Chapter Text
Art by ToraToraPeach
"Hold still," Shoto said, kneeling down behind and adjusting the strap around the back of his father's thigh. The metal brace clicked into place, securing the weak leg in position. The retired hero groaned above him, sweat already forming along his temples despite the room's chill. Shoto could feel the heat radiating off him – not from his quirk, just the strain of holding himself upright with one arm braced against the therapy bar; he could barely stand. Even though the injuries were five years old, they still took a heavy toll on the man’s body. Well, it didn’t help that his father put off physical therapy for far too long.
“The sooner the better,” is what all the doctors had been emphasizing to the former Number One after his fight with AFO, but he'd never agreed.
“It wouldn’t be good for Touya,” had always been his father’s excuse. Well… the old man had a point. During their hospital visits to that strange, lab-like room, Shoto would sometimes see his eldest brother’s eyes linger on the metal chair, the absent arm, the scars – something like a smile in his eyes almost fully hidden behind his charred skin and the thick glass of his medical pod... Perhaps their father knew Touya better than he thought.
But Touya passed last year; there was no longer any reason for the retired hero to deny care (unless the man simply wanted to wallow in his martyr complex), so after a few months of coxing from friends and family alike, his father finally agreed to physical therapy.
The house smelled like rice and old tatami, a far cry from the sterile, smokey air that used to permeate every hall of this place. Shoto moved to the front and knelt again, checking the alignment of his father's knees. "It looks like you’re favoring your right side." The man's jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
Shoto stood, towering over his father. His eyes caught on the red patterning of the older man's skin. Those burns stretched down his neck, disappearing under the loose collar of his shirt. Normally, his dad covered up more, but black turtlenecks were a bit unconventional for physical therapy. As usual, Shoto tried not to stare at the way the fabric gaped where his father's right arm should have been; even five years later, he still wasn't used to seeing his dad like this.
The redhead hissed as he shifted his weight, legs trembling.
His father tried a step.
One more.
Then fell.
Shoto caught him before he could hit the floor, hating the pained sound that the former hero choked back.
"...Alright, I think we need to take a break," Shoto soothed.
His father didn't say anything, simply letting his son half guide, half carry him back to the elevated table. He let his back fall to the padded surface, exhausted. He didn't look at his son, shame clear on his face. "... The physical therapist said my core strength is weak," he admitted, left arm subconsciously reaching over to grab the injury on his right side. AFO had really done a number on him – that dent on his waist was visible, even through his clothes. "...That's why I can't stabilize enough to get off the crutches." Shoto nodded, recalling the therapist’s notes – something about 'engaging the lower abdominal muscles without straining the legs'.
A thought flickered at the edge of his memory. Fuyumi’s room. That odd device she’d shoved under the bed.
Shoto stood abruptly, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Wait here,” he said. The redhead frowned, watching his son stride out of the room with the same detached efficiency the young man applied to everything. The floor creaked under Shoto’s steps as he made his way to Fuyumi's old room, kneeling beside her childhood bed.
He he bent down, pulling out the dusty box he new would still be there. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was the sleek, silicone thing. He turned it over in his hands."Galltech," the thing read. Inside, there was a little, foldable manual. But the instructions were only in English, German, and Spanish. Not much help. What was it Fuyumi had said about this thing?
It was about three weeks ago – Fuyumi had finally purchased a house. It was a goal she'd set for herself long ago, and one they were all proud of her for accomplishing (especially managing to do it so quickly, and on a teacher's salary nonetheless. Father had offered to pay for it, but she'd been adamant that she wanted to buy her first home with her own money.) So, no more apartment life for her. Shoto understood the struggle; in just his few years of adult life, he'd already experienced some of the worst neighbors known to man (which is why he'd often crash at the old Todoroki household on his days off – much quieter here). And living in spaces so cramped was just plain hard. Unfortunately, he'd inherited Endeavor's build; in the last few years, he'd gotten significantly taller than his father – which wasn't exactly suitable for Japanese apartment living (he had no idea how Fat Gum or All Might managed it). And even beyond his physical size, there was no room in apartments to store anything. Luckily, their father had no problem with them keeping a lot of their stuff in the old house (but, seriously, how do other people manage? Do they just throw everything out?).
So when Fuyumi had asked her brother if he could help her move her last few belongings from her old room, he was more than happy to help.
They had gotten nearly everything from the room, leaving only the bedframe and mattress for guests. But then he'd noticed the little black box beneath the bed.
She had been a bit strange when she came back in and saw the purple device in her brother's hands. Her face was really red, but that was probably because she'd been just loading the van. She told him that it wasn't hers, and then she took it from him and shoved it back into the box. Shoto had been worried that he'd unpacked a gift for someone, but when he asked who it was for, she hesitantly admitted it was hers, but to "please forget about it."
