The Path of Trust
The days after Bakugou wore the collar for the first time blurred together in a strange combination of intensity and unease. It had been a decision, a quiet, almost imperceptible choice to move forward, and yet it was a decision that had altered something fundamental within him. The collar itself wasn’t heavy in weight, but it had been heavy in meaning—a symbol that, for the first time in his life, Bakugou had willingly relinquished some measure of control.
The realization had been unsettling. Even in the moments when the collar wasn’t physically present, Bakugou could still feel its weight—an invisible tether that connected him to Aizawa in a way he hadn’t anticipated. And it was that feeling, more than anything, that made him question everything he thought he knew about himself.
But that’s what Aizawa had said, hadn’t he? Trust didn’t happen all at once. It began with small acts of vulnerability, moments where control was surrendered, where walls were lowered, even just a little. Aizawa had been patient with him—so much more patient than Bakugou was used to, and it both irritated and intrigued him. Bakugou was used to pushing himself, used to forcing his own will onto everything around him, but here, in this space, Aizawa was teaching him that submission wasn’t about weakness. It wasn’t about being broken down. It was about allowing yourself to be guided. And maybe—just maybe—Bakugou was beginning to see that.
It was the evening of their third meeting when Aizawa finally spoke the words Bakugou hadn’t expected. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the walls, and the air between them seemed charged, thick with anticipation. Bakugou stood by the leather chair again, fidgeting, feeling the familiar knot of nerves tightening in his stomach.
"Tonight will be different," Aizawa said, his voice soft, but edged with authority. "We’re going to explore boundaries. Not just physical ones, but emotional ones as well."
Bakugou’s heart skipped a beat. The words stirred something in him, something that made his throat tighten and his fists clench involuntarily. Boundaries—he knew the word. He had lived his life by them. His emotional walls were a fortress, carefully built and reinforced over years. He had never allowed anyone close enough to even consider breaking them down, let alone examining them.
Aizawa’s eyes met his, steady and unwavering. "I’m going to push you tonight, Bakugou," he said, the words deliberate. "But I’m not going to push you past your limits. Not yet. You need to trust that. You need to trust me."
Bakugou swallowed, his pulse quickening. "What do you mean, push?" His voice was rough, as though the words themselves were an effort. "You’ve already got me wearing the collar. Isn’t that enough?"
Aizawa’s gaze softened, but there was no doubt in his voice when he replied. "No. It’s just the beginning. Wearing the collar was an act of trust, but trust is more than that. It’s the space where vulnerability meets strength. I’m not going to take control of you, Bakugou. I’m going to show you how to take control of yourself."
Bakugou wanted to argue, wanted to scoff and walk out of the room before Aizawa could challenge him any further. But something in Aizawa’s presence, that calm but unyielding authority, kept him rooted to the spot. And deep down, a part of him, the part he tried so hard to ignore, wanted to hear more.
"Let me show you," Aizawa said, stepping forward. There was a quiet but palpable intensity in his movements, as if everything he did had a purpose, a direction. His hand reached out to gently touch Bakugou’s shoulder, the contact unexpected and grounding all at once. "You’ve been fighting this, haven’t you? Fighting the need to surrender, to let go. But the more you resist, the more you miss the truth of what this is about."
Bakugou’s chest tightened, his breath coming a little faster. He hated how much Aizawa could see, how easily the older man read him. It made him feel exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. And yet, that exposure, that rawness, was beginning to crack through the wall he had spent years building around himself.
"Why are you doing this?" Bakugou asked, his voice quieter now, the sharpness from before gone. "Why do you even care?"
Aizawa’s eyes softened, but his voice remained steady, sure. "Because I know what it’s like to carry all that weight. The need to control everything. The fear of letting someone else take the reins. But you’re not meant to carry that burden alone. You don’t have to. You just need to learn that trusting someone else doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human."
