A/N: Ok, so, I really loved this so I made a second part... hope it lives up to what you guys were hoping for! If you guys want I could make this a short story, maybe a few more chapters longer. I actually like these characters... Made it short though so updating is faster. I also added a scene with dear old Chris and Sheva for important reasons.

Please remember to review!


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A Wesker x Excella story by: Euregatto

Chapter 2


Excella spends a total of thirty minutes searching for the sexy, psychotic bastard with the sunglasses; her results are broken up as follows: ten minutes went to walking around asking random Majini people – who were preparing to leave for the oil field – where he was, three went to scolding Jill for just being Jill, another two also went to Jill in response to her snarky come backs to the scolding, eight went to her screaming at the Majini people who only stared at her with their bloodshot parasitic eyes like she was the crazy one, and the rest to standing outside Wesker's office door cursing under her breath as she gained enough courage to give him a piece of her mind and make sure she had a comment for every potential scenario.

Despite the tedious task at hand, she has her slender fingers curled around the door knob of her own office across the hall instead of his, and she realizes that, despite her previous prep period, she doesn't actually want to talk to him. Really, what is she supposed to do? Waltz in like she's invited; like he's been expecting her? And what was she going to say, especially after what occurred in the lab?

Excella sighs under her breath and almost breaks the door off its hinges slamming it open. She registers Jill's presence behind her; the cloaked woman moves in three paces behind her superior and swings the door closed with just as much force as Excella used to open it. The lock, non-too-surprisingly, snaps off, leaving a massive hole in the door frame where the door knob used to be.

Excella whirls around. "What the hell?!"

"…My bad."

"Don't you 'my bad' me! You're not even sorry!" When Jill shrugs to avoid saying anything else Excella feels anger bubbling in her gut, rising upwards like hot air in her chest – she's annoyed with her and him and Chris Redfield and the B.S.A.A and herself for more reasons than anyone else combined—"Stop doing that! You're going to destroy this whole building before that boyfriend of yours comes kicking down our door… assuming there are any doors left."

Jill allows a frown to cross her normally stoic features. She briefly opens her mouth to reply, but pondering isn't really an option when the P30 limits her thought process – low dose or not – so she allows the topic to drop. "Weren't you going to-?"

"I'm taking a shower."

The blonde woman stares at her intently. She winces as the machine on her chest pumps some more P30 into her system, but it isn't as bad as the overdose Wesker likes to give her when he notices that she's starting to have more facial expressions than Kristen Stewart (she makes this remark to Excella every now and then, although Excella merely looks at her like she's crazy at the mention of it because she's never heard that name before. It takes three conversations at three separate dinners to explain the storyline and events of The Messengers in comparison to Twilight, the latter of which causes Wesker to massage his brow in irritation and comment on the deration of society).

Within this interim Excella moves into the bathroom in the back bedroom and starts the shower – pristine, surprisingly, almost untouched despite the months of constant use – so the water is a tepid tempurature. She strips of her dress, lets her hair down and steps in.

"Jill!" She calls out. The blonde enters wordlessly. "Stand outside please. And don't come barging in this time!"

Jill nods – the drugs are making her recede again… great – and treks across the office to the notched, oak-wood door. When it slams shut Excella sighs under her breath and dunks her head under the water.

She rakes her fingers through her thick hair, nails detangling the curls in her ends.

Over the rapids of the water she recognizes the familiar sound of the bathroom door clicking shut – locked; by the lack of an enormous bang she knows, instantly, it isn't Jill, and her back goes rigid in anticipation. The natural fighting instinct kicks in – she may wear heels and a dress that isn't combat-practical, but she was trained to take on assailants during every, and all, situations. And she hits hard.

A metal clink reflects off the enclosed walls – a belt buckle hitting the tile, she tells herself as she relaxes – and she counts to ten by the time the patterned shower curtain opens and closes again; the cap to her favorite body wash snaps open with a click. Heavy muscles brush against her back, just a faint whisper against her damp, caramel skin. "Cherry blossoms," the voice mutters, almost like he's contemplating its existence. "You come across as more of a… fruit person."

She scoffs under her breath. An arm wraps around her waist and brings her back against him, the other hand moving a soapy, vermillion-stained cloth to her flattened stomach. Her fingers reach up and back to grasp his dampening blonde hair, her other finding his own fingers, puppeteering his movements so he encircles her stomach and moves down to her hips. She moans in her throat.

She forgets that this is Wesker she's with and isn't too surprised when he slams her against the wall, sinking his teeth into the pulse point of her neck. Her cry is what triggers him to force her legs open at her knees and she leans against the wall for support. His fingers find the familiar folds of her womanhood. "I want to fuck you until you see stars, but it seems our plans for tomorrow still stand"—he kneels down, nails digging harmlessly into the tender flesh of her thighs—"so I'll limit myself to fucking you senseless."

Before she can object – not that she really wants to – his tongue slides along her heat and she moans his name, hooking her fingers into his hair. The sensation sends shockwaves up to her mind and her whole body tingles; the overwhelming feel of the ridges in his tongue almost sends her over the edge when he starts alternating between dipping inside her and sucking on her swollen clit. Heat waves wash up from her stomach, through her chest and into her face; the knot in her torso tenses and her muscles tighten around him.

She tells herself that she needs to hold on to something – anything – that's more graspable than his hair before she tips over the edge (it'll end too soon for her regardless, but she just wants it to last). Her fingers slide along the tile to her own hair and back down to his. Her whole body is trembling; she's in pure ecstasy and she wants him to keep at it but with nothing to brace against she can't hold off any longer.

"ALBERT!"

