Yes, he has probably commented how nice the kitchen smells every time you cook, but he can't taste any of it, since it tastes disgusting to his sanguine palate.

So at 3 AM, the poor elf is just dragged into the kitchen, sat at the table, and presented with the rarest assortment of dishes.

His keen nose picks up the usual smells of broth, meats, spices, and...IS THAT BLOOD?!

Astarion: *confused* Darling, what on earth have you done?

Tav: *Heavily sleep-deprived and pushing the first dish towards him* I'm trying to give vampirism the middle finger. Eat up.

It's not a complete success, but also not a complete failure.

Though the noodles with blood broth doesn't taste like anything, but the blood wine is surprisingly good!

The steamed pork blood and sticky rice coated in peanut powder and coriander could use some work, and the blood pancakes were a rotund no.

But his eyes get comically wide when he gets a taste of the creamy and bittersweet concoction with dark chocolate, blood, milk, raisins, sugar. Gods above, he can actually savor it. It doesn't taste like ash or sewage water in his mouth!

Astarion: How the HELLS did you do it?! *Still going for seconds, though*

Tav: *tired gremlin energy* Blood, sweat, and tears, literally. I said I would one day cook for the love of my life when I met them, AND NOT EVEN THE GODS CAN STOP ME!

Astarion: Stop that >\\\\>

Safe to say, you'll spend the rest of the time adjusting your cuisine and recipes in the hope of finding the next thing he can taste.

Ever so gently, you clean off the remaining blood, dirt and gore from his face.

Despite the intimacy of the situation, you don't go for his flirtatious lines, simply concentrating on the task at hand. Often engaging in small talk, but mainly patiently wiping clean his pale skin and his silver hair.

One hand under his chin to tilt his head upwards, while the other moves so gently, Astarion is almost unsure if you're actually touching him. It almost feels a little reverent, like you're handling something precious that deserves to be treated with care.

And Gods, your face...your eyes are just as gentle, focused on the task as they scan every inch of his hair and face and a sweet smile at the corner of your mouth leaves him more at ease than any meditation cycle ever could.

You are aware how important outer appearances are for him, so you do not make fun of his looks nor what others would call vain tendencies. You're quite surprised he hasn't swatted your hands away while you clean the delicate silver-like strands.

Despite his vampiric condition, he knows that his heart would be about to burst out of his chest if it could.

He's so fussy about his hair and normally is adverse by others touching it, but this is different. It's not a passionate thrist on a dark alleyway, nor an unforgiving hand pulling at the elf's hair.

It's you, lovely you, showing true concern and care for him. And he has no clue how to feel or react to it.

Once you're done you simply drop the now bloody rag and give him an even bigger smile.

"There." You murmur while moving away a damp curl from his forehead. "As handsome as always."

Gods, he hates that you have managed to disarm him better than he ever could.

He does break the moment with some haughty remark. Please, he looks handsome no matter the occasion, but thank you for stating facts.

But despite how much he tries to deny it, on the inside he's just: