Title: The Only Way to be Sure
Author: tryslora
Characters/Pairings: George/George
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Alternate pairing: George/George
Other Content: Loss of Virginity, Blowjobs
Word Count: 2,450 words
Summary/Description: Sometimes, when you’re not exactly sure about something, the only one who can help is… yourself.
Author's Notes: HI! I’m new. :) Well, not exactly totally new, I’ve participated in the last two Kinky Kristmases and have had a blast, and now I’m so excited to be a regular member here. I have to admit, I thought writing George/George was going to be seriously goofy (and the other fic I started drafting was goofier, but didn’t quite work), and this came out as the more serious side of George. Oh, and thank you to my darling teas_me for her lovely beta work, as always, and to eidheann_writes for helping as an alpha reader.


“See, the thing is, you’re not sure.”

George twists the timeturner in his hands and has to force himself to set it down before he activates it by accident. The other boy is quiet, far more quiet than George can ever remember being. “If we don’t want to make a huge mess of things, you’ll need this in order to come back to now again. You’re going to lose it, but don’t worry, you’ll find it at the right time.”

George sees himself looking dubious, and he jumps up, needing to get closer. George remembers the uncertainty… but it was more than a few years ago and he honestly wasn’t even sure the timeturner would make the jump, although obviously it had the first time around.

Damn, but time’s confusing. Maybe he should just ignore the whole theoretical part and get down to the important bits.

“You’ve been wondering,” George says. “And it all started in the locker room that time with Pucey, back before you left Hogwarts. Before the war. Before—” He doesn’t say it, because although he can say it now, he knows that this younger him isn’t ready for the words before Fred died and it would ruin the mood. “You’ve been wondering for a long time, about whether you want to be fucked by a bloke.”

He lets the words fall bluntly into the room. He could joke, sure, and he’d probably make himself a lot more comfortable if he did. But he doesn’t have time, not with a jump back through time this long with a timeturner that somehow survived the war (and George doesn’t even want to think about the cyclicality of how it is traveling from now to then and back again so constantly). He’s got maybe a half hour, forty-five minutes if he’s lucky. He’d better plan for only twenty minutes, just in case.

The younger George blinks, then says, “You’re really me.”

“I’m really you.” George twists his head, letting him see the place where his ear used to be. The scars are knotted flesh, no longer raw and red, but silvered with age. He has some hearing on that side, but not much. Not enough. Still, he was the lucky one, and he knows it.

“You can’t tell me you’re not thinking about it,” George says as he stands up. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, watching his younger self the whole time. “I know you. I was you. And let me tell you, this is going to change everything. It won’t make you hate girls, not hardly.” In fact, he’ll go on to marry a lovely girl after some amazing comfort sex. “But you’ll know, and you’ll get to have some fun for a while, however you want. And oh, by the way, you’re right—Adrian Pucey is damned fit, and he’s a good bloke and a bloody brilliant top.” He watches his cheeks flush bright at the thought. Maybe he shouldn’t mention the part where Pucey likes to be tied up and ridden by his bottom, fucking while losing all control at the same time. He’s pretty sure this version of him isn’t ready for that yet. He’ll figure it out eventually.

“So you’re saying you’ve come back to fuck me,” the younger George says, and George has to grin at the sudden bravado, the way his chin tilts and the sudden light in his eyes.

“That’s exactly it. Because really, who else can you trust with something like this if you can’t trust yourself?” George tosses his shirt away, then works at his trousers, shoving them down and kicking them away. “Not to mention, it’s a bit easier when it’s a prick you’re already familiar with. Go on. Touch it.”

The younger man’s eyes widen, but he steps forward, and again, George is amazed at how quiet he is. He’d forgotten the shock. But he hasn’t forgotten the fascination, or the way he pulls his hand along George’s length, or the quick way he falls to his knees.

“I’ve been thinking about this.” A pink tongue darts out, tasting the tip of George’s prick, and he holds still. “Not this exactly,” the younger George clarifies. “But getting my mouth on a bloke. Tasting him.”

