pulling out her hairpins with her free hand. The sweat had dried and her palm shook under the metal tray, the ice sounding like fairies that were robbed of their gold dust. All of this, she ignored too- all the way to room 237.

Hope schooled her shoulders, knocked three times (loud and sure of herself) before losing that nerve and stepping back like a timid child delivering cookies, or passing out pamphlets about the church of Christ.

Lizzie took her time answering the door, but when she did, Hope could swear she had to swallow her heart because the heiress would be able to hear her in a moment. She was dressed modestly in a nice blouse that cut too low and a pair of gray slacks. Hope knew from experience that the matching blazer would be slung against the back of one of the chairs in the room.

It was a rare occasion to see the woman smile, but each time the corner of her lip turned into something of a smirk, Hope’s legs would lose their feeling and her mind would run faster than any living creature could.

“Miss Saltzman, here’s your drink.” Hope balanced the tray and Lizzie took the glass as if it were a formality, and neither of them could fool one another, it was. “Is there anything else I can get you?”  

“You can come inside, let me grab a tip from my purse.”

The first time, nearly two summers ago, that Elizabeth Saltzman asked Hope to follow her into her room, she hesitated. The year before that she had delivered pizza’s and the golden rule was to always stay on the porch unless you wanted a knife in your back or a healthy dose of hoarders syndrome.

But it was a classy hotel, and there were cameras in nearly every hallway. Penelope had told her to always make sure the guest had everything they wanted; and if someone as powerful as Lizzie asked her to wait in the little area by the door in order to collect a tip, she would.

Hope tucked the metal tray under her arm and obliged.

Lizzie had the AC on and that seemed to do nothing to appease the intense burning across the skin of her cheeks. She felt the exhaustion of the day and the cool metal that pressed close to her side. More than anything, she felt the closed door against the skin of her back the second that they were locked away from the rest of the world.

A knee was between hers and the tray clattered to the carpet with a dull thud. Lizzie’s nails dug trails of acid across the back of her neck and their lips met with all exhaustion forgotten. Lizzie tasted like mint and bourbon.

“I had a rough day,” Hope said as the woman nipped slightly at her jawline, and then a little further down. “So if you can go a little easy on me-“

“I can have whoever wronged you fired on the spot.”

Hope scoffed; Lizzie wasn’t one for affection, not the ordinary kind and after a while, Hope realized that. She had fought hard to carve out a place in the city for herself and her brand. People found her brash and power-hungry, but her words were always calculated and both of them knew that it was a sign of how much she cared.

She found herself consumed by the woman in every aspect. How soft her movements were, how much she smelled of fresh-cut flowers, how she had just enough arousal built up inside of her to get her through the rest of her shift.

Lizzie led her to the small sofa that was a deep crimson and shuttered gold. She lifted Hope’s shirt above her head and took with it the scent of a kitchen, of freshly peeled garlic and sink water. She was being straddled and the coolness of the couch mingled with the heat of her skin.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Lizzie growled, soft like the purr of a motor, before unhooking Hope’s bra and throwing it to the corner of the room with her t-shirt. “It’s a shame that you’re trapped in that hot kitchen all day long. Aren’t you just begging for some kind of release?”

Hope was, in fact, close to biting her tongue to keep herself from whimpering requests. She writhed under Lizzie’s touch and let out a small gasp when the woman ran her tongue over her nipple delicately. She liked to tease, and part of Hope didn’t have the patience but knew never to rush her.  

Lizzie palmed Hope’s other breast and kissed lightly down her stomach until she reached the waistband of her pants. Each movement felt like a new form of lava as energy pulsed through her. She lifted her legs, allowing the girl to pull her jeans down to her knees, taking her underwear with it.

Lizzie was attentive and tender, biting ever so slightly at Hope’s thighs as a wetness slowly formed between them. She moaned at the sensation, at the anticipation that overwhelmed her in every sense of nature.

“For fuck's sake,” She mumbled, biting down on the edge of her arm. The walls were the only expense that Ebony Creek didn’t double down on. They were thin and every single staff member took bets on which room was seeing the most action- Hope always knew it was 237.

“What was that?”

Lizzie’s breath was scalding against her center, and Hope wanted nothing more than to push herself further down the couch for any type of contact. “Please, Miss. Saltzman.”

Her southern manners were something prided in food service, and the same expectation carried to encounters like this. They weren’t on a first-name basis. Hope was the help even though sometimes it felt like the other way around, depending on who did the pleasuring.

Even with her quickness, Lizzie was gentle. She moved her tongue against the length of Hope’s sex, soothing the innate energy, if only for a moment before she got to work. Hope found her nails digging into the red fabric, leaving little crescents in the cushions. Her other hand guided Lizzie evenly, fingers laced into blonde hair.

“Holy shit,” Hope purred, waves of satisfaction rippling through her as Lizzie latched onto her clit.

She suddenly forgot all about the stress in the kitchen; the way seven meals had been sent back, and how room fifty-four wanted fresh strawberries that still needed to be defrosted from the furthest reaches of the freezer. The only thing that mattered was the skill of Lizzie’s tongue and the vodka soda that chilled on the table by the door.

Hope suddenly tensed, that build-up of pressure inside of her was releasing. She felt the tremors move through her body and bit down on the side of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Despite herself, she was successful in muffling the sounds of her own satisfaction.

Lizzie pulled away, clearly impressed with herself. A dumb and prideful smile sparkled against her lips, even as they met with Hope’s once more. Her palm was on Hopes collarbone, both of them could feel the strength of her heartbeat as it pounded close to her ribcage.

Hope could taste herself, masked with vanilla, on Lizzie’s lips.

“You always tip me the most,” Hope panted

“You work hard.” Lizzie frowned and then focused her stare back on Hope’s, those deep indigo eyes. “You deserve it.”