It's brutal. It's brusing. But it's there.

It is obvious that what is going on isn't right. It's obvious by the way you twist and scream while he embraces you. It's obvious by the way you dig your fingernails into his flesh, the cold flesh that seems heartless. But you know it's not.

He loves you.

It's the way he shows it. Unnatural, but natural for him. It's the only way that one could ever show the amount of love they have, one who grew up in the torture he had.

You can tell he loves you a lot by the way he tortures you. He even told you this.

"This is something new, I wanted to try it on you first."

Is this something honorable? Is this something you should be proud of? Hell if it mattered, all you care is that you are still here.

You can still feel the pain,you can still endure the pain and experience the pleasure. You thought you had died long ago, the day the Berlin wall fell to be exact. But you are still here. And that is all that matters.

Even if the fucking is full of hate towards the other, it's still there. Then something hits you.

What if it isn't full of hate? What if it is actually love like you'd like to believe. What if you feel the same way that he does.

"I Love You!"

Words that are screamed once hitting first climax. But who uttered them? It doesn't matter now, even if it was you, you won't remember. All you'll remember is the feeling of actually making love.

The brutality of it. The brusing force of everything. Kisses, thrusts, and other things that you (of all people) would feel dirty for saying. Normally you wouldn't feel so dirty but this is Ivan Braginski we are talking about. It's not some slut you found off the street anymore.

Which brings up the same question. Do you wish to not discuss it because you love him and wish to keep intimate details private? You try to shake the thoughts that question this out of your head.

But they keep coming back as you stare out the window.

It's brutal. It's brusing. But you love it.