AN: The prompt was Hermia/Lysander, sculpting/pottery. Once again, not very graphic at all.
The corner of Hermia's mouth quirked up, and she bashfully rolled her shoulder up to wipe at the wet clay spatter she could feel on her cheek. She stilled her hands in the clay, not altogether sure what would happen if she let go.
"Sorry," came Lysander's voice from behind her. She thought she could almost hear his blush. "I never really did much pottery ..."
"No! It's my fault! I was-!" She turned where she sat to look at him, and was abruptly reminded of how close he was, right behind her. Her face flushed, and she ended her sentence on a high pitched stammer. "I-I'm not so good with my hands!"
"No! I bet you're great!" Yes, Lysander was definitely blushing now. Hermia felt her face heat up even more in response as she turned what he'd said over in her head. "What I mean is," he amended, his voice getting quieter, the way it did when he admitted that the flowers he just happened to be carrying were really for her, "it's the turntable. I'm no good with the foot pedal. I got exci-I-I went too fast."
Hermia was quiet for a moment, and then she offered, "I could try the pedal, and you could shape it instead. I don't really know how to do it anyway."
Lysander was still for a moment, and then he let out a small noise of assent. And suddenly, Hermia was a lot warmer because he moved up even closer, so close that his chest was right up against her back. His arms came around her on either side as he settled his hands carefully over the blob of clay on the potter's wheel. "Go ahead."
Moving her foot forward, brushing against Lysander's leg in the process, Hermia sought out the foot pedal. Finding it, she started to tread, slowly at first, but quickly gaining confidence and increasing the speed. The clay whirred under Lysander's hands, coming to life. "Like this?"
"Yeah," he said, and Hermia shivered at his breath hot on her ear. "Are you all right?"
"Fine! I-I'm great." And she was. They had the whole pottery room to themselves, just her and Lysander, finally. No prying eyes, nothing. Not even love letters to deliver.
Hermia still saw the love hidden on people's backs, when she looked for it. And she did still look, even if nobody had never looked for what might be written on her back.
Lysander knew, now. Hermia smiled and leaned back against him.
That was when she felt it.
Pressed up against her backside was something firm, a lump where there shouldn't have been anything of the sort. "L-Lysander ..."
She felt it when his breath hitched. "Nn?"
Smoke might as well pour from her ears. "Ah, n-n-never mind!"
She squeezed her eyes shut. He was-really, it was unbelievable-for her-she hadn't even done anything, definitely not, she was sure she would have remembered trying to tempt him!
Yet she didn't for a moment stop the motion of her foot on the pedal, her calf rubbing against his with every tread.
His arms tensed around her and his breathing grew ragged, and after a few long moments it all just wasn't stopping, so Hermia opened her eyes again.
Her gaze landed on Lysander's hands. Through everything, his fingers pressed steadily into the whirling clay, sometimes firmer, sometimes gentle, every so often shifting or curling. Hermia fixed her eyes on the smooth motions, suddenly feeling heat coursing all throughout her, pooling between her legs.
"You-you're really ... skilled with your hands, Ly-" She had to catch her breath. "Lysander!"
As if responding to a cue, Lysander's fingers clenched into the clay as he seized up behind her, stiffening against her back. And then, just moments later, he fell slack against her, gasping.
Hermia finally let her foot cease its motion. Face burning and eyes hazed over, she looked over her shoulder.
Lysander was leaning his face into her neck, not looking at her. "I-I'm sorry. I just-"
She had to interrupt. He might keep apologizing.
"Let's make another."