Standing on the balcony, breathing in the night air of Metropolis with a glass of scotch in hand, you wonder your relationship with him.
You know what you aren't for certain; friends, family, lovers.
But what you are to him, you can't really place.
During the day, he would come to you as an ace reporter, ice blue eyes piercing through his ridiculous looking glasses.
He would ask you daring questions with that woman, both so keen on exposing whatever illegal deed you are to have done this time.
Later in the evening, as the savior of Metropolis, he would burst into your labs to stop you from finishing your experiments on the emerald rocks.
Or would roughly grab you by your neck and demand for you to quit the nonsense.
Or would simply glare at you through the windows, tens of feet in the air, as if a warning that he is indeed watching you, before flying off to save the city from another invasion.
Some nights end here.
And some nights, it doesn't.
The nights it doesn't are the nights where he, in one way or another, fails to save a life. Or two. Or a dozen.
Those nights he would quietly fly by to your penthouse, which you keep the large windows looking out into the city open, because you know by now the odd schedule.
That, and also the fact that you are constantly updated on the news on that specific alien.
Therefore you would always know, the nights he would come. And those he won't.
Into the room he would land even more quietly, and you would be sitting in your black desk chair, waiting and sipping your drink.
With force he would grab you.
Pull you into his arms gently, but holds you with firmly like you are his dear life, with shaking breaths.
Bury his face into the crook of your shoulder to kill the sounds of his cracked chokes and sobs.
Kiss you, like you are his long time lover with much heat and passion so inhuman.
And then fuck you hard into the mattress, practically pounding you to it, like he blames you for all the evil out there.
Before the day would start again, he would be gone, leaving dark painful finger shaped bruises on your hips, and red harsh bite marks around the pulse of your neck.
Your back would feel slightly raw from being shoved into the sheets too hard countless amounts of times.
But most of all, your abused hole would be feeling his cock up inside you for days until he returns to you, only to repeat the ritual over again.
He was and is the only one to ever leave marks on you like this.
You think it's a little unfair that you don't get to leave anything on him.
You suppose you can be each other's arch nemesis.
But usually enemies don't sleep together. Repeatedly.
'Fuck buddies' seem more accurate, but strangely enough, you feel the two of you are more intimate than that.
Not to mention even after all these years, he and words like "fuck" still seem to clash.
You remember having hoped to be lovers someday, a long time ago back in that small town, before everything corrupted and fell beneath their feet, but you know now for certain that the day shall never come, with all the hate too much to ignore.
But of course, you pretend not to notice the undeniable love you still feel towards him.
Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel a sudden gust of wind, and the bright red and blue hovering over you.
He seems taken a back, one eyebrow raised and his head slightly tilted, to see you out here in the balcony and not your usual office.
Acting unaffected, you put out your free hand which he takes, and leads him inside, into your bedroom.
As planned, he would pull you into his arms, and kiss, and fuck, and leave before sunrise.
Leaving you to do the wondering and the thinking.
All alone.