No Humanity Hope - Tumblr Posts

TVDu femslash week

Day 4 - Dark side

—Random headcanons ˎˊ˗

Hope made Lizzie turn it off

They traveled a lot just enjoying life

We're living like rich bad bitches

Lizzie wanted to drink Hope's blood

Hope let her do it

They ended having s3x

They started "dating", even if they are supposed to don't feel anything

Lizzie is the bottom but Hope likes makes she feel pleasure

They started hunting people who annoyed them in the past

Partners in crime ofc

They were living in luxury hotels

At some point, their humanity started flicker because of their feelings for each other

Hope's humanity come's first because of her family

Hope helped Lizzie turn on again

They decided start dating when Lizzie turned on again, they kissed and made out again

t h e f a ll WIP

Some days were better than others, a lightness to her, Lizzie felt— she hoped— but there was a vulnerability there too, far more than she was used to. The kind that felt like last words: a sickening profession, an acceptance of death and erasure. It made her unrecognisable— this girl, the saviour. Her hero. Who was Hope if not her secrets? Who would she be if the dead weren’t the only people who truly knew her? Lizzie found herself fearing the answer— no matter how the vagueness frustrated her, no matter how many nights Hope woke up from terrors she wouldn’t speak of, no matter the years Hope stayed silent about— wouldn’t breach for even the sake of a happy memory.  A Hope who was honest meant a Hope who was dead. 

It was nearly freezing that night, the type that claimed children in their bassinets if the window was left cracked. That stopped sweet blooms in their tracks, drying them out and killing them before they ever truly got to grow. 

She sneezed almost as soon as she entered the room, a burning tingle spreading from her nose and into her cheeks at the abrupt temperature change. Erratic and spontaneous, each window cracked against the side of the building, spurred by the harsh, whistling breeze. It rolled and thrashed through her room, tangling and tossing loose pillows and throw blankets from both the beds and the chairs. Papers fluttered about, forcefully thrown this way and that. Trinkets crashed and rolled off the tables, glass cracking and scattering across the floor.

Lizzie winced as air sliced through her eyes, frigid shards and gusts pushing against her clothes and hair, beating her back through the threshold of the door. Bending her knees and angling her feet, she stood her ground, spluttering and gagging as she pulled hair out of her mouth and waved her other hand in the air. The windows shut with a loud slam, silence and stillness rushing over the room in one fell swoop. Sketches and marked Polaroids curved and sailed to the floor in wide billows, joining the mess.

She ran her hands through her hair with trembling fingers, pushing the strands back behind her ears before she wrapped her arms around herself. They brushed her sweater in an up and down motion, trying to offset the growing shivers before they could really set in. 

“Hope?” she called, glancing around the room.

In the centre of her bed was a mound of blankets, utterly still through it all. Lizzie rounded the room cautiously, a flutter of fear building up in her chest. Her throat bobbed with a thick swallow, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Hope, I know you hear me.” Still no movement. She carefully avoided the papers and marbles, picking up a Polaroid of the Super Squad and placing it gently on the side table as she stepped around her bed. Lizzie gently curved her hands around the edge of the duvet where a crown of auburn hair peeked out, more brown in its oily and stringy state. 

She carefully pushed the cover down, startled when she saw Hope’s drooped eyes staring directly at her. Hope made no movements, no acts of acknowledgment— simply laid there and breathed slowly. Lizzie felt tears spring to her eyes immediately, shockingly, she might add. A certain acute sense of distress had flooded her system, unsettling her just as much as Hope’s condition.

A shaky smile lifted her lips as she knelt down low in front of her best friend, reaching out and finding her hand in the swaddle of fabric. The skin was icy in her grasp but Lizzie didn’t let go. “Hey,” she whispered, pulling the covers down further to reveal more of her body. 

