MHA Scenarios and Oneshots {discontinued}

Vampire Shoto x Fem! reader

“Please, don’t do this!” You beg through hysterical tears as the people who once looked at you with kind smiles and warm eyes now forcefully drag you across the autumn dirt to the town center with frenzied, hateful expressions. You resist and struggle as much as you can, but you’re not nearly strong enough to break free. “I’m not a witch, I swear!” You insist, but all your pleading and screams fall on deaf ears. 

“Don’t gaze upon her! You will fall under her wicked spell! Avert your eyes and ears, all of you!” A man cries out to the crowd who roars in agreement and anger. It’s the man who brought this terrible fate upon you, staring down at you with cold and cruel eyes. You fall limp in despair, tears running down your face without abandon.

How could this happen? 

What have you done to deserve such a fate?

Soon, you see the mounds of dry straw and kindling surrounding a scorched wooden stake in front of the courthouse. Your blood chills and your heart sinks to your stomach. Fear, pure unadulterated fear courses through you and you dig your heels in the ground, crying out in desperation as you begin to struggle again.

“I beg of you, please! This is a mistake! Have mercy, God please have mercy…” Your screams break into whimpers as you struggle to catch your breath through your hysterical sobbing. A hand comes down to strike your cheek sharply. You yelp at the burning sting spreading across your face.

“Silence! Do not dare utter the Lord’s name you witch !” A minister of the church hisses venomously at you. They drag you to the stake and bind your hands around it with thick rope that digs into your skin while you try to free yourself. You stare in horror at the townspeople that are gathering around you, torches in hand and evil sneers on their faces. 

You can’t believe this. They were so kind to you once; the baker gave you extra pastries he made in the mornings, the minister spoke comforting blessings when you crossed paths, and the wives taught you how to cook and knit in their free time. The looks of disgust and hate on their faces make them look like strangers to you. Strangers who are going to burn you alive for “practicing witchcraft”.

It isn’t your fault. 

It isn’t fair. 

Unable to bear the weight of their disdainful glares, you tilt your head to the starry sky. Tears trickle down your face steadily and drip down your chin onto the logs of wood beneath your feet. 

You don’t want to die, and certainly not like this.

A torch lowers to ignite the kindling. You flinch and let out a wretched sob when the fire catches. The crowd cheers. You don’t want to scream, to satisfy their sick hunger to see you suffer, but you’re so terrified. You’re about to be burned alive.  The smell of smoke wafts toward you and the fire slowly grows, consuming the path of kindling and advancing steadily toward you. You push on your tiptoes and press as hard against the stake as you can to get even just an inch more distance between you and a slow, blistering death. 

Another hideous cry erupts from the crowd, but this time it’s followed by a flurry of movement. Some of the glowing lights of their torches drop strangely and you hear people running and panicking. You can’t see very well past your tears and the thickening smoke, but you can tell the villagers are scrambling and shouting about something. You barely make out the town sheriff wobbling on his feet and clutching at his neck, where fresh blood flows over his fingers to smear across his skin and stain his clothes. He chokes out some words, but they’re lost in a gurgle. A large billow of smoke blocks your view and you cough violently when it invades your lungs.