Loona and Octavia
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 4
by
copier
· original author:
an188
In the sprawling coastal metropolis of Havenridge—a huge, pulsing city where gleaming skyscrapers met crashing ocean waves and endless traffic roared day and night—the central mall stood as one of its crown jewels: a multi-level labyrinth of luxury brands, neon-lit food courts, and endless crowds. It was a Saturday afternoon in the heart of this urban beast, sunlight slicing through towering glass atriums onto rivers of shoppers. Amid the chaos moved two figures who bent reality around their egos—Loona and Octavia, the unchallenged tyrants of Havenridge High. They weren't merely students; they were living power fetishes, embodiments of dominance, cruelty, and insatiable control, their friendship a volatile cocktail of sadism and unspoken desire that made every interaction electric.
Loona led the charge, her nearly six-foot frame cutting through the throng like a blade. Pale skin almost luminous under the mall lights, she radiated hyper-feminine menace. The right side of her head was shaved bare in a stark undercut, while voluminous silver hair exploded from the left, sweeping down in dramatic waves past her shoulder. Green eyes—sharp, framed by thick lashes and heavy black eyeshadow—swept the crowds with bored contempt, black-lipsticked lips curled in permanent smugness. Her cropped black top clung to her pronounced hourglass: large bust, tiny waist, flat stomach on full display. Tight black shorts hugged her long legs, fingerless gloves ran up her arms, and her long black-polished nails constantly played with the silver "BITCH" piercing in her navel, the moon tattoo on her thigh flashing with each step. Multiple piercings—three per ear, tongue ("BITCH" charm), back—glinted like trophies of her self-obsession. Loona was a megalomaniacal hedonist: lazy except when chasing highs (smoking, drinking, drugs, sex) or control. Cynical, choleric, sadistic, short-fused, and proudly a "bitch," she bullied with gleeful violence, her exaggerated valley-girl drawl weaponizing every "like" and "totally" into verbal poison.
Arm-in-arm with her strode Octavia—known only to Loona as "Via" or "Princess." Tall and lanky, almost flat-chested with a flat stomach and impossibly long legs, she moved with aristocratic languor. Shaggy jet-black hair fell in messy layers, thick bangs shadowing piercing blue eyes rimmed in stark black-and-white makeup: heavy liner for a hollowed stare, bold black lipstick on thin lips. Long black nails tapped impatiently, a kleptomaniac tic that had already claimed a pair of earrings from an earlier rack. Multiple ear piercings dangled; her navel bore a moon-and-stars charm that peeked when her cropped black velvet top shifted. Dressed in layered gothic luxury—lace corset beneath a dark jacket, ripped black pants, fishnet accents—she exuded melancholic rebellion funded by wealthy, absent parents. Octavia was smug, narcissistic, egotistical, snobbish, sadistic, and megalomaniacal: convinced of her destined greatness and lusting for power. High-IQ brilliance earned effortless top grades; depression and melancholy fueled dramatic theatrics and hedonistic escapes (smoking, drugs). Her speech mixed exaggerated valley-girl sass with operatic flair—sighs like tragedy, eye-rolls like performance art. Repressed lesbian longing burned secretly for Loona alone, a torment she buried beneath cynicism. No friends but Loona; none wanted.
Together they were a perfect storm of mean-girl supremacy: Loona's overt control fetish meshed with Octavia's sadistic wit in endless mutual amplification. They strutted the mall's wide corridors like royalty, hips swaying in perfect sync, voices booming loud enough to drown out the ambient chatter. Shoppers instinctively parted—parents pulling children aside, clusters of teens falling silent and averting eyes. Loona and Octavia registered none of it; empathy was a foreign concept, feelings a weakness to exploit or ignore. "Like, oh my god, Via, look at that tragic family—matching cargo shorts? Kill me now," Loona announced, voice echoing off marble. Octavia threw her head back in theatrical laughter. "Ugh, as if! I'd rather die than be seen in anything so basic. Fashion emergency, someone call 911!"
They swept into stores like conquerors. In a high-end boutique, they tore through racks, trying on outfits with zero regard for hovering staff. Loona slipped into a skin-tight black mini, twirling while Octavia appraised: "Slays hard, but needs more edge—spikes, chains, something vicious." Gossip flowed in loud torrents about school: "That history teacher is such a fossil. I literally slept through his lecture while high in the stairwell," Loona sneered. Octavia smirked, palming a silver ring into her pocket on impulse. "And the students? Spineless drones. Remember that sophomore we humiliated in the cafeteria? She still flinches when she sees us. Delicious." Their bullying chronicles poured out: whispered rumors that destroyed reputations, hallway shoves that left bruises, psychological games that left scars—all retold with smug, remorseless pride.
