Archive of Our Own ^beta

You didn’t choose chaos.

Chaos simply took one look at you when you were twenty, shrugged its shoulders, and said, “Yeah, this one. This one’s mine.” And then you made the brilliant life decision of chasing academia like it was going to love you back.

Spoiler: it doesn’t. Academia is like dating a man who wears flip-flops in winter. It will take and take and give you nothing but frostbite and despair.

Anyway.

Welcome to The University of Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering (and Tuition Fees).

It’s old. Gothic. Half the buildings are crumbling, but they slap some ivy on it and call it “historic.” The administration is basically a mafia. The campus Starbucks charges $8 for a latte that tastes like scorched regret. And yet—students fight to get in here, because the professors are legends.

Which brings us to him.

The legend. The myth. The man who looks like he was carved from marble but hates that fact with every fiber of his being: Professor Nanami Kento.

Everyone knows him. You’d have to be dead, blind, or in engineering to not know him. He teaches two very different courses:

And Nanami? He does not care. He shows up in his suit. He delivers lectures like he’s preaching the Word of God. He assigns impossible problem sets. He leaves.

The rumors about him are endless:

Meanwhile, you?

Oh, honey.

You are the other campus cryptid. The chaotic.... thing.

You are a doctor, PhD, triple-course teaching menace. Professor of:

Your outfits? Absolute menace energy. Today it’s a galaxy-print dress with matching earrings shaped like neurons. Yesterday it was full Victorian mourning gear because you were teaching Freud. Last week: you showed up in a sundress covered in tiny frogs. Students have stopped questioning it. You are Mrs. Frizzle if Mrs. Frizzle had tenure and a vendetta.

Your teaching style is… aggressive encouragement.

You will drag a C student into the land of B’s and A’s if it kills you. You once sat with a panicking freshman for three hours in the library helping them fix their research methods paper. You’re also the type of professor to yell:

“DO NOT GASLIGHT ME, JASON. YOU CANNOT GASLIGHT ME WITH YOUR POWERPOINT SLIDES. I HAVE A DOCTORATE.”

Students love you for it. Or fear you. Or both.

And this is where the tension simmers. Because you and Nanami? You exist in parallel. He’s the stoic marble statue professor. You’re the deranged carnival barker of academia. You’ve never spoken, not really, beyond the nods of professional acknowledgment at faculty meetings. You’ve seen him from afar, sitting ramrod straight in the conference room, suit immaculate, eyes filled with quiet disdain while you roll in late with coffee stains on your frog-print blouse.

And yet.

The students whisper.

They’re right. You do.

And if one more freshman finance bro tries to corner you in the hallway and say, “So, like… are you and Professor Nanami, like, a thing?” you will commit violence.

Because you don’t know him. You don’t. He’s the scary hot professor who probably judges you for your “Dress Like Your Hypothesis” day. And you? You’re the campus creature who once accidentally lit an overhead projector on fire during Cognitive Psych.

Two planets. Two opposite forces.

But the universe? The university? The ivy-covered hellscape you call home? It has a way of throwing planets into collision.

And let’s be real: if it does? The fallout will be glorious.

*-*

You did not mean to invoke him like some ancient god of spreadsheets and heartbreak. Truly, you did not. But you were in the middle of your Psychology lecture—high on caffeine, sugar, and the power of a captive audience—and the words simply tumbled out of your mouth.

See, you were explaining this thing, right? The whole alpha/beta male illusion that undergrads (mostly finance bros, god bless their dumb protein-shaken hearts) keep dragging into your class like it’s 2003 and they’ve just discovered Reddit.

And you, scholarly menace that you are, thought: Why not make it spicy? Why not drag reality into this?

So you clicked. The slide changed. And there he was. Professor Nanami Kento, projected in 200-inch glory onto the front lecture hall screen. The man himself, in one of the faculty website headshots, crisp suit, jawline sharp enough to slice deli meat.

Cue everyone sighing dreamily.

“Now,” you said, tapping the screen pointer against his face with far too much confidence, “let’s discuss why the finance bros in your cohort spiral into an identity crisis when they encounter… this.”

You gestured broadly. Your earrings (shaped like golden ratios, because you were feeling particularly obnoxious today) jingled in tandem.

“Psychologically,” you went on, “many young men—especially those steeped in gym-bro culture—internalize this so-called ‘alpha male’ myth. But then they meet a real man who radiates competence without posturing, a man who does not grunt about crypto at 2 a.m., a man who wears a tie clip without irony—”

You pointed at Nanami’s photo again. Students were already trying not to laugh.

“—and suddenly, boom! cognitive dissonance. Their fragile masculinity crumbles. They realize, perhaps for the first time, that being a man does not mean screaming at women in group projects. It means… showing up on time. Knowing things. Having a good haircut. Statistically destroying you on a midterm.”

You were on a roll. Absolutely manic. You had the room in the palm of your hand.

