Catwoman's turn

Original Tale: [COMM] Cat Got Your Tongue? F/M

Original Author: Marts

Original Publishing Date; 30TH January 206at 7:36 AM

Original Source: Ticklingforum Website

The rain wasn't just falling; it was an active participant in Gotham’s misery. Each drop was a cold, fat needle that found the gap between Coyle’s collar and her neck, tracing an icy path down her spine. she shivered, pulling the thin, generic tactical jacket tighter around her frame. It was clean. Too clean. The uniform of a nobody, a temp hire on the biggest night of her life.

Then she heard it. Faint, at first, almost lost beneath the drumming of the rain and the distant growl of city traffic. A thin, high-pitched wheeeee that rose and fell, the cry of a predator homing in. Sirens. Still far off, but getting closer. her blood ran cold. They’re coming.

As if summoned by the sound, the heavy, groaning screech of a metal fire door being **** open ripped through the alley. Three figures burst out, not walking, but moving at a clipped, urgent pace. The first, am muscular giant named Harker, was carrying a reinforced case. Even in the gloom, Coyle could see the pristine right side of her jacket and the acid-eaten, frayed mess of the left. They were out. They’d done it.

A surge of frantic energy shot through Coyle. she stepped out of her alcove, her voice a half-shout over the rising wail of the GCPD. "Did you get it? Was it—"

"Move it, probie, you deaf?" Harker snarled, shoving past without breaking stride. The hard corner of the case dug sharply into Coyle’s ribs, forcing a grunt of pain from her lips. Harker and the other lady were already at the main transport, throwing the side door open with a deafening clang.

Coyle’s elation curdled into a knot of panic in her stomach. The sirens were louder now, a distinct two-tone wail that echoed off the wet brickwork, seeming to come from every direction at once. They were close. Blocks away, maybe less.

As the others piled into the van, one lady paused. Bolton. she was the last one to the door, and she stopped, turning back to Coyle. she jogged the few feet back, the urgency clear in her heavy, thudding footsteps on the asphalt.

A heavy hand, warm even through the damp fabric, landed on Coyle’s shoulder in a hard, quick clap. "You did good, kid," Bolton’s voice rumbled, a low, grounding sound even over the sirens. she was already turning back toward the van as she spoke. "Get the gear. Secondary site. NOW."

She was at the van door, one foot on the runner, when she looked back one last time. The reflected strobes of blue and red light were beginning to bleed onto the main street at the end of the alley. "Do this right, and you're in. We'll get you burned in proper." her face was a grim mask in the flashing lights. "Don't fuck it up."

The words were a command, a promise, and a threat all rolled into one. The van door slid shut with a bone-jarring slam. Before Coyle could even manage a reply, the engine roared, its V8 drowning out the sirens for a single instant. With a squeal of abused tires that sent a plume of dirty water into the air, the transport tore out of the alley and was swallowed by the Gotham night.

Coyle was left alone, her ears ringing. The wail of the approaching police cars was hideously close now, the flashing lights painting the alley walls in frantic, pulsing strokes of colour.*Don't fuck it up.*The command echoed in her head. her heart hammered against her ribs. she had maybe twenty seconds. she lunged for the discarded duffel bag near the fire door, her hands closing around the cold, wet straps, oblivious to the silhouette that had just detached itself from the stone gargoyle on the museum roof four stories above, dropping into the alley with the impossible silence of a falling shadow.

Coyle heaved the duffel bag over her shoulder, the weight of it—a mix of high-tensile wire, drill bits, and a heavy magnetic pulse device—nearly throwing her off balance. Every muscle screamed at her to run. The sirens were no longer a distant wail; they were a physical pressure in the air, a throbbing, doppler-shifting shriek that vibrated in her teeth. The blue and red lights were strobing violently now, painting the wet walls in frantic, alternating flashes. The mouth of the alley was a light show of impending doom. she had seconds, maybe less, before the first GCPD cruiser sealed her only exit.

