Today was one of those days that can’t fully be explained in one caption… all I can say is that I’m inspired on NEW LEVELS.
Shoutout to the two KINGS — @ryancoogler and @michaelbjordan.
Thank you for the invite. I’m honored, grateful, and moved. SINNERS was a blessing. I love when you two collaborate, and I love when TRUE ART — directing, writing, creating, performing — all aligns the way it did today.
Expect GREAT things from the Academy… nominations, wins, and everything in between.
Amen, Amen, and Amen.
I showed up with my loved ones, and we danced, celebrated, and soaked up the magic at the ROSS ESTATE.
Thank you @rdpeebles and @monascottyoung for being part of such a beautiful day.
Can you do Daryl finding out reader is trans? Early season 4, perhaps? :3
Attentu - Daryl Dixon x FTM Reader
Your wish is my command!!
Warnings: Gore, murder, violence, blood, cussing, mentions of transphobia and death, and addictions.
Word Count: 2.6K
You eagerly join in on the medical supply run, despite the group's awful luck. A confession from Bob has you feeling quite guilty about a personal matter...
-
It was dead.
You threw the car battery to the side, sick of the luck your supply group had. Daryl was on the other side of the room, shuffling through drawers in an attempt to obtain the right part. For an auto repair shop, it was horribly disorganized.
“Got anything?” you called over, impatient.
A grin took over your face as he tossed the find at you, catching it in a firm grip, “Nah.”
The car was not in terrible shape, not really. Some rust here and there, with paint scratched off from long road adventures before the outbreak. Your father had a similar car when you were just a child, and he was insistent that he passed on his knowledge, despite your mother’s constant objections. It was not fit for someone like you; that your hands should never be calloused from the tough ground nor covered in grease, she said. He always ended up laughing in her face.
So as he would have it, the two of you got in all sorts of trouble. Hijacking cars, picking locks, prying cabinets open with a pocket knife; all things he said would come in handy one day. Daryl seemed like he had the same type of upbringing, all rough and tumble, and perhaps that’s what drew you to him. That, or he was just really damn good with surviving.
Daryl’s footsteps creaked as he led the way out of the building, shining his flashlight on any possible threats around. Someone had to, as you weren’t keen to look after Bob found an old walker stuck under a desk, ending that misery. It was the only one left. One by one, you circled out of the building, with Bob’s silent trepidation behind you as you arrived back at the car. Daryl opened its hood again, and you both set to work.
His voice was muffled around his cigarette, “You never told us about the group you were with, before.”
You glanced up as Bob replied, “Which one?”
“You know,” he continued, when Daryl gave him a look, “when you found me out on that road, I almost kept walking.”
“Why’s that?’
“I was done being a witness. It happened two times, two different groups.”
…
“I was the last one standing, like God intended for me to see it over and over; a curse,” he shook his head, pursing his lips, “but, when it’s just you out there with the quiet, I used to drink a bottle of just 'bout anything just so I could sleep at night.”
“The run to the big spot, I only did it for me.”
You froze, a jug of clear liquid still in your hands. Daryl took it from you, completely unfazed, and managed to get a swig out of it.
He licked his lips, “You gotta keep busy somehow.”
“No, I did it so I could get me a bottle, a bottle of anything. That’s what got Zack killed.”
“That’s bullshit,” Daryl peered at him, “why don’t you get in there and try the engine? Should be the red and green wires, it ain’t rocket science.”
Even as Bob walked away, you stayed silent. Your fingers burned as you rigged the working car battery back in, but never as much as your thoughts. The other man nudged you, urging you to take your hands off as the engine roared in front of you. He clapped his hands and brought them up to his mouth; a sharp whistle rang through the air. Bob’s alcohol troubles seemed to be forgotten by Daryl, since he gave you a rusty smile while you slammed down the hood.
“Nobody coulda’ known, and you ain’t gonna be standing alone. Not anymore,” he reassured Bob.
You huffed, swinging a few plastic bags of gas in the back seats, ducking to join them. Tyreese and Michonne got the rest and the three of you squeezed together with the luggage, closing the door. With that, you left the burdensome place behind.
The ride to the college was short, but Bob still parked a little ways out, and the group set off to walk the rest of the distance. You passed most of the buildings on campus; dull brick that plants jumped at the opportunity to outgrow after a year of inactivity.
“Looks like the building we want is up ahead,” Tyreese stated.
For the first time since Bob’s confession, you spoke, “Are we splitting up? We’ll cover more ground that way.”
“Is that safe?” Michonne questioned, and Daryl eyed you.
