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The neon lights of the bar remind her of Sally. How Barry is meant to face Sally again after… after this, she doesn’t know.

At least the red light pulsing over her nails hides the blood still crusted under there.

The barstool besides Barry scrapes and Barry tenses automatically, hands curling tight around her glass. Thankfully, the woman who slides onto it isn’t someone Barry knows - why would it have been someone Barry knows? She’s only been to this bar once before and she came here alone tonight, not prepared to head back to her apartment yet and face inevitable meltdown.

“Hey,” the woman next to her says with a grin which stretches too far across her cheeks. She’s around Barry’s age, around Barry’s height, with a mess of untidy dark hair cut into a rough bob and thick spectacles perched on her nose. “You look like shit. Want a drink?”

Barry glances down at her half-full glass of water. Her mind had drawn a blank when the time had come to order. “Uh, I’m - I’m good.”

“No, you’re fucking not,” the other woman says promptly. “Trust me, I can tell.” She snaps her fingers towards the bartender, who immediately pauses in the drink she’s making to come over to them. “Garçon, two tankards of your finest ale!”

Barry’s not sure what’s happening but it’s happening too fast. “Look, that’s not-”

“Gotcha, Miss Trashmouth,” the bartender says with a grin of her own, in response to which the woman shoots her finger-guns. The second the bartender turns away to prepare said drinks, she turns back to Barry.

“Name’s Richie,” she says, holding out her hand. “You might know me as Trashmouth Tozier, star of such Netflix specials as Talking Trash, Coming Outta the Sewer, and Mental Breakdown on Stage When I Couldn’t Remember the Jokes I Was Meant To Recite.”

Barry doesn’t know if she’s joking or not, but she does tentatively take Richie’s hand. Richie’s grip is firm and her skin is soft, the nails short and unpolished but shining neatly in the neon red light. “Barry.”

Richie eyebrows rise above the frame of her glasses. “Barry?”

“Yeah.” Barry’s used to this response by now. “Short for Barbara, but no-one’s called me that since I was, like, born.”

“Shit,” Richie says, giving a low whistle as she lets go of Barry’s hand. “And I thought having Arabella as a middle name sucked. You win, Babs.”

Barry’s hands tighten on the glass again. “Barry.”

“Barry, then,” Richie corrects herself airily, planting her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands. “So what’s a gal like you doing in a place like this getting into the straight vodka?”

“It’s water,” Barry mutters.


Barry repeats it, louder, and Richie visibly winces.

“Fucking yikes, Barry. Must be bad if you’re not here drinking.”

As if on cue, the bartender appears before them again and places down two pint glasses of dark ale. She’s a cute little thing, probably in her twenties, hair tied back in a long blonds ponytail which bobs against her shoulder as she practically beams at Richie. Something deep in Barry’s chest aches. She misses Sally.

“Here you go, kiddo,” Richie says brightly, elbowing Barry’s arm as she leans across the bar counter to steal a pen. She uncaps it with her teeth and says, muffled, “Where do you want your autograph?”

She scrawls her name across the piece of card the bartender eagerly holds out, re-caps the pen, and kisses the card before passing it over. “That’ll fetch you a good tip on ebay,” she says with a wink, and the bartender blushes.

“You’re an actor?” Barry asks as the bartender tucks the card into her pocket and moves on to the next customer. Maybe Richie wasn’t joking about those Netflix specials. Maybe Barry can use this as an opportunity or something if she even still wants her acting career (of course she wants it why wouldn’t she want it she wants the rush of being on stage to block out everything else every other thought-)

“Comedian,” Richie corrects. “I like, tell jokes and get paid for it. No biggee.” She takes a swig from her glass, throat bobbing with the movement. Little droplets of beer fall from the corners of her mouth down her chin. “Trish is a fan, I give her autographs whenever I come here cause it’s cute to be admired in a gay dive bar during off hours. Once I gave her my shirt. You?”

“I’m an-” Assassin. Hitman. Hitwoman. Whatever. She kills people for money and she’s killed people earlier tonight and blood is still under her nails from where one of them moved a little too quick for the first bullet to be fatal and desperately attempted to tackle her gun away. “An actor.”

“Oh, cool,” Richie says, which is the expected response. “Been in anything I would’ve seen?”

