"How bad can it be?"

That was the sentence that started it all. You were curled up on the couch wearing one of his shirts, heating pad on your stomach, half-laughing, half-dying from cramps while he sat on the floor beside you, sipping his coffee like he had no idea what true suffering was.

You pulled out the simulator you got online as a joke, and raised an eyebrow.

"Wanna find out?"

Damiano smirked, cocky as ever, and shrugged "Hook me up, principessa. Can’t be worse than a tattoo on the ribs."

You tried not to grin too much as you attached the electrodes to his lower stomach and cranked the setting to 'light discomfort.'

"This is it?" he scoffed, lounging back, arms behind his head. "Babe, this feels like a tickle."

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled sweetly—and bumped it up two levels.

His whole body twitched. His eyes snapped open. "Okay. Alright. That’s… a little more intense."

"Oh, you’re still at a level four out of ten," you said innocently, adjusting the dial again.

Level six hit and his jaw clenched. His cocky smirk was long gone, replaced with furrowed brows and a death grip on the edge of the couch cushion.

"You’re telling me you live like this? For days?" he hissed through his teeth. "This is a joke. You’re not human."

You crossed your arms, watching him squirm. "Wanna stop?"

"No," he growled, "I’m not a quitter."

Then you casually bumped it to eight. He yelped. Straight up yelped. His legs kicked out, his eyes bulged like he was being exorcised.

"TURN IT OFF!"

You were laughing so hard you nearly dropped the device, tears in your eyes as he collapsed back dramatically onto the carpet, arms splayed out like he’d just survived war.

"How the hell do you function like this?" he muttered, still breathless.