“Well, we don’t have time for you to taste all of it,” George has to admit. “Not if I’m going give you a proper one up the arse—which I am. But I’ve got no problem if you want to see what you like.” Well, possibly a little bit of a problem, but George isn’t young any more. The hair trigger orgasms were left behind with his early twenties, around the same time as the small soft paunch of a belly appeared. It’s fascinating to see himself so young again, and he can’t wait until he disrobes. He wants to touch that firm body and remember.

Warmth encloses his prick, a tongue pressing lightly against the vein on the underside. “Yeah, that’s a good start,” George murmurs, letting his fingers slide through his younger self’s hair. “Don’t you wish you were flexible enough to do this on your own, bend over and suck yourself off? You’re not half bad.” The technique isn’t there, but the enthusiasm is, tugging the foreskin back so young George can tease the head, tonguing the slit. He strokes George’s prick with his hand, using the foreskin to slowly wank him while he teases him with his tongue. It’s sloppy and too fast and almost a little too gentle, but oh, it feels good.

He watches his younger self press the heel of his hand against his jeans, watches as he rocks his hips into that hand. His eyes are bright, his mouth hungry as he swallows George.

When he finds his balls, George has to pull away. “Can’t keep doing that,” he says, hoarse. “If we do, it’ll be all over on my part and I’ll be yanked back to my own time and you won’t get a chance at the rest. So tell me: are we going to take care of your virginity today?”

George studies his younger self’s face. There are no lines around his eyes, and the skin is a shade paler. The skin where his ear once was is still somewhat red, although the worst of it is healed. The freckles are bright, still somewhat distinct, and his hair is still a perfect ginger. But it’s the eyes that are the most different. Not just the missing lines, but the resolve and determination, and the loneliness George sees behind it. He remembers how hard it was before he felt whole again. And he remembers how much being able to connect with other blokes helped.

The younger George is crouched still, hands idly stroking George’s prick. He nods once quickly. “There’s lube in the top drawer—”

“Of the nightstand,” George finishes the sentence with a grin. “I remember. Get yourself undressed. I want to see what I look like.”

He retrieves the lube by touch, his gaze fixed on the younger man, watching as he strips quickly. There is only a brief hesitation before he shoves his jeans and pants down, his own prick hard and weeping fluid from the tip.

“You liked having mine in your mouth. Let’s see about this.” George pushes him back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, then lowers himself slowly to kneel between his knees. He’s got a good bit more technique now than he had years ago, as he runs his cheek along that soft skin over a hard length. He smells a familiar musk, his own scent. It brings to mind long afternoons of taking himself in hand, stroking just so. He knows this body as well as he knows his own because it is his own.

He starts with his mouth, taking the prick deep inside, tongue sliding over his skin. He uses his saliva to leave him wet enough for his hand to stroke the base, wanking him with a bit of a twist that he’s learned he likes. George has more experience with this body, and he teases it unmercifully, loving when he moans and whimpers, hips jerking up to fuck George’s mouth.

“Open your eyes,” George murmurs, looking up to meet his gaze when he does. Pupils are wide, mouth slightly open as he watches, breath shuddering in his chest. “You like this, don’t you? Seeing a bloke taking your prick in his mouth. You want to get off now, don’t you? First times are like that, when you just want to lose yourself in it. But we’re not there yet.”

He spills lubricant into his palm, squishing his fingers together to warm it before he begins to ring the tight, virgin muscle. Before this, he didn’t even try it on himself, he remembers. He just wondered, and sometimes touched it lightly, but this… as George presses the first knuckle of his forefinger in… this is new.

His younger self is absolutely untouched, except by George. Who else could he trust more?

George waits while he shudders, shaking slightly around the small invasion, then he withdraws before pressing back again, all the way to the second knuckle. He distracts with his mouth, making the blow job wet and a little sloppy on purpose. He remembers the pain of this first breach, how it feels full and stretches and stings in ways he wondered if he could stand. His own arse aches with the remembered pain as he manages to get the first finger all the way in, then he keeps just that one finger moving in slow strokes until his younger self cries out for more.

