It all started so innocent.

You were just his favorite — the bright-eyed student who trusted him, who smiled up at him whenever he touched you and said, "It’s normal."

Stretching sessions, lingering touches, little moments where his hand pressed too low, his fingers brushed too long. You never questioned it. You just beamed, wanting to be good for him.

And Rin? Rin fed on it. Your trust. Your innocence.

Every day, the tension grew. Every day, it got harder for him to hide how badly he needed you.

Then one night, the dam finally broke.

He pulled you aside after everyone left — told you he needed to "train you harder," that you were "falling behind." You believed him. You always did.

You let him handle you — flipping you to the mats, pinning you down in a mock spar. At first, it was training, the way his hands roamed your body, correcting your posture — then it became desperation.

Rin wasn’t training anymore. He was claiming.

He worked you until you could barely stand — bruises blooming across your skin like flowers from every grip, every hold. When you finally collapsed, whimpering softly, he only scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest like something precious.

"Can’t even walk anymore," he murmured against your hair, voice thick with pride. "My sweet girl."

You clung to him without thinking, your body trembling, your heart pounding.

He carried you to the back room, laying you down gently on the cool floor. The room spun as you panted for air, blinking up at him, confused, dazed.

Rin knelt beside you, his hands slow as he traced every bruise, every hickey, every mark he left.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, tapping a dark bruise blooming on your shoulder.

You blinked, too tired to speak.

"Answer me," Rin said, softer — but when you hesitated, a tiny spit landed against your cheek, making you jolt.

"S-shoulder," you whispered.

"Good," he praised, wiping the spit away with his thumb, pressing a kiss to the same spot.

Then he moved lower, tapping a hickey on your thigh. "And this?" You stuttered the wrong answer — and he spit again, a little sharper this time, but his hand was already stroking your hair, cooing at you.

"Wrong, little one. That’s mine." His fingers traced slow patterns against the sore spot, his lips brushing your skin in apology.

Down your legs, over your belly, up your ribs — every wrong answer got a spit, a murmur of fake disappointment — followed by a kiss, a petting hand, a whispered "good girl" when you finally got it right.

By the time Rin reached your chest, you were whimpering, tears brimming your eyes, overwhelmed by how much he was touching, tasting, praising every part of you.

"Look how smart you are," he murmured, pressing his forehead against your ribs. "Every inch of you belongs to me."

You sobbed softly — not from pain, but from how intensely, completely you were being loved.

Rin only held you tighter, rocking you slowly in his arms like a child, shushing you.

"Good girl," he whispered, over and over into your hair. "My girl. My perfect, precious girl."

And you finally let yourself melt against him, trusting him, as you always had.

Because with Rin... it was normal.