Chapter 8: The Genius Meets Her Match
Momo swallowed, the sound dry and loud in the sudden quiet left by Ochaco’s ragged breaths. The plain wooden paddle Midnight used lay discarded on the teacher’s desk, a dark, menacing shape. Ochaco stumbled past Momo, her movements jerky, face buried in her hands, the crisscrossing red stripes vivid across her pale, trembling backside. She sank onto a chair with a choked whimper, joining Mina and Toru in the silent sisterhood of pain. Toru’s glowing handprints pulsed faintly, casting an eerie, shifting light on her thighs.
Midnight’s gaze, cool and assessing, locked onto Momo. "Yaoyorozu. Position yourself." Her voice held no malice, no anger. Just absolute, unwavering expectation. She gestured towards the metal desk, its surface still bearing faint smears from Toru’s tears and the imprint of Ochaco’s desperation.
Momo took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her spine straight, her chin level. Analytical detachment. Understand the mechanics. Accept the necessary correction. She clutched her own paddle – a thing of beauty she’d created moments before detention began. Polished maple, perfectly balanced, with a subtle, elegant grain. She’d reasoned the smooth, dense wood would distribute force efficiently, minimizing bruising while ensuring the lesson’s sting. Logical. Precise. She placed it carefully on the edge of Midnight’s desk.
She bent forward, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Perfect form. Chest down, stomach flat against the cool metal. Back straight, presenting the untouched, pale curve of her buttocks. Feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart, toes gripping the linoleum. She concentrated on controlling her breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Steady. Calm. She could almost feel the molecular structure of the desk beneath her palms.
"Feet wider," Midnight instructed, her voice cutting through Momo’s focus. The tip of her own plain paddle tapped Momo’s inner left ankle. "Stable base. Like Uraraka eventually managed."
Momo shifted her stance minutely, widening her legs another few inches. The position felt less secure, more exposed. Mina’s voice, tight with sympathy, cut through the silence from the chairs. "Relax yer cheeks, Yaomomo! Seriously! Tense makes it worse!"
Momo ignored her. Muscle tension provides structural integrity. Absorbing impact across a broader surface area should diffuse the force. She consciously flexed the muscles in her buttocks, tightening them. It felt counterintuitive, but logically sound.
Midnight didn’t announce it. The first stroke simply arrived.
CRACK!
The sound was sharp, a whip-crack of wood meeting flesh. Fire exploded across the crest of Momo’s right buttock. It wasn't the diffuse sting she’d anticipated. It was focused, searing, a white-hot brand laid directly onto the nerve endings. Her meticulously flexed muscles seemed to amplify the shockwave, sending jagged lines of pain deep into her hip. Her breath hitched, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. Her knuckles whitened against the desk. Unexpected intensity. Material density perhaps exceeding calculations. Re-evaluate.
Before she could process, the second stroke fell.
CRACK!
Left cheek, slightly lower. The pain wasn't just additive; it multiplied. The first stripe flared anew, merging with the fresh agony. Her carefully maintained posture wobbled. Her back instinctively arched a fraction, trying to escape the burn. A tiny, involuntary sound escaped her lips – a high-pitched whimper she instantly tried to suppress.
"Relax, Momo!" Mina hissed urgently. "Yer fightin' it!"
But Momo gritted her teeth. No. Control. Maintain position. Flexing provides… protection? She clenched harder, bracing for the inevitable third.
CRACK!
This one landed dead center, overlapping the first two. The impact seemed to reverberate through her rigid muscles, shaking her entire frame. The carefully constructed dam of logic and discipline shattered.
A choked sob burst from Momo’s throat, raw and ragged. Tears, hot and shameful, welled instantly, blurring her vision of the scratched metal surface. Her perfect posture collapsed. Her chest heaved against the desk, her shoulders hunched, her back curving as she instinctively tried to curl away from the source of the agony. The tears spilled over, tracing paths down her temples, dripping onto the desk beside her folded hands. The elegant veneer of the studious heiress dissolved into humiliated misery. Her flexed muscles, far from protecting her, had turned her backside into a taut drumhead, amplifying every cruel vibration of the paddle.