What you didn’t notice, of course, was the door at the back of the hall sliding open. The collective panic of sixty undergrads waving their arms like they were on fire. The palpable shift in the atmosphere as the man himself, Professor Nanami Kento, walked in silent as death and stood at the back of the hall.

You kept going.

“Now, what happens when our poor alpha bro meets a professor like—well, this guy—” tap, tap, tap on his projected face, “is that the alpha fantasy collapses. They realize he is not one of them. And the coping mechanisms? Oh, baby, they are ugly. Denial. Projection. One student actually wrote in their course eval that I was ‘jealous’ of Professor Nanami. Sir, he did not fail you. You failed you.”

Giggles. A girl in the front row muttered “oh my god stop” into her sleeve.

You, oblivious, hit the next slide: In-Group/Out-Group Effects.

Behind you, Nanami stepped out the door as quietly as he’d entered. Said nothing. Left like a ghost.

And the rumors? Holy shit.

By the next day, campus was feral.

“He’s gonna sue.” “She’s getting fired, 100%.” “No, they’re in on it together, didn’t you see the way she smirked when she showed his picture?” “Maybe he’s secretly her boyfriend?” “Widower arc. She’s his healing love interest.” “Bro shut up.”

Meanwhile, you? You had no idea. Because you are, in fact, a dumbass. You breezed through your lectures, humming, wearing earrings shaped like pi symbols because it was midterm season and you like to theme.

*-*

It wasn’t until one of your braver students, pale and trembling, came up during office hours and whispered, “Professor… um. Professor Nanami was… in your lecture yesterday. When you… uh. You know. Talked about him.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Like. He was there. In the room.”

“…Oh.” You sipped your coffee. “Well. He didn’t say anything.”

Student: “HE LOOKED SO MAD.”

“He always looks mad.”

And that was that. Did you panic? No. Did you give a single fuck? Also no. Because technically? You hadn’t said anything bad. If anything, you’d academically roasted finance bros in his honor.

Still. Professional courtesy and all that. You typed out an email that evening:

And you thought that was the end of it.

Until.

Until this motherfucker—this six-foot marble statue in a beige suit—swung by your office hours.

He filled the doorway like a tax audit. Students scattered. You looked up from grading exams and almost spilled coffee down your dress (today’s theme: navy-blue with fractal patterns, because math midterms, baby). Good lord he looked like a statue. A flesh statue.

“Professor Nanami,” you said, way too brightly. “Do you need something?”

“I received your email,” he said. Smooth. Calm. Like he hadn’t just materialized to haunt you. “And I thought I’d take you up on your offer.”

You stop. You blink.

“…My offer?”

He adjusted his tie. “To clarify. The theoretical framework.”

Cue silence. Cue your brain wheezing like a Victorian child with asthma.

“Oh! Right, yes. The alpha male thing. Please, sit down.”

And he did. In the chair opposite your desk. Folding his long limbs like some kind of stoic origami crane. Watching you with that expression that could be neutrality or deep disdain—it was impossible to tell.

“So,” he said. “What, precisely, did you mean?”

And you lit up like a Christmas tree. Because talking shop? That’s your cocaine.

“Okay,” you said, bouncing in your seat, “so the whole ‘alpha male’ myth comes from a very outdated wolf study that was later debunked by the same scientist who popularized it. But finance bros don’t care about peer review, they care about vibes. So when they encounter you—” you gestured vaguely at his entire existence, “—someone competent, professional, attractive, but not performing masculinity in their prescribed way, their little pea brains short-circuit. It’s hilarious.”

Nanami actually… smiled. Just barely. “I see.”

You grinned. “It’s like cognitive dissonance meets group identity theory. They put you in their in-group—‘men, powerful men’—but then realize you don’t fit their script, so they shove you into the out-group instead. ‘Too refined. Too smart. Must be gay. Must be something Other.’”

He nodded slowly. “Accurate.”

And then—then—he gestured at your earrings.

“Interesting choice,” he said. “Golden ratio?”

You blinked. “Oh, these? Yeah. Midterms. Cognitive Psych. I like to dress for the occasion. Did you see the dress?” You stood up and twirled so the fractal spirals flared dramatically.

He blinked at you. “…I did not. But it is… fitting.”

Was that a compliment? From Nanami Kento? The stoic god of statistics himself?

The students outside your door were already whispering. You ignored them. You sat back down, grinning.

And just like that, the most unholy of alliances was born.

*-*

Here’s the thing about Nanami Kento: he notices everything. He’s not loud about it, he’s not showy, but the man catalogues the world like a depressed librarian. Which means, unfortunately for him, he notices his students. And worse—he notices they’re little shits.

Not all of them, of course.

Some of them are fine, bright-eyed, diligent. But the finance boys? The engineering disasters? The crypto-loving herd animals who bark “Sigma grindset” in the back row?

They’re… they’re fucking weird.