“No,” Barry says, and doesn’t elaborate. As a rule, she doesn’t drink after completing a job, but the ale in front of her is starting to look appealing. She watches Richie messily gulp back another mouthful, and she thinks - she thinks she might know what Richie’s after with this conversation. It’s hard sometimes picking up cues from other people - what Barry wouldn’t do to develop mind-reading abilties - but buying a random woman at a gay bar a drink and faking interest in her life isn’t exactly subtle.

She reaches for the ale and takes a sip herself before she can second-think it. She’s not a fan of beer at the best of times, but the taste drags heavy on her tongue and maybe that’s what she needs. Barry Block needs a block.

“Atta girl,” Richie says, watching her intently behind her thick specs. She still has her chin propped on her knuckles, fingers curled into a ball. “Not to judge a book by its cover or anything, but you look pretty wound up there. I saw you sitting all hunched over, and I thought to myself, I thought: Tozier, my dude, there’s a woman with a severe case of needing to chill. Go offer your big mouth and your services.”

Richie does have a nice mouth, now Barry’s looking, if slightly chapped. Her lips are dark at the corners, like vampire bloodstains.

Barry drops one hand beneath the bar counter and digs her nails into her own thigh to steady herself.

She hasn’t done this for a long time. Not since coming to L.A., not since being utterly awestruck watching Sally dance for that first time. But Sally is - Barry’s not sure what the fuck’s going on between her and Sally, but it’s not going positively and Barry hasn’t had time to really think about it, what with planning the whole hit she was arranged to carry out tonight.

Richie’s looking at her expectantly. Like she’s waiting for an answer to a question she hasn’t asked.

Barry takes a big gulp of ale and nearly chokes as she tilts the glass too far. Beer spills from both the glass and her mouth, goosebumps immediately raising up her arms as chilly drops hit her shirt and soak right through to her skin.

Richie is up and off the stool in a second. “Aww, bad luck, babe! That’s gonna stain.” Her hand touches Barry’s bare forearm as she leans in. Barry tenses abruptly and Richie pauses, palm hot against Barry’s skin, and meets Barry’s eyes purposefully as she says, “Want me to help you wash it off?”

Barry hesitates.

It’s Richie who moves first, taking a step away from the bar, sliding her hand from Barry’s forearm to Barry’s hand, and Barry - Barry lets her, because why not? It feels good to have someone holding her hand, touching her, and with a sudden rush Barry interlaces her fingers with Richie’s and slides off the barstool, letting Richie lead her towards the bathroom.

The bathroom door’s barely swung shut behind them before Richie turns, presses Barry back against it and kisses her.

Richie kisses deeply and desperately. Her mouth tastes the same as the ale, heavy like she’s been drugged. Barry’s mouth falls open in surprise at the urgency and Richie wastes no time in using her tongue, one hand cupping the back of Barry’s head to hold her in place. Richie’s other hand is at Barry’s hips, tugging Barry’s shirt out from her jeans before she reaches under and slides her palm up Barry’s bare waist. Barry gives a full-body shudder as Richie’s fingers skim her ribs, her unexpected moan fluttering into Richie’s mouth.

Richie pulls away with a gasp, and already her lips are swollen, and Barry thinks hazily, I did that. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she whispers, forcing Barry’s head to one side so she can press rough kisses from the corner of her mouth down her jaw. The corner of her glasses bump against Barry’s face as she does so and Barry’s head is already spinning. “Can I eat you out? That okay?”

“What, here?” Barry says, her voice pitched higher than she expected. Richie nods, a mess of curls rubbing against Barry’s cheek as she kisses a spot just below Barry’s ear that has Barry squirming back against the door. Barry’s not used to being handled roughly like this; usually women saw her short hair and jawline and decided Barry was going to be the one being rough with them.

“No, on the Titanic,” Richie shoots back, her breath tickling the hairs at the base of Barry’s neck. Her other hand, the one beneath Barry’s shirt, works itself under Barry’s bra. “Fucking yes here! Our cute lil bartender friend will put an out of order sign on the door so we won’t be disturbed, if that’s what you’re worried about. S’not… not my first rodeo here.”

“Oh,” Barry says, except it comes out as a gasp as Richie flicks over her nipple, thumbnail catching slightly and sending her entire body zinging with the brief sting. She thinks that she should be upset by Richie apparently using this bathroom as her personal hook-up joint and Barry being only the latest in a line of woman Richie’s lured back here. If anything, she’s relieved - the less strings attached, the better. “Yeah, okay.”