Midnight paused. The silence was thick, broken only by Momo’s ragged gasps and stifled sobs. The three vivid stripes across her pale skin pulsed an angry crimson, mirroring the frantic beat of her heart. "Flexing is counterproductive, Yaoyorozu," Midnight stated, her voice devoid of reproach, merely stating a fact. "It focuses the impact. Makes the lesson… sharper. Attempt to relax. Or the next six will be significantly more educational."
Six more. The words echoed in Momo’s shattered mind. She tried to unclench, but her muscles seemed locked in spasm, trembling violently. She took a shuddering, wet breath, trying to force her body to obey. It felt impossible. The pain owned her.
CRACK!
The fourth stroke landed high, igniting fresh fire on the sit-spot. Momo cried out, a raw sound muffled by the desk. Her body jerked, her legs almost buckling. The sob that followed was deeper, more broken. She couldn’t relax. Couldn’t think. Only feel the overwhelming, burning shame and agony.
Jiro watched, frozen. Her own custom paddle, the ash wood with the small sound-hole drilled near the base, felt alien and terrifying in her damp palm. She’d designed it hoping for a different resonance, maybe a marginally softer impact. Now, seeing Momo, the most controlled of them all, reduced to shuddering, tearful wreckage in just four strokes? Her rebellious facade crumbled, replaced by pure, icy dread. Would the hole make it whistle? Crack louder? Shatter? Would it hurt Momo even worse? Her earphone jacks coiled tight around her neck like anxious snakes.
CRACK!
Number five slammed across the lower curve, right where cheek met thigh. Momo shrieked, her body twisting sideways in a futile evasion. Her knuckles scraped the metal desk as her hands slipped, leaving faint streaks of sweat and tears.
"Position!" Midnight commanded, her voice slicing through Momo’s gasps. The plain paddle tapped the crest of Momo’s left buttock, right on the livid stripe already throbbing there.
Momo forced herself back, her movements jerky, tears blurring the scratched desktop. She couldn’t unclench, couldn’t obey Mina’s frantic whispers to relax. Her whole backside was a single, rigid plane of agony. Logic was ash in her mouth.
The sixth stroke landed with a sickening THUD-CRACK over the sit-spot. Momo folded completely, collapsing onto the desk, her body wracked by deep, shuddering sobs that echoed Ochaco’s earlier distress. Her elegant posture was obliterated, replaced by utter surrender to the burning shame radiating from her striped skin.
Her elegant posture was obliterated, replaced by utter surrender to the burning shame radiating from her striped skin. Momo lay slumped over the cold metal desk, her shoulders shaking with deep, gulping sobs that echoed Toru’s earlier cries. Tears pooled beneath her cheek, smudging the dusty surface. Midnight watched her, the plain paddle resting lightly against her thigh. No impatience, just silent expectation filling the sterile room.
"Yaoyorozu," Midnight's voice cut through Momo's ragged breathing, firm but not unkind. "You need to resume position. We are not finished." She tapped the paddle lightly against Momo's trembling thigh. "Up."
Momo flinched at the contact, a fresh sob catching in her throat. She pushed herself up slowly, her movements leaden, every shift igniting fresh flares across her punished backside. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the desk edge, her spine rigid with renewed tension. She couldn't stop trembling. Relaxing felt impossible, a betrayal against the searing pain demanding every muscle clench tight.
"Please," Momo whispered, the word thick with tears and humiliation. Her voice cracked. "I... I can't..."
Midnight sighed, a soft exhalation barely audible over Momo's hitched breaths. "Tensing amplifies the impact, Momo. You saw." Her gaze flickered towards Mina, who nodded vigorously, her own eyes wide with sympathetic pain. "You must release the tension."
Momo squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking down her temples. She tried, truly tried, to force her muscles to loosen. But the memory of that focused, white-hot agony held her captive. Her buttocks remained clenched rock-hard, a defensive fortress against the inevitable. Midnight observed the rigid lines for another moment.
