summary: lazy sunday cuddles, an episode of masterchef, and one very overconfident boyfriend. when jaafar insists he could cook a better dish than the contestants on tv, you challenge him to prove it. a full-blown kitchen competition filled with flirting, sabotage, ridiculous bets, and two stubborn people refusing to admit defeat... until they realize tying is a lot more fun anyway.
warnings: just pure fluff, some teasing here and there, ass slap (just one), strip poker mention 😧
a/n: (part 2: 'strip poker' soon)
The low hum of the television was the loudest sound in the living room, broken only by the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. You were tucked firmly under Jaafar’s arm, his fingers lightly tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your bare shoulder, his touch sending a quiet baseline of warmth straight down your spine. The glaring blue light of the TV illuminated the dark room. MasterChef, your absolute ritual. You both watched it with the intensity of sports fans coaching from the couch, heavily invested in the success and spectacular failures of strangers.
On screen, a contestant was currently sweating bullets as the judges stared down at a sad, slightly broken emulsion.
'Oh, he’s so done,' Jaafar murmured, his voice vibrating right against your back, a low rumble you felt more than heard. He shifted, pulling you a fraction closer until there was no space left between you, his lips brushing the crown of your head. 'How do you split a basic butter sauce at this stage in the competition? It’s amateur hour.'
You snorted, lazily tilting your head back against his chest to look up at him. 'Oh, yeah, eeeasy to say from the couch, Chef Jackson. The pressure in that room is no joke.'
'Pressure or no pressure, I could do better than that blindfolded,' he said, a confident, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His dark eyes dropped from the screen, locking onto yours with a heavy, playful heat that made your stomach do a minor flip. 'Dead serious. I could make a better plate than that right now. For you.'
You lifted your head, resting your chin on his chest, an amused smirk playing on your face. 'Mmm, I highly doubt that. You almost burnt the garlic bread literally yesterday.'
Jaafar’s eyes snapped down to yours, his eyebrows raising as a challenge sparked in them. The lazy, cozy demeanor instantly vanished, replaced by that sharp, fiercely attractive glint of competitive fire. 'Oh, okay, that was one time, and I was entirely distracted. Wanna to bet?'
'I wanna bet.' you countered, your voice dropping into a matching, breathless challenge. You sat up entirely, crossing your arms, but leaning just close enough to keep the tension tight. You both had a streak of stubborn competitiveness that usually ended in marathon board game nights, but this was a new, much shiftier arena.
'Okay, bet,' Jaafar said, sitting up too, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips before snapping back to your gaze with absolute seriousness. 'Tomorrow. We are recreating the exact plate they just botched. The pan-seared duck breast with the blackberry reduction and parsnip purée. Best plate wins.'
'And what do I win when your duck comes out looking like a hockey puck?' you asked, leaning in until your noses almost touched.
Jaafar chuckled, a low, smooth sound that felt incredibly intimate in the quiet room. He leaned forward, closing the final inch of distance until his lips were hovering just under your ear, his breath hot against your skin. 'You sound very confident, baby. If I win, you’re on breakfast, lunch, and dinner duty for a week. No takeout.'
'And when I win,' you whispered back, turning your head so your lips nearly brushed his jawline, feeling him catch his breath, 'you have to detail my car, clean the kitchen for a week, and rub my feet every single night. No slacking.'
Jaafar let out a dramatic sigh, but his hands found your waist, giving it a gentle, possessive squeeze. 'Deal. Get some sleep, chef. You're gonna need every bit of your energy.'
The next morning, the grocery store felt less like a Saturday chore and more like a tactical, highly charged supply run. You both pushed a single cart, but your hands kept subtly blocking each other, skin rubbing against skin as you reached for the prime ingredients.
'Don't even think about taking that parsnip,' Jaafar warned, his voice a low purr as he trapped you against the vegetable display, swiping a particularly plump, smooth root vegetable from right over your shoulder.