She took one step towards the rust-bucket van, her boot splashing in a deep puddle.

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice was not loud. It was a low, feminine purr, laced with amusement, and it cut through the cacophony of the sirens like a razor through silk. It came from right behind her.

Coyle froze solid, a bolt of pure, primal fear short-circuiting her entire nervous system. she hadn't heard a thing. No footsteps, no splash, nothing but the rain and the sirens. she turned slowly, her heart feeling like it was trying to punch its way out of her ribcage.

She stood not ten feet away, a silhouette made of shadows and highlights by the flashing police lights. The form was unmistakable, a nightmare figure from the city’s folklore. The skin-tight black suit that drank the light, the horned cowl, and the large, goggled lenses that reflected the red-blue-red-blue flashes, hiding whatever eyes lay behind them. Catwoman. Not a Bat, but close enough. A predator of the same ecosystem, and infinitely worse than the cops.

"Big party in there," she said, gesturing with a gloved hand towards the museum's **** fire door. "And it looks like you missed all the fun." She took a slow, deliberate step towards her. Her movements were liquid, a fighter’s grace married to a dancer’s poise. She moved like she belonged in the shadows, while Coyle felt like a clumsy, terrified animal caught in the glare of a hunter's lamp.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Coyle stammered, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth. she took an involuntary step back, her heel hitting the leg of the dumpster. "I was just... heading home. Heard the noise."

"Hhh-mm," Catwoman hummed, a skeptical note that vibrated with amusement. She took another step, closing the distance. "Dressed for a cold night, I see. A lot of people heading home in tactical gear these days?" Her head tilted, the lenses of her goggles seeming to bore right through her. "What's in the bag? Your laundry?"

The sirens were deafening. A screech of tires on wet asphalt announced the arrival of the first squad car at the mouth of the alley. Its headlights blazed, cutting through the rain and pinning them both in brilliant white cones of light.

"Freeze! GCPD! Hands where I can see 'em!"

The shout echoed off the brick walls. Coyle’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. she looked at the cops, then at the van, then at Catwoman. For a second, she thought she might bolt, leaving her to the mercy of the police.

Instead, she grinned. A flash of white teeth in the shadow of the cowl.

"Change of plans," she purred, the sound barely audible over the rain. "I hate walking in the rain. You're driving. Well... your van is."

Before Coyle could process the threat, she moved. She didn’t run; she exploded into motion. She flowed inside her guard, a blur of black leather and kinetic energy. An arm, impossibly strong, hooked under her chin, snapping her head back. her momentum was instantly arrested. She spun her around, using her as a temporary human shield against the glare of the police lights.

With a grunt of effort, she launched her. Coyle flew through the open side door of the rust-bucket van.

KRR-RUNG!

Her back slammed into the opposite wall of the cargo bay. The hollow sheet metal boomed like a drum, vibrating through her skeleton. The impact stole the air from her lungs in a wet, wheezing gasp. she crumpled onto the ribbed metal floor, sliding in a patch of oil.

"Hey! Stop!" The cops were running now, boots splashing in the puddles.

Catwoman didn't climb in after her. She slammed the sliding door shut with a deafening CLANG, plunging Coyle into darkness. A split second later, the driver's side door ripped open. She vaulted into the front seat, staying low to avoid the police spotlights.

"Keys, keys, keys..." she muttered, her voice drifting through the thin metal partition that separated the cab from the cargo bay. She flipped the passenger sunshade down. A heavy set of brass keys dropped into her gloved palm with a jingle. "Predictable to a fault. I like that."

The engine roared to life, the V8 sputtering before catching with a throaty growl.

"Hang on back there, cutie," she called out, shifting gears with a violent crunch. "It’s going to be a bumpy ride."

She floored it. The van didn't go toward the cops; she threw it into reverse, smashing through a stack of wooden pallets behind them and tearing out the rear exit of the alley. Coyle was thrown violently toward the front of the cargo bay, her shoulder checking the metal partition hard.