Then, unexpectedly, Midnight’s free hand settled gently between Momo’s shoulder blades. Not a pat, not a push. Just a steady, cool pressure through the thin fabric of Momo’s blouse. Momo gasped, startled by the unexpected contact. It wasn't harsh, wasn't punishing. It was... grounding.
"Breathe," Midnight instructed softly, her fingers pressing lightly. "Deep breath in." Momo inhaled shakily. "Now out. Slowly." Momo exhaled, a shudder running through her. Midnight’s hand remained, a point of calm focus amidst the storm of pain and fear. "Again."
Momo obeyed, focusing on the anchor of Midnight’s touch. Inhale. Exhale. The rigid terror gripping her spine began, infinitesimally, to ease. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. The frantic clenching in her lower back softened. And as she breathed out again, a long, trembling sigh, the impossible happened.
The iron-hard tension in her buttocks finally released. Her muscles unclenched in a slow, involuntary ripple, the taut planes softening into their natural curves just as Midnight’s paddle descended.
THWACK!
The seventh stroke landed squarely across the newly relaxed flesh. The sound was different – deeper, fuller, less of a sharp crack and more of a heavy, resonant thud. Momo cried out, a sharp "Ah!", but it wasn't the shattered scream of before. The pain bloomed hot and wide, a spreading sting rather than a concentrated brand. Her body jerked, but she held her position, her knuckles whitening again on the desk edge. The impact visibly rippled through the soft flesh, waves of crimson flushing the skin beneath the stark white stripe left by the paddle.
"Good," Midnight murmured, her hand lifting from Momo's back. The simple word held a surprising weight. "Much better." She didn't pause. The paddle rose and fell again.
THWACK!
The eighth stroke landed lower, overlapping the tender sit-spot. Momo gasped, her body arching slightly, a low moan escaping her. Tears streamed freely now, but the frantic, broken sobs had lessened. The pain was immense, a throbbing inferno, but it felt... different. Manageable, in its own brutal way. She wasn't fighting it with rigid defiance anymore; she was enduring it, her muscles trembling but no longer locked in futile resistance.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
The final three strokes came in quick, measured succession. Each landed with that heavy, resonant thud, painting fresh stripes of fire across Momo’s already marked skin. She cried out with each impact, her body shuddering violently, but she stayed bent over the desk. Her legs trembled, sweat beading on her brow and neck, mixing with her tears. When Midnight finally lowered the paddle, Momo slumped forward, her forehead resting on her folded arms, breathing in ragged, wet gasps. Her entire backside pulsed with a deep, unified ache, a constellation of angry red welts stark against her pale skin.
"Stand up, Yaoyorozu," Midnight said, her tone returning to its usual brisk authority. "Take your seat." She gestured towards the chairs where Ochaco, Mina, and Toru stood, their own expressions a mixture of sympathy and shared trauma. Toru’s faintly glowing handprints seemed to pulse in time with Momo’s own throbbing pain.
Momo pushed herself up slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at the tender skin. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet anyone's eyes. The walk to the chairs felt impossibly long, each step sending fresh jolts of heat radiating through her. She stood next to Ochaco, who instinctively reached out and squeezed her trembling hand. Momo flinched but didn't pull away, finding a sliver of comfort in the contact.
Midnight picked up Momo’s discarded maple paddle, examining its elegant grain and perfect balance with a critical eye. She gave it a few experimental swings through the air. It whistled faintly. Then she placed it back on her desk with Momo’s tear-smudged one. Her gaze lifted, sharp and unwavering, landing squarely on the next figure clutching her own instrument of correction.
"Jiro," Midnight stated, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Your turn. Bring your paddle." She tapped the surface of the metal desk with the tip of her own worn implement. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense room. "Position."
Jiro froze. Her knuckles were bone-white around the neck of her ash wood paddle, the small sound-hole near its base suddenly seeming like a gaping maw. She’d seen Momo’s elegant composure obliterated, heard Ochaco’s choked cries, witnessed Toru’s visible shock. Her earphone jacks coiled tighter around her neck, cold dread pooling in her stomach. Midnight’s gaze pinned her in place. The paddle felt impossibly heavy.