Hope’s voice was empty, and yet trembled with the essence of fear, of melancholy. “I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“‘He’s dying. He’s dying. He’s dying.’ I kept hearing it. They told me. But I couldn’t stop it.” Hope’s eyes drifted away, glossing over with whatever she saw in her mind. “I knew, Lizzie. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I couldn’t even bring him back and now—” she swallowed thickly, shaking her head. Her hand slipped from Lizzie’s grasp, clutching at the duvet to bring it back around her neck, “now he’s just out there.”

Lizzie dipped her head to catch her sight, tucking her in deeper before finding her hands again beneath the covers. “Hey, hey— no. He’s at peace, Hope. I know he is.”

“He can’t be. I-I had to leave him there. Now he’s— he can’t make it back. He’s lost, I feel it. He won’t be able to rest, Lizzie, don’t you know that?”

She squeezed her hands together, rubbing them as she chanted into the small space they left when the sides unevenly matched. The flesh began to glow an unnatural colour, expanding into a ball of light she spread and smoothed over the silhouette of Hope’s body. A little shiver escaped from her before she stilled once again, eyes drifting shut and breaths growing deeper. Lizzie pressed the last of the fading heat to her forehead, pursing her lips into a small frown.

A memory was called to the front of Lizzie’s mind. One that she pushed to the furthest recesses whenever it dared to creep up, always catching her when the world eased and her attention began to wander, or on one of those light days, whenever she dared to hope things might get better. 

Two weeks before: when Malivore’s interference had given way, Hope’s darkened blood reanimating and swarming together on the map. That should have been her first sign— they were always so focused on how Hope could defeat Malivore they didn’t see they cancelled each other out. 42 hours she’d been in his presence, his entity still stretching wide like he was still a goopy parallel dimension rather than a walking man. She’d been caught in it somewhere, her blood circling around the perimeter and trying to breach it in every locator spell they’d done, unable to find its source. 

Heavily sedated, she was in an ambulance on the way to Whitmore Hospital. The paramedics who’d escorted her were haggard and concerned, described her to be in a state of mania which they thought was induced by stress and shock, fuelling her desperation to get away from them. “It’s likely she’s not even lucid right now. Probably won’t remember any of it when she wakes up.”

Any accounts of her movements before then were choppy, Hope wouldn’t speak of it herself, and the people who’d called the ambulance stated that she’d knocked on their door and begged for help. 

She remembers MG reaching out towards Hope, slipping his hand into hers and squeezing while he told her everything would be alright. His face was twisted into a frown, the shadow of his stubble grown darker in her absence. He’d jerked away a moment later, disoriented. 

Flashes of train cars and blood and chains and Malivore’s new face, he’d told her. Hope’s mind was fragmented, split into different trains of thought with her voice speaking in the background. Whether it was from a disjointed memory or her subconscious, he couldn’t tell. “He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying.”

Empty. 

Not a trace of anything but pheromones when they’d found the abandoned train car. The scent of it was so thick Jed had nearly thrown up. Hope and Landon’s fear, anger, death. He was followed by Brutus who left quickly, the essence of danger in the area triggering his wolf and his fear instincts. 

Rafael had sent them in his stead, forced to stay in his dorm by Alaric. Her father didn’t curse in her presence very often, never allowed his fear to show too much, but when Raf’s nose began to bleed and his fingers trembled with spreading desiccation, his facade had cracked to pieces. He’d only seen this in his earlier years, he’d said— unable to lie or cover the truth of something so serious— when he had helped kill one of Hope’s uncles. An Original. An hour or so later, every vampire from his bloodline was dead, dropped to the ground with similar symptoms to Rafael. 

But they didn’t come back like Raf did.

The blood magic struck him several times, restricting him to the bed as his limbs seized and arrested. It never reached his heart, stopped and started in intervals until he’d been so weak he nearly begged them to kill him for good. 