Next came the lingerie and swimwear boutique, air thick with musk and mirrors everywhere. Loona held up a sheer black teddy, grinning wickedly. "This would have Vortex drooling… not that I care." Octavia tried a starry one-piece, elegant on her slim frame, but her gaze kept drifting to Loona's curves—desire knotting inside, unspoken. They slipped into a family restroom for a quick hit: Loona producing a small baggie, rolling a joint with practiced ease, passing it to Octavia who inhaled deeply, melancholy briefly softening in the smoke. "Control in every drag," Octavia murmured theatrically, eyes lingering on Loona's black lips.
Conversation inevitably circled to Vortex as they wandered out. Loona's eyes sparkled with sadistic delight. "Princess, you have no idea how fun it is to own a loyal toy like Vortex. Big, muscular guy—tall, tan, buzz-cut, all polite and smart with those perfect grades—but I’ve got him on a leash. Emotional control is everything. I call him 'Mutt,' make him beg when he steps out of line, treat him like a disobedient puppy—fetch my bags, wait outside stores while I shop, ignore him till he whimpers. He hates how I bully people, tries to push back, but one guilt trip and he folds. Can’t even glance at another girl without me losing it. His schedule, his clothes, his entire life—I run it. It’s the ultimate power rush, breaking him bit by bit while he stays addicted to me. Total puppy dynamic. Heaven." Octavia listened, pulse racing. Inside, her sexual attraction to Loona surged—wanting to confess, to tangle fingers in that silver hair, to claim or surrender in that same intoxicating control. But fear choked the words; she forced a cool smirk instead. "Sounds… addictive. Very you, Loony."
They claimed a table at an upscale cafe, dropping into seats like they owned the place. Loona ordered with haughty precision: "Triple-shot caramel macchiato, almond milk, extra foam, no whip, piping hot—but not burning, duh. And make it quick, kay?" Octavia matched the drama: "Venti iced mocha, oat milk, two pumps vanilla, one raspberry, light ice, extra sprinkles—don’t skimp or I’ll have a full meltdown, thanks." As their elaborate coffees arrived, Loona leaned forward conspiratorially. "Via, seriously—you need a boyfriend. Someone to dominate, train, own like my Mutt. I’ll help you pick one, break him in. It’s the best high." Octavia’s cheeks warmed beneath her makeup, her secret love for Loona a wall she couldn’t breach. "Nah, Loony, I’m good flying solo. Boys are… meh. Let’s just keep owning this city instead." Loona laughed, but the unspoken tension lingered—their power games far from over.
How do they get powerful?
Loona led the charge, her nearly six-foot frame cutting through the throng like a blade. Pale skin almost luminous under the mall lights, she radiated hyper-feminine menace. The right side of her head was shaved bare in a stark undercut, while voluminous silver hair exploded from the left, sweeping down in dramatic waves past her shoulder. Green eyes—sharp, framed by thick lashes and heavy black eyeshadow—swept the crowds with bored contempt, black-lipsticked lips curled in permanent smugness. Her cropped black top clung to her pronounced hourglass: large bust, tiny waist, flat stomach on full display. Tight black shorts hugged her long legs, fingerless gloves ran up her arms, and her long black-polished nails constantly played with the silver "BITCH" piercing in her navel, the moon tattoo on her thigh flashing with each step. Multiple piercings—three per ear, tongue ("BITCH" charm), back—glinted like trophies of her self-obsession. Loona was a megalomaniacal hedonist: lazy except when chasing highs (smoking, drinking, drugs, sex) or control. Cynical, choleric, sadistic, short-fused, and proudly a "bitch," she bullied with gleeful violence, her exaggerated valley-girl drawl weaponizing every "like" and "totally" into verbal poison.
Arm-in-arm with her strode Octavia—known only to Loona as "Via" or "Princess." Tall and lanky, almost flat-chested with a flat stomach and impossibly long legs, she moved with aristocratic languor. Shaggy jet-black hair fell in messy layers, thick bangs shadowing piercing blue eyes rimmed in stark black-and-white makeup: heavy liner for a hollowed stare, bold black lipstick on thin lips. Long black nails tapped impatiently, a kleptomaniac tic that had already claimed a pair of earrings from an earlier rack. Multiple ear piercings dangled; her navel bore a moon-and-stars charm that peeked when her cropped black velvet top shifted. Dressed in layered gothic luxury—lace corset beneath a dark jacket, ripped black pants, fishnet accents—she exuded melancholic rebellion funded by wealthy, absent parents. Octavia was smug, narcissistic, egotistical, snobbish, sadistic, and megalomaniacal: convinced of her destined greatness and lusting for power. High-IQ brilliance earned effortless top grades; depression and melancholy fueled dramatic theatrics and hedonistic escapes (smoking, drugs). Her speech mixed exaggerated valley-girl sass with operatic flair—sighs like tragedy, eye-rolls like performance art. Repressed lesbian longing burned secretly for Loona alone, a torment she buried beneath cynicism. No friends but Loona; none wanted.
