Pain was currency in your household.

Not in the abusive way, god no. Abuse is when you don't have a safe word. It turns into something different when you do. It turns into play.

Slipping hands on necks then rubbing thumbs on windpipes during slight kisses and scratch marks on backs when you took a simple dip in the New Jersey coast told everyone what they needed to know.

It went both ways. Sometimes, you'd be sitting on the couch together just watching a movie and his eyes would keep flicking over to you and you can just tell he wanted to be thrown to the ground and kicked for no particular reason but "it's my right."

Sometimes, you'd drop a plate, and you go on the floor to pick all of it up. Frank will walk over, tell you mistakes happen, and attempt to help like any good partner until you gave him puppy dog eyes, and he knew why, and he knew what you wanted in response. Instead of continuing to comfort you, he'd grab your hair and ask you why you had to be so incompetent.

At least one time every day there was batting or slapping or biting or scratching and after all of those was the warm sensation of adrenaline and pleasure. You two were freaks with a fetish for pain.

You were still healing from last night as you laid on the bed, scrolling through nothing-brained content. A big bruise on your hip. It was during one of your scenes, of course. It would heal fine. Frank walked in, not speaking as he sat on the bed beside you.