Word Count: 3,193
Rating: NC-17
Category: Humour, Pre-Slash
Notes: Written for HP Porn in the Sun 2010 Fest.  The title of this fic is borrowed from the fantastic Robert Graves’ poem of the same name.  Many thanks to Luvscharlie and Ayla Pascal who had to listen to my whinging!  Also, thanks to Ayla Pascal for the wonderful beta job!
Summary: Not quite satisfied with his hands anymore, Ron discovers a new way to wank off to his fantasies.
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Pillow, Harry Potter/Ron Weasley (Pre-Slash), and brief mention of Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley and Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley
Warnings: Pillow mutilation loving, voyeurism
Dedications: Emzlovesharry
Completed Date: June 8, 2010

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Often the best way to overcome desire is to satisfy it . . . with inanimate objects! — W. Somerset Maugham and Mairi Nathaira

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Ron walked into the empty dorm and landed face first onto his bed. A nasty headache ravaged him, which was caused by Hermione’s incessant lecturing, and he felt something digging sharply into his ribs from his bag. Realising what was causing him pain, he cursed loudly and flung one of his gigantic textbooks across the room, not caring or seeing where it had landed.

With the war over, Ron and his friends were back at Hogwarts, and Ron was there to finish up his last year of schooling, otherwise nicknamed the “eighth year”. He’d expected it to be fun and relaxing compared to their adventures last year. After all, with all that camping in the wilderness, running away from the homicidal maniacs, and battling the said maniacs, life was a bit hectic back then.

Or so Ron thought. Now, he begged to differ. His final year at Hogwarts was more or less hell.

He hated the workload his professors had dumped on him. His hands were cramped and smeared with ink, his eyes were tired, and he was ready to go jump off the Astronomy Tower because dying seemed like a better option than doing the heavy duty schoolwork. Especially since he had to write an enormously long essay on why Hrothgar the Horrible killed off all seven of his trusty dwarves in the War of 1066.

He hated the Slytherins — especially that ferret-faced Malfoy git — lurking around the school, looking quite pathetic and no longer smug compared to previous years. This imbalance unnerved Ron since the stiffness those Snakes displayed were quite unwelcomed, making him feel like he should throw them a laughing bomb — a product of his brother’s — just so they’d stop looking so bloody sour!

He hated that his baby sister was . . . well . . . probably getting more sex than he was. He didn’t have any proof, necessarily, but she did have that glow about her, and he really didn’t want to think about the real cause of the glow.

And he absolutely hated that he was madly in love with his best mate . . . who was probably shagging his glowing baby sister — an image he desperately wanted to erase from every single brain “celluloid” he possessed.

To make it worse, he was wishing he was the person his best mate was shagging instead of his baby sister.

Something was quite wrong with this picture and with his life, and all Ron wanted to do was to go back to the days where all they had to worry about was hunting Horcruxes and dodging Death Eaters. Those days were simpler than his current life.

He also missed the camaraderie he’d had with Harry and Hermione. Back then, Ron felt extremely close with them; now, with school and the NEWTs taking over their lives, the three of them had been spending less time with each other. Hermione threw herself into the books, as usual, only taking the obligatory breaks for food, sleep, and the loo. Harry became the Gryffindor Quidditch captain again, and he was occupied with his studies and Ginny. Ron, on the other hand, struggled to keep up with Hermione’s intense studying schedule and struggled to figure out his own sexuality.

With the war all settled, he had time to think about himself. With no worries about a certain spell giving off green lights coming his way, Ron slowly came to the conclusion that he was gay, and he had Seamus’ magazines to thank for this epiphany. All those pictures of naked girls didn’t do anything for him, and when he thought about those lukewarm feelings he had towards Lavender and the sisterly love he felt towards Hermione, it all fit. He just wasn’t interested in girls, and it wasn’t a pleasant revelation for him at all. In fact, he was stuck in the proverbial closet, and he’d preferred to stay there for quite a bit. Well, more like a long time. He didn’t quite fancy seeing his family’s reactions or his friends’ quite yet.

