Note: I do not own Sookie Stackhouse.
Second note: Do not read if you are disturbed by any of the following: graphic sex, gay sex, the fetish community in general (especially leather and power exchange). depictions of consensual BDSM, vampire/human sex scenes, and me bashing on Twilight for being such a disgrace.

Diary of a Fangbanger

Chapter One
Contact

True, I'm not completely a "fang-banger" in the sense that I'm nowhere near a groupie. Still, hordes of uninformed would be quick to call me that, and the banger community is more than happy to call me one of their own. Sometimes. I just happen to be a man who loves a vampire. Not because he's a vampire, just because he's him.

Mine is the side of the story you may never have heard. Some may not even be interested in it, even. "Yet another vampire romance," you may say. "Nothing good could ever come of a human and vampire loving each other," you may even exclaim. And I must admit there is a point there. Love between a human and a vampire is at times far too romanticized, when it can be far too difficult, dangerous, and some writers wish to defy the very beings vampires are, wishing to ignore their true ferocity and weaknesses. But sharing the love that dares not show its face in the sun is also rewarding, if you let it be. But never easy.

I'm Tobias, by the way. My tale starts a couple months before what has at times been called "The Reveal," the time when the vampires of the world dropped the largest bomb on the world since the Second Great War. It started in the office building where I worked.

I worked in an accounting building in Fresno, which, albeit a rather conservative, had a nice life all the same. A transplant like myself could never truly fit in, but after a couple years working the job, I had at least found a few friends, as well as a bit of a niche. It was a dry job, but it did pay the bills, with just the slightest left over for saving and spoils.

It was one of those late nights, you know the ones, where you're one of the few left in the office, re-checking the math you don't specifically remember doing, numbers flying through your head at a rapid pace. As I finished up the droll but necessary job, starting to pack up, someone walked into the office area. It was a man, who seemed to be a bit tall, wide build, and a green suit, dark green. Army green, perhaps. He walked through the room with purpose, as well as just the slightest bit of flair, making a beeline to my boss's office. As he passed me, however, he turned his head for the shortest of seconds, and our eyes met.

That gaze. His eyes were such soft blues, but deep. He was a firm kind of man. That much I could tell. In my own suit pants, I could feel my cock swelling. In the position I was in, halfway between sitting and standing, I was sure he'd seen it, but if he did, he paid it no mind as opened my boss's door and, without missing a step, disappeared inside the room. I could swear I saw the turn of a grin on his face as the door behind him, but even then, it was little more than a twitch.

I had a vivid dream that night, Usually, I don'thave dreams, especially not ones so intense, but that night was an exception.

For some reason, I was a dancer in a bar, a gay bar. Instead of what would be considered the "normal" punters for a gay bar in the sunny state of the west, it was full of men, well, men like myself. Thick builds, a lot of hair on most, even a few shaved heads. And as I danced onstage, I caught the eyes of a patron in the back of the bar. He was the same man, albeit dressed differently. Things I had not remembered noticing that night rounded off his appearance. His hair was slightly greyed, in a mohawk, with dark tips, the colour of which I could not tell exactly. A black denim vest, studded on the lapels with small spikes, and a white wifebeater were all he wore above the waist, and I thought I could make out chaps through the darkness. I vividly remember every detail of that outfit, as if it were burned into my mind.

The song ended, and I was vaguely aware that I was now off the clock. I emerged into the bar from the back room in practically no time at all, off the clock and ready to have a little fun. I looked at where the man was just a minute before, but he was gone. Feeling a bit down, I didn't notice someone behind me until he grabbed me from behind, hand over my mouth. I knew it was him.

A large hand of his caressed me below the waist, through my evening leathers. He ground his hips into my backside, and I could feel he was every bit as aroused as I was. The grinding was accompanied by more caressing, by the second getting considerably more firm and less gentle, all the while keeping a firm grip over my mouth. I was in hog heaven. I could feel what was coming, and after several minutes of the rough play, I shouted a muted moan into his hand, feeling him climax behind me as well.

I woke up suddenly, lap wet with more cum than I had ever shot at one time, even in my most virile teenage years.

The next day, I was not at all in the best way. I had woken up no less than three times during the night, each time a different dream, but the same effect when I woke up. In fact, it almost seemed like I shot more each time. I didn't put the sheet in the wash, though. I quite liked the smell.