Her body explodes into the orgasm and the darkness clouding her vision scatters in all directions. She shudders as the pleasure racks her being in shockwaves, burst after burst, and he rises to his feet, lips hot and sticky, crimson eyes hazy with want and need. He guides both of her arms to his shoulder and pins her to the wall with his body, lifting her legs to his hips. She reflexively holds on to him with a vice like grip – she knows exactly what's going to happen now.

"Fuck me dry," she hisses into his ear, wanting nothing more than to be filled and ravished violently.

He smirks into her neck. "Gladly."

He bucks up into her slick warmth and pounds relentlessly at a hard, steady tempo – just as fast as his fingers and certainly just as good – and she can't help but toss her head back and gasp his name between moans, nails leaving scratches along his shoulders that heal instantly. Her perfectly round breasts bounce up and down against his chest, her cries fills the brim of the bathroom, her eyes threaten to roll all the way back into her skull. Pain turns to heated pleasure as he rams into her with no letup – stamina that comes naturally to him, courtesy of the parasite – and strikes another sensitive bundle of nerves within her, over and over and over until she's practically ripping the flesh from his back.

He reaches the entrance to her womb as she screams out something along the lines of "There! Right there! Yes! Ah! That feels incredible!" and holds on for dear life, letting moan after gasp after cry slip at random intervals from her lips. He reaches between them and touches her – caresses her breasts, twists her nipples, sucks the tender spot of her neck and cups her perfect ass – until she tips over the edge.

"I-I'm so close! Albert!"

It only takes a handful of more thrusts and he feels her convulsing around him as she comes, screaming his name as her body shatters and topples into exhaustion. He comes a moment later with a mere grunt, filling her with a gush of warmth that completes her emptiness and makes her whole, even if it only lasts a lot shorter than she would like.

He pulls out of her and lets her slide down, panting to catch her breath. He cleans himself off in the water – rivulets of blood and a sticky white film snake down to the drain and she mentally reaches for her womanhood. It's sore and when she lifts her fingers she find that they're covered in similar fluids. She shudders inwardly; it's sickening and wonderful all together, it hurts but she feels ecstatic – exhausted – overwhelmed.

He steps out of the shower onto the mat and grabs a towel to dry off. "I said I would fuck you senseless."

"And I wanted you to fuck me dry." It's her turn to be dry and bitter now. He recognizes the lace of sarcasm and glances at her as she struggles to stand, the tender spot between her thighs still throbbing intensely and her limbs still weak from the hardest orgasm she's ever had in her life (the simple reminiscing thought almost turns her on again). She cleans herself and winces with each touch – it doesn't hurt but she knows she's going to have a hard time sitting down tomorrow. "You know… I can't believe you are this good. You must have been with many women before."

He tassels his hair with the towel. "Four. Three one-night stands and one six-month relationship."

"Why'd she leave you?" The question comes out too fast for her to stop herself and she instantly wishes she can inhale those words back into her lungs. It isn't any of her business, really, but she can't help it – she's curious. Always curious. Dammit… every time.

"Why would you assume that?" She merely peers around the corner of the curtain and looks at him with her eyebrows raised to form a rather blank, maybe even disbelieving expression. He presses his lips into a thin line, fiery eyes barely moving as he studies her quizzically. "Fair enough. She just cut and run. Never really had any feelings for her, anyway – we were friends with benefits."

She lathers her lengthy hair with conditioner. "And what does that make us?"

He reaches around the curtain and takes her chin into the crevice of his forefinger and thumb. She notes that he is fully dressed now and his hair is still damp. It compliments his already too sexy features; but she doesn't like the frown stitching its way across his face – it's serious and intimidating, an expression that scares her beyond words. "It makes you my fuck toy. And I really do hope I don't break you too soon… it'd be a shame."

He lets her go and exits the bathroom in silence.


Somewhere in the oil field, Sheva Alomar picks up Chris Redfield's dropped picture of Jill and examines it. The partners are arm in arm in front of the B.S.A.A.'s headquarters, and through the thin layer of grime and sand collected from their mission so far, she can still pick out the image of a ring on Jill's finger. She glances up at Chris who, in immediate return, looks at her and then turns his gaze elsewhere.

She wordlessly slips the photo into her partner's front pocket, right next to the ring.


Jill glances up from her spot next to the door when Wesker exits Excella's office. She wants to comment about how their wild noises (specifically Excella's) could've been heard from across the safari but she also remembers that this is Wesker – she can't make these statements around him; he isn't as forgiving as Excella, and that girl is a Saint if she can put up with that crazy, parasitic bastard. So she just watches him curiously.

Wesker glares at her. "What?"

She doesn't respond. He storms into his room and slams the door with enough force to make Jill flinch. The woman abruptly enters the office; she finds that the shower is off and Excella is perched on the edge of her bed, body wrapped loosely in a towel, head bowed against her chest; chocolate gaze fixated on the floor. Jill kneels down in front of the older woman but keeps her mouth shut.

"I know what you're going to say." Excella's gaze travels up to meet Jill's own sapphire orbs - blue as a translucent sky, clear and cloudless, unmoving and surrounding. "I know you're judging me and I know what you think of me."

She may have been brainwashed, but Excella knows it's the real Jill who takes her hand and cups her knee, smiling faintly for the sake of nothing, and they can only sit there in silence, neither wanting to dwell on the subject at hand - how sickening and mad and wrong this all was; but Excella loves the madness. It's like finally taking a bite out of the sweetest piece of fruit in the tree that has been out of reach for so long. She simply can't help herself.

So she takes another bite of the madness and eats it, core, seeds and all.