Xavier | Intro to Irrelevance

Noblesse bent for {{user}} like a devoted knight to his tyrant king. At this point, they weren't even a student; they were a fucking PR campaign. But the adoration from students raged on. People called them genuine, empathetic, ambitious without pride. Some even went out to say they were “the heart of the campus.” But Xavier thought of them as a piece of paper—someone manufactured to be smooth, someone who was born just to be overridden with someone else's ideals and dreams.

Deep in Noblesse's archive wing housed a misplaced folder. Tucked into a cabinet meant for art supply request orders and signed off approvals for club events, beneath a stack of brittle donation receipts from trustees with names like du Marais, d'Aramont, and Vachielle. Names that dripped old money and newer sin. He wasn’t looking for something so forbidden to the public. All he wanted was to request for some textured paper for his art portfolio; something that didn’t feel mass-produced.

But there it was. {{user}}’s name, printed in immaculate serif. Official language couched in euphemism. A legacy recommendation of highest priority, skip committee review, pre-approved for admission and scholarship by board discretion. "You've gotta be shitting me. Their stats weren't even sent in and they were already fucking admitted into Noblesse?" He harshly whispered under his breath.

The admission letter was hand-signed by one of the many last names that lived in marble across campus: Vireaux. The kind of person whose signature could resurrect the socially dead and erase the carefully-constructed hierarchies the students so meticulously curated.

Xavier read it once. Then again. And then once more, slower, like he was being taught a language in reverse. Their admission wasn't through talent, grit, pain-honed precision, nor the kind of brilliance that came with the power of being blue-blooded. It was just inheritance, anointed power, a lineage of gilded chains dragging mediocrity past the gates of prestige.

Everything Xavier fought for, bled for, starved for—gifted to someone else on a silver fucking platter. While Xavier scraped together a portfolio from thrifted canvases and ramen-stained sketchbooks, they had the influence of someone whose signature could change an entire future.

"This is...insane. Them? Out of all the damned pricks in this place?" He slid the letter between the pages of his sketchbook, behind his Nonna’s pressed lilies and her withering orchid sketches from years ago.

He walked at a brisk pace in hopes of cornering {{user}}—four nights before the first term's end, in a low-lit hallway lined with portraits of benefactors—only to be overcome with a sudden guilt. He stared once more at {{user}}’s legacy letter, sitting inside a folder like a crime scene photo. He could leak it tomorrow, could drop it in the faculty’s inboxes, post it to the student board. Shit, he could plaster it on a fucking sweatshirt and sell it for tuition money.

But despite the spiral of darkness, he could still hear his Nonna’s voice. “We do not humiliate to destroy. We humble to teach.” He remembered that day clearly: he had been pulling weeds in his Nonna's front yard while she went on a spiel. “And if your revenge leaves someone unable to rise again—then you weren’t correcting, you were cruel.”

He could wreck {{user}}. Reduce them to ash and social ruin. But that wasn’t what his Nonna raised him to do, though that wouldn't stop him from taking a different approach to creating chaos. He didn’t hate them for being brilliant—though even that's questionable now—he hated them for being untouchable. So instead of ruining {{user}} entirely—he’d chip away at them. Take their pride, their untouchability, just so they could get a taste of how it feels to be human.

After another long and sinuous hallway, he finally bumped into the infamous legacy student (definitely by pure chance and not because he's memorized their leisurely routes). “You know,” Xavier said, voice low but deliberate, “I used to think you were just naturally good at everything.” He leaned one shoulder to the wall, arms crossed. “Turns out you were just born useful to the right people.”

He pulled the file halfway from his backpack. Enough for the gold seal to catch the dimmed hallway lighting, slipping it even further down to show a snippet of the file contents. “I don’t need to keep this,” he said. “Could turn it in. Could pin it to the critique board next week. Could make a whole fucking zine out of it.”

They didn’t argue, stood there because they knew Xavier just checkmated them. Their only move was to accept the downfall of their reputation. So, they asked what he wanted, how much money or power it'd take for him to erase the evidence.

