Welcome. You can call me Coyote, or Yote for short. I'm a printer by day and an artist/writer by night.
I love everything horror and need constant audio stimulation. Please drop music recommendations in my mailbox.
A good portion of the work I create is explicit (sex, gore, violence, and/or something in between). I block liberally, and I'd prefer people under 18 not interact with me.
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Early birthday gift for a friend ♡ If you like Resident Evil, slow burn, and body horror, then please please please check out their fic Cabin in the Weeds on AO3.
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Adrian had sent Cyrus on another run. He wasn’t sure if it was punishment or reward, but the time away from the ranch would be good for him. He needed to clear his head. Find a way to forget about the barn and ghost laid across the hay.
There had always been an air of mystery to the woman of the house. She had taken him under her wing since everything had gone to shit. Before the raid, he’d only interacted with her a handful of times around the ranch. Quiet, except when she was getting after the boys for their shenanigans. Cyrus always admired her strength, watching her rope calves and goats faster than most of the ranch hands even at the age of 50.
After a long day of hustling stock, she had confided in Cyrus about her time doing rodeo as a young girl. Her parents hated it. They’d wanted her to have a more traditional life as a pretty wife on the arm of a good Christian man. But they finally gave in to her pleas and let her take horse riding lessons at the nearby race track. It was actually how she had met Mr. Delaney, whose father owned the track. He typically only worked there during the off season, giving private lessons to those who could afford it. He’d taught her how to ride, how to rope, and eventually sponsored her at her first rodeo.
She’d always wanted to get on a bull, but Mr. Delaney wouldn’t even let her look at a bucking horse. So instead he bought her a beautiful paint named Marigold and she did barrel racing. She was good at it too. Good enough to qualify in the top 15 of the PRCA three years in a row, though she never moved on to the NFR. She still had some of the trophies on display in Mr. Delaney’s old office. Cyrus caught a glimpse of them once while helping her clean out some old files. They’d collected a lot of dust over the years.
“Do you miss it?” He had asked.
“It was not in God’s plan for me to be a rodeo queen,” she merely responded, digging her smokes from her pocket. Her hands looked rough as she tapped the carton against the heel of her palm.
Cyrus didn’t dare pry any more than he already had.
Something shifted between them after that. An unspoken understanding. She offered him more jobs, let him tag along for others. Cyrus became a regular in the Delaney home, eating dinner and sometimes crashing in the guest bedroom when he drank too much. Adrian would always make him eggs and toast for his hangover the next day.
The sun had long since set, turning the plains into inky black on both sides of the road. Not that Cyrus believed in monsters or anything, but sometimes he wondered if anything was running out there in the golden grass, just along the edge of his headlight. A creature with glistening fangs and foul breath that could run faster than any car for hours. Waiting for his inevitable crash when he took a turn too fast.
“Haven’t you heard about the Dogman,” Sara had teased one summer when they were driving back home after a long day in town. His parents were quietly bickering up front, both of them probably as drunk as a skunk. Cyrus could still remember the cool breeze of the cracked window next to him, venting out the plumes of smoke from his father’s cigarette. “It’s probably him out there right now, waiting to bite your toes and eat your guts!” She pinched his stomach with a growl.
He’d been so scared then, only comforted when he crawled into her bed later that night. “When did you become such a scaredy cat? Don’t you know I’ll always protect you?” Cyrus could still remember the softness of her body as he began to drift off.
Sometimes he wondered if he'd still be that terrified little boy, trembling in his boots, if Sara hadn’t been around. If she had decided to leave after graduation like she originally planned. College. Career. She’d probably be alive right now. Married to a nice guy with a little boy and girl. It was nice to think of her as a stay-at-home-ma, but she liked to work. Maybe as a teacher or veterinarian. She’d tuck her kids every night, singing them to sleep with her favorite Reba songs.
Cyrus rubbed his eyes with a heavy sigh.
The drive didn’t usually feel this long, but tonight the road seemed to go on forever. The hypnotic, flat stretches occasionally broken up by bends. Eventually dipping and rising over lazy hills like a children’s roller coaster ride. Not enough to make Cyrus’ stomach drop, but enough to make his heart flutter when he hit the acceleration a little too hard.
And he hadn’t even hit the mountains yet.
He reached for the dial, clicking through several stations of static before finally the rumble of a man’s voice broke through. Cryus paused. He gauged the low baritone and twangy guitar before rolling the knob again. Finally, he settled on a rock station. Nothing like a little Pantera to shake the nerves away. His thumbs tapped at the wheel, desperately trying to keep in tempo with the drums.