'I was aiming for the one next to it anyway,' you lied, leaning back slightly into his chest, tossing a carton of blackberries into the cart. 'Mine are riper. My reduction is going to make Gordon Ramsay cry tears of joy.'
'We'll see about that,' he murmured. His eyes lingered heavily on your lips for a heartbeat before he pulled back with a slow, wicked smirk and let his hand swing down, delivering a sharp, playful slap right against your ass.
The crisp smack echoed just enough to make your eyes widen, a sudden flush of heat rushing straight to your cheeks.
'Jaafar!' you hissed in a breathless whisper, throwing a quick look around the produce aisle to make sure no one was watching.
He just laughed, a low, thoroughly pleased sound, already pushing the cart a few steps ahead of you with a swagger in his step. 'Eyes on the prize, chef,' he called back over his shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming with absolute mischief. 'The clock starts as soon as we get home.'
By the time you got back to your shared home, the air in the kitchen was thick with anticipation. You unloaded the groceries together, putting away the standard household items into the cabinets and fridge, leaving only the battle rations on the massive marble kitchen island.
The island separated the kitchen perfectly. You took the side closest to the stove and Jaafar took the side opposite, facing you.
You reached behind your back, tying the strings of your maroon apron. Across from you, Jaafar was doing the same with his red one. He didn't look down at the knot. His eyes were fixed entirely on you, tracking the line of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, with an intense, unblinking focus that felt heavy and deliberate.
Jaafar knew your soft spots just as well as you knew his. He knew that when you got flustered, your timing threw itself off. And you knew that if you messed with his pristine organization, his inner perfectionist would start to panic.
'Alright,' Jaafar said, his voice dropping into a serious, commanding tone that sent a little shiver down your spine as he set a digital timer on the counter between you. 'We do it exactly like them. Sixty minutes on the clock. Timed, identical ingredients, and everything has to be plated before the buzzer. No extensions.'
'Fine by me,' you said, resting your palms flat on the marble, leaning across the island until you were directly in his line of sight. 'Prepare to lose, Jackson.'
'I never lose, baby,' he replied softly, leaning in too, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, lingering second before giving your lips a sweet peck, he definitely knew your sweet spots. 'Starting... now.'
He hit the timer. The loud, rhythmic ticking began.
The kitchen instantly erupted into a flurry of motion. Pots banged against the stove, knives tapped rhythmically against cutting boards, and the sharp, sweet scent of parsnips and blackberries began to fill the air.
For the first twenty minutes, it was pure, focused work. But as the clock ticked down, the psychological warfare began, and neither of you played fair.
You were carefully scoring the fat on your duck breast, ensuring the diamond pattern was perfect so the fat would render out beautifully. Jaafar was across from you, humming a low, smooth melody, the exact song he knew always got stuck in your head, his deep voice carrying over the sizzle of the kitchen.
'Jaafar, stop humming, you're breaking my concentration,' you muttered, trying to keep your hand steady.
'Just focusing, baby,' he said innocently, though the wicked smirk on his face told a completely different story. He leaned way over the island, reaching past your cutting board to grab the salt cell. As he did, his warm forearm brushed deliberately, slowly against yours. His thumb lightly grazed the ultra-sensitive skin on the inside of your wrist, a known weak spot.
You gasped slightly, a sudden spike of heat shooting up your arm, your knife slipping just a millimeter. 'Hey! That's a foul!'
'No rules against borrowing seasoning,' he murmured, giving you a slow wink before retreating back to his side, throwing his duck into a cold pan to start the render.
'Oh, so you want to play dirty?' you muttered, a small, dangerous smile tugging at your lips.
You waited until he was at the crucial stage of straining his parsnip purée through a fine-mesh sieve, a task that required both hands, immense bicep control, and absolute focus to get it silky smooth. You casually walked around the island to 'grab a tasting spoon' right next to him.
