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criminal intent, thief in the night

pairing: stain/dabi (stabi), implied shigadabi rating: teen word count: 1.5k prompt: jail time/jailbreak summary: “he can tell that he’s just a broken thing trying to function as best as he can in a body that doesn’t seem to fit him quite right, still searching for a purpose in his likely mess of a life.” or; dabi and shiga break stain out of jail

i’m a day early BUT! this is my short little bit for stain week! i had so much fun with this because i’ve been thinking about a jailbreak fic for him for a while. i love him so very much and i wanted to write more but Life! ;~; i absolutely adore this idea and the concept of character weeks in general, so i hope there’s more for him and my favorites!

i’m planning on posting a second nsfw part to this on ao3 because how can i NOT

He’s hauled out of his sleep by the crescendoing sounds of explosions and shrill alarms.

The thing is, days in his cells are monotonous at best. When he wakes, he’s met with the sterile sight of the wall adjacent from his chair until the guards bring food to his cell, unstrapping some of his restraints in a manner that’s more violent than necessary. Then, he’s wrapped back up in his makeshift throne until it’s time for lunch, dinner. Between these events, he’s walked to the bathrooms to relieve himself and once a week, he’s allowed a shower. It’s a luxury he cherishes; cold water and harsh soap feel like long forgotten comfort and heaven in this man-made hell. There’s no variation at all, days filled with mind numbing static and thoughts that never seem to stop coming and if he was a lesser man, he’s absolutely certain he would’ve gone insane by now. There is no chance for redemption here; Tartarus is a place meant to bend and break the soul. But, as it stands, he’s helpless to do anything but wait. For what, he doesn’t know. It could be his death, it could be his release. He’s not sure how long he’s been in this cell, or how long he’s going to continue to be in this cell, but in any case, he’s sure that there’s no happy ending in his future. In his youth, he made a vow to himself to die for his cause, to die trying to preserve the sanctimonious quality of the hero word and he still holds that same unyielding conviction within his soul. He has no regrets about the things that motivated him and caused his actions; the only regret he has is that he was weak enough to get caught. But, it’s okay. Even if he doesn’t get out, he can only hope that his actions help spur on the new generation of idealists who think just like him. The hero world still isn’t perfect yet. There’s still imbalance, fraud. Someone else needs to be willing enough to step in to finish what he failed to do.

His trail of thought is put on hold by the sound of explosions ringing loud through the enforced door and glass of his cell with shouting and the heavy footfalls of guards shortly following. He idly wonders who’s causing the commotion, and why, but he can only sit there like an obedient mutt like he’s done so many days before — sit and wait.

There’s another deafening explosion and what sounds like bodies slamming into his cell door. It’s quiet for a handful of seconds, and then the smell of burnt flesh and smoke drifts under the heavy plated door. It’s a foul suffocating smell, and he coughs, trying to dispel the irritants from his lungs.

Suddenly, his door makes an awful screeching sound and then, it starts to warp and crumble to pieces.

He can hear undistinguishable voices float in as the door falls bit by bit, chunks of metal thudding on the floor. He strains his ear and the sound of two voices becomes clearer above the sound of destruction. There’s one he’s never heard before, it’s soft yet full of baritone and the other has as a grating quality to it, a sound so familiar it sets his teeth on edge and has his arms struggling in their restraints attempting to grab the phantom knives on his waist. Logically, he knows who it belongs to, but for once he wants to be proved wrong. But, as the door finishes falling and smoke flumes in and scatters, he’s met with the sight of Shigaraki’s slouched form kicking charred bodies away from the door. Irritation and loathing automatically settles into his bones at the sight of him, but he forcibly pushes it to the side in favor of observing the unknown boy still standing there.

The first thing that catches his attention is the abundance of bruised and burned flesh that’s spread along his body. If Stain wasn’t used to mutilation, he thinks the sight would be enough to cause disgust to settle deep within his bones. Instead, he’s automatically intrigued by the morbidity of the metal stitching that’s seemingly holding him together.

