Terezi Pyrope and the Strider Manpain Out of Hell

aka holy fuck am I glad I didn’t choose to write this series with the kids/trolls positions reversed, because 25,000 words of Dave being a Pissy Immortal Brat would be. completely unnecessary.

This is an AU of an AU. THIS WILL NOT MAKE ANY SENSE UNLESS YOU’VE READ THE ENTIRETY OF Dave Strider and the Bat Out of Hell. Seriously, don’t even click the read more, you’ll spoil things for yourself and you will be lost!

Stand with your cane to the ground, held like a broadsword, legs apart, a powerstance to show you’re in charge of the situation. You’re not, but ‘fake it until you make it’ is a noble goal you can get behind. While you are skilled in the arts of ‘picking a direction and staging a speedy tactical retreat despite being legally blind,’ this predator appears as though he’d be able to catch you distressingly easy! You can only see the shadow-y outline of him, made even harder to discern by how dark it is in your apartment parking lot, but he appears lithe and built, like he could break your teeny tiny Terezi body in two with a snap of his fingers.

“Dave Strider,” he says, with his odd, rhythmic accent. “My real name is long and all your racist American asses can’t pronounce it, so swanky alias it is. Just picture me like one of your beautician babes, like this is my ‘Jennifer Starr’ or whatever.”

“That sounds like someone who would be in the adult entertainment industry! Not cutting my hair.”

“Porn star names aside, let’s get to the point of why I’m cornering you in a parking lot like you’re Deepthroat and I’m the hard-hitting journalists investigating the Watergate scandal.  In this case, the information I need from you, Blindeye-”

“Good name! Really original!”

“-relates to my wife. The daring oral report issued from your mouthhole will deal with the scandal of her leaving me. And, you see, I think this story’s going to be a hit with the public, because it’s got that ‘mysticism mystery spooky scary’ flair that the kiddos just love these days.”

He puts his hand on your shoulder, not in a friendly way, and you don’t dare move it.

“You see, and I’m not pushing petals here,” he says. “I’m a god. A pretty old one. But I’ve been jumping around timelines and all sorts of shirt so I’m not feelin’ the senility just yet. I’m the god of time, music, and regrets. The last one is kind of like my food source, actually, I feed off of it like some kind of sad emo vampire.”

“You’re insane,” you say, brushing his hand off your shoulder. You might be terrified, but you have morals to uphold! “I will not help you stalk that poor girl.”

“Oh, ha, sorry, did I say this was an option? Because it’s not, babe.”

And he does something then, you see him move through your barely working eyes, and your body stops. Your hands freeze around your cane, your arms and legs cease pumping blood through them, you heart goes silent, your breath and lungs halt in place. For a brief moment, you think you’re dead, but the gears in your head still work and you come to the entirely logical conclusion that…

Dave Strider just stopped your time.

“You’ve got my wife’s time signature on you,” he says. “So we’re going to do some wacky Doctor Who style timeline-hopping together until we can figure out where the fuck she is. Then, I’ll let you fly free to whatever you want to do, and we both kick it our separate ways. Hell, you’ll probably get something out of the deal, if you want, because I’ve got a heck of a lot of extra power to burn due to, well… You know how many people ‘regret’ running into me? It’s a whole lot. You’re doing it right now, and god, let me tell you, it tastes delish.”

You might have made a tiny mistake in your calculations by taking a shortcut across the parking lot tonight.

***********

((((((((((scene #2, because the world is definitely in need of more strider manpain because I have no self control)))))))))))))))

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You hide behind a mysterious tropical plant that smells like bubblegum and hope to high heavens it doesn’t give you a rash while waiting for Dave’s scene to end. You can’t understand a lick of it, and you can’t particularly see them either, but you’re getting the general gist of the debacale based on lumps of people-sized fog and the tone of voices and the smell of death in the air.

Dave’s friend is dead. The wife is chewing him out about it. You discern, logically and through unsaid statements, that Dave tried desperately to prevent this death. Tried to keep his poor friend alive through many, many time travellings and other nonsense and never got to save those close to him. You come to a realization that this part of his life is where it all fell apart, where he lost everyone. Pitiful.

You hear the crack of his wife’s teleportation. You decide that enough is enough, time loops and inconsistencies be damned, and you stand up. You walk towards Dave, cane clacking against the stone of the mountain. You give him a curious tap, and it appears he’s kneeling upright, so you circle around to the front of him and reach out to his face. You don’t miss, your hand settling against against his cheek. You haven’t felt out what he looks like, so it comes as a surprise to feel his slim jawline– you thought it’d be more defined. It fits nicely in the cup of your palm.

“Poor little god-boy,” you say. “Berating me for my lovelife and my self-worth, when he has none of his own.”

“Tzintiquxletzilequi takixhiwzcotfi TZ.”

Ah, good, he recognizes you. “I like your language, Mr. Strider. It sings just like you do. The pretend language barrier you’re giving yourself also prevents you from interrupting dramatic speeches I will make that will follow shortly! I expect you to listen, because I have important things to say.”

You press both your hands on his cheeks, stand so close to him you feel his chest on your stomach, his chin tilted up and almost touching your rather nonexistent breasts. “Did you know? I just broke up with a boyfriend of six years because I knew I was dependant upon him. I knew I had grown complacent, fragile, and worthless through faults of my own and my interactions with him. I was very, very sad when I left, and I am still very, very sad! I can guarantee, however, he does not at all feel the same sadness as I do. And… I suppose I have to thank you, that the little time travel adventure brought out something important, something I never realized I didn’t learn. I am currently in the midst of learning a lesson, a very, very important lesson.

“Dave, I am learning I do not need him. I just need me.” You slip your fingers through his soft, lovely hair. Then, quietly, as so not to push him further than he can handle, you say, “You don’t need her to make you whole.”

You brush your thumbs against his cheeks, and wetness hits them. He’s crying. You want to lick the tears away, taste the despair and sadness, but you resist. He wraps his arms behind your knees and around your waist, hugs you close so his chin really is against your breasts and he’s looking up at you. You like it, you like feeling him raw and open because you get to examine every part of him languidly before you help put him back together.

“God-boy,” you say, and you lean back and down to him. “I could eat you up.”

You want to kiss him. You want to kiss him before he puts his mask on again, before he stands on his feet. You want to kiss the salt on his mouth, kiss it all away before he forces it together again. His breath is soft on your lips, and you brush against them as he says with a whisper, “Don’t. You’ll regret it. Everyone does.”

“Oh, god-kid, how insulting. If anything, you’ll regret me.”