You Might, M'Lady

Loki appreciates the smaller luxuries.

His fingers deftly twist the two halves apart, leaving one side icingless and naked. This he takes no extra pains with, pops it in his mouth to satisfy himself during the work to come and biting down, feeling it break apart before the taste even registers. He’s had this chocolate before, or something very like it, so it isn’t a shock. But the subtler flavor, a sneaking breath of artificial peppermint, cuts through the heavier tastes and it’s nice, so very nice. And he hasn’t even gotten started yet.

The other half, he takes his time with. Running the deft tip of his tongue along it, cutting a line down the center through the white, creamy filling. The icing isn’t anything remarkable, not in and of itself. It’s always striking to him how the Midgardians seem to painstakingly avoid ever using actual butter, or anything that might be mistaken for it, but it’s thick and sweet and crumbles in his mouth, taking the stiff biscuit reinforcements with it. If the first harmony of flavors is coy and elusive and knifeblade-thin, the second half is reassuringly blunt and forthright. It crunches between his teeth, and leaves what he just knows will be unsightly traces behind in his smile.

It’s so nice, he decides to have another. And then another. By G– by the Allfather– by somebody, he’s turning into Thor, help.

Victor has been a most accommodating host, providing all that has been requested and more. Down to the specific brands on certain Midgardian items, which admittedly had been a small test of his dedication to this absurd notion of a shapeshifting consort. At the other end of the great table, he patiently watches Loki demolish an entire package of Newman-O’s. The man seems rather uncomfortable. Loki can’t imagine why.