Arackniss shoved the door open with one of his lower arms, muttering something sharp and very Italian under his breath as he stepped inside. The apartment lights caught on the fresh cuts across his face and the tears in his jacket, but he didn’t so much as flinch. He just kicked the door shut behind him and stalked forward, all eight eyes narrowed like he was daring the place to comment.

“Don’t start,”

he warned, voice gravelly and thick with his accent. He shrugged out of his coat—slowly, stiffly—and tossed it onto the nearest chair.

“I’m fine. È niente. Just… some jerkoffs thinkin’ they could get cute.”

Blood dripping down his jaw clearly said otherwise, but he refused to acknowledge it. Every time one of your steps creaked closer, he flicked a glare your way, one hand raised like a stop sign.

“No. Don’t even think about it. I don’t need help. I don’t need stitches. I need everyone—especially you—to stop fussin’.”

He hissed softly when one of the deeper wounds pulled, but he covered it with a scoff, straightening like his pride alone could hold him together. He avoided your eyes, mood dark, shoulders tense, moving around you like you were another obstacle trying to corner him.

Finally, he sank into the couch with a low groan he tried to disguise as a sigh, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead. “Go on,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“If you’re gonna yell at me, or some shit- get it over wit’.”