For the next ten minutes, the world was a nightmare of centrifugal ****. Coyle slid helplessly across the grime-streaked floor as Catwoman took corners at impossible speeds, the tires squealing and the suspension groaning. she bounced off the wheel wells, her tactical vest scraping against the rusted floor, the smell of exhaust fumes and old grease filling her nose.

Finally, the engine noise changed. The drumming of the rain on the roof became muffled, echoing, as if they were under heavy concrete. They slowed, the tires crunching over gravel and broken glass.

The van stopped. The silence that followed was sudden and heavy.

Coyle lay in the dark, bruised and dizzied, trying to orient himself. The engine ticked as it cooled. she heard the rustle of leather from the front cab. She wasn't getting out.

Screeee-clack.

The small partition window between the cab and the cargo bay slid open. Then, the latch of the partition door clicked. Catwoman crawled through from the front seats into the back, bringing the faint, strobing light of the distant city with her.

She stood over her in the gloom, safe beneath the concrete underpass of the Gotham stack interchange. No cops. No witnesses. Just the two of them.

"Now," she whispered, pulling a roll of duct tape from her belt. "Where were we?"

A sound cut through the blackness. A soft, menacing hiss, like a serpent striking. The sound of leather slicing through the air.

Thwip.

Something wrapped around both her wrists at once, binding them together behind her back in a flash of movement she couldn't even track. Before she could shout, a knee drove into the small of her back, forcing her face-down onto the grime-streaked floor. "Ghh-ulk!" The air rushed out of her, her heavy chest scraping against the cold metal.

She felt her ankles seized, yanked up towards her hips with brutal ****. her knees bent sharply, her heels digging into her buttocks.

Thwip.

The leather whipped around her ankles, cinching them tight. Then, a final tug connected her bound wrists to her ankles, arching her back into a painful bow. she was trussed up like livestock, utterly helpless, her cheek pressed into the freezing floor. she struggled, rocking her hips, trying to kick out, but the hogtie was immaculate, unyielding. Every movement just pulled the knots tighter, straining her shoulders and hips.

All she could hear was the frantic, ragged sound of her own breathing and the soft, almost silent shifting of the predator who was in the dark with her.

The darkness inside the van was absolute, save for the thin, frantic strobing of blue and red light bleeding through the gaps in the rear doors. The wail of the sirens outside felt incredibly close, vibrating the metal floor against Coyle’s cheek, but in here, the silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of wet leather creaking.

"Not a sound," Catwoman whispered. It wasn't a suggestion.

She was on her before she could draw a breath to scream. A heavy, oil-stained rag—likely used by the crew to wipe down tools—was shoved roughly into her mouth. The taste was acrid, metallic grease and old sweat. Before she could spit it out, she secured it with a strip of duct tape she ripped from a roll on the dashboard, winding it tight around her head. "Mmph! Ghh-mmmph!" Coyle thrashed, panic surging, but the bonds held fast.

"Stop squirming," she ordered, her voice cool and detached. She straddled her hips, her weight pinning her effectively to the floor. "I’m going to find out who you are, and then you’re going to tell me where my diamond went."

She began to search her, her gloved hands moving with professional efficiency. She patted down her chest, checked the pockets of her tactical vest, looking for a wallet, a phone, anything. Her hands moved lower, checking for concealed weapons along her waistline.

As her fingers dug firmly into the soft flesh of her sides, just below the ribs, to check for a knife sheath, Coyle’s body betrayed her instantly. A violent, electric jolt shot through her nervous system. she bucked hard against her weight, a muffled squeak forcing its way past the gag. "Hhh-yip!"

Catwoman paused. Her hands went still.

In the gloom, the lenses of her goggles glinted as she tilted her head. "What was that?"