“This is where you’re ready—”

“For two, yeah, please, G—” He stutters over the name, and George almost laughs. It’s impossible, really it is, to say your own name to the bloke who’s got his finger in your arse. Even when he’s yourself.

He doesn’t answer, just obliging, adding more lube and starting to work that second finger in. He lets the prick slip from his mouth with a wet pop, nuzzling into his balls instead, licking that space right behind them.

“I can’t make it not hurt.” It’s an apology of sorts. “But it’s worth it.”

“I know. I want this.” The younger man twists, pressing into George’s touch, taking his fingers deeper. “I need to know if I can do this. I want you to do this.”

“I know I do.” George slaps his bottom. “Flip over. It’ll be easier for you this way.”

He watches young George arrange himself on the bed, freckled arse in the air. Muscles stand out in his arms as he balances himself, hands fisted tight in the sheets. He whimpers, arse swaying slightly, legs spread and erection dangling heavily.

George kneels behind him, hands gliding over that smooth skin. There are no marks from the war there, only the ear and the deep scars on the inside. The desperate loneliness that George knows will fade with time. His touch slips lighter, teasing up to the waist until his younger self laughs at the way it tickles. He finds the right spot, teasing him again until the laughter grows. George chooses that moment to start to press in, to feel him stiffen with the pain.

He doesn’t have to ask when it hurts too much to go on; he remembers it from when he lay on the other side, feeling too exposed and hungry and ready. George holds still, waiting for that moment when he presses back slightly before he withdraws and pushes in again, just a little further.

It takes time, achingly slow inch by inch until George is all the way in and his younger self shudders slightly. The younger man’s erection is gone, limp when George reaches for it, stroking, rolling his hand over him and using the warmth of the lube still left on his palm. He wants this to be good for himself.

He remembers that it was good.

George moves slowly, timing his thrusts with the pull along his prick. His other hand slides over his younger self’s back, reassuring, relaxing. Waiting for that moment when pleasure starts to build, the prick in his hand slowly hardening.

He’s not going to have time. It’s too hard to keep control in a body this tight, this new. George tries to take it slow, but he remembers that he doesn’t last, not long enough for this. There is a moment when he clenches tightly, crying out softly, and that’s enough to tip George over the edge, spilling inside of him with a quick jerk of his hips.

He pulls out, but stays leaning against young George, one hand wrapped around his prick, the other falling to his balls. “Come on,” he whispers. “You can think about being fucked, you can think about my mouth on you. But right now, you’re going to come.”

This prick is as familiar as his own, and George knows exactly how to twist and slide, how to roll over the head and push back down, using the foreskin to roughly wank himself. It is different, hearing how his own breath catches, feeling the slow shuddering build of the orgasm until young George is shaking with the effort of holding himself up. George presses in, letting his soft prick slide through the sticky warmth in the crack of his younger self’s arse, and that’s all it takes for him to come with a shout, spurting over the sheets.

His arms and knees fail him then, and he falls spread-eagled on the bed, a tangle of limp, sated limbs.

He’ll be asleep soon, George remembers that too, and he remembers the fog of waking up in the morning, sore and aching and wondering how much of it was real.

He crouches next to the bed, his head close to himself as he whispers, “Don’t forget the timeturner. Put it away. Save it. Because this is real. And next time you get to be on this side.”

The room starts to spin, and George stands on wobbly feet. He looks at the bed and sees himself, thoroughly pleasured and somewhat debauched, pale skin flushed from pleasure.

It occurs to him that this might be the best fuck he’s ever had, both times. There was pain once, yes, but who knows you better than yourself? George can’t imagine ever having trusted anyone else with this.

There’s a twist in his gut and the room starts to dissolve as George is pulled back home. His younger self will have to find his own way from here.

And as George remembers, he does.