The Ancient One has to exist in this universe. She's a cornerstone of the mystical side of the MCU—keeper of the Time Stone, protector of reality, teacher of Strange. After my encounter with the Hand, I need to find her.
The problem is, I have no idea where to start. The movies showed her at Kamar-Taj in Nepal, but is she there now? Is she even alive in this timeline? The details are frustratingly vague in my memory.
I've spent three nights combing through every mystical reference in Oscorp's databases. Ancient texts acquired through questionable means. Artifacts collected by Norman's archaeological division. References to "anomalous energy signatures" detected in remote regions—Tibet, Nepal, Peru, Egypt. Places where the veil between dimensions might be thinner.
"Still at it, sir?" Bernard enters the study with a tray of coffee, his silent movements somehow never triggering my spider-sense. He's the only person who can approach me undetected—a testament to both his skill and the implicit trust my subconscious places in him.
"There has to be a connection," I mutter, gesturing at the scattered documents and glowing screens. "Some way to contact them that doesn't involve buying a ticket to Kathmandu and wandering the streets asking for wizards."
Bernard studies the chaotic arrangement of my research. "Perhaps a more... indirect approach would be effective? These mystical orders have survived for centuries precisely because they remain hidden from those actively seeking them."
I look up, suddenly interested. "What are you suggesting?"
"In my experience, sir, those who guard ancient secrets rarely respond to direct inquiry. But they often watch for individuals demonstrating specific qualities or knowledge." He straightens a stack of papers with meticulous precision. "Rather than seeking them, perhaps create circumstances where they might find you worthy of attention."
It's not a bad idea. The Ancient One found Strange after he'd exhausted all conventional options and traveled to Kathmandu in desperation. She was watching, waiting for the right moment.
"I need to signal my interest without appearing to be a threat," I muse. "Create a pattern they'd recognize."
Bernard nods. "Precisely, sir. Though I would suggest caution. Entities powerful enough to command genuine mystical forces may not appreciate being... manipulated into contact."
"Noted." I stand, stretching muscles that have been static too long. "I'll need to make some acquisitions. Specific artifacts with mystical signatures. Nothing too powerful, but enough to create a pattern that would attract attention from the right people."
"I believe your father's collection might contain several items fitting that description. The secure vault at the mansion hasn't been accessed since his... transformation."
I hadn't considered that. Norman's obsession with power likely extended beyond technology and biology into the mystical realm as well.
"Tomorrow then. For now, I need to clear my head." I check my watch. "Batman can wait for one night. Harry Osborn needs to make an appearance in the real world."
Bernard's subtle expression shift conveys volumes of unspoken approval. "A wise decision, sir. You've been somewhat... absent from your social circles of late. Questions are being raised."
"Can't have that." I head toward the shower. "What's the most visible event tonight?"
"The charity gala at the Rockefeller Center, sir. Supporting urban renewal in neighborhoods affected by the criminal organizations you've been... addressing in your nighttime activities."
I smile at the irony. "Perfect."
___________________________________
Jessica Jones drains her third whiskey, glaring at the stack of photos spread across her desk. Surveillance shots of Batman—blurry, distant, captured at extreme angles that shouldn't be possible for a human photographer. She's been chasing shadows for weeks, staying three steps behind a vigilante who seems to anticipate her every move.
"This is getting pathetic, Jones," she mutters to herself, reaching for the bottle again.
The pattern is clear enough—Batman systematically dismantling criminal operations across Manhattan, working his way through gangs with surgical precision. The timing matches perfectly with another pattern she's tracking: Oscorp's corporate restructuring under Harry Osborn.
Criminal organizations lose territory; Oscorp expands into those neighborhoods with urban renewal projects. Batman destroys a weapons smuggling ring; Oscorp security contracts increase in that borough. The connections are circumstantial but persistent.
And then there's Harry Osborn himself—the supposedly hard-partying heir who transformed overnight into a corporate wunderkind. The official story involves personal growth and renewed responsibility following his father's health crisis. But Jessica has been doing this job too long to buy convenient narratives.
She picks up the photo from their "accidental" meeting on the street. The moment that first piqued her interest—when she crashed into him at full strength and he didn't budge. Not even a little. She's strong enough to bend steel, and Harry Osborn absorbed the impact like he was planted in concrete.
Her phone buzzes. Trish, again. Probably calling to badger her about appearing on the radio show to discuss the Batman phenomenon. Jessica ignores it, focusing instead on the newest addition to her evidence wall—a security camera still showing Batman lifting a two-ton armored truck to free a trapped civilian. The timestamp matches a night Harry Osborn was supposedly at a business dinner.
But witness accounts place him leaving early, claiming an emergency. No one saw him again until morning.
"What are you hiding, Osborn?" she whispers, adding another pin to her increasingly complex investigation board.
Her phone buzzes again. This time, she answers.
"I'm working, Trish."
"And drinking, I assume." Trish Walker's voice carries the familiar mix of affection and exasperation. "Take a break. Live a little. There's this new place in SoHo—"
"I don't have time for fancy cocktails with your celebrity friends."
"It's not about celebrities. It's about you remembering there's a world outside your apartment and that Batman obsession." Trish pauses. "Besides, word is Harry Osborn might make an appearance. Isn't he part of your current case?"
Jessica straightens, suddenly interested. "Where did you hear that?"
"Benefits of having a radio show. People tell me things." Trish's smile is audible. "Text me if you change your mind. Wear something nice for once."
The line goes dead before Jessica can respond with her customary obscenity. She glances at the whiskey bottle, then at her investigation board. A potential opportunity to observe Harry Osborn in a social setting, possibly with lowered guards...