She shifted her weight, leaning in closer. Slowly, deliberately, she pressed her gloved thumbs back into the exact same spot, right between her floating ribs and her hip bone.

Coyle convulsed. she twisted wildly, her shoulders slamming against the floor, a ****, frantic noise bubbling in her throat. "Mmm-hhh-EEE!" It wasn't a cry of pain. It was pure, involuntary nervous system overload.

Catwoman pulled back, a low, incredulous laugh escaping her. "Oh... you have got to be kidding me."

The sound of metal sliding against metal cut through the air. Snikt.

Even in the dark, Coyle knew what that sound was. The claws.

"Big, tough girl," she murmured, the amusement in her voice thick and terrifying. "Let's see just how deep this goes."

She didn't use the flat of her hand this time. She extended a single, razor-sharp index claw. With surgical precision, she drove the tip through the fabric of her tactical jacket and into her side. She didn't stab; she wiggled it.

"MMMPH! GH-AHA-HA!" Coyle thrashed like a landed fish, her bound legs kicking uselessly at the air. The sensation was agonizingly sharp, a spike of ticklish electricity that made her brain short-circuit.

"Jackpot," Catwoman purred. She climbed off her hips, sliding down her legs. The pressure vanished from her back, only to be replaced by a terrifying grip on her ankles. She loomed over her bound feet, the red strobe from outside catching the silhouette of her ears.

"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a conversational tone that was infinitely worse than a threat. "I was going to beat the answers out of you. But I think this is going to be much more... educational."

She grabbed the heel of her left work boot with one hand. With the other, she hooked her claws into the thick rubber sole. With a display of terrifying strength and the sharpness of her titanium-dipped blades, she ripped upwards.

SKREEEEE-RIIIIIIP.

The sound was hideous—thick leather and rubber being shredded like wet paper. Coyle’s eyes widened in the dark, terrified tears pricking at the corners. She peeled the boot open like a sardine can, discarding the ruined husk with a clatter.

Her foot was still covered in a thick, damp grey wool sock.

"Ugh. Damp," she noted with distaste. She hooked a single claw into the cuff of the sock and yanked it down. The wool tore away, leaving her pale, bare foot exposed to the freezing air of the van. She did the same to the other, shredding the boot and stripping the sock in seconds. She really regretted getting that pedicure now.

Coyle shivered, curling her toes instinctively, trying to hide her soles from the predator looming in the dark.

"Now," Catwoman whispered, running a gloved finger—claws retracted for now—along the sensitive, high arch of her left foot. Coyle jerked, a muffled whimper escaping the gag. "Tell me where the gem is, or I start writing my name."

Coyle squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head violently against the floor. No. No way. she couldn't talk. If she ratted, Two-Face wouldn't just kill her; she'd make it a coin toss between a slow **** and something much worse. And Bolton… Bolton had vouched for her. Don’t fuck it up. If she gave them up now, she wasn’t just a screw-up; she was a traitor.

"Mmm-mmph!" she grunted her defiance through the gag, arching her back and trying to pull her feet away from her grasp.

Catwoman sighed, a sound of mock disappointment. "Loyalty. How quaint. Let's see how long it lasts."

She looked around the van's cabin, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. On the dashboard, next to the duct tape, sat a small tub of heavy-duty axle grease, the lid pried half-open. Perfect.

She reached over, scooping a dollop of the thick, black sludge onto the tip of her index claw. It glistened in the strobe lights, viscous and cold.

"I need a canvas," she whispered, turning back to her exposed soles. She grabbed her left ankle with an iron grip, holding the foot steady despite her **** kicks. "And since you won't use your mouth..."

She brought the grease-laden claw to the very center of her sole. The metal tip was freezing, the grease slimy and thick. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she began to write.

C.

She carved the curve of the letter into the soft, wrinkled skin of her arch.

"MMMPH! NNN-GH-HAAA!" Coyle bucked wildy, her muffled scream vibrating in her throat. The sensation was maddening—the sharp, distinct point of the claw, the cold slime of the grease, the unbearable slowness. her toes curled and uncurled in a frantic rhythm, trying to escape the sensation.

