Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl Dixon, Rick Grimes
Prompt: this was written for the prompt "Ambushed" for @whumpers-monthly
Warnings: mentions of fight, blood, bruises, loss of consciousness
A/N: this is set somewhere during the beginning of season 3, when the group resides at the prison.
Daryl always preferred going hunting alone. It meant he could do things his way and didn't have to mind anyone else. And, also, he secretly liked the escape from the sometimes crowded-feeling prison living environments.
But on this hunting trip today, Daryl had the distinct feeling that he wasn't alone. There was the constant feeling of being followed, watched, and the general sensation of him not being the only one out in the woods today.
Daryl growled a few cursed words under his breath as yet another rustle of leaves pulled him out of his concentration. He knew the sounds of all kinds of animals as they moved through the woods, and he could even identify a walker, but this was neither.
Even though he was ill at ease, Daryl turned his attention back to the deer he had just spotted about a 100 meters ahead. He had already caught several rabbits and squirrels, but this deer would make a nice addition and feed plenty of mouths back at the prison.
Daryl silently raised his crossbow and took aim. He leveled out his breathing as he chose the perfect spot for the arrow. His finger hovered over the trigger, before he finally pulled it with one quick motion.
The moment he pulled the trigger of his crossbow, he heard it.
Footsteps... Running footsteps... and most definitely coming his way...
Daryl whipped around in a flash, but he was already too late.
He just registered someone running towards him at full speed, and he knew instantly that he was under attack. Finally, here was the ambush he had been slowly walking into all day long. And whoever was behind this ambush, executed it perfectly.
Before Daryl could even fully turn around, he had been bowled over by the person running towards him. His crossbow fell from his reach as he smacked hard into the ground, bruising at least a few ribs in the process.
Biting through the pain of the impact his ribs had taken, Daryl reached for the spare knife hidden in his boot. But his attempt was blocked by a hard kick in the stomach, followed by the nose of a boot catching him painfully in the lower back.
The involuntary coughing fit the two hard kicks caused, was enough for the attacker to be on top of Daryl.
"I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I must." The attacker pressed the barrel of a pistol into Daryl's chest.
Daryl grudgingly gave up his fight, releasing the hold he had on his attacker and raising his hands in silent surrender.
For the first time now, he was face to face with his attacker: a man with a scarf covering half his face, and behind him two scared-looking teenagers aiming their shotguns at him.
Daryl wanted to struggle with all his might, but the man on top of him was eerily strong. And since he was the one with his back pressed into the ground and a pistol aimed at him, Daryl was at a huge disadvantage and he knew it. So for now, he did nothing.
"We're only here for the wildlife you've hunted." The man almost sounded sorry for his own actions. "Just give up the kills and we'll be gone. No one needs to get hurt any further."
"Never," Daryl growled back instinctively.
"Than I'm sorry." The man's apology caught Daryl off guard, and maybe that was why the following punch landed so hard.
Without any words or warning, the attacker swung his fist. Daryl caught the full, considerable force of the punch with his jaw, and immediately it was lights out...
-----
"Daryl... come on... wake up..."
Someone was shaking his shoulder, and he recognized the voice that spoke.
Daryl slowly opened his eyes. His jaw hurt in spectacular fashion and his head felt fuzzy with the after-effect of unconsciousness. His entire body felt bruised and battered from the beating he took.
Daryl's gaze swam around for a few seconds, but finally landed on Rick hovering over him and Glenn a few feet further back.
For a moment he did not know where he was, but he didn't need long for it all to come excruciatingly back to him.
"What the..." Daryl grumbled. The rest of his sentence was lost in a pained grunt, as his bruised and swollen jaw protested.
"I was about to ask you the same thing." Rick frowned in worry at his clearly injured friend. "We went looking for you when you didn't return from the hunt. Glenn and I found you here some 30 minutes ago, and I've been trying to get you to wake up all this time. Looks like you've been out for a while. What the hell happened to you?"
Daryl, who had been lying on his side, slowly rolled himself onto his back. He gently felt the painful lump which had formed along his jaw before he spoke. "I got ambushed."
"Ambushed?!" Glenn now stepped closer, too.
Daryl growled a soft confirmation. "They were after the kills. I knew I was being followed, and I should have turned back."
Daryl slowly sat upright now, but immediately held his hands over his eyes as a sudden wave of dizziness took a hold of him.
Rick saw it. He lowered himself onto his haunches in front of Daryl and placed a hand on the archer's shoulder. "Are you okay? It looks like that was some ambush, they got you good."
"That guy packed a punch," Daryl grumbled, hating to admit that he was outsmarted.