So Nanami, professional, stoic, secretly-gonna-die-young-from-stress Nanami, does what any sane man would do. He collects evidence. He starts pulling lines from their essays, highlighting disturbing phrases in neon yellow, jotting notes like: “What does this mean? Is he… serious? Should I be concerned?” He builds a file, basically, like he’s about to hand it off to Interpol.

And then he thinks, Well. The Psychology Professor will know.

Which is how he ends up outside your office door. Again. Papers stacked in his arms like some deranged offering.

And when he pushes open the door—BLAM—he smacks right into you. Literally collides. Papers fly. Notes scatter like dead leaves in autumn. The gods laugh.

“Oh shit!” you yelp, immediately dropping to the floor. “Sorry, sorry, sorry—fuck, that’s a lot of paper.”

Nanami, kneeling already, scoops a neat stack off the carpet. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you argue, grabbing more pages. Except—except here’s the thing. He’s grabbing them from the floor and putting them neatly back on your desk. Meanwhile, you’re scooping papers off your desk (trying to be helpful!) and stacking them on the floor, NEATLY!!!

Neither of you notice at first. It’s chaos, but dignified chaos—until Nanami pauses, still holding a paper midair, and looks at you.

“…Professor.”

You look up, cheerful, hands full of pages. “Yes?”

“We appear to be working against each other.”

You freeze. Look at the desk. Look at the floor. Realize. “…Oh my god.” And then, helpless laughter. “I’m so sorry. I was—I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Jesus.”

For a second—just a second—Nanami looks like he might laugh too. He doesn’t. But he almost does.

Eventually, the two of you sort it out. The papers make it onto the desk. And you, naturally nosy, glance down at the top page.

“Wait. Are these…?”

“Observations,” Nanami says, sitting stiff-backed in the chair across from you.

You flip through them, eyes widening, and then—you cackle. Full-on, ungodly, banshee cackle.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “these are your students? ‘Bitcoin is the future, women are the past’—did someone really write that?!”

Nanami presses his fingers to his temple. “…Yes.”

You slap the desk. “This is delicious.”

And that’s how it begins. You, leafing through his students’ horrorshow essays, delighting in the weirdness like it’s wine at a tasting. Nanami, watching you with a kind of morbid fascination.

Because here’s the thing: he expected you to roll your eyes, maybe lecture him about how “students will be students.” He did not expect you to light up like a goddamn Christmas tree and launch into an impromptu TED Talk about male socialization.

“Okay,” you start, pulling a pen out of your hair like it’s Excalibur. “So. The reason they’re little misogynistic shits? Developmental psych 101. Boys get way more leeway as kids. They’re not policed emotionally the way girls are—like, a girl cries and she’s told to shut up, a boy screams and everyone’s like, oh, boys will be boys. Result? They don’t get corrected. They never learn. They’re emotionally lazy.”

Nanami hums. “…I see.”

“And then, because they’re stunted,” you continue gleefully, “they grow up unable to form proper male friendships. No emotional connection, no accountability. So they turn to the Internet, where other emotionally stunted men are screaming about women and money, and—ta-da!—you get Andrew Tate worshippers who think calling you gay is an argument.”

Nanami raises a brow. “And the responsibility lies… with their parents?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, pointing your pen at him like a weapon. “Parents are lazy with boys and cruel with girls. They let boys run wild and nitpick their daughters to death. So the boys never learn, and the girls get trauma. Equal opportunity failure, courtesy of the family unit. Womp womp, they lose.”

You grin. Nanami studies you.

From this angle, he can see your desk. Messy as hell, covered in sticky notes and novelty pens shaped like brains. But in pride of place? A framed, very fancy photograph of a cat in a little red bowtie.

Nanami gestures. “…Your cat?”

You beam. “Chairman Meow. Isn’t he handsome? He hates everything.”

There’s a pause. Nanami looks at you. Then the cat. Then back. “…Indeed.”

*-*

Later that day, Nanami has lunch with a few of the law professors. They’re loud, smug, perpetually networking men. The kind who order steak at noon and brag about their clerkships from 1998.

One of them leans over, smirking. “So, Nanami. Heard you’ve been seen hanging around with the… ah… eccentric one.”

“The psychology professor,” another adds, in a tone like he’s talking about a circus act. “The one with the outfits.”

There’s laughter. A little mean-spirited.

Nanami doesn’t laugh. He stirs his coffee, silent.

Because here’s the thing. You are eccentric. You show up in frog-print dresses and math earrings. You make students act out cognitive models like it’s improv night. You’re loud. You’re embarrassing, sometimes.

And yet…

He thinks about the way you lit up explaining developmental psychology. How you turned his students’ nonsense into a lesson. How you cackled over their crypto quotes like it was the funniest shit you’d ever seen. How you called your cat Chairman Meow without a shred of shame.

He thinks, She makes it interesting.

And, though he won’t admit it, not even to himself yet, he thinks: Also… she’s hot.

He sips his coffee. The law professors keep laughing.

Nanami doesn’t join them.