Into the Depths of Submission
The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the heavy promise of what was to come. The dimly lit room seemed to stretch and grow quieter as the seconds ticked by, each one amplifying the thrum of anticipation that pulsed between them. Bakugou could feel it, the energy of the space itself pulling him deeper into a place where he was no longer in control, where every instinct to fight, to resist, began to waver.
Tonight, Aizawa had promised him a journey, one that would take him to a place he had never ventured before. A place of surrender, of trust, a place where he could relinquish control entirely. He had hesitated—had fought the idea for days—but there was something in the way Aizawa’s steady hands had guided him, in the way Aizawa had spoken to him with such absolute calm, that Bakugou couldn’t refuse. Not anymore.
It wasn’t just about the collar. Or the restraints. Or even the commands that Aizawa gave. It was about something deeper, something that Bakugou could never have imagined before walking into this space. The need to let go. The need to be seen, truly seen, without any walls or barriers. And with every meeting, with every touch, Bakugou could feel himself getting closer to that precipice, where control would slip from his grasp entirely.
Aizawa, as always, was calm, his eyes never leaving Bakugou’s as he observed the younger man, taking in every shift of his body language. It was as if Aizawa could read him without effort, could sense every thought, every hesitation before Bakugou even knew it was there.
The command to kneel had come again. This time, it was different. The weight of it felt heavier, more profound, and Bakugou’s body obeyed before his mind could fully register it. As he sank to his knees, the cool floor beneath him felt like a grounding presence. But more than that, it was the absence of something—something that had always been there before—that hit him. The space he had always kept between himself and everyone else, the space that had kept him from ever truly letting anyone in, was gone. In its place, there was Aizawa’s quiet dominance, and with it, an overwhelming sense of safety.
Aizawa’s voice broke the silence, low and measured. "Look at me, Bakugou."
And Bakugou did. He forced his gaze up, meeting Aizawa’s eyes with a defiance that was slowly starting to crumble. The heat between them was undeniable, and it wasn’t just physical. It was something intangible, something that made Bakugou’s heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline. His breath came faster, the tension in his chest rising, but his body remained obedient, responding to Aizawa’s quiet authority.
"Good," Aizawa said, a faint trace of approval in his voice. "Now, I want you to breathe. Slow and steady. Focus on the way your chest rises and falls. Focus on my voice."
Bakugou’s chest heaved with each breath, his hands resting on his thighs as he tried to steady himself. His heart was hammering, but not from fear. Not from anger. It was something new, something foreign, and yet, it felt strangely right. Aizawa’s words washed over him, a steady rhythm that he clung to.
"Focus, Bakugou. Let go. Let go of the fight."
That was the moment. The moment Bakugou felt it—the first crack in the wall, the first tremor of release. He had never allowed himself to truly surrender before. To let go of that ever-present need to control, to fight, to resist. And yet, in this space, under Aizawa’s steady gaze and firm guidance, he could feel that fight start to slip away. It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t easy, but it was happening. The tightness in his chest, the constant buzz of tension that had always kept him on edge, began to ease, just a little.
Aizawa stepped closer, and Bakugou felt the heat of the older man’s presence invade his personal space. There was no room to breathe, not in the way Bakugou was used to. The breath that filled his lungs came heavy and deep, and yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a surrendering. A giving in.
"Good," Aizawa murmured again, his voice calm, the words a soothing balm to the jagged edges of Bakugou’s racing mind. "You’re doing well. But now, I want you to let go completely. Trust me, Bakugou. Let your mind and body become still."
Bakugou’s body trembled slightly, a nervous tension pulsing in his veins, but the more he focused on Aizawa’s voice, the more he was able to push the anxiety aside. He felt himself begin to slip, felt the walls he had built around himself start to crumble. Aizawa’s calm, measured voice was the anchor he needed.
Then Aizawa’s hand was at his jaw, tilting his head back so that Bakugou had no choice but to look up. Aizawa’s fingers were cool, but there was an undeniable warmth in the way they touched him, as if every movement was intentional, every action meant to guide him deeper into submission.
"Good boy," Aizawa said, and the words hit Bakugou harder than he expected. The shift in tone, the quiet praise, left him breathless. Something inside him responded immediately, like an instinct he couldn’t name. "Focus on my voice. Focus on the tension in your body. Let it go. Let go of everything but this moment. Nothing else matters right now."
It was then that Bakugou felt it—the sudden weightlessness, the space between breaths, between thoughts, between moments. His entire body seemed to shift into something else, something beyond himself. It was as if the very air around him had thickened, pulled him into a vortex of sensation that left him breathless, dizzy. He was no longer just Bakugou, the brash Alpha who had always been in control. He was something else. Something smaller. Something more pliable.
“Do you feel it, Bakugou?” Aizawa’s voice was a whisper now, close to his ear. “Do you feel the release?”
Bakugou couldn’t respond, not with words. His body, his mind, his every fiber was attuned to Aizawa now. It was as if he had become a part of the room, of the very air that swirled around them. He could feel the tension in his chest ebbing away, each breath a little easier than the last. The weight of responsibility, of leadership, of always having to be strong—he could feel it lifting, just a little. His shoulders dropped, and the muscles that had been tense for so long began to relax. The fight was slipping away.
“Yes, Sir,” Bakugou rasped, the words tasting foreign on his tongue but also undeniable. It was the first time he had ever addressed Aizawa with that word, the first time he had ever allowed himself to admit that, in this space, under Aizawa’s guidance, he didn’t have to fight. He didn’t have to be anything but what he was in this moment: vulnerable. A human being with a deep need to be seen and cared for.
Aizawa’s lips brushed against the edge of Bakugou’s ear, his breath warm and steady. “Good. Let it happen. Just breathe.”
And Bakugou did. He focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing, letting the words and the calmness of Aizawa’s voice fill him up. He could feel it now—the submission, the release, flooding his veins like a gentle current. It wasn’t about weakness. It wasn’t about being broken. It was about letting go. Giving in to the sensation, to the feeling of being held, of being cared for in a way that he had never allowed himself to experience before.
The world around him began to fade, and it felt as though time had slowed. His thoughts, once chaotic and disjointed, had fallen into a strange, peaceful silence. There was only Aizawa. Only the weight of his hand on Bakugou’s chin, only the sound of Aizawa’s voice guiding him deeper into this strange, intoxicating space. He could feel himself slipping further, could feel his body responding to the quiet commands, the subtle dominance that radiated from the older man.
And then, with a suddenness that took him by surprise, Bakugou realized that he had crossed a line. He wasn’t just in submission. He was in **sub space**. The sensation was overwhelming—a complete absence of everything that once defined him. The chaos in his mind had quieted, the tension in his body had dissolved, and all that was left was the soft, rhythmic pulse of Aizawa’s voice, his commands, his touch.
Aizawa’s fingers tightened gently on Bakugou’s chin, bringing him back to reality, but only partially. He was still in the grip of the deep, tranquil space he had entered. “Good boy,” Aizawa murmured, his voice full of approval. “You’re doing perfectly.”
Bakugou felt a strange warmth spread through him at the words. He had no defenses left. No walls. No barriers. And in that moment, he realized something that made his heart race with a strange, sweet kind of freedom: he had never felt more **alive**.