Together they were a perfect storm of mean-girl supremacy: Loona's overt control fetish meshed with Octavia's sadistic wit in endless mutual amplification. They strutted the mall's wide corridors like royalty, hips swaying in perfect sync, voices booming loud enough to drown out the ambient chatter. Shoppers instinctively parted—parents pulling children aside, clusters of teens falling silent and averting eyes. Loona and Octavia registered none of it; empathy was a foreign concept, feelings a weakness to exploit or ignore. "Like, oh my god, Via, look at that tragic family—matching cargo shorts? Kill me now," Loona announced, voice echoing off marble. Octavia threw her head back in theatrical laughter. "Ugh, as if! I'd rather die than be seen in anything so basic. Fashion emergency, someone call 911!"
They swept into stores like conquerors. In a high-end boutique, they tore through racks, trying on outfits with zero regard for hovering staff. Loona slipped into a skin-tight black mini, twirling while Octavia appraised: "Slays hard, but needs more edge—spikes, chains, something vicious." Gossip flowed in loud torrents about school: "That history teacher is such a fossil. I literally slept through his lecture while high in the stairwell," Loona sneered. Octavia smirked, palming a silver ring into her pocket on impulse. "And the students? Spineless drones. Remember that sophomore we humiliated in the cafeteria? She still flinches when she sees us. Delicious." Their bullying chronicles poured out: whispered rumors that destroyed reputations, hallway shoves that left bruises, psychological games that left scars—all retold with smug, remorseless pride.
Next came the lingerie and swimwear boutique, air thick with musk and mirrors everywhere. Loona held up a sheer black teddy, grinning wickedly. "This would have Vortex drooling… not that I care." Octavia tried a starry one-piece, elegant on her slim frame, but her gaze kept drifting to Loona's curves—desire knotting inside, unspoken. They slipped into a family restroom for a quick hit: Loona producing a small baggie, rolling a joint with practiced ease, passing it to Octavia who inhaled deeply, melancholy briefly softening in the smoke. "Control in every drag," Octavia murmured theatrically, eyes lingering on Loona's black lips.
Conversation inevitably circled to Vortex as they wandered out. Loona's eyes sparkled with sadistic delight. "Princess, you have no idea how fun it is to own a loyal toy like Vortex. Big, muscular guy—tall, tan, buzz-cut, all polite and smart with those perfect grades—but I’ve got him on a leash. Emotional control is everything. I call him 'Mutt,' make him beg when he steps out of line, treat him like a disobedient puppy—fetch my bags, wait outside stores while I shop, ignore him till he whimpers. He hates how I bully people, tries to push back, but one guilt trip and he folds. Can’t even glance at another girl without me losing it. His schedule, his clothes, his entire life—I run it. It’s the ultimate power rush, breaking him bit by bit while he stays addicted to me. Total puppy dynamic. Heaven." Octavia listened, pulse racing. Inside, her sexual attraction to Loona surged—wanting to confess, to tangle fingers in that silver hair, to claim or surrender in that same intoxicating control. But fear choked the words; she forced a cool smirk instead. "Sounds… addictive. Very you, Loony."
They claimed a table at an upscale cafe, dropping into seats like they owned the place. Loona ordered with haughty precision: "Triple-shot caramel macchiato, almond milk, extra foam, no whip, piping hot—but not burning, duh. And make it quick, kay?" Octavia matched the drama: "Venti iced mocha, oat milk, two pumps vanilla, one raspberry, light ice, extra sprinkles—don’t skimp or I’ll have a full meltdown, thanks." As their elaborate coffees arrived, Loona leaned forward conspiratorially. "Via, seriously—you need a boyfriend. Someone to dominate, train, own like my Mutt. I’ll help you pick one, break him in. It’s the best high." Octavia’s cheeks warmed beneath her makeup, her secret love for Loona a wall she couldn’t breach. "Nah, Loony, I’m good flying solo. Boys are… meh. Let’s just keep owning this city instead." Loona laughed, but the unspoken tension lingered—their power games far from over.
How do they get powerful?
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June 13
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