Sighing, Ron shifted onto his back, and he gave a blank stare at the darkness of his bed’s ceiling.

Along with all his frustrations, his libido had been acting up, and now he was horny, and he needed a real good wank. Gay or straight, his body wanted him to do something, and it wanted him to do something now.

But he didn’t want to just use his hands. That was getting boring. Every time, it was the same thing. A couple of minutes of pumping and then he was done. No, he wanted to do something different, but what? He didn’t have any of those dodos or vibraphones he heard Seamus mention before. He didn’t really want to stick anything “pointy” up his arse since he was afraid he’d do it wrong, hurt himself, and get landed in the hospital wing. And the option of getting a rentboy or something? Abso-bloody-lutely no. He didn’t have the funds, anyway, and he didn’t want to come off as some desperate and pathetic slag!

As Ron toed his shoes off, he moved his head onto one of the pillows. The pillow felt soft and fluffy under his head. He reached up and grabbed the other pillow, the pillow squishing nicely in his hand. An idea came to him, something he’d never done before, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

He’d decided to hump his pillow. He’d figured it would feel good.

Quickly, he shed his robes and his bag, dropping them off to the side, giving them a gentler treatment than he had treated his text, and he drew the curtains around his bed. He remembered to loosen his tie — he hated how it liked to choke him — and he slipped out of his trousers. As his freckled and hairy legs revealed themselves, he rolled up his sleeves and got on his knees. He then stared quizzically at his pillow.

His pillow, aside from it being nicely plush, was fairly long and wide — just the way he preferred. He enjoyed hugging one of them while he slept at night, and it comfortably covered his chest and stomach. The only problem with it being soft, though, was that it reminded him of those times when he’d hugged a girl. Now, he knew he’d prefer the masculine hardness of another bloke’s body, but he really didn’t fancy the idea of having a pillow filled with hard stuff. Like beans or something. One of his neighbours were from an Asian background, and they had a pillow stuffed with something like rocks, and when he had tested it out to see how it’d feel, he was left with a terrible headache for three days.

Regardless, he liked his pillows soft, and whenever he went to bed, he always enjoyed having them. Now, though, he stared at them. He wasn’t quite sure how to . . . well . . . hump a pillow.

“It can’t be that hard,” Ron muttered to himself. He manoeuvred his body into a lying position on his stomach, and he had the pillow under his groin. With a gentle roll of his hips, he squished his middle into the softness, and he frowned. “That feels . . . odd.” He tried it again as he spread his legs apart a bit this time, and the unpleasant squashing he felt between his cock and balls made him wonder if he was even doing this properly.

This time, he lifted his hips a bit, to give room between his body and the pillow, and he rubbed his pants-covered crotch against the downy pillow. He grinded a bit harder, and he could feel the friction on his cock, and they still felt odd, but the more he did it, the more he found himself liking it. Or at least his cock did, since he was slowly becoming hard from his experiment.

Moaning, he gripped the pillow with more strength, and he pretended he’d grabbed onto someone’s hips, imagining the softness to be harder, imagining it to be bony yet firm. He opened his eyes to see his headboard, and he closed them again, not wanting to see a chunk of wood, which would ruin his fantasy. He instantly replaced the boring, brown wood with a pale face framed with glasses, where green eyes glittered behind them. Unruly black hair appeared, and under the fringe, a familiar lightning-shaped scar etched itself on the forehead. Nice, full lips that were chapped showed up along with dimples here and there on the stubbly cheeks. The rest of the firm, lithe, Seeker-trained body finished appearing in his fantasy, and Ron imagined those thin but strong arms wrapped around his neck. And Harry — his Harry, the one he could keep only in his fantasy — groaned in pleasure as his strong, well-toned legs came around Ron’s waist.