"Must've been," Glenn scoffed darkly, "you've been missing for half a day."
Daryl frowned at that last remark. He realized only now how lucky he had been not to have been killed by the attackers and not to have been mauled by a walked while he lay unconscious.
"We need to get back." Daryl did not wait for any response. He quickly scrambled to his feet, but immediately regretted it. A blinding pain shot through his entire body, combined with another wave of vertigo, and made him stagger.
"Whoa, easy." Rick darted forward to sling an arm around Daryl's waist to steady him. Daryl winced audibly as Rick's well-meant arm around him brushed against the bruises on his back and sides, which the attacker's kicks had clearly caused, too.
Rick frowned at Daryl's obvious discomfort. "When we get back to the prison, I'm asking Hershel to check you over."
Daryl nodded silently. He felt the heavy after-effects of taking a beating and being knocked unconscious, so he was not going to protest to that at all.
If you want to know more about my writing, go to the Useful Links section.
If you want to make a request from my prompts list, click here
This prompt was submitted by an anon with the following addition:
(Double points if the whumpee can't fight them off or gets drugged/knocked out 😉)
Thank you very much for this prompt anon!
Share your best posts with us and especially with anon. Tag your posts with #whumpers-monthly and #issue no 14 If you make a gifset for the prompt, please also add the tag #whumpedit
If you already made a post that fits this prompt, reblog that post and tag @whumpers-monthly
Please add the name of the whumpee and the movie or show your content is from.
An excerpt from my Young Hercules fic New Friends, Old Enemies. Sligthly adjusted to work better out of context.
-
The market square had been practically packed with people enjoying the festivities, but the alley they now entered was completely deserted, save for a few large barrels and a shaggy looking cart. Iolaus was bouncing ahead, light on his feet, eager to get to their destination. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. Except for Hercules, who had just entered the alley a few steps behind him, the narrow street looked empty, but something made the hair on the back of Iolaus' neck stand up. Something was wrong. "Ahem, Herc," he said hesitantly, taking a few steps backwards. "I think I might’ve made a big mistake." He turned around. "Let's go back."
But as he turned around, he saw several young thugs enter the alley behind Hercules, effectively blocking the way out. He recognized some of them from his street gang days, but there were also some new faces. Nasty looking faces. And several of them were carrying weapons, which hadn’t been typical when Iolaus was running with them. Not a good sign.
On high alert, he quickly spun around again as he heard shuffling footsteps behind him. As he did so, he could see four more young men step out from behind the barrels and cart. ‘Trapped. Played like a fool. Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ Right in front of him was Kratus, the Lowack gang's usually charismatic leader, with a far from pleasant smile on his face.
Hercules folded his arms. "What do you know, Iolaus, it looks like we don't have to go any further. The performing clowns have come to greet us personally," he quipped. But Iolaus didn’t laugh. Maybe Hercules with his demigod strength and reflexes wasn’t phased by the scene, but Iolaus did not enjoy the feeling of being cornered, outnumbered and out-armed.
Most of the thugs scowled at the mocking joke, but Kratus' oily smile didn't waver. “Well done, Iolaus. Right where we wanted him. Maybe you could earn back your place with us after all."
"Keep dreaming, you bastard!" Iolaus fumed at the insinuation that he had sat his friend up on purpose.
"The bastard's right behind you.” Kratus smiled wickedly. “And he'll get what's coming to him."
“Iolaus?” Hercules turned his head, giving his friend a questioning look.
No time to worry about what Hercules might be thinking right now. “Herc, behind you!” Iolaus called out, right as one of the gang members raised a large cudgel, aiming at the back of the demigod’s head. Hercules, reacting with instinct, ducked and the swing went wide, taking the attacker off balance.
Iolaus launched himself at Kratus. But the gang leader jumped back out of reach, more than happy to let his goons handle the fighting for him. One of them aimed a swing at Iolaus who just barely was able to raise his arm in time to divert it. A well-placed kick to the knee sent his attacker to the ground. Despite himself, Iolaus grinned, he did love the way his heart raced in a fight. A flash of metal to his right alerted him of the incoming blade, and it was just enough to make him turn sideways right before the sword whooshed by in front of his nose. ‘They really mean business’, he thought with a chill. The sudden movement almost made him lose his balance. He took one step backwards to steady himself, and realized he was up against the alley wall. ‘Crap’.
From the corner of his eye, Iolaus could see Hercules punch one guy hard enough to bring down two more on their way to the ground. But still, there were way more thugs standing than there were on the ground. To his dismay, Iolaus realized that his decision to go on the offensive had left both cadets on their own, unable to protect each other's backs like they’d trained.