Bakugou flinched at the words, his pride taking a hit. He didn’t want to admit it, but Aizawa was right. He had spent so many years carrying the weight of everything on his own, convinced that relying on anyone else was a sign of failure. He had been taught that vulnerability was something to be ashamed of, something that would break him if he let it show.
But Aizawa wasn’t breaking him. He wasn’t forcing him into submission. He was offering something else—something that Bakugou wasn’t sure he deserved. A chance to breathe, to be seen, to be understood in ways that he had never allowed anyone to understand him.
"I’m going to help you explore those boundaries," Aizawa said, his tone now taking on a gentler quality. He stepped back, and Bakugou saw him gesture toward the center of the room. "Tonight, I want you to take a seat. And I want you to let me guide you. Trust that I’ll lead you safely, that I’ll take care of you, even in the moments where you’re uncertain. You can leave whenever you feel uncomfortable, but I need you to push past the fear. To trust me."
Bakugou hesitated, his chest tight with conflicting emotions. A part of him wanted to turn and walk away. But another part—the part that had been slowly unraveling—felt a tug. He didn’t understand it, but he couldn’t deny it.
With a reluctant exhale, Bakugou made his way to the chair. He sat, his posture stiff, his fists clenched at his sides. Aizawa watched him with that unwavering calm, his expression unreadable, but Bakugou could sense the quiet understanding in his gaze.
Aizawa moved to a small cabinet at the side of the room and returned with a soft rope. It was simple, unassuming, but Bakugou’s eyes followed the rope with an instinctual wariness. The older man noticed the shift in his body language, and without a word, he knelt before Bakugou.
"I’m going to tie your wrists," Aizawa said, his voice low, but filled with authority. "Not to hurt you. Not to take away your strength. But to show you that surrendering control doesn’t make you weak."
Bakugou’s throat went dry, his pulse thundering in his ears. He wanted to protest, to push Aizawa away, but the words wouldn’t come. He was frozen, caught between the impulse to fight and the strange, gnawing need to understand what Aizawa was offering.
As Aizawa’s hands moved with practiced ease, the rope slipped around Bakugou’s wrists, pulling tight but not painfully so. The contact was gentle, almost reverent, as if Aizawa was mindful of every movement. The bond wasn’t one of punishment; it wasn’t a cage. It was a reminder, a constant pull, a tether to something deeper.
"There," Aizawa said, finishing the knot, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "How does it feel?"
Bakugou’s heart was pounding now, the physical sensation of restraint causing a wave of unease to sweep through him. His mind was racing, but it was quieter now, more focused. For the first time, the ever-present noise of his thoughts—the anger, the frustration, the need to control—felt muted.
"I don’t know," Bakugou admitted, his voice gruff. He was surprised to find that the words felt true. He had never allowed himself to truly feel what it was like to be restrained, not like this. "It feels… different."
Aizawa looked up at him then, his expression thoughtful. "That’s because you’re allowing yourself to feel it. You’re not fighting it. You’re simply being, without the need to resist."
Bakugou wasn’t sure what to say to that. His mind was a whirl of confusion, but there was something in his gut that told him Aizawa was right. He had always fought, always resisted, always pushed. But in that moment, as the rope held him in place, he realized that he wasn’t just fighting himself. He was fighting something else. Something deeper.
Aizawa stood slowly, his eyes never leaving Bakugou’s. "Trust is a choice," he said softly. "And every time you allow yourself to surrender, to let go, you’re making that choice. Not just for me, but for yourself. You’re choosing to see what lies on the other side of that fear. You’re choosing to face what it means to be vulnerable."
Bakugou’s chest tightened, the weight of the words sinking in. It was as if Aizawa had peeled back a layer of armor Bakugou hadn’t realized he was wearing. And for the first time, Bakugou wasn’t sure if he wanted to put it back on.
Aizawa’s voice cut through his thoughts again, steady and reassuring. "You’re not alone in this, Bakugou. And you don’t have to fight everything. Not anymore."
And with that, Bakugou felt it—the first true spark of understanding. He didn’t need to be in control of everything. Not anymore.