Re: Mean-Eyed Cat: Isaiah / Cat
If he'd been thinking - if he'd had a moment between his lab and the bar to pause - he would've approached her differently. He would've given her more time. Would've stayed on the opposite side of the bar, by the stools instead of close enough to touch the alcohol-sticky bottles. But he'd been turned around, normally easy-going fuse cut short by too many days spent with a glowing necklace and an unexpected meeting with someone who held their thumb over his life.
And if it had been (almost) anyone other than Cat, the attack would've fallen too slow. Isaiah was fast and he was strong, but he wasn't trained, and there was the difference. He was able to fight back against the momentum of her weight, leaning back enough to slow the impact against the bartop, enough to turn his head, tuck his chin so that he hit high near his hairline instead of the center of his forehead. It still stung, enough to make his vision white out for a second, but not quite enough to slow him down completely. The whistle of the whip was a scream in his ear, and he flinched as he brought his arm up, just quick enough that his hand came between the whip and his neck, enough to keep enough room to breathe, though it was a struggle.
"Cat, stop. Please." The last word was a struggle, both for the increasing lack of air and for the anger that was still hot up the back of his spine. And if those first words received no response, he quickly gasped the same in ever language he could - a total of six before he ran out of breath and did his best to shove the whip away from his throat with the hand trapped there.