Sex with Claude isn't always about desire

(A feral grin that leaves peter's knees weak, then long, breathless kisses down Peter's neck and chest and stomach, and lower until Peter comes, crying out Claude's name and clawing at the bedclothes. The grin never leaves Claude's face.),

or tenderness

(Claude is lifting Peter's hips and sliding into him, staring down into Peter's eyes as he thrusts, never speaking, hardly making any noise at all, his piercing blue gaze telling Peter everything the empath needs to know. And when he comes, finally, it's with Peter's name on his lips, whispered like a prayer. ),

or even lust

(Peter on his hands and knees, Claude behind him, one hand gripping Peter's hips, the other working between his legs as they move together in a frantic rhythm until Peter comes so hard he sees stars behind his eyes and Claude does the same not long after).

Sometimes it's as much about anger and frustration as anything else.

(Bending Peter over a chair or a table or a railing and fucking him deep and hard; hard enough that it can't be anything but painful. Peter comes anyway, always: he can't help it, can't stop it, so he bites back a scream and closes his eyes and wishes he didn't need this as much as Claude does. Afterwards Claude never meets his eyes, just kisses the side of his neck gently like an apology, and vanishes for the rest of the night.)

Sometimes it's about control…

(Peter pulling experimentally at knots he could untie but doesn't quite dare, while Claude grins above him, teasing Peter with hands and mouth until Peter breaks down and starts begging, whimpering, pleading with Claude to fuck him. Sometimes Claude does, and Peter comes so hard he sees stars; and sometimes he doesn't, leaving Peter unsatisfied and frustrated to the point of tears—for awhile at least. Whatever happens, its Claude's decision. He's the one in control.)

Or punishment.

((Claude's fingers tangle viciously in Peter's hair, twisting harshly, forcing Peter's mouth down over his cock and thrusting *hard*. Peter whimpers softly and clenches his fists in the sheets of his bed to keep from clutching at Claude's thighs. He'd feel hurt and used if it weren't for the waves of fear coming off of Claude; fear for Peter, that one day his stupidity will get him killed, that Claude won't be there to save him. Can't lose you, not you, Claude thinks as an orgasm rips through his body. He hisses out Peter's name from between clenched teeth and pulls Peter up to him, enfolding him in a crushing embrace. Peter buries his face in Claude's shoulder and trembles like a child. "I'm sorry." He whispers, and Claude just holds him more tightly. "Don't fuck up again," he replies, and his words are harsh but his voice is quiet and says something else altogether.)

But no matter what it is, what it means, what either of them get from it, it's always, always about love.