Thing is, I almost felt as though I had spent all night in a bar with a stranger, the emotional mix of one part shame, two parts satisfaction, and three parts dead-dog tired I had not felt since moving here. Those were the good times. Still, work was work, and I was not one to be late. In fact, I was the first one there that morning. When my boss came in, I figured it was a good time to ask him about the mysterious visitor he had the previous night. For purely educational purposed, I lied to myself. When I asked him who the man was, however, he was visibly perplexed, as if he did not recall such a man at all.

"What?"

"The man who came in last night, around seven. Grey hair, green suit?"

"Tobias, I didn't have anyone enter my office last night. I was working reports until half of ten," he remarked. "No such man came in."

"But I saw-"

"Mister Silver," he said, familiarity thrown out the window. "Nothing like what you described happened."

I could tell by his expression that he honestly believed that. "Yes, sir," I said. "Must have been a dream, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Get back to work now, Mister Silver."

I couldn't work too well. The numbers kept running out of my head, as if they were leaking out of my ears. I didn't stay late to finish up that night, a rarity for me. I just rushed out as soon as the hand hit five.

The next two months were nerve-wracking. It seemed most nights I continued to have vivid dreams, although it must have only been one or two each week. My sleeping schedule was thrown off, and I began smoking again to keep my nerves down. I had always enjoyed it, of course, I just don't quite get "addicted" to them; it had been months since I'd even touched one. But like old times, I'd buy a pack of Marlboro Reds, the 100s, every week or two, gradually making my way through each pack, keeping the top of the pack. I must say, it was probably the highlight of those two months. That and the dreams. Still, I knew my job was not going to last much longer. My productivity had gone down the toilet, because for one, I had difficulty sleeping at night again, and for another, numbers were just not behaving themselves the proper way for me. I could still do the math, I'm good at math, but the numbers formed different patterns and I often found myself looking for algorithms in the sequences rather than totalling money accrued, depriciable costs, and adjustments for inflation. But what got me fired was the fax machine.

"Stupid machine," I said under my breath, smacking it lightly. The fax was not wanting to go through, and most of the usual methods were just not having an effect. I had shook it, I had smacked it. Hell, I had even kicked it and it still wasn't functioning. These are delicate pieces of machinery, you know, and only the upmost care *kick* must be taken while operating such a crucial *shake* part of our work. I was down to my last effort, about to pray to my gods of choice, not knowing whether I'd be pleading with them or cursing them, when who should walk up but my boss, Mr. Concep, tapping me on the shoulder.

"I would like to speak to you in my office, Mister Silver."

I saw the look in his eyes, on his face. Regret, sorrow, and yet determination. As well as a touch of fear, fear of this confrontation. Fear of me getting physical. Probably because I was several inches taller than him, and more than half-over as wide. WHich meant...

"You're firing me." It wasn't a question.

"Well, uh, yes," he stammered out. "I am sorry, but your productivity as of late has not been up to our standards, and as such your employment at this company is termin- hey!" I had turned my back on him as he spoke, and grabbed my meager belongings at my desk.

"Where's my last check?" He handed me an envelope. I think he tried to say something else, but I was out the door before he could find the words.

What can I say, I left. I left the company, I left my apartment, I left the city. I drove north. Any direction would be better than south. I ended up in San Fransisco, a place I'd been to a couple times for pleasure. At least if I hit rock bottom there, I had places to get assistance, If there's any town to prefer to be homeless in, it's San Francisco. When I got to Market street, I felt as though I'd missed something. I checked my watch's display. June 10th. It was Pride month and I hadn't a single clue until I got there. I went to a club I knew of on Folsom. A real hole in the wall place, but it was a nice place to go to lose yourself in a bottle of beer. Only after I got myself a seat and was nursing a beer did I realize it was a bit different in there.

The bar was darker than before, and some of the classic decorations that bore much of the novelty in the place were gone. The punters didn't look familiar, but they never did. I was sipping on an empty Guinness bottle for a few minutes before the bartender called my attention to the fact. I was about to order another drink when he came over with a new bottle, one that looked like a Killian's. "From the guy at the end" is all he said, passing me the red beer, top off. I looked down the bar to see who it could have been that took such pity on me. I made contact with bright, blue eyes.