IMPORTANT A/N: Oh jeez I'm so embarrassed to post this. Ok, so, I was emptying my laptop of old stuff and found this one-shot (among others) laying around that I had written and finished a while ago following the release of RE6. I swear, I don't write limes or lemons - which is why I'm so embarrassed of posting this story - but I really liked this one and this idea. Although I wasn't supposed to write or update anymore, this is technically neither. So I hope you enjoy it!

Inspired originally, since I had the link in the file, by an anonymous comment on LiveJournal: "Excella had her eyes set on something much... bigger. Amirite?" I died at that.

Please remember to review! It'll make me feel better about posting this o.o


Crave You

A Wesker x Excella one-shot by: Euregatto


"I thought you wanted the world."

The statement comes out just as dry and bitter as the rest of what he says – which, to her, is more of a forced habit rather than anything else – but she senses a tidbit of humor in his normally stoic voice, enough to coax her into replying with an honest answer. It's been tense between them recently; so tense, in fact, that she was sure she could spark a fire with all the friction… but it's a relief to hear him letting loose a little.

She decides that he's been a tad too hasty lately. He's impatient and irritable and, above all else, silent. She admits to herself that she misses the old him – the man she teamed up with to sit beside on the throne of the new world, a beautiful collection of smeared blood and fragmented bodies – and she finds herself moving her pointed nails to the small of his back. He doesn't react to the touch, which surprises her, because she's so accustomed to him pulling away upon contact.

The corner of her glossy lips pulls up into a small smile. "I do. But I want something to go with it…"

Her previously confident words fumble in her throat and fail her, which, in itself, is an impossible accomplishment. She's always been a Chatty Kathy; sticking her nose where it didn't belong and eavesdropping because she simply hated when she was kicked out of the loop. But she concludes that her lack of a wistful response is triggered by the man at her side who is leaning against the same table she's currently sitting on.

He crosses his arms back against his chest and turns his ever watchful gaze to her, then swings it back over to the monitors flickering before them. "You want more than what I can offer you, then," he figures, humorless and tastelessly dry as ever, enough so that she feels her tongue become like sandpaper in her mouth. Her dark eyes skim his well-toned frame cautiously, not sure what he's getting at. She tells herself he didn't mean it like that. Because he can't. He has no interest in that kind of stuff, but she wouldn't mind his advances at all. He is, after all, handsome. Very handsome.

She observes the way he breathes deeply, like he hasn't had fresh air for a while, and crosses one leg lazily over the other. He's as equally tense as he is casual; far too relaxed, she notes, for their kind of situation. He's so monotone, she declares silently. Monotone and sexy, unfortunately for me.

Same uniform day in, day out, accompanied by a haircut that never moves even a millimeter out of place. Come to think of it, did this guy even sleep? He is as equally monotone and sexually appealing as he is weird. Or perhaps just fascinating…she thinks, nails biting into the obsidian fabric of his shirt as she rakes her hand up along his spine, like one of his freak show experiments.

"I believe," she starts as her confidence gradually returns to her, bit by bit, breath by breath that matches evenly with the quickening pulse of her heart, "that you can give me everything I want, Albert."

Her slender fingers find the familiar nape of his muscular shoulder and she notices that his crimson gaze is peering at her through the corner of his sunglasses – black as night, menacing and impossibly concealing. He goes rigid, back arcing only an inch or two out of its original position, but still enough for her to notice. That's her invite. She waits peevishly for a response – a twitch, a blink – and tries her best not to look so impatient, but then his flaring eyes shift down towards the floor, back up to her face, a little down to the left and across to the right. He knows what she's thinking. She knows what he's thinking. They both know exactly what's happening.

"I see."

She braces herself for his exit. This has happened multiple times, and every time he walks off with her disappointment in tow. They have more important things to focus on, like the Uroboros, and the brainwashed woman standing guard outside the laboratory door, and the man she's in love with – or so Wesker makes it seem – who's steadily working his way up to their hideout.

She mentally tosses the thought aside and brings her grasp down the front of his chest to his waistline. Hooking a finger into his belt, she gives it a suggestive, frustrated tug. "You might say I have my eyes set on… bigger things."

He doesn't seem fazed, but his eyes linger a little too long for his own comfort, let alone hers. She slides off the table top and presses against him, hips to his shamelessly. Her free hand moves to his chest, delicate fingers tracing every curve in his structure and every detail in his thin shirt, traversing the arches of his shoulders to the nape of neck. Then she moves her hips, gently, slowly, against his, teasing him in attempt to drag him into awareness. As she builds the pressure, she can feel him building, like shaking a bottle of soda until it threatens to burst.

She figures that's what triggers him to suddenly lift her off her feet and pin her, face-down, to the table.

His grip on her neck is strong, as he's always been, but not so much that he hurts her too much. His other hand grips her side, the perfect halfway point between her chest and her hips. "I'm feeling pleasant today, so I'll give you an option… You can drop this whole charade and walk out of here unscathed"—his hand moves along her stomach and upwards to grab, rather roughly, one of her breasts. She cries out sharply, not loud but suddenly, enough to startle even herself—"or you can stay. But I don't make love, Excella; love is for the weak minded who have nothing left to hope for and form their own defeatist complex to deal with it. But no, not me. I fuck. Hard. Because I am powerful and will not lower myself to anything below me."

She chuckles grimly in her throat, sending vibrations through her chest that he feels even through his thick gloves. "To think I was worried."

