Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Ashe, between a rock and a hard place
"I'm sorry about this, Basch," Ashe says.
"Nay, lady. I'm honest enough to know I fell in first."
"Only because you were trying to prevent me from doing so."
Their voices echo strangely in the confines of the thin crevasse, a near-invisible crack in the ancient floors of the Sochen Cave-Palace. It is an awkward place for conversation, made more awkward and close by the fact that they are wedged in it together, belly to belly with bare rock at their backs. She is slightly higher, but only just, the hot buckle of her belt pressing softly against his navel.
"Where the devil have they gone for that rope?" Basch asks at last, "The Phon Coast?"
Ashe is trying not to squirm. "I have to confess," she says, "I have an itch."
Basch sort of grunts. He's supporting most of her weight, though she leans back against the rock as much as she can, to give the illusion that there is space between them.
"You must think me a terrible complainer," she says, and her breath is a cool tickly breeze against his temple. "But it's on the back of my leg, and I can't reach it. I don't suppose you might...? If only to convince me it's not a cave spider."
"H'm. I must confess I've an itch of my own, just under my jaw." He makes a vague gesture. "I can't quite--"
"Here?" Her fingers dig into the scruff along his jawbone, and the sheer pleasure of it coaxes a rough noise out of the back of his throat. His sword-callused fingertips slide past the tendons at the back of her knee, and he drags his nails along the soft skin of her bare thigh to return the favor.
Ashe's breath catches in a way that has nothing to do with imaginary cave spiders, and for a moment she goes soft against him, leaning her body on his instead of bracing it on the rock behind her. On pretext of a better grip, Basch's hand moves higher, to the taut red leather stretched across the curves of her hips, and then to the blossom of heat unfolding between her legs. Suddenly her fingertips are fisted in the back of his hair, and the noise that escapes her is his name, and nothing short of a plea. Basch's fingers encounter no resistance save for the token strip of fabric, easily pushed aside as his fingers slide into her like a fine blade into its sheath.
"Dalmasca gives a fine welcome," he manages. Words have become hard to come by. Her response is a ragged gasp of long-suppressed need. She fumbles for his belt buckle but can't reach it; he undoes it for her and pulls her down, away from the rock wall and onto him. Her thighs are already around his waist and their tongues are tangling and she impales herself on his cock like a queen mounting a traitor's head on a pike.
And Basch no longer cares if the others did go clear back to the Phon Coast for a rope.