He envied them. Even when he condemned for their extravagance, their flippancies, their godless immortality, he always envied them their position. Even when he was given the title of Prince of Nemesis, he envied them still, because deep down, he knew that he was no royal. He was a boy who people would follow because of looks and a certain charisma. He was no leader. He had no birthright to grant him the throne. He had no power save that which had been given to him.

Maybe that was why he wanted to possess that sovereign of Earth so much. Maybe he felt that then he would be worthy of his title. Perhaps one could not truly be a monarch until one bed a monarch. Maybe he could suck out some sense of honor and chivalry from those lips, maybe he would not know how to be beautiful until he drowned in those blue, blue eyes, maybe he could not be taught passion until he felt those hands running over his ghost-white skin. It would be like the sun at long last reaching the desolate plains of his dead, exiled planet. Good things of beauty would at last flourish, and he'd know how flowers felt.

Then again, a part of him knew that his prey would never be so willing. After all, he was a traitor to the people of Earth, a threat to their lover and to their friends. He was to be tossed aside and forgotten if not despised, and certainly not pitied or forgiven or granted his finest wish. He would have to take them, bound by ropes and magic. But there would still be resistance. Always, always fighting against him. Such strength did his beloved possess. But no matter. He would pin down arms, anchor thrashing hips and pound that so-called deity until screams became whimpers and fury became despair. And he would lick away the tears, whisper in ears, soothing. And then it would begin again and again and again and again until there were no more tears to cry and no more will to resist.

One day, whether by will or by force, the King of Earth would be his.

Maybe then, he would be content.