Iolaus ducked an incoming punch aimed at his face, and took satisfaction in the painful sound of the fist connecting full force with the stone wall behind him. On his way back up he smoothly landed an uppercut to the guy’s jaw. The would-be assailant crumbled in a heap, taking Iolaus slightly off balance as he fell over the cadet’s feet. Iolaus only just had time to doge a second swing of the sword, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the cudgel to his stomach. It knocked the wind out of him as he doubled over.
From his hunched-over position, Iolaus could barely see Hercules because of all the thugs surrounding him. But a backwards kick from the demigod cleared one of the attackers, giving Iolaus a better view.
Then, time seemed to slow down. Iolaus saw one of them pull a large knife from his belt at the same time as he advanced towards Hercules’ unprotected back. Iolaus tried to call out a warning, but he was still straining to suck air back into his lungs. In horror, he watched as the attacker plunged the knife deep into his friend’s side. As in slow motion, he saw Hercules turn, using a backhand to effortlessly knock aside the assailant, and the knife with him, tearing the wound open. Only then did the Hercules look down to his own side to stare in puzzlement at the gaping hole, and the blood oozing out. The demigod blinked in confusion, once, twice, before his legs gave out beneath him, and he crumbled to the ground like a ragdoll.
“Noooo!” Iolaus heard his own desperate scream as if it belonged to someone else. But the scream was cut off by a sudden, sharp pain at the back of his head, and everything went black.
Cahir spurs his horse. It does not take long and he is back on the wagon track. For a fleeting moment he has the disconcerting feeling that somebody - or something - is watching him. He reins in his horse, draws his sword and gazes around. Nothing there. Must be his paranoia playing tricks on him again. He is just about to sheath his sword when suddenly three men jump out of the bushes by the road, screaming and brandishing heavy, iron-studded clubs in their hands. Brigands. An ambush. Fuck.
Spooked by the racket, the chestnut colt rears high up into the air, then back kicks and bolts. Cahir, no less surprised than his horse, is thrown off and lands ungently on the hard surface of the track. At least he still has his sword in hand. The brigands circle him. Why though, eludes Cahir as his only possession of any worth has just run off at high speed. Perhaps they just want a fight? Well, they can have one.
Warning: Graphic depiction of violence ahead
He does not wait for the brigands to attack, no, that is not his style. Quick as lightning he turns to the right and lunges at the burly bandit coming at him from that side. The man cries out in agony as the keen Nilfgaardian blade cuts into his thigh. He does not fall, though, but raises his club. Cahir evades the blow and slices the man's throat open with a swift stroke of his sword. Blood spouts from the brigand's carotid artery speckling Cahir's face with a fine spray of scarlet. Then, the other two bandits are upon him. They are both tall and broadly-built and look like they have been in plenty of fights before. A fierce and deadly struggle ensues. By a hair's breadth, Cahir manages to dodge a potentially lethal blow to his head. Instead it connects with his left shoulder. He groans, then strikes at the owner of the club who swiftly jumps out of the range of the deadly blade. Before Cahir can aim another blow at the man with the shaggy, grey-tinged black beard, his much younger, equally bearded comrade attacks from the side. The other brigand joins him with a grim laugh. Are they father and son? Judging by their looks and the way they fight together in unison it seems likely. Cahir has to dodge several vicious blows from the pair before he finally manages to sink his sword into the younger bandit’s guts. The man cries out in pain and terror and falls to his knees, trying to staunch the gush of blood with both his hands after Cahir has yanked his sword out of the brigand's abdomen.
"No!" roars the last bandit standing, his face contorted in a grimace of hate and anguish. "You'll pay for that, bastard!" He leaps at Cahir, swinging his weapon, the pointy metal studs protruding from its dark wood gleaming in the morning sun. Cahir just so avoids a hit to his head but is struck in the arm near the elbow, this time the right one. His sword clatters to the ground and he stumbles backward, heaving a moan of agony.
"Got you!" the brigand jeers, then attacks again. With his left hand, Cahir fumbles for the dagger in his belt while jumping to the side just in time to not have his head bashed in by another heavy blow of the club. With a thud the deadly weapon hits the ground instead, throwing its owner off balance for a moment. Just long enough for Cahir to grip his dagger tightly. The two men stare at each other. Both are panting heavily. As the brigand once more swings his club at Cahir, he quickly ducks away under the man's arm and stabs him between the ribs. The bandit gives a roar of pain, then brings down his club once more. It catches Cahir in the side of the head the very same moment he stabs the brigand through the heart. Both men fall to the ground in a heap. Dark blood pools on the hard, compacted soil of the forest track.
