A/N During an lj post that ran away with itself and set up camp somewhere in left field, the idea of writing fic involving Tom/Carl/LP of any gender or Tom/Carl/Winged Defender was bandied about. This is as close as I'm ever gonna get guys, sorry. Also, properly flowing sentences and I have apparently gone our separate ways, so I apologize for that as well. Spoilers for everything up to High Wizardry. As always, I am merely playing in Diane Duane's wonderful, giant sandbox.
Peach has become somewhat of a voyeur during her time with her humans.
Some would, she supposes, feel it's wrong to watch without having asked first. Maybe she could claim consent because they no longer try to shoo her from the room, but since they might not be so free with that permission if they knew they were giving it to a Power That Be instead of the family pet, well…..to her that's too much complicating for an issue this simple.
They are beautifully constructed, Tom the modern day bard and Carl the city smart gatekeeper. Tall and handsome, with smiles like summer days and eyes and hair like city nights. They carry themselves with dignity and strength befitting their positions, stand open with the warmth and understanding that got them there. Tom retains a tan from his days under the California sun, Carl the intenseness of a man who has lived in the city most of his life.
Together they are even more so, a tableau of long, lean limbs and sweaty skin and solid, sure muscle.
Most times they are playful with each other. Cooking leads to food fights which leads to "clean up". Carl tickles the feet Tom plops into his lap, and things go from there. There was one memorable Friday afternoon when Tom wrote out a sex scene involving the two of them and sent it to Carl's manual at the office, and Carl came home early to give an opinion on it in person. Sometimes they are rougher, although never to the point of violence. Like when Tom drags Carl into the bedroom by his tie and then uses it to secure his hands to the bedpost. Or when tempers run too hot and they grab each other close rather then fumble for words no language has yet. There probably isn't a wall in the house (excluding maybe the ones inside the linen closets) that hasn't had one or the other of the two men pinned solidly against it in the heat of passionate struggle. Other times are loving, slow and focused to fully appreciate the moment they've stolen from everyday chaos.
Now that she is no longer confined to the shape of a macaw, she likes to join them. Not physically, because her humans are loyal in their love for one another, and she would not devalue what they choose to give one another.
Instead she sneaks into the backs of their minds, of Tom or Carl or both when she's loosing faith in the universes she's sworn to protect. She indulges in the way Carl's skin feels, the way Tom's fingers always linger over a burned and never quite healed streak of stomach skin to be reminded that gates can't always be tamed and that his man is brave enough to face that. She revels in the taste of Tom's mouth, like salty skin and the soda he drinks so much of and sunshine after a cloudy day. She looses herself in the dark of Carl's eyes, the shiver that goes up Tom's spine as they grow darker with lust and concentration for the task at hand (knows now that Tom prefers to let Carl top him because he gets off on being the center of all that intensity). She feels her heart jump with Carl's as Tom whispers endearments and his partner's name, sing when they continue until he looses himself to this they've built.
Again she has no true permission for this, but figures since the Powers That Be have a window to everything this is probably no different. She also likes to believe they might say yes, where she ever to truly ask.
Sometimes her once fallen brother comes with her. That, she knows, would give her humans pause, but she's also pretty sure if his reasons for it were ever explained her humans might be persuaded to give their consent. He too comes to experience the simple erotic sensations, but like her he's there for their source as well.
Tom and Carl fit to each other, build each other up with a bond that endures even when their tempers do not. With one another they are safe, loved, and each is happier for knowing it. The one who was The Bringer Of Death comes to witness that, to be reminded of why his Dark Gift was never welcomed by the others of his kind.
(He also comes for the rougher moments as well, but he never says it and she always ignores it.)
He visits others for his purposes as well, but she never goes with him for those. They never have quite the same resonance as those she calls her own.