He’d meet someone just outside of Great Falls. Sometimes it was a guy named Shawn. Other times, a Marc. Men from Canada with funny accents, though they probably said the same about him. Cyrus was never sure until he pulled into the truck stop. Always a black semi-truck with no markings. He’d parked a few spots away, waiting for a signal from the driver. Pistol loaded and on his hip, he’d hand off several discreet packages and receive money, though sometimes it was the other way around, before heading back home.
He usually stopped in Billings for the night on his way back. There was a shabby little motel that only charged him half the rate. No doubt, it was Delaney blood that ran the place. After a quick stop at the liquor store, he’d sprawl out on the motel bed, crack open a beer, and watch some pay-per-view. Eventually, he’d pass out with his hand down his pants and socks still on.
It was just a pool away from being a mini vacation.
There was still another good hour before the turn off. Cyrus patted at his breast pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. Maybe the nicotine would drive away the halo of sleepiness that threatened to take hold of him. He shook one free before dumping the bic lighter in his hand. It took a few clicks before a flame finally sparked to life.
Again his mind drifted. Back to Ryker, sobbing into the dirt. He’d never quite understood why the twins looked so different from Adrian. With their tanned skin that was more than sunkissed and dark wavy hair, they stood out next to everyone else. They didn’t even quite look like their father, except for maybe in the eyes. Stormy eyes that reminded Cyrus of the spring. He had heard his sister whispering about it to one of the other ranch hands before. A rumor that Adrian had an affair. Back then, Cyrus didn’t think much of it. If anything, he probably thought the same thing. But now? He can't imagine her ever doing such a thing.
What Ryker was up to now? Was he sleeping? Or wide awake—writhing around in the hay? Sobbing endlessly and smelling of iron and sweat? Maybe even waiting for Cyrus’ return.
Cyrus shifted in his seat.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ramming is dick inside that fuckin’ mutt. The noise he made. He’d never fucked a guy before, but it had been—
Well, nothing. It had been nothing. He had been drunk. Desperate, even, to get his rocks off. If he couldn’t have what he wanted, he'd just take it from the first place he could find it. Ryker deserved it, anyway, after all the mouthing off. Lie after lie after lie. He opened his pretty lil lips and nothing but deceit spilled out. At least stuffing a cock in his mouth made him quiet.
Sure, it had felt good, but that didn’t mean nothin’. He had stuck his dick in a lot of things, some more questionable than Ryker Delaney, and that didn’t make nothin’ different. A hole was a hole, his cousin had said once. There was no way Cyrus was a cocksucker because he loved her.
Acid filled the back of Cyrus’ throat. He turned the music up, desperate to blare out the thoughts. His foot flexed, easing the pedal closer to the floor. He barely even felt the speed as his truck began to ascend a hill.
Sara.
It always came back to Sara. Sara with the halo around her head. Who’d put bandaids on his scraps and cuts. Who held him when he finally managed to flee from the dark void in the corner of his room that threatened to swallow him whole. Who pulled his ear whenever he got in trouble. Gave him a good scolding before giving him a kiss on the crown of his head.
Cyrus had loved her.
He loved her, he loved her, he loved her and now she was gone. Her smell. Her clothes. Her makeup. Her jewelry. All the strange little trinkets she’s collected over the years. Chewed up by a fire his mother and father had set. They, too, abandoned Cyrus, most likely running from the very Death that took her. All that he had left to remember her by was the broken necklace that he found in the driveway—a gold cross with tiny copper roses. It had most likely been torn off her the night she died. Cyrus had given it a new home—dangling from the rear view mirror of his truck.
Sometimes at night, when the thoughts began to creep in, he’d think about that day. Think about how she begged and screamed. Crying for them to stop. The sound would play in a loop, almost like a broken record, in his head. If only he had been stronger or hadn’t been such a royal fuck up, maybe he could have saved her. If he hadn’t fucked around and broke his ankle weeks ago. And then maybe—
Well, maybe it would have been him tearing into her blouse like a feral animal.
Now Sara was just a rotten corpse. Chewed on by maggots and the like. Feasting away on her flesh in a way Cyrus had only dreamed of. There was probably nothing even left at this point. Just bits of leather skin stretched across old bones. A husk of the beautiful woman she once was.
So Cyrus drank. It didn’t always drown out the thoughts, but at least they’d go quiet for a bit. A case or two of beer could usually do the trick, though sometimes he’d treat himself to a bottle of Jäger. Anything to get him drunk. Get him stupid. The world needed to fade away until the morning light burned its way through his curtains.
Gravity suddenly began to pull at Cyrus’ gut. He blinked, eyes zeroing in on the neon yellow stuttering down the center of the roads as it tilted down towards the bowels of hell. He hadn’t even realized his foot was lead, crushing the pedal to the floor. Shortly up ahead, a silver railing and reflective arrows glinted at him through the inky void of night. It would only be moments before the inevitable crash.