However, soon he realised that he needed something more to maximise his experience. As if a Bludger had hit him, his sudden revelation told him to try humping the pillow without his pants on him. Without that extra layer, he decided that might make a big difference in the level of pleasure he could feel. He halted his grinding, and he sat back on his knees. With no sense of hesitance, he yanked his pants down to his knees, and he re-positioned himself against the pillow.

His cock met warmth and softness, and he quickly brought Harry back into his mind. This time, when he moved, his pillow felt like velvet against his sensitive length, and the friction — feeling much stronger than earlier — sent “elekticity shock waves” all over his body, where even his fingers and toes felt tingly from pleasure.

“Harry, oh, fuck . . . . so good, Harry,” Ron panted out as he buried himself into the pillow. He squeezed it between his cock, to give it a sense of the tightness he envisioned himself pounding into. He shifted and changed his angle to get a better hold of his pillow, and his pale, freckled arse went up higher in the air. He braced himself with all his strength, and he frotted the best he could.

As he did that, he buried his face on his other pillow, and he kissed it, pretending the feathery material of the pillow to be rough as he imagined himself kissing Harry on the lips and all over the stubbles. His tongue even darted out as he allowed himself to believe he was snogging Harry deeply, not caring if his pillow became heavily salivated. Then again, he didn’t even care if he left a stain on the other pillow he was currently slamming into, so those were the last things on his mind.

He was so close. Very close. His breathing quickened, and the steady rhythm he had earlier turned ragged and uneven. All he could say now was Harry’s name over and over again.

When he finally came, he exploded into the pillow, the warmth and the stickiness expected, and he gave a strangled yell of Harry’s name. It wasn’t the most intense orgasm he had so far — he was still waiting for that orgasm that would make him see stars behind his eyes — but it was good enough. All the stress he had in his body left him, and he collapsed comfortably on his stomach. As he panted away his post-coital moment, he shifted and turned his head sideways.

His eyes felt heavy, and they were about to shut down before they snapped apart at the face he saw. It was Harry.

“Bugger, mate!” Ron untangled himself from his pillows, which nearly made him fall off of his bed, but he luckily caught himself before he could crash onto the floor and earn the purple crowning moment of failure on his arse. He jerked the blanket over him, remembering he had no pants. His face felt hot as he said, “For fuck’s sake! How . . . I mean . . . were you watching me this entire time?!”

Harry’s face was red, and he averted his eyes away and mumbled, “I, er, I just . . . not the entire time . . . maybe . . . five minutes?”

Ron wanted to piss off and live in the lake for the rest of his life. The Merpeople couldn’t be that bad, and the Giant Squid might actually be friendly, and maybe — just maybe — Ron would develop permanent gills on him so he could survive in the ruddy lake. Then again, he’d probably end up self-detonating himself from embarrassment. His face was hot, so hot that he wondered if he could actually melt his freckles off–

Wait. Five minutes? That meant Harry heard Ron screaming out at the moment of his orgasm.

Bloody fucking hell.

His throat tight, Ron started to say, “You . . . you–”

Harry blurted out, “At least you weren’t humping a stuffed animal!”

“What?” Ron asked, blinking as he finally moved his gaze to Harry.

A weak smile appeared on Harry’s face as he sat on the edge of the bed. Their eyes met briefly before Harry shrugged — which made Ron wish he could reach out and rest his hands there — and he said, “I had a neighbour on Privet Drive whose dog enjoyed humping stuffed animals.”

A long round of silence passed between them before Ron let out a snigger which soon turned into a full-blown laugh. As he laughed, Harry joined him, and Ron laughed even harder. What Harry had said wasn’t really hilarious, but Ron was laughing mostly from the sheer relief that Harry hadn’t run off to tell the whole school that Ron had humped a pillow while calling out Harry’s name.

Ron was thankful for that, and he was thankful that their round of laughter broke that stiff tension between them. He gave Harry a small grin and said, “A stuffed animal, huh? That is a bit disturbing.”

