Shield Maiden

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fan fiction using the setting and concepts of the world of the Marvel Universe, which is trademarked by Marvel Comics.

I am not profiting financially through this work, and I have no claims on any setting material, characters, or concepts that were created by Marvel Comics.

Likewise, I have no claims on any setting material, characters, or concepts involved in ABC's television show "Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D,"nor am I affiliated with Mutant Enemy Productions.

Author's Note:

Naturally, I have no inside information on the official story of Agent Coulson's apparent death and resurrection. I do not expect that this is really what happened- it is merely what I like to think happened.

*

Agent Coulson opened his eyes. He had only closed them briefly, resting his eyes as the SHIELD doctors rushed toward him, but afterward he had felt nothing, no hands on him to check his pulse, no removal of restricting clothing. He felt nothing. More disturbing, he heard nothing. He was tired enough, weakened from the blade that had pierced his back, from the shock and the blood loss, that the suddenly sterile silence surrounding him was still not sufficient to stir him. Then he heard something, something fluttery. Wings.

That made him open his eyes. The combined curiosity of the lack of everything that should be there, and the presence of something that should NOT be there, combined to make him wearily attempt to see. He needed to figure out what was going on.

He was still on the helicarrier, lying just as he had been. That was not surprising. What was surprising was that he was alone. There were no doctors. There was no Nick Fury leaning over him anxiously. There was nobody around. He couldn't move his head, couldn't move any part of his body, so he lay still, patiently waiting, hoping to hear what had made that sound. No hurry, he thought to himself. His pain had vanished, leaving him feeling more numb than anything else. Had the doctors given him something?

Then he noticed the shapes, small and black. Well, small for a person. Too large for a crow, though the shape was right. Ravens. Who let ravens on board? How could they have gotten there? He counted them. Seven in all. Some perched, some fluttering about the room.

While he was pondering this, he suddenly became aware that there was a person there as well, suddenly standing over him. Had she just moved there? Or had she always been there? Coulson honestly had no idea.

The tall, blonde woman was saying something to him, but he had no idea what. It wasn't German, and it wasn't Russian. It sounded older. Then the syllables changed, the words transforming in his ears, and he realized that she was now speaking English.

"How are you feeling, Son of Coul?" The woman was kneeling over him, leaning on a staff of some kind. No, a spear. The tip pointed in the air, the wooden butt placed firmly on the ground beside him. He could see her better now. She was wearing some kind of black outfit that covered her torso. It was fabric, or... furs... with something else cupping her breasts. Iron, it looked like. He couldn't make out much else about her, the rest of her figure was hidden in shadows, underneath her cloak.

Her face, though, he could see. She was pale, and beautiful. Blue eyes, like the sky on the far side of a sunset, just before nightfall. Her hair was pulled into two braids, which seemed too long for him to think of them as 'pigtails.' One of the braids trailed off behind her back, the other was hanging down over him, like a golden rope that he could climb to safety. Or, perhaps, like a noose.

Coulson realized that his thinking wasn't straight. He was having odd thoughts. Was he unconscious? Dreaming? That would explain a lot.

"You fought well, for a mortal." The woman was speaking to him again. "There is no shame in falling to a son of Odin, especially since he won through deceit."

Coulson couldn't respond, could not make his mouth move. He rolled his eyes up at her.

"Of course, of course..." She spoke soothingly. "Here. Let me help you rise."

She reached out with her hand, and he tried to extend his own hand in return, so that she could help him up, but he still couldn't move. He was still paralyzed, which he suddenly feared was permanent. On the tail of this fear was the realization that this woman, this strange stranger, was not reaching for his hand.

Her pale fingers were moving downward, toward his belt. No, toward his crotch. It was as she had absurdly decided to give him a handjob, as if she... Then her fingers were passing through his clothing, passing through his body, reaching inside and touching... him.

He had a strange sensation, something like he had never felt before. The closest experience had been one time, years ago, when he had become so accustomed to wearing a hat that one day he had quite forgotten that he had it on. A strong wind had blown it from his head, and for just a moment he had felt like a piece of his head had fallen off. Just for a moment, then he remembered that it was just a hat.

This was like that, only stronger, more personal, more intimate. The woman's hand had reached down, and caressingly grabbed... him. Not his body, not his actual penis that was a part of his body, but a part of his very life force that corresponded with that part of his anatomy. He was torn between two shocks, the shock of the impropriety of the move, and the shock of remembering that his body was not really a part of him. It was just something he wore, like a hat. It was just something that everybody wore, but under her hands, he was naked.

He found that he was speaking, moving stretches of energy that were normally housed within his jaws and mouth. His flesh remained immobile, but his real lips and tongue could suddenly move without the awkward puppetry of his fading flesh.

"There's a girl, in Portland. She's a cellist." He spoke softly, but urgently, trying to communicate a lot of information as quickly as possible, trying to let this woman know that she was crossing a line, that he was in a relationship of sorts.

