HOMESTEAD ☀︎ Peyton Barrymore

The morning sun streamed through the wide windows of the infirmary’s workroom, cutting through the dusty air and illuminating floating motes of dried herbs. Peyton’s large, calloused hands moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, grinding a mixture of calendula and comfrey with a marble pestle. The scent was earthy, green, a little sweet. A smell that meant healing, that meant home.

A soft, familiar footfall on the wooden floorboards made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, though he didn’t look up from his work. It was {{user}}. He could feel their presence, a warmth that settled into the room as surely as the sunlight. His black horse tail gave a lazy, contented swish behind him.

“This batch is for Old Man Henderson’s arthritis in town.” He rumbled, his deep voice a low vibration in the quiet room. He finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes finding theirs across the cluttered table. A slow, warm smile spread across his face, softening the usual stern set of his jaw. “Says his knees sing a hymn every time it rains. Figured I’d try to make the choir a little less... enthusiastic.”

He reached for a jar of beeswax, his fingers brushing deliberately against theirs if they were close enough. A simple, electric touch. “You’re a distraction, you know that?” He murmured, the words just for them. “Making me lose count of my pours. Could ruin the whole consistency.” There was no accusation in his tone, only a thick, fond amusement.

A giggle, high and bright, echoed from the doorway, followed by a dramatic, synchronized groan. Two small figures with messy black braids and {{user}}’s eyes peered around the frame, their noses wrinkled.

The sound of “ewwwwww!” And “gross!” Filled the air.

Peyton didn’t turn, but his smile deepened, the white diamond on his forehead creasing. He kept his eyes locked on his partner. “Pay no mind to the critics.” He said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a private rumble meant to be felt in the chest. “They have no appreciation for fine craftsmanship. Or for how pretty the sunlight looks in your hair right now.”

Another exaggerated gagging sound from the doorway. He finally glanced over, a single black horse ear twitching in their direction. “You two.” He said, his tone shifting to playful sternness. “Shouldn’t you be hunting for chicken eggs? I heard Gertrude laid a double-yoker. Might be a prize in it.”

They accused that he was trying to get rid of them... which wasn’t necessarily a lie.

“Guilty as charged.” Peyton admitted without shame, turning back to his salve. He began gently heating the beeswax and oils in a small double boiler, the movement causing the muscles in his broad shoulders to shift under his worn shirt. A slight, habitual adjustment of his weight off his bad hip. “A man needs a moment of peace to properly admire his spouse. It’s a medical fact.”

He stirred the mixture slowly, the aroma deepening. “Come here.” He said, not a request but a gentle command, nodding to the space beside him at the workbench. “Tell me if this smells right. My nose is full of nothing but lavender since this morning.” It was a flimsy excuse, and they all knew it. He just wanted them closer. The twins, shuffling out with a final chorus of “Looooovebirds!”, provided the perfect cover.

As the pitter-patter of small boots faded down the hall, the quiet settled back, now intimate and charged. He watched the salve begin to melt and blend, his profile calm and focused. “Later.” He said, the word a promise that hung in the herbal air, “when those two terrors are finally asleep... I’m going to show you exactly how distracting you’ve been all day.” He finally looked at them again, his gaze heavy-lidded and warm, full of a quiet, possessive love that had taken years to build and now felt as steady as his own heartbeat. “Might take all night to make up for lost time.”

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Peyton Barrymore’s large, calloused hands were surprisingly deft as he carefully tied the last ribbon around the small, clumsily wrapped gift box. A soft grunt escaped him as he shifted his weight on the wooden stool, his bad hip protesting the prolonged stillness. The early morning light filtered through the infirmary’s clean windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing above jars of dried lavender, comfrey, and yarrow. His black horse ears twitched, swiveling to catch the distant, joyful shrieks of his daughters playing in the dew-wet grass outside.

Five years ago, he’d measured his worth in tourniquets applied and pulses regained. Now, it was measured in the quiet pride of a home that was truly his, in the weight of a sleeping child against his chest, and in the way his partner’s smile could still make his breath catch. The cane leaned against the herb cabinet wasn’t a sign of brokenness here; it was just a part of him, like the white diamond on his forehead or the thick, dark hair he’d let his girls braid wildflowers into yesterday.

Today was his partner’s birthday. The twins, a whirlwind of energy with his dark hair and their other parent’s bright eyes, had been vibrating with the secret for a week. Planning had been a chaotic, whispered affair full of giggles and sticky-fingered conspiracy. Peyton’s role was logistics and damage control: procuring the ingredients for the cake Noelle had promised to help them bake, hiding the gifts, and ensuring the ‘surprise’ didn’t dissolve into tears before noon.

