Disclaimer: All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: I just couldn't stop writing after the last chapter. I needed to get this sucker on page. With that being said, there are very mature things in this chapter. (This is your warning.) Alright? Okay! Now, thanks to my reviewers, favorite(rs), and followers! I hope y'all enjoy this one! It's in Randall's perspective – head's up!
The Soldier
Chapter Six: "The Goddess"
(Randall's Perspective)
Against the Rest galloped onto the stage; a swarm of followers boarded the main floor. After the first rift, the ska-punks went into a frenzy. Young men transformed into Neanderthals. They released a week's worth of frustration on their brethren. Punches were thrown; beer spilt onto the concrete. The listeners' vigor brought forth by the sound. Randall loved the chaos. Music understood the soul. The vampire felt more alive under strobe lights, bobbing to the local bands. As Bob Marley said, "One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain."
The headliner brought him to the House of Blues. Social Distortion was a Californian legend. Rock enthusiasts across the world demanded news. Randall promised to fulfill their requests by writing an article. Over the past fifty years, he had assumed the role as an entertainment journalist. The vampire used various pseudonyms to cover his tracks. Luckily, people enjoyed his pieces. Rolling Stone hired him as a contract worker, while he continued to run a highly regarded music blog. Life was good.
Towards the end of the opener's set, the club's door unlatched. Randall frowned at the interruption. However, his aggravation shifted into awe. A goddess entered the threshold. Deathly pale skin illuminated by the dimmed lights. She wore a sheer wife beater; the cotton material stretched over a six-pack and perky breasts. Her bare arms bore crescent scars – marks of supremacy. Toned legs hid beneath tight jeans. Adorning her slender feet were a pair of black converse. As Randall's eyes scanned upwards, he noticed the shade of her hair. It hung in waves of mahogany, framing her beautiful face. Unlike others of their kind, her irises were gold. Black eyelashes highlighted their lightness. A set of pout lips teased him. "God," he swore, "she's gorgeous."
The female immortal joined the masses. Their injuries unfazed her. She moved with music, accepting it into her heart. It was most breathtaking sight that he'd ever witnessed. When Social Distortion began to play, the vampire maneuvered to sidelines. Randall noticed that she acted human. The goddess blinked, breathed, and fidgeted. Only a handful of mortals seemed unsettled by her presence. Truthfully, the journalist believed their nervousness coincided with her beauty. The goddess outshined every being in the room.
When the last song ended, the crowd pushed to the lobby. The brunette immortal followed the swarm. She stopped at the merchandise table and bought a t-shirt. The roadie drooled over her – examining the name on the debit card. The woman seemed oblivious to his gawking. She thanked the sleaze-ball, tucking the memento into her back pocket. A primal growl rumbled in his chest. "Mine," met deaf ears.
Randall trailed the goddess for a couple of blocks. He opted for the rooftops to avoid the pedestrians. The woman kept a slow speed, scoping the strip. Then, without warning, she darted down Larrabee Street. A gurgled scream echoed from an alleyway. When they both arrived to the scene, a Rastafarian vampire was finishing a club girl. The olive toned male knew the goddess. "Isabella," dripped from his bloody lips. The female didn't udder a word – she attacked him, aiming to kill.
The fight was an embarrassment. Obviously, the vampires were unmatched. His goddess ripped the poor bastard into pieces. She ended the battle without a scratch. It became painfully obvious that the woman was a trained warrior. Not only did she rival Aphrodite's beauty, she personified Enyo. Randall felt his trousers tighten. He needed her like he needed blood. She was the missing piece to his puzzle.
Jumping from the rooftop, he announced himself. The goddess faced him; golden eyes scanned his form. Randall preened at her approval. She tried to speak but became tongue-tied. "I know what you mean," he grinned. Of course, the statement turned into actual fact. When the woman nuzzled into his chest, the journalist lost all sense of self. She became his reason for existence. Love consumed him.
"Mate," she purred.
"Come with me," he pleaded.
Tucking her into his side, they jumped onto the rooftops. Carefully, he directed them to his bungalow. The goddess smiled throughout the run. It brought warmth to his heart. After decades of solitude, he never imagined finding his mate. Most vampires avoided California due to the sunlight. It was a blessing and a curse. Randall thanked whatever god for her venturous nature. He couldn't imagine a life without her – his goddess.
They reached the house within a few minutes. Randall picked-up his mate and carried her through the threshold. Isabella chuckled at his behavior; the sound rivaled chiming bells. Boldly, he snuck her into the master bedroom. The need to claim her possessed him. The brunette immortal didn't complain. In fact, the sweet scent of her arousal perfumed the air. The journalist purred in delight, placing her on his needless bed. "You're mine," he declared, "only mine." The words caused the goddess to moan; her thighs rubbed together in discomfort.
"Yours," she vowed.
Randall removed their clothes and began his exploration. His previous assessment proved wrong. The woman did not rival Aphrodite; she outshined the hag. Lying bare, her toned body defined beauty. The journalist grasped a perfect breast, suckling on a rosy nipple. Isabella voiced her pleasure like a siren. His dick became impossibly hard. "Fuck," he breathed, "So goddamn beautiful."
Taking a finger, he massaged her clit. Already, wetness pooled at her entrance. Randall traveled downward, pushing a finger into her folds. "You're soaking," Randall growled. "I can't wait. I need you."
The goddess nodded, spreading her milky legs. Her concentrated arousal hit him like a wrecking ball. Randall removed his finger, replacing it with his large cock. The moment he entered her, heaven crashed onto earth. Both vampires released animalistic groans. His mate was tight, practically a virgin. The journalist sunk deep inside her, reveling in her heat. "Fuck," he repeated.
Then, he began the ride. His goddess latched onto him; her arms wrapped around his shoulders. They shared a passionate kiss, savoring each other's tastes. All too soon, she moaned release. Her walls clamped onto his dick. The sensation brought forth his orgasm; venomous seed filled his mate's body. Randall bit into his lover's neck – staking claim. Not to be out done, Isabella scarred his. He expected nothing less from the warrior.
Still hard, Randall refused to leave his position. His mate was not leaving the bed until they broke it. Thankfully, the goddess shared his appetite. The vixen flipped their positions, sitting on his cock. "My turn," she growled. With that, they fucked for days. The vampires destroyed every piece of furniture in the bungalow. Randall lavished in their chaos – just like music. God, he loved her.