A/N: A journey, in five parts. The idea for this is poached from some other fic I read somewhere, years ago, and the song and the scenario have been rolling around in my head.


Chapter 1


I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?

It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah


Darcy walked up the corridor of the Avengers tower, hearing the strains of a piano in the distance. She carried a stack of files, a pencil stuck through her hair, her heels clicking on the floor. Jane had set up a makeshift office, and was working with Thor trying to figure out the origin of whatever horrid creature was trying to destroy the planet now.

He'd manage to convince Loki to come and assist with this mission. Upon being discovered usurping his father's throne, Thor had managed to convince Odin to leave Loki in his charge. Stripped of his powers and sent to Earth with exactly nothing but the clothes on his back, he'd spent the past two weeks moping around the tower, much to the consternation of everyone else. The only person who seemed hell bent on befriending him was Vision, who, well, hadn't been around for the worst of Loki's scheming.

She'd been dancing around him as well. Everywhere she went, she felt like he was watching. His gaze was hot as he raked it over her voluptuous curves. She wasn't sure if she had a developing crush on him, now that he wasn't trying to kill her, but his softly accented voice and piercing eyes were haunting her.

She walked up to the entry of the lounge. The rest of the Avengers were out training, but Loki, skilled though he was in hand-to-hand combat, wasn't especially interested in fighting. So he'd stayed behind. Jane was lecturing at Columbia. They were alone on the floor. Alone together. Which they hadn't yet been.

Loki's hands were drifting across the keys, drawing out a mournful melody, deep and vibrating. She stood there watching for a moment, shocked at the emotion that he was expressing through music. He lifted his head, and his blue-green eyes bore holes through her.

"I didn't know they had pianos on Asgard," she said casually, dropping the files on the kitchen table.

"Not as such," he told her, his long fingers spanning an entire chord. "But it's logical – like a puzzle. I was able to figure out how to make it speak the words it already knows."

"That's…" she trailed off. "Poetic."

"Music is a universal language," he shrugged.

"I can play violin," she told him. "Stringed instrument, with a horsehair bow. I should show you sometime."

His shrug was non-committal. He continued the melody, something almost otherworldly and magical in the notes. She sat on the edge of the piano bench and just watched his hands, graceful and elegant and perfectly formed for the task he was undertaking.

She couldn't help but be attracted to him. Part of her thought he was an arrogant little shit who needed to be shown his place in the universe once and for all, but part of her was intrigued by his quiet, deep-seated anger, and by the self-destructive behavior he engaged in. She always had a thing for the bad boys, which hadn't worked out well for her so far, but those were men. Men were men. Loki was… something lesser and more than them.

He patted the piano bench absently. "If you're going to stay, you might as well sit."

She perched on the edge of the bench, her legs together, hands folded elegantly in her lap. She'd turned herself so her back was to the keys, so she was looking him in the face.

"So, how do you like being human?" she asked awkwardly. He glared at her in contempt.

"It's… uncomfortable. No control over anything. Hunger, thirst, lust… it all wants to be slaked, and cannot be ignored."

"Well, there's always the old five-finger knuckle shuffle on the last one, if you can't get a girl," she joked. He looked at her, confused. She made a motion with her hand, then laughed.

He looked at her incredulously. She laughed even harder, tears of mirth running down her face.

"I'm sorry," she heaved. "I just… I can't believe I just did that."

"Am I that horribly unattractive that this thought is so funny?" he seethed, slamming the next notes out.

"Oh no," Darcy shrugged. "Quite the opposite. I'm surprised you don't already have a lineup of girls."

"I don't want girls," he mumbled, looking her up and down. She was very curvaceous, dressed in a blouse and pencil skirt and pumps, sophisticated and professional. He'd like to rumple that ironed silk. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Hey, not like I can judge. I barely even see my only friend anymore, she's pretty much too busy banging your brother, my sex life is pretty kaput. I could use a new intern-with-benefits. Ian ditched, thought it was too crazy."

"And what does that position entail?" he asked, curiously.

"Someone to hang out and watch movies with who isn't a total shithead, and who is attractive enough for me to want to bone on the regular. And who isn't completely stupid. I need someone who can write legibly."

"Seems an interesting proposition."

"Why, would you like to apply?" she teased. He dipped his head, bringing it close to her ear, exhaling softly through his nose.

"I'm considering it," he whispered huskily. Darcy gulped.

"Well," she said coquettishly. "Why don't we see what you can do?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

He stood up, coming around in front of her, and drawing her upwards. He placed her behind on the keyboard – the baby grand was Tony's, expensive, but nobody ever seemed to play it – and kissed her neck, drawing the triangle between her collarbone, shoulder, and neck with gentle kisses. He bent forward and crushed her mouth to his, wrenching her knees apart and stepping between them, his body already on fire and aching for her touch. Willing himself calm, his jaw worked as he kissed her, invading her mouth when she gasped. His hands slid up and down her arms, drawing gooseflesh in their wake, and came to fist in her hair. He pulled out the pencil and tossed it, sending it skittering away into the kitchen.

She leaned her head back, panting, when he stopped. He crushed her to him, kissing her again, crumpling the pink silk of her blouse, so feminine and pretty. He untied the bow at the neck, and began to undo the buttons, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed. He tugged it out of her skirt, and began to focus on her breasts.

She was wearing a pale pink bra, her nipples standing to attention through the confected lace. Her breasts were large, heavy – he tested the weight of them in his hands, running his thumbs over them to the pebbles that were straining for his touch. He bent to kiss her again, noticing the flush that had spread over her face.

His hands wandered along her thighs, up under her skirt. He pressed two fingers against the damp cotton he found there, and rubbed experimentally, receiving a muffled groan in response. He knelt between her knees, pressing his face against the damp pink cotton, inhaling her scent. He hooked two fingers through the moistened crotch of her undergarments, and pulled them off in one swift move, depositing them – and her shoes – carelessly behind him.

She was laid bare before him – truly bare. Thor had mentioned something called 'waxing' that Midgardian women sometimes indulged in. It looked like Darcy was a fan. He slipped two fingers against her, pressing, as he kissed up the inside of her thighs, nibbling at the flesh he found there. He looked up at her, his electric blue eyes meeting hers, a spark of longing passing between them.

She fisted her hands in his hair, the inky black strands sliding through her fingers.

"Patience," he hissed against her, as she tried to urge his face towards where she wanted it. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and, pulling the lace down, exposed her breasts to the air. He captured one nipple in his mouth, rolling it experimentally between his teeth, a frisson of pleasure going through him when she threw her head back and moaned.

"Damnit, Loki," she murmured. He smiled at her, and returned to the floor. Her eyes were dark, smoky with passion, her lips parted and trembling slightly.

For the first time in years, in the warmth of her gaze, he felt strong, confident, secure in who and what he was. With that confidence, he bent to plunge his tongue into the sweetness that tempted him from between her legs.

His mouth – warm, firm, wet, plunged into her folds.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

"I will make you call my name before the end," he said silkily. She was soft and pale and flawless and squirming against him, squirming and trembling and panting under his ministrations.

He chuckled. Evil delight, probably.

Darcy didn't know what he was doing now, with his head buried between her legs, but she wasn't sure she wanted it to stop. More fingers, she wanted more of the fingers.

Unabashed pleasure, wet and slippery, ran through her, as he licked and sucked and oh my God, what is he doing with his fingers, just don't stop…

"Please," she gasped, and he just buried his face back into her, tongue swirling, while those magical, knowing fingers stroked her to the moon and back again, her hands slamming down on the keys as she hung on for dear life.

Lightning struck.