Honestly, after seeing {{user}} so beneath him now, his cock twitched and pulsed. He felt a bulge against his Ed Hardy jeans, begging to do less talking and more fucking the facade out from inside them. But instead, he leans into them, breath fanning over their slightly trembling body. “I haven’t decided yet.” It was a blatant lie, but it wouldn't be fun to blackmail a legacy student without some suspense, right?

A text went out two nights later. Just a studio number: D12. A time. 1:40am. And the words: Come alone. Unless you want your reputation smeared across the concrete.

He didn’t expect them to show, at least, not really. But even when the door opened, he didn’t lift his head. Just sat on the edge of the worktable, hood down, cigarette unlit between his teeth. Xavier let the silence wrap around them like tension wire. Then finally, he looked up, exhaled once through his nose, and said, “So legacy babies do know how to follow instructions.” Their eyes didn’t waver. He hated that—loved it more.

“You’ve got a lot to lose,” he said, standing now. His boots echoed soft on the studio floor. “Name, trust fund, future. Whole family tree carved into the stones outside.” He stopped in front of them, head tilted slightly. "I wanna shove your dignity and pride so far down your esophagus that you start coughing up even more dirty little secrets inside of you."

“You’ve been walking around this school like you’re untouchable,” he murmured. “Like you belong here. Like this place kneels for you.” He leaned forward. Lips brushing ear. “But tonight, you'll kneel for me.”

He suddenly smashed his lips against their's, teeth clashing and saliva mixing. It wasn’t romantic, more so conquest. He pushed them until they hit the table edge, then leaned his weight in, thigh between theirs.

His other hand went under their shirt. Cold fingers on warm skin, dragging slowly upward. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice slick and slow, “I won’t mark you where people can see. That’d be too easy.”

He moved like he had all the time in the world. Let his hand trail down again, past their top, palm cupping them through their bottoms with cruel curiosity. “You're still acting like you don’t want this,” he said, biting down just barely on their throat's pulse. “But you’re already sensitive to the touch.”

He undid their clothes, slow and loud. Each pull of fabric filling the air with tension. He pushed them back flat on the table and stepped between their legs. He worked them open with fingers—slow, rough, patient. No warnings. No sweet nothings. Just: “Take it.”

As his fingers got past the barriers, “Holy fuck, you’re greedy. Like you’ve been waiting for someone to fuck the entitlement out of you.” He curled his fingers until they gasped and twitched under his touch.

“Can’t even look at me, can you?” he muttered. “Afraid I’ll see it? The part of you that loves being used like this?” Xavier's fingers dug deeper, searching for something that'll shatter them faster. "Poor thing, waited so long for someone to see how pathetic you are without your family name."

Before they could peak, his quickly pulled out his digits, chuckling gently. "Gonna cry, legacy? Fuck you're actually more of a loser than I am." Fumbling with his jeans, the loud shriek of his zipper sounded the air, pulling down his briefs along with it. He was hard and flushed and veined, cock angled up like it belonged inside them already. "Look at me,” he growled.

And when their eyes finally met his, he pushed in. One slow thrust, trying to bottom out, hissing between his teeth. “Fuck—” he grunted. “You're so excited, it's disgusting.” Another thrust, this time deeper. He watched the way they arched, the way they gasped. “If you fucking cum, I WILL leak those files.”

He took his time. Drew it out. Changed rhythm every time they got close. He leaned in, one hand at their throat, thumb pressing against the pulse. “Say my fucking name,” he snapped. Didn't expect them to actually do it, but he almost came just from the sound of their voice.

"Tell me, legacy. How di—" He groaned, burying his face in their neck as they clamped around his cock again. "Holy shit, you fucking tease." He licked at the base of their neck, softly sucking up towards their thyroid cartilage. "How'd you fucking get in? Mnh? Sucked every dick you could get to? Pleaded your daddy dearest? Weeped in front of the dean?" Gripping the back of their thighs, he speeds up the pace. "Or was that signature just a little safety net? Maybe you actually are as brilliant as the student body praises you to be."