“Oh fuck—”
Cyrus hit the breaks, jerking the wheel. It was almost too much, the back end of his truck fishtailing. He was sure he felt half the truck go into the air, tires squealing on asphalt. His final moments flashed in his mind’s eye as he paralleled the guardrail: truck rolling through the metal barrier and down the grassy hillside. It was a decent drop. At least a good couple yards. He could almost hear the crunching of metal and bone as he became one with the vehicle.
Not such a bad thought if it meant he could be with Sara again.
The smell of burnt rubber brought Cyrus back to his senses. Nothing moved, not even him. He blinked, staring out into the sudden stillness of the night. Before him laid a straight stretch of road that faded into the black silhouette of the mountains. The engine clicked and glugged, rattled by its brief dance with death.
Something stung against his right palm. Cyrus pulled his hand away from the wheel, staring down at the cross embedded there. Small beads of blood had bloomed at each point, filling in the little gaps of the rose petals. The chain was broken yet again, digging into one of the lines of his palm.
When had he even grabbed it?
The sight shook something in Cyrus—a deep hysterical sob mixed with laughter. He pressed the cross to his lips, the metal still warm from his palm. The taste of iron bled on the tip of his tongue. He could feel her then, hands cupping his temples and kissing his forehead. It almost felt too real to be a memory.
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hey Yote, Im not sure if you're checking your private messages it's cool if not. If you do here's dark hypnotic french rap: La chanson du mort vivant by Casey/Zone Libre
Hello anon! Thanks for sending this my way! Really fantastic (and painfully relatable). I love the vibe! I'd love to hear more rap if you have any other reccs!
This is for my dear friend and moot @coyotehusk, since I missed their birthday. I still wanted to make something because they have inspired me in so many different ways. I love their writing and their artwork. It is such a breath of fresh air to see someone unabashedly making art that they love. So, in the spirit of making art, I wrote this and added a little sketch to go with it :3 Here's to many more birthdays!
[Warnings for physical violence, blood, implied noncon]
Summertime was terrible for business at the manor. Not in the sense that it stopped it. No, if anything business was booming. It made working terrible. Even at night, the damp air stuck to Nancy’s skin like glue. Every few seconds he dragged the bottom of his t-shirt up to his face, patting drops of sweat from his forehead. Any physical activity was made about a thousand times more difficult in the smothering heat. Unfortunately, physical activity was a requirement for the job.
He’d fucked up. Let a visitor beat up on his coworker without intervening. It wasn’t until his coworker got the upper hand that he moved to put out his cigarette. “What the fuck is your problem, Nance?!” Alex growled, pinning the squirming body beneath her knee. “Were you just gonna let this asshole beat the shit out of me?”
Nancy huffed out a laugh, kneeling to grab the visitor by the back of their neck. “Just wanted to see if you could handle it,” he sighed. The two had to work together to shove the visitor out of the house and down the long driveway. They knew that the game was over once visitors started to fight back. You never fought back at Nettlemouth. Not without consequences.
As soon as the two returned to the manor’s battered front door, Alex’s hands were on Nancy. Nearly a whole foot taller, it was easy for her to drag the smaller man around. Her fists gripped that sweat-stained t-shirt and almost ripped it off Nancy’s torso. He was a flurry of limbs, frantically swiping at Alex’s face to find purchase at her eyes. It was no use. Her reach was far longer than his.
She lifted Nancy off the ground and threw him from the porch. His body crashed into the gravel hard enough to send him skidding a few inches farther. Immediately he felt a throbbing pain shoot through his left arm. Alex didn’t give him any time to recover. Her frame enveloped him in an instant, fists colliding into the smaller man’s chest one after the other. Nancy turned onto his side to try and drag himself away, but it did no good. Alex gripped his waist in the crook of her long arm and pulled him onto his belly. Once he felt her fingers card through his hair, his hands shot up to pull them away. “What are you fucking doing?! Let me go!!”
Alex said nothing. Her grip in Nancy’s blonde hair nearly yanked the scalp from his skull. She placed her knee against his spine, pushing her weight into it. All at once Alex’s fist pulled his head up, only to slam it into the gravel. Rocks raked into his cheekbones, his teeth, against his browbone. Over and over his face struck the unforgiving ground. Nancy couldn’t help but writhe under the pressure, blood running from his nose and lips.
A few more passionate strikes and Alex released her grip on the poor man’s scalp. Nancy kept pushing against the ground in an attempt to throw her weight from his back. Though she’d let go, her knee only pressed harder into the middle of Nancy’s spine. Pain radiated through his torso as if it would snap in half. “You psychopath!! Let me go before you break my fucking back!” Nancy shouted. Even though he couldn’t see, he swore he could feel Alex smirk behind him. “Are you deaf? Let me go!”