A.

She moved to the ball of her foot, dragging the claw in sharp, deliberate strokes.

"I can do this all alphabet long, honey," she purred, admiring her handiwork. The grease left a dark, glistening trail on her pale skin. "Or you can nod your head and tell me what I want to know."

Coyle shook her head again, tears streaming down her face now, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold. she thought of the acid scars on Bolton’s uniform. she held onto that image. she wouldn't break. Not yet.

"Stubborn," she observed, her voice hardening. "Fine. Let's try a different game."

She released her ankle and shifted her grip, taking hold of her big toe. She gave it a wiggle.

"This little bitch went to the museum..."

She ran her claw down the side of the big toe, digging into the webbing between it and the second toe.

"EEE-HEEE! MMM-MPH!" Coyle shrieked into the gag, her body trashing. The sensitivity between her toes was electric, explosive.

She grabbed the second toe. "This little bitch stood in the rain..."

Scritch-scratch. She raked her claw across the pad of the toe, then dipped it into the sensitive crevice underneath.

"This little bitch had a diamond..."

She seized the third toe, swirling the claw tip around the nail bed before plunging it down into the soft skin of the ball of her foot.

"Nnn-NO! HMMPH-AHA-HA!" The laughter was hysterical now, broken and sobbing. she couldn't breathe. The gag was **** her, the laughter getting trapped in her throat. her resolve was crumbling, dissolved by the relentless, sharp electricity shooting up her legs.

"And this little bitch got caught..."

She skipped the fourth toe and went straight for the pinky. She pinched it hard, then ran the claw all the way down the outer edge of her foot to the heel, digging in deep.

"MMMMM-HAAAA! ST-STOP-MPH!"

"And this little bitch..." She paused, her voice dripping with sadistic glee. She brought both hands to her soles now, all ten claws extending fully. "Went WEE WEE WEE all the way to Blackgate!"

She unleashed a flurry. All ten razor-sharp points descended on her soles, scratching, raking, scritching in a chaotic, overwhelming storm of sensation. She attacked the arches, scribbled furiously on the heels, dug into the tender skin under the toes.

It was too much. The world dissolved into white-hot sparks of stimuli. The loyalty, the fear of Two-Face, the promise to Bolton—it was all incinerated. Coyle physically couldn't take another second without her mind snapping.

She slammed her head against the floorboards, nodding frantically, desperately. "MMMPH! MMMMPH!" she screamed the affirmation into the gag, her eyes wide and pleading.

Catwoman stopped instantly. The silence that rushed back into the van was deafening. Coyle lay there, chest heaving, gasping for air through her nose, her feet twitching uncontrollably with phantom sensations.

"See?" Catwoman said softly, retracting her claws. She leaned forward and ripped the tape from her mouth. "Was that so hard?"

Coyle coughed, spit and bile dripping from her lips. she looked up at her, broken, defeated. "Two-Face," she gasped, her voice a wrecked croak. "The... the old cannery... on the waterfront. Bolton took it there." she sobbed, a dry, hiccupping sound. "Please... just let me go."

Catwoman smiled. She patted her cheek. "Good girl."

---

The air in the foreman’s office of the derelict Gotham Cannery smelled of cheap scotch, cigar smoke, and the lingering, copper scent of dried fish scales. It was a victory smell.

Bolton leaned against the rusted doorframe, watching Harvey Dent—Two-Face—pour a drink. The heist had been flawless. The gem was already secured in the heavy-duty floor safe in the adjacent counting room, ready for the buyer's inspection at dawn.

"Clean work, ladies," Dent said, her voice a disturbing harmonic of smooth baritone and gravelly growl. "Fortune smiled on us tonight. The coin was kind."