Richie growls deep in her throat. “Fuck yeah. Let’s get your pretty little ass up on the sink.”

No-one’s ever referred to Barry’s ass as “pretty” or “little” before, but Barry bites her tongue before she can correct her and ruin the moment. Instead, she reaches for the collar of Richie’s sensible maroon button-up, pulling her head up for another kiss. She’s better prepared this time; she can be properly filthy back. Judging by the resulting groan Richie gives, it must be working.

Richie’s hand drops from Barry’s head to the zip of Barry’s jeans. Barry squares her shoulders against the bathroom door and licks into Richie’s mouth, shifting her hips as best she can to help out while Richie works her jeans down her thighs. Richie’s hands at still hot against her skin; Barry gives a start when she abruptly scratches at the insides of Barry’s thighs with the tips of her nails.

“C’mon, princess! Time’s ticking and I want to feast,” Richie teases, her nose bumping against Barry’s as she draws her thumb up the inside of Barry’s thigh and along the edge of Barry’s sensible briefs. She snaps the elastic and for a moment Barry sees red before Richie distracts her with another kiss.

Barry’s shoes and jeans end up in a crumpled pile by the door. Bare from the waist below except for her underwear and socks, Barry hops up onto the counter and gives a very unmanly squeak at how cold it is against her heated skin.

Richie places her hands on Barry’s thighs, Barry’s knees bracketing her hips, and for a split moment Barry wishes Richie had a dick so Barry could have a quick fuck with something to fill her up. She’s hopelessly empty like this, desperate.

“God, you’re cute,” Richie murmurs, pecking Barry’s nose as her nails dig into Barry’s thighs, sending little shivers racing up and down her spine. Cute doesn’t describe Barry. She’s been called handsome before and she gets called “sir” at least once a day by people who don’t bother to look closer.

She likes it when Richie calls her cute, though, so she lifts a leg to sharply bump Richie’s side with her knee and says, “Are you going to keep going, or…?”

“Fuck yeah I am,” Richie says gleefully, falling to her knees like someone half her age. Feather-light kisses are pressed to where her nails have left marks on Barry’s thighs. “Don’t make too much noise, the walls aren’t that thin.” She glances up, grinning as she takes her glasses off and tucks them into the collar of her shirt. “Or, y’know, do, so everyone else out there knows Richie Tozier’s the greatest love machine since Rasputin.”

“Who’s-” Barry starts to say, but it’s cut off by a gasp as Richie seals her mouth over Barry’s briefs, right above her clit, and sucks like a hoover. All thoughts of being quiet fly out the window; Barry lets fly a series of fuck and fuck yeah as her underwear soaks through - partly from Richie, partly from herself. Before long Richie’s tugging the briefs down and Barry’s shifting her ass to make it easier for her, seating herself on her hands so she won’t be tempted to grab Richie’s head and press her closer. Barry’s been eaten out before - sure she has - but it’s been a long time and Richie’s tongue is talented for things other than talking. So she leans back with the bathroom mirror against her shoulders a cold contrast to the heat elsewhere, ignoring the growing cramp in her thighs as Richie kneels between them. When Richie slides a finger into her, Barry throws her head back against the mirror with a crack that’s she going to feel tomorrow and a gasped “Richie!” that has Richie moaning against her.

“Fuck, that’s right,” Richie exclaims, sucking at the taut skin at the top of Barry’s thigh as she adds another finger. Her hands were big and her fingers are big too, crooking inside her until Barry is on the brink of orgasm. “You gonna come soon? Fuck, babe, you taste so fucking good - gonna make you feel so good too, gonna make you come so hard, c’mon, Eds-”

“Eds?” Barry echoes breathlessly. Richie stills inside her, between her thighs. “My name’s - I’m Barry.”

“...fuck,” Richie mutters, barely audible, and then her mouth is on Barry’s clit again as her fingers flex and Barry throws her head back with a cry as sparks explode across her closed eyelids.

“That’s right, babe,” Richie is babbling as Barry comes back down. She opens her eyes to see her chest heaving through her half-unbuttoned shirt; beyond that, Richie stares up at her, chin glistening in the fluro lights. Richie’s fingers are still in her, moving a little slower than before, and already Barry wants to chase that high again. She tentatively rocks her hips against Richie’s fingers a few times and sees red all over again when Richie slides them out of her and she’s left horribly empty.