“I know I can cover myself, if I end up alone.”
The brunette scoffed, and you shifted a glare at him, “You know I can, too. You’ve seen me.”
“I think,” Bob uttered, “it’s a good idea.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, I’ll shoot if I run into any trouble. Meet me back at the car.”
Outside of the Learning Resource Center, you split from the group, sneaking close to the ground. You heard the rest shuffle in the opposite direction with a soft “C’mon, c’mon.”, and let out a shaky breath. Two pairs, then three pairs of footsteps faded away.
The lights of the wing flickered and let out fading sparks as you padded along, dust pillowing up from wherever you stepped. God, the outbreak sure did a number on this place. Shadows grew as abundantly as the plants, but never dulled the smears of blood along the walls, floor, and shattered glass. It cracked and snapped under you, somewhere behind you, and you hissed as you looked at the walls alongside you. There were several doorways leading to different rooms, most likely supply closets or classrooms. Carefully, you dipped yourself into the nearest doorway, a heavy feeling on your back. Your heart pumped wildly in your chest and your stomach had a sick pit of anxiety as you thumbed through the biggest drawers. There were plenty of jars, containers, and vials, but none of them had what you needed. You read all the labels once, twice, the text in messy handwriting or tiny fonts.
Testosterone, in its liquid form made for injections, should be a clear liquid. You knew that much from what your provider told you, and from your own studies. Any colored liquids, or any with particles floating inside, you discarded from your search immediately. You were taking too long, you started to think, or were you? You didn’t know if you were gone for ten or if you have been here for thirty.
Once again, you slid back into the trashed hallway, trying to make your way towards the next doorway. The only things you could hear were your quick breaths and a creak, most likely from the forgotten building. A set pattern was in your mind as you dove into the room, and the haze of adrenaline made it hard to think. Walkers, as the prison liked to call them, were not your biggest concern. Even before the outbreak, it was dangerous for you to step outside; to live your life. If you passed by the wrong person, your face would be on the hot topic of the community for the week after. Getting caught was not an option.
You blinked, trying to clear the thumping in your ears. The vial’s label looked like a foreign language, though you knew it wasn’t, so you peered closer at it. A gust of hot air hit your neck, and again. Hot air. This place was cold.
Your fingers scrambled for the knife at your side, it was there, wasn’t it? You slashed before you could think. Hair scratched your fingers; your knife dug into a warm crevice. The hot air turned into a raw, groaning noise. The hot air stopped.
You pushed the body to the ground and your blade was released. The blood trickled hot down your wrist. Instead of the red you expected, it was a sludgy, filthy brown. It dripped in slow droplets on the floor beside your shoes. This was the first opportunity to look at the thing, and what a sight it was.
The knife had caved in a part of its skull, which itself was like a rotten, stomped on pumpkin. It oozed and dripped the same muck over the tile, muddying the disfigured face underneath. It made Osbourne’s stage trick look like simple child’s play to anyone who witnessed the act. Its eyes were still open; bulging out in that manic, hungry way only a madman got before the outbreak. You looked away from the mess, your breakfast seizing in your throat, and you busied yourself with getting more testosterone vials in your bag. The most important thing was that it was not human, not anymore.
Stuffing your full hand in your bag, you made a beeline for the doorway.
You should have learned your lesson.
A weight tumbled over you and knocked you to the floor, breathless. It screeched, rabid, like some sort of fucked up dog. If a dog hadn’t eaten for a month, that is. It stunk, too. It stunk so bad that you thought you might die from suffocation first.
It clawed at you, gnashing its yellow teeth. Your hands were pinned underneath the mass and you heard your knife land across the floor with a clang. This was going to be it. The end. It’s funny, isn’t it? Dying searching for your lifeline. You almost giggled at the irony.
The teeth were close to your neck, aiming to kill. To eat until you were nothing but an unrecognizable pile of flesh and bones. You had to do something, and soon. The only part of your body you could move were your legs, and you tensed them up. You were going to survive this, you were going to get back to that car.
Three.
You struggled to prop your shoulder up, knocking the danger away from your neck. Its eyes were bloodshot and cloudy. As empty as a corpse.
Two.
The walker got more desperate to bite you, wiggling around harshly on top of you. You tried your best to keep your face far away from its own, but it successfully nipped the edge of your nose. This was going to hurt.
One.
Its final noise was a gurgling one, close to your ear. The weight flopped to your right side, stilling its frugal attempt to destroy you.
“You got yourself covered, huh,” a voice remarked.
