Do I Need It? (Am I Under Control?)

Feeling A Little Drained?

Hey there! For the full uploaded version of this, go to my Archive Of Our Own account which I've written down in the story description.

This will have 9 parts to it, all of which are currently written.

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Night fell swiftly on Inner L'manberg, the light in the sky now faded all the way from a soft, baby blue to an inky void painting the sky. A faraway bell rang out thrice, signalling to those awake that the witches hour had begun.

Quick-moving shadows raced from shop to shop, the monsters inhabiting the city hunting down cheap vendors with keen eyes.

A light turned on in one of the fancier shops, it's modern-looking red and white sign quite jarring considering the eclectic mix of Georgian, Roman and much, much older buildings that filled Inner L'manberg.

Most monsters stayed firmly away from this particular shop. Many others stared at the building with starved eyes, the monstrous shoppers all forcing a conscious effort to stay firmly away. After all, who wanted to pay the price of disobeying?

A sweet scent filled the cold air. But it was also weirdly savoury, like a freshly-baked cinnamon roll, perfectly warm and gooey. It was such a shame that the scent was not alone. Another scent was present too: prowling, protective certainly.

Like an ancient dragon, determined to never rest, to never allow anyone near it's precious hoard. And so naturally, every onlooker was scared off: racing to another brightly lit building where they could queue for hours and wait for some cheap, unpleasant tasting mix of blood elsewhere.

The shop was not open anyway.

That did not mean the shop was empty - for it couldn't have been. Someone must have turned on the lights, others producing the scent. And so, behind the silver-laced shutters and flowery sign, there was a family.

"But Phil" Yelled Tommy, aware of how childish he sounded, "Will's being a bitch and not letting me have my coke!"

Phil burst into a fit of laughter, dislodging his bucket hat from his head, forcing him to move it back into place so that it didn't fall down the back of the sofa again.

He picked up the newspaper he'd discarded hours ago and tried to appear more relaxed despite how his sons made him laugh.

"Will, come on mate. Just because it makes his blood taste a bit weird does not mean you can stop Tommy from having his favourite drink!" He exclaimed, utterly exasperated, for what must have been the 20,000th time that week.

"Do I need to tape a recording of me saying that or do you finally get it?" He asked, radiating Dad Energy™ as he spoke.

A figure whizzed from the smaller sofa beside them to Phil and Tommy's, the brown, bouncy hair revealing the figure as Wilbur.

"Tape yourself..." Wilbur teased, "And you say you're good with technology. What year is it again, Dad?"

"Will, stop taunting Dadza!" Tommy interjected.

"I will if he fucking tells me what year it is!" He rebutted, "And your blood does taste way better without that- That fucking poison!"

Phil sighed, feeling more grey hairs appearing. "Why do I even bother?"

With that, Phil turned back to his newspaper, muttering to himself the date as he read through it.

Wilbur moved swiftly closer to Tommy, cornering the boy between him and Phil. He turned to look into Tommy's eyes, the hesitant and fearful teenager knowing what would happen next.

He closed his eyes and looked to the floor, trying to pretend Wilbur's blood sick eyes weren't turned to his neck, that his fangs weren't extending as he smelt Tommy's bony body.