fredbassett | Fic, Whispering Island, Part 2 of 8, Stephen/Ryan, 15

Title : Whispering Island, Part 2 of 8
Author : fredbassett
Fandoms : Primeval & Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books
Rating : 15
Characters : Stephen/Ryan, the Kirrin family and dog
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 17,620. This part 2,168.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Stephen and Ryan get the chance to spend a weekend on a private island off the south coast.
A/N : For full author’s note see Part 1

“Shit!” Ryan could feel his pulse racing and his heart hammering in his chest.

Stephen’s quiet chuckle and the hand on his shoulder helped to ground him. “Relax. You won’t win a staring match with a statue.”

“I’ll fucking kill Wilf Layman next time I see him,” Ryan vowed. “He could have bloody warned us.”

He stared around the clearing, the light from his head-torch picking out numerous other figures amongst the undergrowth. Statues of men and women, all with eerily serene expressions on their alabaster faces. Ryan counted at least twelve, and no doubt there were more. Wilf had a wicked sense of humour, and was no doubt smiling at the thought of the fright they would have got at their first sight of the figures, although to be fair to his friend, Wilf probably hadn’t expected them to reach the island after nightfall.

“There’s going to be a whole lot of people watching you when you go out for a piss in the middle of the night, Hart,” he commented.

“You know bloody well I’ve got a cast-iron bladder.”

“Doesn’t stop you whining for pee stops when we’re travelling.”

“I whine for ice cream as well, but I don’t get that, either. And I’ll have you know that when we went to that bloody shout in Penrith, I managed the whole trip without a pee break.”

Ryan grinned at the memory. Lyle had been driving and he’d steadfastly refused to stop en route. Connor had damn nearly resorted to peeing in his water bottle and there had been a lot of people dashing into the bushes when they’d finally reached the anomaly site.

He stared around at the watching statues. Stephen always had had something of an exhibitionist streak, so no doubt he’d be more than happy with the company they’d gained. He chucked the bags on the ground. “I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered after that drive. I’d deal with dinosaurs any day than the bloody Friday night traffic on the M4. Come on, let’s get that tent up and have something to eat.”

The tent was erected in a matter of minutes. The weather was still warm, so the light sleeping bags they had zipped together would be perfectly adequate. While Ryan was sorting out their kit, Stephen produced a rapid meal of chilli and rice from packets, followed by a couple of slices of ginger cake, washed down with a can of beer. They’d travelled light, but not so light that they’d left out the alcohol.

Ryan stripped off his clothes outside the tent, feeling the cool air slide over his skin like silk. Stephen had stowed his clothes in the bottom corner of his side of the bed and had already burrowed into the cocoon of the sleeping backs. Ryan managed to slip in alongside him and pull the zip up. They spooned together with the comfortable familiarity of long-term lovers as Ryan nuzzled at the back of Stephen’s neck and ran a hand down Stephen’s chest, following the trail of soft hair that led to his groin.

Stephen’s cock was warm in his hand, already hard. Ryan ran his fingers lightly down his shaft and cupped his balls, giving them a light squeeze. Stephen pushed back against him, wriggling so Ryan’s cock pressed up against his arse. He’d taken the precaution of stowing both a tube of lubricant and a packet of tissues within reach and in a matter of minutes his cock was pushing against Stephen’s tight hole while his fingers continued their work on his lover’s cock. Patience was certainly not one of Stephen’s virtues and he shoved back with his hips. Ryan gasped at the sensation as his cock was sheathed in the tight heat of Stephen’s arse.

“What happened to foreplay?” Ryan muttered, nipping lightly at the back of Stephen’s neck.

“You stroked my cock,” Stephen pointed out as Ryan started to thrust lazily into his lover’s body.

“Ah yes, silly me, so I did.”

They moved together in the cocoon of the sleeping bag, making love unhurriedly, revelling in the feel of each other’s bodies. It had been a long week, during which all they’d done at night was fall into bed for little more than a kiss and a cuddle so it was nice to be able to take their time without being in danger of the phone ringing in their off duty hours to signal yet another call needing maximum numbers of personnel.

He could tell from the small noises Stephen was making that his lover was slowly approaching his climax. Ryan teased at the sensitive head of Stephen’s cock, fingering the slit and then lifting his hand to Stephen’s mouth to allow him to lick at the salty pre-come. They continued to rock together, Ryan pulling back and then Stephen pushing back, impaling himself time and time again, gasping whenever he managed to get the angle right so Ryan’s cock nudged against his prostate.

Ryan could feel heat building up in his own crotch and so speeded up the movement of his hand, each time catching the fluid leaking from Stephen’s slit and using it to lubricate his palm. He knew from long practise exactly how Stephen liked this and moments later, Stephen’s hips bucked, this time thrusting up into Ryan’s palm, gasping as he climaxed. Stephen’s arse tightened around Ryan’s cock and that was enough to tip him over the edge as he held Stephen close and thrust through the tremors of his own orgasm.

Ryan held his lover close, dimly aware of Stephen licking his own come off Ryan’s hand and pressing a kiss into his palm, and as Ryan drifted slowly into a contented sleep, he could still hear the trees whispering around them.

‘Shooey, shooey, shooey…’

* * * * *

A tall, grey stone wall loomed above them, complete with crenellations. It looked like a child’s drawing of a castle, built to almost Brobdinagian proportions. The undergrowth pressed up against the stonework and ivy had long since climbed the walls, sending strong fingers into the mortar and loosening the joints. A pair of jackdaws flitted around a nest high on one wall where a stone had fallen, leaving a convenient hole for a bird’s nest. Wilf had been right when he’d said the castle had been allowed to go to rack and ruin. Even before his grandmother had purchased the island it must have been derelict.