“Richie, fuck, please-”

Richie sticks her slick fingers in her mouth and sucks, loudly and obscenely. “Oh? What’s that? You want another ride on the ol’ Tozier train?”

“Fuck you,” Barry says, because she can’t think of anything else to say. “Please, I need-”

Richie grips onto Barry’s thighs and uses them as a lever to pull herself to her feet. “Please this, please that - you’re being such a good girl for me, Barry. Now how about you hop off so I can bend over this counter and fuck you proper?” She nudges her jean-clad hips against Barry’s knee. Barry hadn’t looked before - hadn’t thought to look - but there’s an undeniable bulge to Richie’s groin, and when she unzips her jeans to reveal a silicon strap-on Barry is quick to scramble down as requested.

“Good girl,” Richie damn-near purrs as she puts on her glasses, and when she kisses Barry Barry tastes herself - sticky and salty and surprisingly good. Barry’s never been too fond of eating out - women usually flock to her for Barry’s fingers instead of her mouth - but she just might change her mind if Richie asked her.

Instead, Richie turns her and presses her hips sharply against the sink counter. She steps in behind her, positioning the strap-on between Barry’s thighs, and Barry almost orgasms again there and then from how good it feels to grind down on something solid as Richie slicks the dildo up.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” she says matter-of-factly, and Barry whimpers as her hips automatically jolt hard agaist the counter. Richie shifts her hands; places one on Barry’s hip, the other under her shirt and cupping her breast. “All good?”

Barry rocks back against her in answer, Richie’s breath hitching next to her ear. “Please,” she repeats, because she thinks Richie likes it when she begs, and it feels fucking amazing to let her own self control go.

The strap-on’s not too big but it’s bigger and thicker than Richie’s fingers were and Barry damn near cries as it slides into her, agonising in its slowness. When Barry opens her eyes she makes eye contact with herself - or rather, her reflection in the mirror. Her mouth and jaw are bruised dark pink, cheeks flushed and hair sticking to her forehead at odd angles. Over her shoulder, Richie is also staring intently at the image the two of them make as she presses hard kisses to Barry’s clothed shoulder.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Richie murmurs, her cheek wet against the nape of Barry’s neck, and Barry watches her own mouth fall open as Richie snaps her hips and slides fully home. Richie holds it there and Barry lets herself enjoy simply being full until the stillness of it becomes too much. She grinds herself back against Richie and thankfully Richie gets the memo and begins to move; at first tantalisingly slow, and then quicker to meet the tempo Barry’s trying to set.

Barry’s as vocal about being fucked as she was about being eaten out, except this time Richie clamps a hand over Barry’s mouth and mutters thickly, “Okay, I know I wanted the world to know how fucking good I am, but the walls very fucking thin.” Richie’s other hand twists her nipple and before Barry knows it she’s coming again, this time with a muffled scream against Richie’s trembling palm.

They remain like that as their breathing eases; Barry bent over the counter, Richie curved against her spine with her hand still covering Barry’s mouth, and they paint a pretty dishevelled picture in the mirror.

There’s four sharp knocks against the bathroom door. The two of them freeze, immediately tense, and Barry nearly whines since Richie hasn’t pulled out yet.

“Fuck,” Richie says with a groan. “Sorry. Looks like our fun time is up, babe.”

At least in the bathroom, Barry can quickly splash some water on herself before she gets dressed (with great reluctance - her thighs are cramped and don’t want to co-operate, and her briefs are still soaked through).

“C’here,” Richie says once Barry’s slipped her shoes on, with a tug of her fingers in the waistband of Barry’s jeans. Barry turns and Richie smiles at her, nimbly doing up the buttons of her shirt while Barry’s arms hang loosely at her sides. The water helped a bit but her entire body still feels flushed, and aside from her thighs, the ache is bone-deep and good.

“Sorry I called you Eds,” Richie says breezily as she finishes up the top button but one. “Nothing personal. Dunno about you but I’ve had a good time, Barry-dear, and if you ever happen to be hanging around here again on a Thursday night-”

Maybe Barry needs to start scheduling any future hits for Thursday afternoons so she can fuck them out after. “Maybe,” she says instead.

“Cool,” Richie says, and kisses her briefly as she reaches for the bathroom door. “Be seeing you around maybe.”