(A/N: Well, since everyone responded so positively to the blood chapter in Soul Eater's Lemon tree, I've uploaded this into a story on it's own. Please review and leave feedback, I enjoy hearing your opinions. :) Enjoy!)

Chapter 1

Soul Eater, his real name having escaped him after a few centuries of solitude, was a creature of the night. A blood-thirsty demon whose only mission in life was to steal the life blood from unaware victims as they slept in their beds, dreaming about happy things. He was no Incubus. He took pride in that fact. His desire for blood was deep-seated and carnal—not frivolous and purely sexual like the usual Incubus or Succubus.

No. He was a vampire. His thirst for the delicious burgundy fluid that flowed through every living being on earth was passionate and sensual. He drank because it got his heart beating again. And that in itself was all he really needed. Every human he drank from was held with the utmost care. He fed from them until he was full, leaving some still barely clinging to life and others fell into eternal sleep with his soft lips at his or her neck.

He did not discriminate against gender, for he preferred the blood of the Strong-Willed. Women with that particular flavor were hard to come by these days. He liked the very distinct spice that accompanied his favorite flavor of blood. It tasted like clove cigarettes and chili peppers, but carried off into a sort of sensual musk before ending on a delicious sweet note. It was something that reminded him of years past, a time period long-forgotten. Cinnamon milk prepared for him when his mother was still alive, the smell of his father's jacket, stolen sweets and the smell of a heavily wooded area.

Sometimes he felt that he always read too much into it. He was getting old, though his young, handsome face did not show it, and he was learning to appreciate softer, more fleeting things. He loved sitting in the park, these days, watching as people passed, ignoring him. They had no idea just how old he was and just how much he knew. Hell. Soul himself wasn't even sure just how old he was anymore. Age was a concept that had been lost to him for a very long time.

He enjoyed sitting in the park, though. People were interesting here, but nothing ever really changed. So, you could imagine his surprise when one day, when he had come across the bench he usually occupied, he saw a girl sitting there. She was plain, her ashy blond hair pulled into two pigtails on the sides of her head. She was perhaps the skinniest person Soul had seen in a long time, her legs toned and going on forever. Her head was inclined toward a raggedy 10-cent, second-hand book in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankles.

She glanced up at him as he approached her, skeptically eying his stark white hair and ruby eyes that so accurately matched his choice in drink. But, as quick as her head had twitched toward him, it was back to her book. He dropped down beside her, folding his long fingers in his lap (fingers that he was sure at some point in his childhood had been used for an instrument of some kind. A piano, perhaps?), and looked at her from the corner of his eye. She was probably of average height, he guessed. She wasn't really petite. Her face was round, yes, but she was long and gangly—An athlete's body.

"How long are you going to keep staring at me?" She asked suddenly, wrenching him from his thoughts. His eyes widened in shock and he sputtered softly before regaining his composure.

"S-sorry," He mumbled, moving his gaze to stare out at the green trees in the park before them.

She looked up from her book to stare at him this time, her pig tails whipping around wildly. He looked at her then. And that was when he smelled it. Her scent hit him like a sledgehammer. There it was. The scent of clove cigarettes and chili peppers, the musk of a wet forest and the sweet aftertaste of sugar cookies and stolen candy. He could almost taste it. Right there in front of him. Cinnamon milk and his father's jacket.

She must of noticed his eyes widen considerably, for she asked suddenly, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," He coughed, his voice tight. Molten lava slid away from brilliant forest green and fixed on the trees in front of him once more.

She shrugged and went back to her book. Neither said a word.

.

.

.

Later that evening, when the rest of the city was fast asleep, dreaming pleasant dreams, Soul was pacing the streets outside of the apartment building he just knew that the girl from earlier occupied. He could smell her. Her scent, common among his favorite flavor of blood, permeated the air outside the apartment complex. His enhanced olfactory senses could sniff out exactly where her room was. He was furiously debating with himself on whether or not he should just float up to her level, climb in through her window, and drain her until he was full. But something was holding him back and he had no idea what it was.

Somehow, he beat back that unknown part of him that wanted to stay away and not drag her under with his insatiable thirst for her blood, and morphed into nearly invisible mist. He floated up to her balcony and slithered in through the crack between her window and its frame and materialized by her bedside. She was dressed in a plain tank-top and shorts, her clothing askew from her rolling around on the bed as she slept. Her legs were tangled in the sheets, her arms splayed about her, and for some reason, Soul found that a little too cute and endearing. He bent closer to her so that his lips were brushing softly against her neck, his warm breath fanning over her skin. She squirmed a little, but slept on.

Soul could smell her even better from this position and her scent was absolutely tantalizing. With a barely suppressed growl, he sunk his fangs into the vanilla flesh of her neck, drawing a quiet moan from her parted lips. He felt his whole body harden as the delicious gush of warm wetness dripped into his waiting mouth. It was better tasting than he had ever imagined. He hadn't had blood like this in a long time, if not never. He found himself clutching desperately onto her thin frame as he fed from her. She was sort of awake, trapped in a state of aroused subconscious as he fed from her. It was a common side affect of being drained by a vampire, one that was only now, for the first time in Soul'd undead existence, becoming a problem. She let out another little moan, this time reaching up and running a hand through his snowy hair. He unintentionally let slip a grunt of pleasure before picking her up in his arms and holding her small body close to his as he finished his meal. He held her for a few minutes after words, gasping and panting into her hair. He was no Incubus. And he took pride on that fact. But never before had drinking blood been so...so...erotic. Her taste had been heaven and Soul wanted more of it. But he knew that if he drank any more, she would die. He decided to just bask there in her smell as she slept on. She was still curled around him and it was only when he heard her let out the most delicious of noises before adjusting her hips did he realize just how much her surprisingly stimulating blood had affected him. He felt his hips thrust up into the apex of her thighs. She uttered another savory moan and he reciprocated with yet another jerk of his hips before realizing exactly what he was doing and quickly jumping away from her like a scalded cat. She flopped back onto her bed and lay there, not even moving as Soul stood pressed against the wall, his chest heaving with the effort to get away.

no.

no, no, no.

NONO, no, no, NO, nO.

Soul scrubbed his hands over his face before turning towards her window, Blood-red eyes darkened with a still-present lust slid accusingly toward her dozing shape before he leapt from her window and into the night. He told himself that he would never go back to that apartment building, but even he knew that was a lie.