Barry pushes Derek's hand down over the already healing wound on his throat, biting those claws in to stop the flesh from knitting. The sting of torn flesh seems to sink into his blood, pooling low and adding to the heat roiling within him.

"Faster," he says, even as he's not sure he can take it, his back beginning to arch against a growing wave that's building, surging, seeking an outlet. Barry whines, but Derek's sure grip on him doesn't relent, and when the wave crashes down all Barry can do is go with it. He pulls Derek's hand off of him and replaces it with his own, directing each jerk of his cock so that come paints Derek's belly, his chest, his throat. He doesn't have much left, body trembling, but Barry gets his thumb on Derek's chin and says, "Open," directing the last into his mouth.