“This would be great on Grand Designs,” Stephen said with obvious enthusiasm.

Ryan rolled his eyes. On the rare occasions they watched television, Stephen seemed to thrive on a staple diet of Grand Designs, Top Gear and football, none of which held much interest for Ryan, but he had to admit that crappy TV was greatly improved by having his lover sprawled out next to him on the sofa and a can of beer on hand.

“You have the worst taste in TV, sweetie.”

Stephen looked indignant. “I don’t watch Cash in the Attic.”

“And I remain thankful for small mercies.”

“You’re starting to sound like Lester!”

“No I’m not. He would have said that you have the most deplorable taste. I don’t use big words like that.”

Stephen muttered something Ryan didn’t quite catch and then dived off into the undergrowth in search of the entrance to the castle. As Ryan followed him, he half-wondered whether they would come across a moat and a rotten drawbridge just to complete the Gothic imagery. They finally worked their way around to a majestic archway flanked by two enormous stone lions. The great beasts were almost on eye level with Ryan as they sat on their haunches and stared out into the ever-encroaching trees. They were streaked with white, courtesy of the numerous nesting birds, but that failed to detract from their gravity and Ryan was reminded of the lion in the Narnia books that he’d loved as a kid, while imagining himself running around dressed in chainmail and carrying a broadsword.

The gateway led into an overgrown courtyard open to the sky. As far as he could see, the woodwork had rotted everywhere and the roof had fallen in, making it hard to imagine how the building would have looked when it was first built. According to Wilf’s map, the low circular stone wall on one side was the well. The only new wood that Ryan had seen anywhere formed a small pitched roof over the well to prevent debris falling down and choking the water. A shiny new winding handle, a large black, plastic bucket with a weighted bottom, attached to a thick, strong rope were all testament to Wilf’s trips over to the island to make sure that some things remained in good order.

Ryan peered down into the depths of the stone-lined well. He couldn’t be sure how deep it was, but he guessed it was somewhere in the region of 15 metres down to the surface of the water. Ryan checked that the bucket was securely tied onto the rope and then dropped it, watching the rope spin off the winding spit until the black bucket finally hit the water, bobbed for a few moments and then started to sink. Once it was full of water, Ryan turned the handle and brought the bucket back up. The water was crystal clear, chemical-free and tasted wonderful.

He stripped off quickly, ignoring Stephen’s amused look, and washed off the sweat and other remnants of their activities the previous night. The sun was already warm and in a matter of minutes, Ryan was dressed again. Stephen didn’t quite share his habit of taking cold showers in the morning, but even he took advantage of the next bucket Ryan dragged out of the well.

Once they’d cleaned up and got dressed again, they spent an hour or so poking around the ruins, before a loud rumble from Stephen’s stomach reminded them that they’d gone off to explore without having had breakfast, something they would need to remedy as quickly as possible.

On their way back to the clearing where they’d pitched the tent, Stephen tilted his head to one side and remarked, “The trees have stopped whispering.”

His lover was right. The light breeze that had been with them since they left the mainland had vanished at last, taking with it the murmuring of the trees. As they listened for a non-existent sound of the leaves, Ryan felt an indefinable prickle at the edge of his senses. Something else had changed…

“There’s no birdsong,” Stephen said, picking up on Ryan’s train of thought without the need for any explanation.

Instinctively, Ryan looked up. The last time something like that had happened had signalled the presence of an aerial predator. All he saw was half a dozen rooks, flapping up into the cornflower blue of a cloudless sky. “Something’s just disturbed them,” he said quietly.

“Congratulations, sweetie, we’ll make a boy scout of you yet. A fiver says we’re not on our own any more. Did Wilf mention anyone else might be here?”

Ryan shook his head. The island was a big place, so there was no reason to suppose that the presence of anyone else would spoil their weekend, but he was curious to know who had come over, as his presumption was that they were trespassers. He also wanted to make sure that their kayaks were still where they’d been left. By unspoken assent, they veered away from the clearing and took an overgrown track that would lead them back to the cove where they’d left the kayaks tethered to a tree, well above the high water mark.

The two red kayaks were exactly where they’d been left, but they were now in the company of a large, bright blue rowing boat with the name Saucy Jane painted on the prow. Stephen stared around at a seemingly jumbled mass of prints on the sandy shore for a couple of minutes before delivering his verdict. “Four adults and a dog. If I had to put money on it I’d say one’s a woman. Those prints are several sizes smaller than the others.”

“What type of dog?” Ryan asked, only half-joking.

“A bloody great big one.”

“Then it’s a good job we like dogs, isn’t it? It would be rude not to introduce ourselves,” Ryan said, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket and checking for a signal.

As Wilf had warned, the island was in an almost total mobile phone black spot. One bar appeared briefly on his screen and then flickered and disappeared. That put paid to his idea of seeing if he could contact Wilf. There was no reason to believe that the other visitors would be out for trouble, but in Ryan’s line of work, it was better to assume hostile intent than be surprised by it – that way, you weren’t likely to be disappointed.

And trouble did have rather a nasty habit of following them around.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

adafrog

Good addition. The last two sentences especially were perfect.

And hey! I liked Cash in the Attic!! ;)

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Fic, Whispering Island, Part 2 of 8, Stephen/Ryan, 15

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