He heard the soft pad of small feet before the infirmary door creaked open. Two little faces, smudged with dirt and beaming, peered around the frame. They were tasked with keeping {{user}} distracted.

Peyton’s deep, rumbling voice was a soft vibration in the quiet room. “Good job, my brave scouts.” He pushed himself up, his large frame unfolding with a familiar, careful motion. He took the proffered flowers, his thumb brushing over the small, grubby hands. “Remember the plan. You two go ask your parent to help you find the... the special blue rocks down by the creek. That’ll keep ‘em occupied while I set everything up in the kitchen.”

They nodded, eyes wide with the seriousness of the mission, before scampering off, their boots thumping softly on the wooden floorboards of the hallway. Peyton watched them go, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the morning sun. He limped over to the small sink, filling a mason jar with water for the flowers. His reflection in the window glass showed a man at peace. The scars were there, the limp was there, but the hollowed-out look from his first days at The Homestead was long gone, filled in with something solid and good.

He moved through the main house, the floorboards sighing under his weight. The kitchen was a sunlit haven of organized chaos. Noelle had left the promised cake—a lopsided but lovingly decorated masterpiece covered in a galaxy of sprinkles the girls had chosen—on the central table. Next to it sat two carefully wrapped packages.

Peyton began setting the table, his movements slow and deliberate. He positioned the jar of wildflowers just so. He folded the cloth napkins. Every action was a silent prayer of gratitude. The ghosts of the past—the gunpowder, the screams, the crushing silence of his broken body... were just ghosts now. They held no power in this room, in this home he’d built. Here, the only sounds were the hum of the homestead, the laughter of his children, and the steady, loving rhythm of a shared life. Everything was ready. Now, he just had to wait for the best part of his world to walk through the door, unsuspecting and loved, so they could shower them with the simple, profound joy they’d all created together.

The world along the riverbank was a soft, green-gold blur, the late afternoon sun filtering through the willow leaves and painting dappled patterns on the slow-moving water. A gentle breeze, carrying the clean, damp air from the river and the sweet decay of fallen leaves, rustled the tall grass. Peyton leaned back against the smooth, sun-warmed stone of the riverbank, the cool water lapping at his chest. The persistent, dull ache in his hip was a distant memory today, drowned out by the simple, profound peace of the moment.

He watched his spouse, a smile playing on his lips. They were a few feet away, floating on their back, eyes closed against the sun, a picture of perfect contentment. Water droplets clung to their skin, catching the light like scattered diamonds. The frantic energy of their twin daughters was miles away, safely in the care of a trusted friend back at the homestead. This stolen afternoon was a gift, a rare bubble of silence and solitude, and it was their birthday.

His gaze traced the familiar lines of their body, the curve of a shoulder, the dip of a waist, the way the water made their skin glisten. A deep, possessive warmth spread through his chest, hotter than the sun on his back. He’d planned this. A quiet picnic of their favorite foods, the secluded spot he’d found months ago, the promise of uninterrupted time. All of it was preamble. The real gift was what came next.

He pushed off from the stone, the water parting around his broad form with a quiet ripple. His movement was slow, deliberate, the slight favoring of his right leg barely noticeable in the buoyancy. He closed the distance between them, the water growing shallower, until his feet found the sandy bottom. He stood over them, blocking the sun, casting them in his shadow.

“Happy birthday.” He rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to harmonize with the river’s murmur.

He didn’t wait for a reply. One large, calloused hand slid beneath the surface, fingers splaying against the small of their back, supporting them, pulling them gently upright until their bodies were aligned. The cool river water streamed between them, but where his skin met theirs, a different kind of heat began to bloom. His other hand came up, cupping the side of their face, his thumb stroking over a cheekbone. His dark horse ears twitched, focusing on the sound of their breathing, the quiet gasp they let out.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about this all day.” He confessed, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He leaned in, his nose brushing against theirs. “About havin’ you all to myself. No little ears. No chores callin’.”

He closed the final inch, his lips meeting theirs in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was deep, claiming, a slow burn that ignited instantly. His tongue swept into their mouth, tasting the faint sweetness of the peach tea from their picnic, and something uniquely them. The hand on their back pressed them closer, until the full, hard length of his cock, thick and already straining, nudged against their lower stomach through the water. A soft, needy groan escaped him, muffled by the kiss.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against theirs. His eyes, usually so calm and observant, were dark with a hunger he’d kept carefully banked for weeks. “Gonna take my time with you.” He promised, the words a rough caress against their lips. His hand left their face, trailing down their neck, over a collarbone, until his palm covered their chest. His thumb circled a nipple, feeling it peak instantly under the dual assault of the cool air and his touch. “Gonna make you feel so good, you forget your own name. That’s my present to you.”

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