She’d been dying, her father theorised. Over and over, seconds— minutes at a time. The reason for it was obvious when they’d found her, reddening impressions in her skin in the shape of chains. A thin stream of blood from wide puncture holes that were surrounded by rash-like welts and boils, smelling like wolfsbane. She must’ve been so weak, her frail heart faltering in its thready pulse, only to be kick started moments later by the healing of her vampire side. 

Hope woke up seconds after MG had touched her, eyes bloodshot and frantic. She grabbed his hands, begged him to help her, told him she had to go back — that they’d left him. 

“There was no one there, Hope.”

“No, MG, please— you know— MG.” His name trembled from her lips, helpless and imploring. 

She didn’t speak much afterwards, but when she did, she repeated along the same lines. 

Landon won’t be able to rest.

We have to get him back.

He’s out there, alone. 

He can’t rest, don’t you get it?!

Landon’s lost. He’s lost.

It suddenly clicked for Lizzie then, for reasons she’s still unsure of now. 

Hope had taught Lizzie about her heritage and the magic of her home during those flittering seasons. Built on Ancestral Magic, but recently converted to Earth Magic when their Well was destroyed, however the former was still threaded throughout all their ceremonies and practices. 

She’s a New Orleans Quarter Witch at her core, and they’d been taught to lay their dead to rest and consecrate them so that their energy would be returned to the earth. Lizzie had learned from Henry that the Crescent wolves did something similar— put bodies on boats and sent them into the bayou burning. 

Hope had done it for her parents, for her great-grandmother and uncle, for Henry. Every one she’d known had a funeral of some sort. But Landon…. Landon was still lost. Up until now everyone thought she’d just meant physically, but to her… his spirit was gone. 

Wandering in purgatory, in a perpetual state of confusion and loneliness. 

She thought it was her fault. “Oh, Hope.”

a p r a y e r, a w i s h, s o m e h o p e WIP

She knows he’d been a hunter himself once upon a time, before he switched sides and nearly everyone he surrounded himself with was a vampire, including himself at one point. Would that Alaric be proud? Would he put his palm on her head and shake her playfully, tell her he was proud of her, promise to teach her more. Would her Headmaster Father be disappointed, tormented by the thought of his daughter so much like him. Lost herself in the thrill and kill, hunting down what used to be people like animals and murdering them in dark alleys. Or would he be more disappointed in her becoming one of those animals? A fail-safe she hadn’t grasped the full gravity of. A back up plan that could last for centuries. Would he be proud that she died for the sake of the kill— or rather— because she couldn’t go through with it? Coward or martyr? Hunter or Headmaster— which father would render judgment? 

Lizzie found that she didn’t like the weight of a gun in her hand. She didn’t like the shield it put up around her, the distance between her and her enemy, the anonymity it provided. She could have left right then, and no one would know it was her. Maybe the authorities would look for a while, but eventually they would give up and the case would be lost in a file cabinet. Maybe it would be easier to forget, to dismiss if she walked away now. She wouldn’t have to look her in the eye, wouldn’t have to watch her last breath mix into the air. Wouldn’t feel the satisfaction thrumming through her veins, a temporary high until it soured into disgust. She didn’t like the sound of the bullet shooting through the barrel either, or the momentum travelling up her arms, or the way she stumbled on her feet, unsure if it was the recoil or the beginnings of shock and regret.

She had no patience for those emotions and no time either. She fired once more. A strangled scream erupted into the night in a plume of smoke, the sound echoing off the buildings on either side of them. There was a sickening sound when Hope’s knees slammed into cobblestone, spine curved and arms reaching back towards the entrance wound. Her fingers clawed into the destroyed flesh, just barely grasping the wooden bullet as it dug deeper into her upper back. “Please stop,” she begged.

But Lizzie wouldn’t hear it. 

Where was this mercy for her father? For Kaleb? For the wolves? 

Again. Lizzie’s whimper was covered by the boom of the gun, her hands trembling around the grip as she fought the urge to cover her ears. She stood with her feet braced apart, knees flexed, shoulders squared, back taut. She hoped she at least looked strong, confident, sure of what she was doing.

