For the Femslash Today Fourth of July porn battle.
Cass can see more than most, but Oracle has eyes everywhere. She sees more, further and deeper. Her vision changes the landscape.
On the streets, across the rooftops, down through the sewers. Everywhere. Cass can run, and fight—she dispatches villains with ruthless efficiency—but she knows that Oracle is always watching. A cold green face, blank as a snake's, watching, protecting.
It's when Cass is alone, at home, that the sight becomes something...warmer. Which is not to say more comfortable. It's just as strange, but the eyes are private now, for her alone. The cameras triangulate her in the center of the room. The voice from the computer says, "Good work tonight, Batgirl."
Cass removes the mask and unlatches her cape. Bare-faced, waits until the computer chuckles. It tells her, "More. Faster."
Cass pulls off the jersey and lets it drop. When the computer whispers, "Cassandra", the sweat on her back prickles coldly. She rolls down the tights, bends over to unstrap her boots, then freezes. "There. Stop."
Oracle will watch her whether she obeys or not. It's better to obey. Warmer. More private. Eyes on her, and through the hair hanging in her eyes, she sees herself on the computer monitor. Her back is hunched; she adjusts the stance, spreads her legs as wide as the tights will allow.
"Pretty girl," Oracle says. No. Barbara is speaking now, far kinder. Which, again, is not necessarily *better*. Cass allows herself to shiver again. Violence, even death, do not scare her, but this—
This is something she's never had. A woman's voice moving over her skin, eyes boring into her body, and when Barbara says to do so, she slides her right hand between her legs. Slick already, with sweat and the other, stickier moisture. Jagged yellow lightning flashes under her skin and, unbidden, her back arches. The computer clucks approvingly.
She watches herself, sees the image Barbara sees, and rolls two fingers between her inner lips.
"Floor. On your back," Oracle says. Cass sinks to her knees, then falls back, her palm cupping her sex. "Make noise."
"Mmm?" She hates language. This—bodies, motion—she can perform. This, she loves. Not words. Her clitoris throbs in the crook of her thumb and she moves her free hand to her right breast. Barbara touches herself like this; Cass has seen her. She echoes, mirrors, enacts. "You, too."
The computer is silent. Until: "No. Now, inside."
She can take the strain of this awkward position, even spread her knees wider. So it isn't discomfort that makes her gasp when she pushes two fingers inside herself. Hot and *tight*, in and out, timed to what she imagines Barbara's breathing is.
Barbara is locked to that chair; Cass cannot imagine, hard as she tries, losing the chance to *move*. Even with all her eyes, Barbara cannot have *this*, thighs flexing, hips pushing up, head banging back against the floor.
Cass is the fourth girl to wear the bat—Barbara might as well have been first—but Cass is the best at what they do. And so she gives this back, shows off for Barbara, chews her lower lip and fucks herself on her hand with feigned abandon.
She is never alone. She belongs towithfor Barbara, she is Barbara's body and sex. Even as she comes, the computer says, "More. Your thumb."
Shuddering, her breath coming rough as her hole clenches and spasms, she strokes her thumb down her perineum, up towards her back, to her other hole. She can hear the computer hitch its breathing, hear the moan come through the speakers, and she pushes down on her thumb, rotates it, and sighs out Robin's name.
"Look at me."
Cass opens her eyes, sensation rocketing through her body, and sees only herself.