Instead of grabbing the spoon, you stepped directly into his personal space, pressing your front lightly against his side. You reached up, pretending to fix the collar of his shirt, your fingers lingering on the warm skin of his neck, your thumb slowly tracing his sharp jawline. You leaned in close, your lips nearly touching his earlobe as you whispered, 'Your purée smells a little...lumpy, handsome.'
Jaafar’s hands froze entirely on his task. His jaw tightened, a low, ragged growl escaping his throat as his muscles flexed under your touch. He turned his head sharply, trying to catch your lips to penalize you right there but you stepped back out of his reach, laughing softly as you sashayed back to your side of the island.
'Ten minutes!' you called out, checking the timer, checking out the way his eyes tracked you.
'You're a menace,' he muttered, his chest heaving slightly as he quickly returned to his duck, flipping it over to sear the flesh side, his focus entirely rattled but his determination through the roof.
The final five minutes were absolute chaos. The initial playfulness melted away into pure, adrenaline fueled focus. Both of you were plating, wiping edges with paper towels, and strategically placing microgreens with the intensity of neurosurgeons.
'Five, four, three, two, one..hands up!' Jaafar shouted as the timer let out a shrill alarm.
Both of you raised your hands in the air, panting, hair slightly disheveled, flour and sauce smudged on your aprons.
Between you sat the two plates.
To any outsider, both looked incredible. You had both managed to render the duck fat down to a crispy, golden skin. Your parsnip purée was a pristine, velvety swoosh across the white ceramic, topped with slices of perfectly rosy, medium-rare duck and a glossy, deep `purple blackberry reduction. Jaafars plate was equally stunning, his reduction perfectly drizzled in elegant dots, his duck stacked neatly.
You both leaned over the island, inspecting each other's work like harsh critics, though your eyes kept snapping to each other.
'Well,' you said, trying to catch your breath, a proud smile breaking across your face. 'Look at us. We didn't scramble the eggs, and we didn't split the sauce.'
Jaafar looked from the plates up to you, the intense competitive fire instantly softening into that warm, adoring gaze he always saved just for you. He stepped around the island, putting an immediate end to the distance between you, and wrapped his arms firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his body.
'I hate to admit it,' he whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple that made your eyelashes flutter, 'but your plate looks beautiful.'
'Yours does too,' you admitted, wrapping your arms around his neck, smelling the rich, intoxicating scent of his cologne clinging to him. 'So... who wins?'
Jaafar smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached over, grabbed two forks, and handed one to you. 'Only one way to find out. Let's eat.'
You raised an eyebrow, accepting the fork with a mock serious nod. 'May the best chef win.'
Simultaneously, you both dove into each other’s plates, cutting a perfect slice of duck, sweeping it through the velvety purée, and catching a precise drop of the deep blackberry reduction. You traded bites, chewing in absolute, agonizingly tense silence.
Jaafar’s eyes closed for a moment as he tasted yours. His jaw worked slowly, and you watched him intently, looking for any sign of defeat. When he opened his eyes, there was a reluctant, deeply impressed gleam in them.
'The parsnip is perfect,' he admitted, his voice low and smooth. 'It’s completely silky. And the acidity in your reduction balances the fat beautifully.' He paused, a wicked smirk crawling back onto his lips. 'But...'
'Oh, here it comes. But what?' you asked, taking a bite of his duck.
Your tongue instantly hit the crispy, perfectly rendered skin of his plate. It shattered with a distinct, satisfying crunch, the meat underneath incredibly juicy and seasoned to absolute perfection. You tried your hardest to keep your face completely blank, but Jaafar caught the tiny, involuntary widening of your eyes.
'But my skin is crispier,' he finished triumphantly, leaning his hips back against the marble island, crossing his arms over his chest. 'You rushed the render at the end because you were too busy trying to seduce me.'