The second thing he notices is the sleepy, bright and overzealous teal eyes staring unflinchingly at him through the glass barrier that remains. He doesn’t know what he was expecting to see in them considering he doesn’t know the boy, but this queer mix of admiration and something that looks suspiciously like lust surely wasn’t it. His observation is cut short as Shigaraki makes to leave, in search of something or someone and the boy is shooting out his hand to grab at his arm.

“Where are you going, you creepy motherfucker, stick to the plan,” he hears him hiss. Shigaraki has nothing to say except for a gritted and cliché, “shut the fuck up,” and Stain can’t help but roll his yes. Clearly, nothing has changed as far as Shigaraki’s planning skills go. There’s an obvious disconnect between the two and as they start to bicker, his exasperation slowly twists and transforms itself into amusement by the show of disorganization and hints of errant intimacy weaving between their spitted insults. Then, he’s forcibly placing Shigaraki’s palm on the glass wall separating them from Stain, all five fingers making contact with the plane. The soft cracking sound of glass echoes through his cell as it starts to break, hairline cracks turning into larger jagged cracks until the glass is falling to sharp pieces all around them.

“Hurry the fuck up, we don’t have time. We have to meet up with the others,” he shouts to Shigaraki’s back and upraised middle finger, the sounds of more explosions and screams weaving through the air from the distance. Then, he’s stepping over the empty metal plating that once held the glass and into Stain’s cell.

He’s automatically apprehensive.

He doesn’t know whether or not these two came to Tartarus to help him or to hurt him, his past encounters with Shigaraki not faring well; but as the boy approaches him, he can’t feel any hostile intentions radiating from him. Instead, the atmosphere is filled with a soft mix of admiration and adoration and…it’s unsettling. He watches with wary eyes as he steps into his personal space and falls to his knees. He looks down as scarred hands start to hurriedly fumble with the straps holding his legs down, soft curses from below floating upwards. There’s a lot of tugging going on, the boy clearly struggling with the fastenings and then there’s a sharp “fuck this” as he places his hands on the straps.

A thick, acidic smell starts to rise and that’s when Stain understands that the source of the explosions and burnt bodies is from this stranger currently trying his hardest to free him. He looks down as best he can at the mop of black hair as the restraints melt down and give way. And then, those overenthusiastic eyes are peering into his and no longer is apprehension taking up space in his blood, but now, there’s intrigue. There’s a dopey smile gracing his face, slightly crooked yet blindingly white teeth shining through the stretch of his lips. “Fuck, holy shit, you don’t know me, I wouldn’t except you to, really, I’m a nobody. But, I know you and I’m here, well, we’re here to break you out,” he says in a rush, rambling in a way that hints at being overwhelmed and starstruck and it should be annoying, but it strikes Stain as…endearing. He tunes him out for a bit, choosing instead to drag his eyes over the other’s face and watch as he continues to make clumsy gestures and stumbles over his words. He reminds Stain of an eager puppy, ready to please his owner and the thought itself makes him want to leer.

He forces himself to tune back in.

“You still have a lot of work to do. I wanna help, Stain, let me help you. I’ll do whatever you need, we’ll be good together. I’ll be good for you,” he breathes in a soft, genuine voice and goosebumps make a home on Stain’s arms as he smiles the first authentic smile he’s had in a while.

He doesn’t know anything about this boy aside from his apparent fire quirk, but he can tell that he’s just a broken thing trying to function as best as he can in a body that doesn’t seem to fit him quite right, still searching for a purpose in his likely mess of a life. He’s clearly looking for a reason to exist within Stain, Stain’s ideals; trying to integrate himself into Stain’s identity as much as he can. Now that he’s closer, Stain can see a crazed sort of obsession lurking in the depths of his eyes. He can tell the boy’s going to cause him a lot of problems in the near future, him and Shigaraki, knows that none of this is going to end without someone getting hurt, dying.

But, Stain knows he’s never been good at keeping his nose out of troublesome things.

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