Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Tseng, "The clothes make the man."
Even without the clothes on, Tseng still wears a suit. The blazer is neatly folded on the seat of the sofa, the shirt draped over the back, but his skin's still white under tanned fingers, smooth silk creased with pale scars.The tie may be unwound from his neck and thrown at the growing pile of clothes, but black silk still runs over his collarbone, meets Cloud's fingers as they trace around and tangle in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling them gently closer, restrained strength. The pants are left in a crumpled pile by the coffee table, the gun slid next to them. For a space of time, Tseng curses, commands, begs, loses all composure and in the end, is left unguarded, the two of them wrapped around each other, sharing the smell of sweat and sex and humanity.
Then the pager bleeps, and Tseng is on his feet, his pager in one hand, a clean shirt in the other.