Trying to fix whatever mistake he made, he'd offered to pack it, but she said she didn't want to bring it. And when he'd suggested that she sell it (since she didn't want it anymore) she had just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
Unfortunately, that happened to Shoto a lot, but, over time, he'd learned that the best way for him to patch up any socially 'weird' things he did was to just ask plainly.
So when he had asked Fuyumi what it was, her face changed a bit.
"It's a... core trainer," she had said, "For, um... abdominal workouts. Really advanced stuff. You wouldn't get it." And then when her friend with the van started coming down the hall, she had shoved the box back under the bed and whispered for her brother to "Please throw it away later."
But Shoto had forgotten.
He stared at the box.
He didn’t question why she’d wanted it trashed – maybe she went through a hero phase and was secretly training. But regardless, if she didn't want it anymore, there shouldn't be a problem with repurposing it.
The device buzzed faintly when he pressed the button on its base, vibrating in his palm with a low hum. The sensation was odd, almost ticklish – maybe that was how it worked the muscles? He turned it over, noting the smooth curvature of the silicone. It was shaped vaguely like a small dumbbell, if dumbbells had tapered ends and a slight bend. And there was a little thing on it that looked kind of like rabbit ears. He wondered if that portion had an additional purpose, or if it was for decoration.
Back in the training room, his father was still sprawled on the table, absently massaging his leg.
Shoto held up the device. "It's for core strength."
His father squinted at it, brow furrowing, "Looks... foreign."
Shoto nodded. "German engineering," he assumed, because that was the first language listed in the manual.
The redhead hummed, shifting with difficulty on the padding as his son approached. The device buzzed again when Shoto thumbed the base button – quiet but insistent, like a distant drill.
"...How does it work?" his father asked, eyeing the tapered end warily.
Shoto set the thing down and flipped through the English portion of the manual pages again. He should’ve paid more attention in English class back in school; it really had been his worst subject. There was an underlined heading with a word he recognized, "Men," so that part was probably instructions for male use. But there was a cartoonish picture of a butt... plus the words "in… internal," and "anal," so… this was probably supposed to be used like a suppository, stimulating core muscles from the inside. There was also a boxed exclamation mark next to a picture of a bottle and the English words, "Lube Required." ‘Lube’ must be short for ‘lubrication’ – which made sense; a suppository this large could definitely hurt someone.
"Dad, do we have any lotion, or gel?"
His father raised a brow at him, "There's some aloe in the burn kit."
Shoto nodded, already moving toward the hall closet where they kept first aid supplies. The cool gel tube was half-used. When he returned, his father had leaned up and propped himself up on his elbow, watching as Shoto flipped open the gel's cap with ease and squeezed some onto his fingers; they glistened under the overhead light, goopy and wet.
"Turn over," Shoto instructed, gesturing toward his father's hips.
The redhead hesitated, but eventually complied with a mumbled, "Mu," rolling onto his stomach. The back of his shirt rode up, revealing the scarred dip of his waist where muscle had been carved away.
Shoto pressed his thumb experimentally against the tense flesh above the waistband of his father's sweatpants, feeling the skin twitch beneath.
"...Relax," he murmured, more to himself than to the former hero, feeling somehow tense.
The redhead's skin was soft, jumping and forming goosebumps at the touch.
Shoto's own scars had always been extra tender, extra sensitive; his father's must be as well.
*
Enji buried his face in the crook of his elbow with a shuddering exhale. The sudden warmth of Shoto's fingertips circling the hollow of his lower back sent an unexpected jolt down his spine. The cool aloe dripped down the divots of old scar tissue.
His son's palm felt so large. Why did Shoto have to go and take after his grandfather? It was an odd reality to be constantly dwarfed by your youngest.
The sweatpants slid down his hips before Enji could process the motion – Shoto moving with that same detached efficiency as when he'd adjusted the leg brace earlier. The elastic waistband slid over his ass and caught momentarily on his groin before being tugged down to his thighs.
"Eh—?" Air hit bare skin, raising goosebumps along flesh that hadn't seen sunlight since... ever.
"The manual says I'm supposed to insert it," Shoto stated matter-of-factly, fingertips already pressing into the swell of his father's left buttock, spreading the aloe in slow circles. W-wait, what?
Enji's breath jumped. The gel was cold, but Shoto's palm was furnace-warm – always ran hotter on his left side.
It felt weird. Something about this seemed... wrong. Insert?... Like... a catheter? Enji had had them in hospitals before - experiencing more than his fair share of injuries and surgeries over the years, but... was it normal for family to assist with that sort of thing? Unfortunately, he didn't have much experience with 'normal family practices' having lost both parents young and... let's be honest - ruining any chance of having a normal family life with his own kids... So he didn't exactly have a great understanding of what should be 'normal' here.
