Yandere Toons x Reader: An Anthology of Headcanons and Scenarios

Gristol Malik Nick Johnsmith (Plat. Scen. - "The Last Carriage Out of Grulovia")

More rocks slammed into the ground near the hooves of the pony, and the animal reared its front legs to whinny. It fought the bit in its mouth and the bridle on its snout, causing the leather straps to chafe Gristol's palms. "Don't you know who I am? I'm telling my father!" he shouted at the mob, only to have his voice suffocated in the outcry of the people.

As he turned to leave, a searing pain struck his cheek and knocked him to the ground. Dirt, a fetid substance foreign to the boy, stained his pristine uniform and took the shine out of the gold buttons. The neigh of his mount echoed in the smoky air, but his attention was drawn to the bright liquid seeping from his skin like water from a river.

It glistened with the rosy glow of crimson and reeked of copper, dripping onto his quivering fingers and coating them in a damp warmth. The heart in his chest thrummed against his ribcage at an increasing rate that surged to the palpitations of an animal breaking out of a cage. Any control over the situation that Gristol pretended to have was torn from him at that moment, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead while searching for his horse to escape.

The hoofbeats of the pony fleeing caused the prince to extend a hand and demand its return, the hooves flinging earth at him and retreating over the hill. Gristol pulled his face out of the mud with a desperate cry, and when he flipped onto his back to crawl in the direction his frantic mind assumed led to the castle, he saw only monsters who wished to inflict a type of harm on him that he could not understand. Their humanity had been stripped away to reveal gnashing teeth, pounding fists, and wild eyes devoid of mercy.

He breathed so fast that his lungs began to contract in painful spasms, and the sensation of a crushing weight lying on his chest drained his legs of their strength and filled his head with dizzy panic. Even his arms started to fail him, wobbling and threatening to plunge his body into the dirt without a chance of lifting himself out of it. Just as the sun was fading into the bared teeth and torches of the peasants, a wall of water crashed upon the rear of the crowd and swept it into the air.

Screams of terror replaced the gales of rage, and the waves swelled and stooped to clutch more in a fluid embrace and toss them out of his sight. Fearing the rough touch of hands seeking to show him no remorse, Gristol tucked his knees into his stomach and wrapped his arms around his face. The noises swirling around him continued for most of a minute as his whimpers were overshadowed by the deluge and shrieks.

After the land collapsed into a peace rife with waterlogged corpses and the silent echoes of agony, a pair of footsteps approached the boy. He shivered with bursts of intermittent sobs, which turned to shouts and squirming when two arms heaved him against a lean chest. A deep but feminine voice tinged with a Slavic accent whispered, "Easy, little Gzesarevich."

* * *

The wind pushed the woman's brown headscarf over most of her face and lifted the hem of her blue kaftan, but she remained in the doorway as she ushered the boy inside. "The little Gzesarevich found himself in a mob." Tears of different sizes gushed from his eyes at different times as if he was unsure of whether to let them fall or suppress them.

At the arrival of his father, Gristol flung himself against the man and clutched handfuls of his regalia. The rich blue fabric, a work of tireless hours by someone whom the Gzar had never met, became stained with dark splotches of tears and blood as both substances jumped from his son's face to the uniform. Theodore looked down at the boy in surprise and conjured the barest hint of pity before the distraught sounds, muffled by his clothes but still piercing, and the damage to his outfit drew his lips into a repulsed grimace.