“Yeah . . . ” Harry’s gazed lowered, and Ron could feel those intense eyes on his groin, and even with a blanket covering him, he felt like Harry’s eyes were burning holes right through them. And those eyes had this magical and freaky ability to stir up arousal in him again. Ron mentally grimaced. He had to think of something revolting now. He didn’t want to display his randy state and embarrass himself further, but before he could think of anything, Harry continued, “Ron, can I ask you something?”

Ron’s hand shook as it swept through his hair, and he bit his lip. “Ask me something? Sure, you can! I mean, we’re mates, so of course you can ask me anything! How can I deny you of something simple like that? So ask away! I won’t hide anything from you, but just don’t ask me anything–”

Again, Harry cut him off. “Do you like girls?”

Ron’s mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out, rendering him into a goldfish. Perhaps he should figure out that permanent gills spell.

“Ron?” Harry gave him a worried look.

“I . . . ” Ron wanted to tell Harry the truth, but at the same time, he was troubled by how the truth would affect their friendship. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship, but at the same time, he knew that Harry had caught him in an unwanted predicament, and Harry wasn’t dumb. Harry would have figured it out by now, and if Ron lied, it might fuck up their friendship even more. Ron didn’t want that. “No, I don’t like them.”

When Harry’s simple response, “Oh, me too,” came out, Ron once more nearly toppled off his bed, but this time Harry’s hand reached out to grab him, and Ron felt his arm turning numb from the warm hands. Before Ron could figure out how that thought was contradictory, he exclaimed, “What about Ginny?”

Harry’s face turned blank. “We’re just friends. She’s with Dean.”

“What? Since when?”

” . . . Two months ago. Ron, are you all right?”

Ron shook his head dazedly. How did he miss the fact that his baby sister was dating and shagging someone else? After all, he did consider himself to be observant, but apparently school really was doing a number on him, so it sadly affected his observational skills. “Sorry, mate, school’s just . . . getting to me.”

“Yeah, I did notice you looking rather off lately, but we’ve all been busy,” Harry said matter-of-factly. He let go of his hold on Ron’s arm, and Ron immediately wished Harry hadn’t let go. Losing that touch suddenly made him feel lonely and empty.

Ron decided now would be the best time to confess. “Look, Harry, I–”

“I’m sorry we haven’t had much time to hang out. In fact, that’s why I came up here looking for you. I was going to suggest we just go flying for fun.”

“That’s fine, but–”

“And I was going to let you ride my broom. It’s been a while, right?”

A very different idea of a broom came to Ron’s mind, and he stammered, “Uh, yeah, sure, it’s been a while.”

“Great!” Harry jumped up. “Get your clothes back on. I don’t fancy the idea of you displaying your firm arse to everyone here.”

“Harry, wha–”

For the umpteenth time, Harry cut him off, but this time, Harry reached out and grabbed Ron’s hand. He squeezed it, and Ron’s breath hitched. “Next time, you want to hump something, I’d suggest something more alive and responsive than a pillow, okay?” Harry gave a shy smile, which made his green eyes darker than usual. Ron stared into them, wondering if he’d ever get lost in there, but he didn’t dwell on it too long since Harry continued in a husky voice that held a hint of mirth. “And if you need a volunteer . . . well, you don’t need to look too hard for one.”

Before Ron could react to that proposition, Harry kissed him softly before darting off, “See you at the pitch!”

Ron caught the sly look on Harry’s face before he disappeared entirely. For the next two minutes, Ron sat there, trying to figure out what had just happened. Harry liked blokes. Harry kissed him. Harry wasn’t dating or shagging his sister. Harry kissed him. Harry didn’t get upset at him. Harry had kissed him. Harry hadn’t really let him explain anything. Harry was a bloody, conniving, devious git.

And in spite of all that? Ron didn’t care. Maybe, just maybe something good would finally happen to him in the midst of the hell he’d almost drowned in. Perhaps, he’d finally reached a turning point in his life, and Harry was the one giving him hope.

But first, a cold shower was in order for him. He loved flying with Harry — preferably without an erect cock — and if he wanted to do that, he’d better hurry his arse down to the pitch!