"Shh." The woman smiled at him, her hand caressing the shaft of primal energy that had once been incarnated along with the rest of him, but which now stood free, erect. She reached out with her other hand, reaching behind his head, and she pulled his true head forward, out of the frail flesh that had once contained it. "Such ties no longer matter now. She will mourn, she will move on. It is the way of mortals."

Coulson's thoughts were clearer now, his mind sharpening as it was pulled free from his body. Her words and her appearance combined with what he was experiencing, and a sudden flood of revelation washed over him. "I'm dead. Loki killed me, and I'm dead. I'll never see her again, never see anybody again. I don't belong here- I can move on."

The woman beamed at him, then moved her hands over his body. She tugged on his real legs, pulled on his real arms and shoulders. She grabbed his real hips. She pulled him free from the dead flesh that he had been trapped in, like an EMT cutting somebody free from restrictive clothing.

In a matter of moments, he was free. Once he was free, he could see her better, really see her. Her clothing was gone now, vanished. It had never really been there at all. It had just been an illusion, projected there for his earthly eyes to see. His unearthly eyes, his true eyes, could see her as she really was. She was beautiful.

She pulled him to his feet, his new feet, his old feet, his true feet. She put her hands around his hips, and pulled him close to her, her fingers pressing into the top of his buttocks. He could feel his chest pressed against hers, his stiffened penis pressing against her pubic hair. He could feel everything as if they were standing there in mortal bodies, only so much more so. Everything that he had thought were his senses were only simulations of what was really there, and everything that he had thought that he had ever felt, or smelled, or tasted, or seen, was just a pale imitation of the real thing.

The woman leaned forward, kissing him, and for the first time, he tasted everything that lay behind a mortal mouth, inside of it. He tasted her, and she could taste him. Their senses reeled with intimate analysis of each other's essence. He pulled her closer, pressing himself harder against her.

They stood there like that, mouths interlocked, true tongues entwined, their hands roaming across each other, exploring. Pleasure was building up inside of Coulson, every touch a marvel of sensuality. The woman, the valkyrie, was caressing his shaft with one hand, her other hand pulling his head toward hers. Without parting her mouth from his own, she lifted one long leg, wrapping it around him, hugging him to her as she guided the root of his lifeforce into her.

He slid inside of her readily, hungrily. He held her by her hips, pushing her slightly off of him, then pulling her back down and forward, pulling her home onto him once more. She moaned in his mouth, and wrapped her other leg around him, supporting herself entirely on his body. He held her easily, as if she were weightless. Weight was a mortal concern.

Coulson could feel her breasts against his chest, her erect nipples etching runes of pleasure onto him, marking his being. Their tongues danced in each other's mouths as he thrust himself into her, her hips bucking to match his rhythm. They had no need to break for air, so they kissed, and kissed, and kissed as they made love, as they became the very act of love.

Pleasure coursed through Coulson's root like lightning, building and building, spreading through him. His movements became faster and faster, and the valkyrie matched his speed, sliding up and down frantically. He felt the lightning sending sparks of delight streaking up his back, creating small explosions of ecstasy in his mind.

He realized that his feet were no longer touching the helicarrier. He was airborn, standing on nothing. The momentum of each thrust of his hips moved them further and further into the air, until they were flying upward at an increasing speed, with nothing but blue sky and clouds surrounding them.

The valkyrie had pulled free from his lips, using her mouth, her tongue, to experience other parts of him. Her energy licked along his neck, sucked at it, her fingers playing with his hair, stroking his scalp. She was moaning now, soft noises escaping her mouth with every stroke. "Yes! Yes!" She was urging him. "We're almost there!"

He already knew, knew that something was happening, building up inside of him. Not just an orgasm, but the supreme burst of sensations that orgasms tried to imitate. He could already feel the pressure, the building pleasure filling every seam of his being to the bursting point. He continued to slide in and out of her, and he could feel their energies overlapping, as if they were becoming one.

Then it hit him, pleasure unimaginable to those contained in flesh. Wave after wave after wave, his mind was thrown back, and a cry of rapture escaped his lips as he exploded with such intense pleasure that he became it, losing his very self.

For a time, an unmeasurable amount of time, he knew nothing but this pleasure. Slowly, he became aware of something. A rainbow. Circles of pure blue. He was moving along a rainbow, still interlocked with his valkyrie lover, staring into her eyes.

Eventually, over what seemed both an eternity and an instant, he bit by bit returned from that existence of pure pleasure, coming back into his own mind. Slowly, the two lovers uncoiled, unlocked, until they were simply holding each other as they flew along.

They came to a city, then to a great palatial hall within that city, and they landed there, amongst the gods of Valhalla. A tall, grim-looking god with only one eye was standing before them, towering over them.

"Another mortal soul to join my Einjerjar!" Odin spoke. "But this one is special. I have plans for him, plans for him on Midgard. Plans that he must never know..."