"Leave my poor shirts alone," Barry laughs, pink cheeked and breathless in Derek's arms as that mouth of his makes its way down Barry's throat. His beard scrapes just right at Barry's skin, and he tries to remember they're going to eat soon. He exhales and thinks of his work shirt lying on top of Derek's dresser now. "You'll pop off all the buttons. I'm already down two this week from accidental friction fires."