𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐃

01. soothe my soul.

CONTAINS; AGE GAP (7 YEARS), TOPICS LIKE ASSAULT, SUICIDE, VIOLENCE AND DEPRESSION.

Both parties in the relationship above 18 and the attraction starts when MC is 18 and above. Don't read if you are comfortable with any of the topics listed above, or a student-teacher relationship.

THE MC IS WRITTEN TO BE HORRIBLE, AND THE NARRATION WILL BE BRUTAL AND UNRELIABLE.

dedicated to my favourite professor lover; dilvei. she now owes me mythical devotion chapter.

Best read in Times New Roman.

a/n; if this seems familiar to you, it's because it's been republished. i have also updated this book (chapter three) after four whole months. phew.

.

.

ANATOLY VASILY WAS YOUR PROFESSOR, AND YOU WERE HIS STUDENT. People called him Professor Vasily.

You learned from his brief introduction that he was relatively young—twenty six, and according to him, his mother had disapproved of his career. You cannot be a teacher, she had said, come back to Russia. Inherit the business.

Anatoly had not listened.

And now he was standing in a lecture hall, teaching at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, elegant and beautiful, admired and respected. Anatoly was revered; a statue, an ornament, the symbol of status.

If he had to be fitted into a trope of a movie perhaps, or into a personality stereotype, he would be the brooding intellectual. Not the crazed genius with spiked, unkempt hair to match, but the beautiful genius. The one who was immaculately dressed, the one who spoke of his findings in a smooth voice, the one who was charmingly intelligent to the point his madness seemed alluring. He would be the villain people rooted for. The one who had been misunderstood, the one who had a wilting soul and an untouched heart.

It helped that Anatoly was beautiful, so, so beautiful, at times you found yourself staring at him, drinking in his sculpted face, his smooth voice, and hanging on to his every word.

You felt being a celebrity or being a model would have suited his face better, but who were you to complain? It made lectures all the more pleasant if you had eye candy to focus on.

Nostalgia was a powerful weapon, and you found something vaguely familiar about his face. Something about the contours of his face, the way the light caught onto his eyes and the way it reflected back into his hair. You thought of him familiar the way someone might remember a childhood idol, a distant friend. You chalked it up to seeing his face in magazines, perhaps.

Sometimes you allow your mind to drift and wonder what kind of man he was. Rebellious, perhaps, for going against his mother's words?

Was Anatoly an only son—had he broken the heart of his mother by refusing to be the heir to a corporation? Was Anatoly abandoned, shamed, detested by the ones in his household? Did he have a sliver of emotion; did he have someone waiting for him at home, one that loved him? Anatoly was frigid, cold, yet charming. He smiled, yes, but they never reached his eyes.

When asked, Anatoly would reply simply; yet in a structured sentence that did not quite make sense. "Home was a tangible thing;" was what Anatoly had murmured, when he had been asked about his childhood, his woes, his dreams—"it was nothing. Yet it existed, and it would continue to exist. The only thing that we have now is to perceive what, exactly, to us, is home."