You wheezed, “Christ.”
“What were you doin’?”
“Shit.”
Daryl stepped over you, pulling his arrow out of the corpse, “I’m serious.”
You finally got your legs under you, and the first thing you did was back a good distance away from him. There was no getting out of this, you both knew that Daryl would know if you lied to him. Yet, he was one of the last people in the prison you felt comfortable telling. Daryl was a classic redneck, with a bigot older brother and a taste for mysteriousness. There was so much you didn’t know about him, and the hair on the back of your neck stood up like a wildfire. You would have much rather told Carol or even Michonne, if you had to choose.
“You know what Bob said.”
“Yeah,” he stated, “but you ain’t an alcoholic. I know that much.”
“I’m not, but that wasn’t the point. I only came on this run for one thing, and it isn’t medicine. It’s testosterone.”
“Why do you need that? You’re strong enough without that steroid shit.”
“I don’t get as much as you do naturally.”
“So a medical condition?”
“Kind of.”
“Even if it was, that don’t explain why you had to sneak away from the group to get it. What’re you hiding?”
“I’m transgender, Daryl. I wasn’t born a boy like you,” you murmured.
There was a parade of footsteps down the hallway, and Tyreese burst through the door, the others close behind. He looked spooked, with sweat dripping down his disheveled face. Michonne and, speaking of the devil, Bob looked no better off.
He exclaimed, “Jesus, there you two are. We gotta go, now.”
“What, why?”
“Walkers. Tons of ‘em. Let’s go!”
You gladly took this chance, shoving past Daryl to dart out into the hallway with the others. Everyone else was rushing, but it was a minute before you also heard footsteps behind you. The infected corpses swarmed the building, even though it wasn’t like that before, and it made you wonder what the hell released them. Your group ran up the stairs with walkers not too far behind, and those trapped banged on whatever surface they could reach.
“There was a ledge near the fire escape,” Michonne hissed, “we can go through there.”
No one responded unless a quick nod could be considered one, and you were off. Michonne went first, then Tyreese, you, and finally Daryl. Your legs were shaking, and you paid Bob a glance. He tensed up, seemingly trying to gauge the distance, before jumping. He was barely right, and landed a little too close to the edge, teetering off. His arms flailed and an army of bodies from below swarmed up to grab his heavy bag. You rushed to catch him, attempting to pull the man up, but he refused to let his backpack go.
Finally, you ripped both the man and his bag away from the grasp of the walkers, panting, “What the fuck were you doing? What’s in that bag that could possibly be so important?”
“He’s right.” Daryl took the bag from Bob, zipping it open.
Bob rushed to stop him, but it was too late. Daryl dropped the backpack as quick as he picked it up, and he seized Bob by the collar.
“If I ever catch you puttin’ a bottle before a need, I’ll feed you to the walkers myself. You hear me?”
You froze as Daryl let the shorter man down, pushing him as he did so. Everyone else shot him a disappointed look or a glare, and Michonne waved her hand. You were all to keep moving; the run was over, and on an especially sour note.
The group arrived back to the prison safe and sound, the most daring of injuries being bruises, or small cuts. Tyreese and Michonne left to do their own activities, while Bob left to lick his wounds. This retired Daryl and yourself alone, to an awkward silence. With nothing else to do, you picked at a particularly nasty cut on your forearm. It was starting to look infected.
You cleared your throat, “Do you have anything left in your bag?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I use some?”
“Nah.” Daryl tossed you his bag.
Carefully, you peeked inside. There wasn’t much left, some disinfectant spray and vials of a clear liquid. No, that couldn’t be, could it?
Testosterone. At least three good vials of it.
You raised them up to your face, not believing your eyes, “Daryl, where the hell did you get these?”
“Grabbed them from that drawer you found the others in,” he refused to make eye contact, “after you left.”
“Why?”
“You might’ve needed more than you got.”
That… meant a lot to you. You had expected him to at the very least ignore you, or even worse, disgusted by you. What were the chances he would grab extras for you, just in case? Instead of yelling or hitting or kicking you out of his life, Daryl did that. If you were being honest, this was one of the weirdest coming out stories to date, but nothing can really beat zombies being included.
“You aren’t mad?”
“Nah. I’m a little confused, though.”
“On the topic?”
Daryl sighed, “Yeah. Wasn’t educated that much.”
“Well, if you want, I could help with that.”
Just for a second, he looked you in the eyes. In that moment, you didn’t see hate, anger, or anything negative. Only a sharp, beautiful glimpse of curiosity.
