Hey kids, like most peeps post-RE6 I think Wesker and Birkin Jr's should totally kiss with tongues and stuff. I wrote Jake as horny teenage/barely adult boy here, because let's be honest, he is. Though writing him as a blushing virgin would have been funnier.

I gotta stop writing from the POV of young men, I'm gonna start getting a reputation for that.


(I have the next chapter of Real or Not Real and another Sherry-piece like 80% done. I'm just being finnicky with them.)


Getting out of this facility was surprisingly easy. Like, yeah, it took him like six months, but once he got to the getting out it was a walk in the park.

Seriously, he had to kill like three guys. The rest of his time was spent operating a turret-camera to help out Sherry's escape. The security footage of her was grainy at best, but he was pretty sure her escape was a lot harder. This begged the question of why the government agent was more tightly locked up than the C-Virus Vaccine dispenser.

Maybe it had something to do with Sherry's virus. Perhaps there was more to his tiny companion than a healing factor. He'd have to keep a closer eye on her when they fought enemies.

His bare feet padded and stuck to the metal ventilation shafts. It was a minor annoyance, like the air conditioned air against his bare skin. Goose pimples coated his flesh. Jake took the leap of faith and toppled into the locker room below.

A gasp.


His pulse made its presence known in his throat. Six months since he had seen her. Some nights he'd press a palm to the wall just in hope that she was on the other side. It was selfish, to wish that she be stuck here with him instead of sipping mojitos with his captors. Maybe this facility was Sherry's employers and this had been her plan all along. Such thoughts had plagued his paranoid mind for six months. But, there she was, just as bare and tormented as he.


Holy fucking shit. Beneath those layers of parka and wool Sherry was hiding creamy skin and a round belly and...

And tits. Like, at least C cups. Maybe even Ds. How old was this chick? She looked like a highschooler, but had the rack of a more experienced woman.

Hmm, his eyes fixated on the papery gown and how little it actually covered. He could have sworn he saw areola.

Jake averted his gaze, going for respectful instead of shy.

Sherry looked as if she wanted to hug him, then noticed her state of dress and hid behind a locker.

He rolled his shoulders and exhaled noisily through his nose as he followed her lead. Yes, lockers. Lockers good. Lockers hide growing boners. She went searching through a few and found clothes, her nervous fidgeting made way to her question.

"Where are we?"


Hence the Mandarin J'avo and stuff.

"I know that much. Why though?"

Jake shook his head like a cow shaking away flies. He scoffed.

"Don't know, don't care."

A rustling of fabric caught his attention. Sherry's gown had hit the floor and he had a perfect view of her pale back. His eyes drank in the details. There was a bloom of freckles on her shoulders and the silver stitching of scar tissue at the base of her spine. That would have regularly made him irregularly furious, instead he just felt thirsty.

Six months he had been deprived.

He had to physically move his neck to stop staring and dress himself. When his eyes drifted back to her the glorious panes of her back had been clad in crisp white cotton. Jake made a silent deal with God, Buddha, and his mother that he'd be a good boy if he could map that skin with his mouth. How he'd make her flush and squirm as he pinned her to a door/bench/table/bed/floor (he wasn't picky where).

He puffed out his cheeks and made conversation about being made into a test subject by their captors. Sherry was curious, but he heard a protective edge to her voice.

"What did they do to you?"


The black trousers slipped up over his bulge and he zipped them carefully to conceal it. Sherry was still standing there in a blouse and white panties.

Dear Penthouse...

Seriously, he was proud of his own patience for not snapping and fucking her against the locker between them. He decided to derail his thoughts by thinking and talking about something that didn't turn him on.

"Do you know about an Albert Wesker?"

A long pause.


"I'll take that as a yes."

Sherry was wearing pants now. The moment was gone and Jake hated himself a little for not using that opportunity.

Changing gears, Jake put his frustration into lacing his boots. Words splashed from his mouth like a fast-moving current. He knew who his father was, now came the blame game. He always assumed his old man was just some bum, a used car salesman or something. When he was younger he fantasized that his father was a prince or a millionaire.

Megalomaniac and internationally wanted terrorist. He wished he could tell his younger self not to get his hopes up.

"After all, the kinda man I am, the things I've done... at least I know it's due to genetics. You gotta know that better than anybody."

The look in Sherry's eyes was of white-hot rage. Her nostrils flared as she exhaled loudly.

"God, I keep forgetting that I'm babysitting a fucking child. You can blame him all you want, but you're going to have to take responsibility for your own actions."

And she shouldered past him.

Right, she hasn't actually committed murder for profit. Why was he such a gigantic asshole?

Psst review.