Well... most children took care of their parents when they got older, he supposed. Rei was taking care of her mother.
And Shoto had been pretty adamant over the last few weeks, encouraging Enji to begin physical therapy (after years of nagging), and pretty much taking over Enji's entire home regimen - as if he thought his father wouldn't do it if he wasn't being monitored (... well... he wasn't completely wrong about that...). It was a constantly humbling experience - everything after his injury had been so. Being in a chair, needing help with nearly everything...
But still... This?...
He strained up to look back at his son, question on his lips, but Shoto’s clinical expression had him hesitating. His tired arm shook as it struggled to support, staring over his shoulder as he tried to process what he was trying to ask.
"Lay flat, Dad" Shoto instructed, pressing his father's torso back down to the table. "You're going to pull something."
That commanding tone left no room for doubt; clearly, Shoto knew more about these things than Enji did. As always.
So he relented...
But Enji felt hot. More than usual.
He closed his eyes as large hands began to massage.
That wasn't new - Shoto had done it plenty of times to help with the strain. So had the physical therapist.
The hands went lower.
Blood pounded in his ears.
A choked noise escaped Enji when Shoto's thumb brushed the cleft, exploratory and clinical.
"...Why don't you have hair here?" Shoto asked, voice laced with genuine curiosity. His fingers traced the smooth skin between Enji's thighs.
Enji stiffened, sudden heat flooding his face. Shoto wouldn't have known, not with that innocent curiosity he'd shown everything in life, but that was a sensitive subject for the former Number One. Apparently, not being able to grow body hair was considered ‘feminine’ to most men. So, his... smoothness had been a major problem back in his early teens; the locker room bullying had gotten so nightmarish, he went the rest of his life changing in bathroom stalls. It turned into a damn complex, covered up always, and - though he'd never admit it - it was part of the reason why his hero identity included a flaming beard (although, he did eventually start growing facial hair, thank God. However… everywhere else stayed the same. Smooth). But... explaining any of that to his son? Impossible.
The words stuck in his throat like wet ash.
Long silence.
Shoto sighed, “Whatever,” and continued.
Enji frowned at the table like it had betrayed him. Shit. He’d just missed another opportunity to bond with his son, hadn’t he? Shoto just asked a genuine question about him, showed actual interest, and Enji went and ruined it again. Stupid.
Shoto’s coated fingers dipped lower, pressing against the tight furl of muscle. "Hhuh—wait—" Enji choked, but Shoto was already grabbing the device and covering it in aloe, humming low in his throat like he was solving a math problem. Shoto's fingers returned, slick and warm, pressing tentatively between his cheeks. Enji tensed, his only hand clawing at the padded table. "W-wait—" the word cracked halfway out as the first vibration buzzed against his rim, the device's tapered tip circling in slow, clinical strokes.
It felt foreign. Not painful – not exactly. Just... strange. Like when Recovery Girl would poke at his nerve damage with those humming medical devices.
His stomach tightened, muscles twitching beneath scar tissue.
"Breathe," Shoto murmured, his other hand settling heavy and warm on the small of Enji's back. The weight anchored him even as the vibrations intensified, the silicone nudging insistently against his entrance. Enji's thighs trembled, his toes curling against the table.
Some distant, rational part of his brain registered that this wasn't how physical therapy usually went, but Shoto sounded so certain, and his son was usually right about most things.
Shoto sighed – clear disappointment in his tone; it wouldn't slide in. "It's too tight," he observed, withdrawing the toy and examining it with detached fascination. A bead of aloe dripped onto the table. He wiped it absently with his thumb, then pressed two fingers against Enji's entrance again, testing the resistance. "…I'll loosen it up first."
Enji gasped dry and scared when Shoto's middle finger breached him, the stretch sudden and strange.
His left hand flew back instinctively to grab his son's wrist.
Shoto attempted to calm him, "I'm sorry if it hurts at first, but it's going to help you, Dad," as if soothing a child with a scraped knee.
He worked the finger deeper, the glide eased by the cool gel, but every knuckle felt like hot coal.
Enji's legs went numb when Shoto crooked his finger, scraping something that made his veins pulse hot.
"Almost there," Shoto assured him, though his voice sounded oddly strained.
He added a second finger, the stretch making Enji's breath stutter against the table. The aloe had warmed, turning slick and thick as Shoto scissored his fingers slowly, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
"Sho— I- I don't... like..."
His son sighed above him, "Come on, Dad. You've been through much worse. Don't tell me the former Number One can't take a bit of physical therapy."
"...Mu..." Enji pouted.