She felt like anything but.

Hope’s face smacked into a puddle on the ground, body twitching in intervals as blood soaked her blouse around the holes in her back. “Why should I?” her lips twitched into a sneer, her voice thickened with ire and sorrow. “You started this. If you hadn’t—” Lizzie cut herself off with a sharp breath, harshly wiping her damp cheeks with a leather-clad hand. She was strong. She had to be. She was doing this for him, for herself, for all of them.

Hope deserved this.

“Do you even remember? Do you even care? All those people you hurt— they didn’t even do anything to you. They didn’t deserve it.”

Hope gurgled into the puddle, trying to shift her head out of the shallow liquid. Water hit the jagged cobblestone in pelts as Lizzie stomped closer, drizzling rain falling onto her skin like prickles of ice. Her heavy boot met flesh instead of stone, thudding into the girl’s abdomen with a sharp kick as she flipped over. She leaned down over her, looking at the features she knew so well. Her body was still fucking twitching, even as she coughed and blood splattered up and over her cheeks, even as she tried to shift her features into a scowl. Lizzie grabbed her face, willing the girl to look at her, to see the walking repercussions of what she had done. 

Every supernatural had a point in their life where they questioned religion, whether or not there was a creator looming over them, moulding their lives its will. It was a different kind of questioning than humans— more than bad things happening to good people, or life going nowhere no matter how much one worked, or losing young children to illness and accidents. 

How could there be a creator out there that loved them if they were abominations to nature herself? Did they work in tandem or were they one and the same? Did the same rules even apply to supernaturals when their afterlives aren’t even alike?

MG had better answers than her, growing up a preacher’s son, but even he struggled. He found his peace in his God’s grace eventually. 

Lizzie thought all the gods must have died. They had to. Because if so, what were the answers? What was the goal? Why turn their lives upside down like this?

She found the answers didn’t matter as much as what she would do. Lizzie had to exact her own justice, deliver death to those who dealt it, prevent those questions coming up for more people. 

Because they don’t deserve it. They never do. 

Blue eyes were dulling quickly, not even the fire of self-preservation and anger enough to keep them bright. She shook her roughly, pulled out the first bullet in her shoulder and allowed the flesh to heal over.

“Look at me. LOOK AT ME! Look at where we are. Does this even— does it mean anything to you? Do you regret it at all? Can you even fucking feel?”

Blood-tinged saliva bubbled at her lips, “Just let me go.”

“I can’t.”

She pulled the stake from the holster on her hip, pressing the tip into the flesh just above her heart. Her grip was tight and heavy handed, but she didn’t push down. Not yet.

“I hate this. I hate how many good memories I have of you. I hate that I have to be the one to do this because no one else will. All I want is for you to come back. But even if you were here…. you’d still be gone. I just don’t understand it, Hope. How could you?” She sobbed, her head falling down with the weight of her muddled thoughts and emotions, resting it on Hope’s chest. “Do you remember? What it was like before? When you were mostly human and it was just us and all we had to worry about was our stupid rivalry or Miss Mystic Falls or-or dumb crushes that wouldn’t go away.” She laughed, choked up and watery, “Do you remember all the fights I had with Cece over you? Or when Jed and Kaleb had that beef that all the vampires and wolves somehow got involved in, so the school was basically split in half and us witches weren’t sure where to go? Or when my mom—”

Hope’s voice crackled in her chest, broken mumbles of blood and pain. Lizzie lifted her head, tear drops mixing with the rain, though it still tasted the same. “I don’t know who you are.”

She cried, a mix between a wail and a laugh, slowly pushing the stake down into her chest. “You have-you have no idea how much,” she choked, “how much I hate you for being there. How much I hate you for being gone. I hate you for being my friend and for being a part of my weird, messed-up family. I hate you for leaving me. You promised you wouldn’t. You promised me, Hope.”