Her words as sarcastic, he knows that, but he takes that as an answer and bucks up, slamming their hips together so suddenly she can't stop an instantaneous moan of pleasure and longing. She's waited forever for him. But she's aware that to him she's nothing more than a pawn – expendable, a toy to be broken – and despite all the times she tells herself this she doesn't care. Regardless, she can't focus on her mistakes and contemplate her decisions if he's flipping her onto her back and unsnapping the chain to her dress so the upper piece falls aside like silk.

He bucks again and she gasps his name, wrapping her legs around his waist; he slips off his gloves and slides the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere nearby. His exposed hands are surprisingly rough with scars. This, however, comes as no turn-off – in fact, she thinks it makes the way he touches her feel all the more incredible. His teeth grip one nipple and his fingers twist the other; it's painful and exhilarating all at once and she can only grasp his saffron hair to reduce the sting and arch her back to encourage him further. She isn't sure what he's capable of doing now… and she certainly doesn't want him to stop.

He lifts his lips to her neck and lowers his fingers to her waist, sliding over her dress and along her slender thigh. "I shouldn't be so rough," he notes, slipping under and finding that she isn't wearing any sort of under armor – she always comes prepared, the number three reason why he recruited her. "I need you to be able to feel your legs in the morning… after all"—he thrusts two fingers into her velvet warmth and she screams his name as a mingled cry of searing pain and heated passion—"we have work to do."

The pain ebbs away as he moves at a steady, hard tempo, forcing her to adjust in preparation of whatever he did next. She relaxes against the table to ease the tension and cries out when he finds a sensitive bundle of nerves somewhere inside her. He's too good, she thinks somewhere in the midst of the darkness clouding her mind. She doesn't know where to put her hands so she digs her nails into the back of his scalp and holds on, almost like she's afraid that letting go would end the perfection she is experiencing. And she certainly doesn't want this to end.

She feels her muscles tighten as the knot in her stomach clenches and a blush flares up across her cheeks. "I'm…" She begins, following through with another cry of his name before she can spit anything else out. "I'm…so…close…!"

She doesn't expect him to do anything, really, except pull out since she's all loosened up now, but to her immediate surprise his pace picks up. She didn't even know he could go any faster; she concludes that it has something to do with the parasite lingering in his system. Then he moves his mouth to her breasts again. She wants to explode right there and then and another few thrusts should make her do just that –

The door to the lab swings open and impacts the wall.

In a blind panic he shoots out of her and glances up to see the brain-washed woman in his line of vision. Jill Valentine has always been expressionless but she doesn't even react to the sight of her two half-naked colleagues hunched over each other on the metallic table. She gradually glances at the massive dent in the wall the door had left and returns to looking at them. Oops, they imagine her saying, if she was willing to say anything at all, really.

Wesker clears his throat and backs away, moving to find his shirt before speaking. "What the hell is it?"

"Intruders in the oil field, sir."

Excella isn't sure how to react to the dying emotions in her body – now she feels frigid and barren, a sense of depraved longing fills her stomach, but she manages to fix herself without a single word of complaint. Wesker tucks his shirt into his waistline. "Chris and his new friend, I presume?" Jill nods. "I see. I'll go get a scout on it." He gestures for the girl to leave and she does, and although Excella assumes he would say something else, he doesn't. He just waltzes out the door.

That bastard walked out on me! She sits there for what feels like eternity, but in reality is nothing more than half a minute, seething under her breath about stupid him and stupid Jill and stupid Uroboros and stupid...

Can't exactly say I'm angry with him, I started it.

Deciding that fuming over it won't alleviate her of her frustration, she adjusts her dress and heads for the door. Jill is still poised outside, body tucked beneath her cloak, gaze fixated on the wall. Excella presses her lips into a thin line. Can't be mad at her either. I'm the one who told her to get us if anything went wrong… "Don't give me that look." Jill says nothing. "I know what you're thinking." Still no response. Giving up, she opts for a different approach. "This is your fault."

Jill doesn't seem fazed by the accusation and she sits upright on the chair posted outside the room. Her hands lightly grip her knees as she placidly settles into place. Excella observes the girl from her higher position – she hates how her only friend, quote un quote, is a brain-washed minion of Wesker's; bred to be nothing more than a fighting tool of war, used to spread the virus and intimidate their inferior subjects into submission, experimented on for her blood and then just shits and giggles until boredom set in. "What's my fault?" Jill retorts after another moment, although her monotone voice is incapable of piquing enough to make it sound like it was a question rather than a comment.

"You barged in on us."

"Your orders were to-"

"I know what my orders were."

Jill may have been under control, but sometimes her true self slipped through the cracks when the P30 pumping through her system was running down… She is all sass and smiles, and occasionally she would even roll her eyes at Wesker's back. This time, however, she seems to set aside all of the careless actions to remain just as stoic as the sociopathic bastard with the sunglasses. Excella can tell the drug is wearing down again. "If it makes you feel better… that's not the first time I've walked in on that kind of situation."

Excella grips her hips. "Uh-huh."

"…Orders are orders."

"I know, I know. Shut up before I pump you with so much P30 you'll go into a coma." Her threat sounds empty despite the minute furrowing of her brow, an immediate sign of agitation, but Jill simply presses her lips closed taught. Excella hates the way she did that, like it's her fault for what happened.

But it's always my fault, isn't it? Oh well…

She decides to leave it at that and goes off to find that crazy bastard with a now smirking Jill in tow.