The first time you almost get to say it, your voice is shaking with fear and tenderness.
"There's something I have to tell you, buddy."
But he's not having any of it. A quick turn of his head and the swirling ink is gone, he's gone, and you're left to look at the back of him, hands shoved tight in his coat pockets as he walks away.
Alone with dumpster stink and the pained moaning of the Knots you two just took out, you kick at the wall. Little shambles of brick shake loose with your boot, and a litany of creative curses chorus in your brain all the way home. You admit, it was probably a bad time to spring it on him (though you'll always credit yourself for trying to use the element of surprise to trap him into hearing you out).
The next time, you think (hope) the timing is more appropriate.
You're soaring above the city, sun peeking out pink and gold over the horizon. It's gratuitous: there's no need to be at this altitude. (But you know that in his weaker moments, in both your weaker moments, when you're tired and worn from all that's happened at night, this is one indulgence you can feed him that he won't escape.)
He's standing over by the window, entranced by the look of it all spread at his feet. The ink moves in broad swathes over his face, warmed by the light, and maybe this is as good a time as ever--
"Look," you pull off your cowl, letting your face speak for itself. "There's something you have to know."
Silence beats thick and there's only the hum of the engines. The sun takes forever to crawl over the edge of the last cloud. His gloved hands are clenched tight at his side and he refuses to look at you. Condemns you instead. "Sick, Daniel."
"No, it's not," you protest, indignation (shame) registers as a thick red blossoming on your face. You stand up, even though your feet have no plan. They pace you aimlessly. "I can't help it," your voice is hurried, "you can't help these things."
You run a hand through your hair, stringy with dried sweat underneath your gauntleted hands. In a burst of frustration you tear the gloves off, throw them on the console. Now there are four hands in front of you, one pair raw and one pair ineffectual. "Look, I just gotta know if--"
You don't finish. He's on you in a second, leather-clad grip closing in on your jaw, almost painful as he brings you down to him, mouth crashing against yours. Your breath shudders inside you and you grip him back, thrusting your tongue against the rubber-cloth rasp of latex.
Later in your basement, your bare hands grasp at the railing, your knees digging into sawdust and soot and scraping against the cement. The spandex of your costume sags in a cooling puddle around your feet as Rorschach spreads your ass and takes you with nothing more than a slick of engine oil.
The smell of exhaust and gasoline surrounds you both, pungent and industrial and sweet and it sends a jolt down your spine when you inhale. With every thrust of his cock you can't help but arch back, mouth wet and slack-jawed as you pant muffled and lewd sounds into your knuckles. His breath comes hot and sweltering against the back of your neck. Every hiss and choke sounds like sick, sick, sick, and he makes you know it.