pairing: fem!reader x jake peralta (friends to lovers)
word count: 0.8k+ words
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"okay, but i'm serious! you have to try it, it's literally amazing."
"i was gonna take your word for it, but i remembered it's you... so, no."
"dude," he whined, a soft smile adorning his lips.
"dude," you say back, same tone.
"fine, fine, what if i make you one? that's, like, no work required. y'know minus chewing."
"jacob jeffrey peralta, i am not, not even on my deathbed, trying pickles with ice cream. that's just a new level of gross."
"but charles approved it!"
"why on earth would that affect whether or not i try it?"
"y'know, i have no clue. i'm getting desperate."
"i can see that."
"dudeeee," he kicks his feet on the floor as he's sitting next to you on the couch. die hard is playing on the tv in his apartment, but the two of you have seen it so many times, you practically have it memorized by heart.
and why would you ever watch die hard when jake's sitting right there?
between you and yourself, you know which you'd rather watch. okay, "watch" sounded creepy.
you're laying on his lap as he's looking down at you, pouting.
you roll your eyes, but it's all fun. "dudeeee."
truth be told, you're sure you can handle the odd food combo, but teasing him and drawing this out is so much more fun. god, you really are in love with him.
"pretty, pretty, please? with- with, like, seven cherries on top?"
"just seven?" you pretend to be offended.
"i'm a brokie, the best i can do is eight." jake runs a hand through your hair, it's so comforting.
you sigh, "all right."
"to the cherries or the pream?"
"the- the what now?"
"pickles. ice cream. pickles and ice cream. pream? yeah, you know what, that's... that's not it. doesn't roll of the tongue great."
"if i try your 'dish'," you air quote, "will you stop trying to come up with names."
"maybe."
you give him a look, and he amends, "yes. maybe. i pledge to do my best." jake salutes you, then pokes your check. you scowl, swatting him away and sitting up.
"lead me to your kitchen."
"sure. it's five steps that-a-way," he says, pointing to the kitchen that is quite exactly five steps away. like a true gentleman, jake scoops you - through which you protest ("dude!") - and then (after six steps, actually [wow, his apartment is slightly bigger than hypothesized]) sets you on the counter.
"i feel like you should know that i'm perfectly capable of walking on my own."
"but why would you when i'm here?"
"dude."
"dude," he replies, grabbing the ice cream from the freezer.
"how are you even supposed to eat this? like... spread it? o-or dip?"
jake grabs a spoon and scoops some ice cream onto it. "watch, young jedi."
"i don't-"
"shh, i'm yoda-ing." he spreads it on the pickle and shoves it in your face. slowly, you sniff it. it doesn't smell... like anything bad, really.
it doesn't look great though. "is it too late to go back?"
"yes." after a second, he groans, "gah, i'll go first." he takes a bite, and you make a face.
"mmm... you shouf knodis is-"
"jake, swallow."
he grins and you furrow your brows. "what- oh. oh! jake!" your cheeks heat up so quickly, for a number of reason. because, yeah, obviously the second one sounds better.
also, of course that's what he instantly goes to.
"oh, my god. are you twelve or thirty-three? because i honestly can't tell."
"dude, i'm well-versed. you wouldn't understand."
"i'm... twenty-five. wo-wouldn't i-?"
"schematics."
"yeah, okay, bud."
"dude," he corrects.
"right," you murmur, "dude."
you don't really realize how he's leaning in, the way if you do too, your lips would touch. you falter, and you can feel warm breath minglingwith yours.
jake cups your cheek and you lean into it. you aren't sure what's about to happen, though it should be obvious. but with jake, you're nervous, afraid that this isn't really happening.
you have no clue what he's done with the pickle, and you have no clue why that's what's on your mind right now.
he squeezes your waist gently, a way of asking for permission. you nod, and at first, it's just a brush. just a brush of his lips against yours, feeling for some type of sense that this is happening. that it's reality.
you press back against him, your hand on top of his, the one on your face. your other hand blindly feels for his hair, tugging against his soft, brown curls.
when you pull away, you're breathing hard. not because of the kiss, because it wasn't aggressive or any longer than twenty seconds, but because of the adrenaline of it all.
"dude," he breathes, and you giggle.
"y'taste like pickles. and ice cream. it's actually not that bad," you admit. "at least not on you."
"dude," jake repeats, dumb-founded at what just happened.