Bolton nodded, taking a pull from her flask. she checked her watch. Coyle should have been here ten minutes ago with the secondary clean-up van. The kid was probably driving like a grandma to avoid scratching the paint. Bolton felt a pang of pride. The kid had potential.

Suddenly, a frantic shout erupted from the main warehouse floor below.

"BOSS! THE SAFE! SHE'S ON THE ROOF!"

The celebratory mood shattered instantly. Bolton drew her heavy pistol, the motion practiced and fluid. Two-Face roared, kicking the office door wide open and storming onto the gantry walkway that overlooked the warehouse floor.

Below, the crew was in chaos. A young thug was pointing wildly up towards the skylights.

"LOOK!"

Bolton and Dent looked up. The high, reinforced glass of the central skylight was shattered. Crouched on the iron truss, bathed in the moonlight and the storm, was Catwoman. She held the gem up, the stone catching a lightning flash from outside and refracting it into a dazzle of white fire. She had cracked the safe and scaled the wall before anyone had even known she was in the building.

"You..." Two-Face roared up at the ceiling, the scarred side of their lip curling back to reveal teeth and gum. The crimelord raised their twin .45s, but she was too high, too obscured by the shadows and the steel beams.

"Thanks for the heavy lifting, Harv!" she called down, her voice dripping with mockery. "I hate dealing with museum security systems. Much easier to let you do the hard work and just pick it up at the finish line."

"SHOOT HER!" Dent screamed.

A dozen machine guns opened up, chewing into the ceiling and the iron trusses, sparks showering down like fireworks. but Catwoman was already moving, a ghost in the rafters. She vanished through the broken skylight, but her voice drifted back one last time, loud and clear over the gunfire.

"Oh, and Harvey? Your driver is outside. She’s a little... tied up at the moment."

The shooting stopped. Silence returned to the warehouse, heavy and suffocating.

"Outside," Dent hissed, holstering their guns. "Now."

Bolton was the first one out the door, her heart sinking. Coyle.

They burst out of the cannery into the driving rain. The secondary van—the rust-bucket Coyle had been driving—was parked haphazardly near the loading dock, engine cold, lights off.

"Check it," Two-Face ordered, flipping their coin. It came up scarred side. Bad news.

Bolton grabbed the handle of the rear doors and wrenched them open. A collective precinct of flashlights beamed into the dark interior.

There was Coyle.

She was lying on her stomach, hogtied with a humiliating degree of professionalism. her wrists were bound to her ankles, arching her back, leaving her helpless. she was gagged again with the grease rag, her eyes wide, red-rimmed, and terrified as the light hit her. she made a muffled, pathetic sound as she saw Bolton.

But it was her feet that drew every eye.

Her heavy boots were destroyed, peeled open like bananas and discarded. her socks were gone. her bare feet, pale and **** in the harsh flashlight beams, were elevated by the hogtie, facing the crowd.

And there, scrawled across the soles in thick, black, glistening axle grease, was a message.

TICKLISH

The word was written in large, childish block letters. TICK on the left sole, LISH on the right.

The silence that followed was total. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.

Bolton stared, a mix of pity and secondhand embarrassment washing over her. The kid hadn't just been beaten; she’d been played with. Broken by a feathertouch.

Two-Face stepped forward, leaning in to read the grease-smeared text. they looked at the word, then looked at Coyle’s terrified, twitching feet. A slow, cruel smile spread across the scarred side of their face.

"Well," Dent rasped, the malice in their voice thick enough to **** on. "It seems the cat left us a parting gift after all."

They turned to the other thugs, their good eye gleaming with a dark idea.

"Bring her inside. And find me some feathers, or brushes, or... whatever we have lying around." Two-Face chuckled, a dry, terrifying sound. "The night is young, ladies. And I think we need to verify the lady's research."

As the bitches moved in, laughing and reaching for Coyle’s ankles, Bolton looked away. she couldn't save the kid this time. You don't fail the coin, and you don't get caught by the Cat.