'I did not rush it,' you protested, though your cheeks heated up slightly. You took another bite of his plate just to be sure. 'Okay, fine. Your texture is incredible. But your purée has a tiny bit too much white pepper. It hits the back of my throat a little too hard.'
Jaafar’s eyes darkened with a sudden, wicked amusement. A slow, heavy smirk crawled onto his lips, and he shook his head slightly, repeating the words almost to himself in a low, teasing murmur that sent a sudden jolt of electricity straight through you. 'Hits the back of your throat...'
Your jaw dropped slightly before you rolled your eyes, letting out a breathless, flustered laugh and swatting his chest. 'Jaafar! Oh my god, be serious for one second.'
'Just admit it, it's a tie,' Jaafar chuckled, completely unbothered as he stepped right back into your space, eliminating every inch of air between you. He took the fork from your hand, setting both utensils down on the counter behind you, his hands settling firmly on your waist to pull you completely flush against him, his fingers digging into your hips.
'A tie?' You scoffed gently, though your hands naturally slid up his chest to rest on his shoulders, your heart beating fast from the sudden shift in his energy. 'Chef Jackson, that sounds like a cop-out from a man who doesn't want to detail a car.'
'And you sound like a chef who doesn't want to cook for a week,' he countered, his dark eyes dancing with pure affection and mischief. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, the heat from the stove and the intensity of the last hour still radiating between you. 'How about we compromise, mh? I clean the kitchen tonight, you cook tomorrow, and we call it even.'
'What about the foot rubs?' you bargained, tilting your chin up, your lips tantalizingly close to his.
Jaafar let out a low, breathless laugh, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, sending thrills straight down your spine. 'I'll throw in the foot rubs just because I like you.'
The competitive edge finally evaporated, leaving behind the familiar, comfortable warmth of your Sunday routine, dialed up to a whole new temperature. Jaafar didn't waste any time closing the remaining distance, his lips meeting yours in a slow, deep, devastatingly thorough kiss that tasted faintly of sweet blackberries and pure indulgence. His hands moved down to the small of your back, lifting you effortlessly so you could sit on the edge of the marble island, your legs wrapping slightly around his waist right between your two half-eaten masterpiece plates.
When he finally pulled back, he was breathing a little heavier, his thumb gently wiping a stray smudge of flour from your cheek, his gaze incredibly soft.
'Come on,' Jaafar whispered, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. He nodded toward the living room where the TV was still playing the next episode of MasterChef in the background. 'Let's go back to the couch, and see who else we can judge from a distance.'
'Best idea you've had all day,' you smiled, hopping down from the counter, though your hand lingered in his, reluctant to break the contact.
As you both sank into the cushions, you reached for the remote, scrolling aimlessly through the TV guide to find something to watch. You tucked yourself firmly back into his side, completely content with the kitchen tie.
Jaafar’s arm settled heavily over your shoulders, his long fingers lightly tracing lazy patterns against your bare skin. For a moment, he seemed entirely focused on the screen, but then his eyes flashed with a sudden, playful spark. He reached down, tangling his fingers tightly with yours and halting your scrolling.
'You know...' Jaafar murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear, his voice dripping with a lazy, seductive charm. 'Since we're both so deeply competitive, next time we should try a different game. Like strip poker. Purely for the sake of competition, y’know?'
You let out a soft laugh, dropping the remote onto your lap and rolling your eyes, though a familiar thrill skipped across your skin. You turned your head to glance up at him, a matching, confident smirk playing on your lips.
'Oh, really? Bold of you to assume you wouldn't be the first one down to your socks, Jackson.'
'Is that a challenge?' he countered, his grip on your hand tightening playfully as he pulled you even deeper under his arm, his dark eyes heavy with a sudden, dangerous playfulness.
'Consider the deal accepted,' you whispered against his jaw.
You leaned your head back against his chest, your fingers still tightly laced with his as you finally picked a show to watch, already looking forward to the next rematch.
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