A moment passed before the weight lifted from Nancy’s body. Immediately he scrambled to his feet, readying himself for something more. Alex only dusted herself off. “There. Now you know how it feels,” She said, her breath heavy. “Don’t just stand there next time like a bitch.”
Nancy waited for Alex to turn around before he lunged at her. He gripped the back of Alex’s flannel shirt in an attempt to drag her to the ground. Before he could put any more effort into bringing her closer, Alex whipped back an elbow, right at his temple.
Lights out.
—
By the time he next opened his eyes, Nancy’s skin was melting off the bone. He’d been left lying there in the driveway to bake, for the last however many hours. Little by little his senses came back. Faint whispers of cigarette smoke wafted over his sore body.
Alex.
He propped himself up on aching elbows, squinting against the sunlight. “Fuck do you want?” he grunted. She was leaning against the porch railing, cigarette dangling from her lips. “Feeling better?” she said, a hint of malice in her tone. Her long dark hair was in a lazy braid. She was wearing the same tattered blue jeans and black tank top as the previous night. Every scar from working the manor was on display, sinewy arms folded tightly across her chest.
Nancy couldn’t find it in himself to be furious. The sun and the ache sapped most of the fight out of him. All he wanted was to go inside, clean the grime off, and get a cold drink. What little anger left was merely a simmer compared to last night. He could be angry again later, when he was less sore.
Slowly Nancy pried himself off the gravel, dusting off his jeans as he stood. He shouldered past her without so much as looking in her direction. She exhaled the smoke from her lungs in his direction, trying to get another rise out of him. Fucking bitch.
His beat-up sneakers carried him through the front door, past the living room, and into the kitchen. The “manor” itself was nothing more than a big house, built by people who lived much more comfortably than he did now. It was a shell of its former self from years of poor maintenance. The boss didn’t want outsiders poking around out here, even if it was just the TV guy. Nancy wished he would at least let that poor bastard come by. He was getting tired of rewatching the same VCRs over and over again.
The fridge was just as sorry as the other pieces of the house. Covered in cheap magnets and sticky notes. The latter mostly written in chicken scratch by other members of the manor team. If you could call them that, of course. A “team”. The only thing they all had in common was a deep-set sadistic streak and bad attitudes. It was a wonder they could work together long enough to get anything done.
He yanked a cold beer from the fridge and set it against the side of his aching temple. The kitchen table chair creaked in protest as he plopped down. He couldn’t help but close his eyes for a second. Sweat from the bottle dripped down his cheek.
He could hear heavy boots hit the creaking floorboards to the kitchen. She just had to run it, his moment of silence. As if last night wasn’t enough. “Fuck off, ‘Lex. You won, okay? Just let me sit here,” Nancy groaned, one eye open. Alex laughed, grabbing a soda from the fridge only to sit opposite him. She popped the cap against the side of the table.
“Thirsty, Nance?”
“No, I’m just holding this here for fun. Yes, I’m thirsty. I’ve been baking in the fucking sun for the last however many hours. You could have woke me, by the way. Bitch,” he snapped, closing his eyes again.
He heard her move, but he didn’t open his eyes again until the cold glass of her soda bottle hit his lips. On impulse he opened his mouth to speak, but as soon as his teeth parted she was shoving the bottle down his throat. The beer bottle fell to the ground immediately. Desperately Nancy tried to pry her wrist away from his mouth. She smiled, all teeth and sharp edges. “You’re cute when you shut the fuck up. I should’ve beat the hell out of you earlier,” she cooed.
His throat closed against the bottleneck in a violent gag. The liquid was pouring down the sides of his mouth, onto his already soiled shirt. It flooded his lungs, making him cough against her force. Prying her fist off the glass didn’t work. Panicked, he flung his legs out trying to kick at her midsection or drop her somehow. Alex shifted, pulling the bottle back slightly to try and avoid him. His heel finally connected with her hip so hard the opposing force sent his chair crashing to the floor.
His teeth clicked against the glass lip of the soda as he went down. Nancy swore his skull busted from spine to forehead once he landed. Pain shocked his entire upper half.
He brought a hand up to soothe his head, looking blearily up at his attacker. His lungs kept contracting in heavy coughs, trying to expel the soda caught there.
Alex just stood over him, smirking.
“It’s just you and me now, Nance. I think we can make something out of this.”
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HAHA Killian is a bit of a bastard with no remorse. They kind of just take whatever organ they want for a bit, run a bunch of test on it, and sometimes even implant it into other creatures. Honestly, the kidney removal was probably the “nicest” surgery performed on Nico.
And admittedly, Nico can grow back most things. It’s just slow and often painful.