Knowing that there would finally be retribution was oddly satisfying. He finally felt able to control his racing thoughts and focus them on something other than self-pity.
A voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that all of this was very self-centred, and ultimately a selfish act. No one's life would be affected by this but his. It would not make the world a better place nor bring relief to any of the victims of his incompetence. No one ought to know, in fact. But for him it was nothing short of a visceral necessity, and, in the end, anything that resulted in a better state of mind for him would make him better at providing for his students, therefore it was ultimately in their interest as well.
He started fantasizing on how to carry out the deed without being discovered and the plan was easily formed, a very good bargain in terms of convenience and secrecy. No one would have taken notice if he spent time in the disciplinary rooms, it was a fairy common occurrence at UA, and no one would have dared to disturb, in fear of humiliating the unfortunate brat. But his time there would be no brat, there would be only him, both offender and disciplinarian. And both where strongly convinced that this needed to happen.
On the chosen day his mind was set, his resolve unwavering. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. Lowered the lights, because he wanted to create a more solemn atmosphere, and then went to the appliances drawer to fetch what he needed. Not everything in there suited his needs, but, in the end, he was quite content to take out a thick cane, about half a meter long, that would be very effective in his experienced hands.
Obviously, he could not administer the punishment in the rear, as he did with his students. The mechanics of it would make the blows far less intense than he could be capable of. Rather, he resolved to target his upper front tights, where he could aim with great accuracy and strike merciless.
He knew that his legs would give up on him, because of the pain, so he placed his right leg on a high stool, the foot not touching the ground, using his capture weapon to secure it in place and resting all of his weight on the left leg. He would then take turns with the left one. He was satisfied with this arrangement: he had perfect access to his target area and was supported when his muscles gave up.
His breath was becoming heavier in anticipation, and he realized that combating his self-preservation instinct was tougher than he thought. To strengthen his resolve, he focused his thoughts on the look inside his students' eyes after the battle, the dread felt by their families, the disgrace he brought on the school, the fear, the pain, the trauma, of which they had yet to see the full consequences.
And the intensity of his distress almost brought him too tears. He closed his eyes, raised his right hand up high and brought it down with great anger and desperation.
Shit, that fucking HURT. Aaaahhhhhhh fuck. Breathe, Shota, breathe.
It took all his willpower not to scream and swear out loud. That would draw attention, and he had a job to do. He had settled on the number beforehand, and made a mental vow with himself to carry through with it until the end, no matter how long it took. He had suspected it would be difficult to fight his instinct and carry on, but he couldn't anticipate how much.
When he raised his hand a second time, it felt like it weighted a hundred times more. He thought again at the sleepless nights he spent not knowing whether Bakugou was dead or alive, and that gave him the resolve he needed.
After the second blow, tears started flowing. He fought them and stroke again, and again, and again. His skin was starting to swell and redden where the blows had landed. His self-loathing was skyrocketing, and even if his vision was blurred, he just hit the same spot one final time. This actually made a small cry escape, but he was quick to regain control. He then moved to his left leg, and repeated the ordeal. Standing on his already roughened up right leg made it even more challenging, and he had to summon all of his focus and training to carry out the disciplining. He had to bite on his scarf throughout, to avoid screaming. But he made it. He got to the end of it.
He dropped the implement, undid the bindings and then fell on his hands and knees to the ground, finally letting go of his emotional restraint and allowing himself to cry it all out. He was hurting like hell and he would probably be limping in the following days, but that was a concern he would face tomorrow.
He was feeling both heavier and lighter at the same. The experience had destroyed all the mental barriers that he had put in place to repress the magnitude of his feelings, which had been necessary for him to continue to function in his everyday life. Now he could finally let himself feel to the fullest how damn sorry he was, and how intense his desire to make amends was. And, for the first time since the incident, he thought that he could actually do it. He could be better than this. He looked at the wooden stick dropped on the floor beside him and realized that it had served its purpose. He had had enough, this was the push that he needed. Maybe he was not completely unstuck from his pit of misery yet, but he felt a renewed confidence growing inside of him. If he had the resolve to go through with his self-inflicted sentence, he knew he could face any situation.
He knew the price of failure, and he knew he was ready to make any sacrifice, without hesitation, to protect his student from danger.
In his mind he saw the image of them, smiling, getting better, living their lives and making great things of themselves. And the though made him half-smile in the midst of tears. There was hope, for them, and for himself. He would make sure that that future happened.