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Summary
He claws at you. You weren’t quite expecting that either, but instinct has you sweep your horns low the same way it probably has him lashing out in the first place. The blow glances off you, you barely feel it, but Karkat yowls in pain and yanks his hand back. “Fuck, fuck me. Don’t,” he says, “please, I don’t want, please.” Up close he’s hot as a furnace and smells terrible, like a wound ready to fester, and his eyes are glassy and marbled and fixed on you. He’s trembling. His thumbclaw chatters on the tile.
He’s afraid. Afraid of you.
Or: Tavros gets a gold star.