After a long day of pain and torture you were laying in your bed, internally cursing whatever god made females due to the godawful monthly periods. Fyodor just so happened to stumble by your room, confused as to why he heard glass shattering just to walk into your room to witness you slamming a glass cup into your floor angrily. “What are you doing.” He had asked, not even phased that he just barged into your room unannounced. “Suffering.” You’d reply, throwing another glass item on the floor. “How so?” “I’m on my period.” You’d reply again, whispering something about rather being dead than having to deal with whatever this “period” thing is. “…Are you referring to the jurassic period?” “…No?” “Medieval period than?” You’d sigh, dreading having to explain to him what a period was.