𝖎𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝖍𝖔𝖕𝖊 𝖒𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖘 actually hope stilinski
and lives in beacon hills, unknowing of her real
heritage, until her mother and father and a crazed
family of original vampires arrive at her h...
❛ the one in which she wished she had missed the punching bag and hit him instead. ❜
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"YOU NEED TO PUNCH HARDER, HOPE. The punching bag isn't going to break because you gave it a small tap with your pinkie finger," Klaus ordered softly from where he stood, hands holding the bag tightly so it wouldn't sway. Still, he was smiling softly.
Hope let out a breath. She wasn't tired, more energized, but she was getting frustrated at the fact she wasn't doing it right, because seriously, how hard could hitting a punching bag be? Hope had to tell you; pretty fucking difficult apparently.
Her eyebrows were furrowed together as she readied her stance—shoulders back, legs apart, torso twisted—before she grunted and punched it a bit harder, but still not nearly as harshly as the man in front of her wanted.
"You're being soft." He commented, "I shouldn't be surprised. Out of everyone I have ever met, of course you would go soft on a punching bag." It was a lighthearted joke, which was accompanied by a soft laugh. Hope sent him a mock glare as she wiped her brow, "You need to think of this like a life or death situation. Every practice counts. If someone decides to attack you tomorrow, are you going to tap them and hope for the best?"
Hope waved him off, "There are several factors to tha—"
Klaus chuckled, cutting her off, "—imagine it's someone you hate," She gave him a look and he rolled his eyes, holding the bag in position again, "You can lie all you want, but we all have someone we would like to take our anger out."
"Trust me, it's not the person I have a problem with." She scoffed.
"Close your eyes, and picture this person standing between you and the person you love, about to hurt them. The only way to save them is to defeat your enemy." His voice got lower with anticipation, "Now, go—"
Hope closed her eyes. Pictures of people who had cracked segments of her heart splintered across her mind. Kate Argent. Chris Argent. Peter Hale. Jennifer Blake. The Nogistune. The Nogitsune. With it's stupid ragged body and slumped posture and mocking face; she could almost hear his deep and gruff voice taunting her.
The hits came easy. One after the other, like clockwork, accompanied by a swift kicking here and there that rattled the chain holding the punching bag in the air. Her eyes were still closed, lips squinted in concentration, and small grunts of anger slipped through her mouth. About ten minutes of this passed before she, with a shout, sent a flying kick to the right side of the bag, and then opened her eyes and let her anger go.