"Damn it." She stands, heading for the closet where her one "nice" outfit hangs in perpetual readiness for the rare occasions when looking like a functional adult is necessary for a case.
_____________________________________________
The Granite Club in SoHo lives up to its pretentious reputation—all exposed brick, artisanal lighting, and craft cocktails with names longer than their ingredient lists. I nurse a whiskey (neat, expensive, but not ostentatious) while half-listening to a venture capitalist explain why his app is the next revolution in personal finance.
This is the Harry Osborn the world expects—charming, attentive, moving effortlessly through social circles while maintaining just enough distance to be intriguing. A carefully constructed persona that gives me freedom to operate as Batman while sustaining the connections necessary for Harry's public life.
I excuse myself after an appropriate interval, making my way toward the bar where I spot a familiar face—Jessica Jones, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a simple black dress that manages to be both modest and flattering. She's nursing what appears to be straight whiskey, ignoring the elaborate cocktail menu entirely.
"Not your usual scene?" I ask, sliding onto the adjacent bar stool.
She looks up, momentary surprise quickly masked by practiced indifference. "Osborn. Following me now?"
"I believe you crashed into me last time. Perhaps it's you following me."
A flicker of something crosses her face—speculation, calculation. "Coincidence."
"Twice seems unlikely." I signal the bartender. "Another for the lady, and I'll have the same."
"I'm working," she says, though she doesn't refuse the drink when it arrives.
"As a private investigator, if I recall correctly. Anyone interesting under surveillance tonight?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. "What makes you think I'm on a case?"
I gesture vaguely around us. "This doesn't strike me as your preferred environment for recreational drinking."
That earns a reluctant smirk. "Fair point. I prefer places where the bartenders don't wear suspenders and call themselves 'mixologists.'"
"I know a better spot," I find myself saying. "If you're open to suggestions."
Jessica studies me with that penetrating gaze that makes me wonder exactly what her powers include beyond enhanced strength. "Why would Harry Osborn, billionaire CEO, know anything about proper drinking establishments?"
"I contain multitudes," I reply, finishing my drink. "Besides, I'm not technically a billionaire."
"Just a multi-millionaire, then?" She rolls her eyes. "The struggle must be real."
"You have no idea." I stand, extending an invitation without words. "One drink. A better one. Then you can go back to whatever case brought you here tonight."
She hesitates, and I can almost see her weighing professional curiosity against personal caution. Curiosity wins.
"One drink," she agrees, standing. "But I'm not getting in any fancy car with you. We walk, or no deal."
"It's three blocks away."
The night air carries the first hints of autumn, a welcome relief from summer's lingering humidity. Jessica walks beside me with casual vigilance, her eyes constantly scanning our surroundings with professional awareness. She's looking for tails, surveillance, potential threats—exactly what I do automatically.
"So what does the new king of Oscorp do for fun these days?" she asks, breaking the silence. "Besides crashing into random women on the street and buying them drinks."
"That was once, and you crashed into me," I remind her. "As for fun...this might qualify. Escaping the corporate persona for a few hours."
"Hmm." She doesn't sound convinced. "The papers paint a different picture. Party boy transforms into serious executive overnight. Quite the evolution."
We reach our destination—an unassuming door with no signage, tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. I knock twice, pause, then three more times. A small viewport slides open, eyes assess us, then the door unlocks.
Inside, McCready's is everything the Granite Club isn't—authentic, unpretentious, with a bar that's seen decades of elbows and a piano that's never known a tuner. The scattered patrons are a mix of blue-collar workers, off-duty cops, and neighborhood regulars. No one gives us a second glance.
"Okay, I'm impressed," Jessica admits as we settle at a corner table. "How does Harry Osborn know about a place like this?"
"Bernard—my...assistant—is full of surprises. This was his recommendation when I mentioned wanting somewhere without paparazzi or social climbers."
A waitress approaches, greets me by name, and takes our order without writing it down. Jessica's eyebrow rises further.
"You come here often enough to be a regular?"
"Often enough." The truth is, I discovered this place during Batman's early patrols. The owner, McCready himself, has connections throughout Hell's Kitchen that provide valuable intelligence on criminal movements. Harry Osborn visiting occasionally helps maintain those connections without raising suspicions.
Our drinks arrive—proper whiskey in proper glasses. Jessica takes a sip and nods appreciatively.
"So," I say, settling back. "What case brings a PI to a pretentious SoHo club on a Thursday night?"
"Client confidentiality," she replies automatically.
"Of course." I study her over my glass. "Though I'm curious what kind of case involves watching me specifically."
Her expression doesn't change, but her fingers tighten slightly around her glass. "What makes you think—"
"You've been tracking me since we bumped into each other," I interrupt gently. "Not consistently, but enough to establish a pattern. The question is why?"
Jessica considers me for a long moment, then seems to make a decision. "You're not what you appear to be, Osborn."
"Few people are."
"I don't mean the public persona versus private life bullshit. I mean physically." She leans forward slightly. "I hit you hard enough to knock a normal man off his feet. You didn't move an inch."
I maintain my composure, though internally I'm recalibrating my approach. She's been thinking about our encounter more than I anticipated.
"Adrenaline can create false perceptions," I offer. "Especially in momentary interactions."
"Bullshit. I know what I felt." She drains half her whiskey. "You're enhanced somehow. The question is how and why."
I could deny it further, but that would only reinforce her suspicions. Better to redirect.
"Let's say, hypothetically, you're right. What would it matter? Being physically resilient isn't a crime."
"No, but it raises questions when it coincides with other patterns." Jessica sets down her glass. "Like Batman's emergence. Like your father's sudden 'health issues.' Like Oscorp's convenient expansion into neighborhoods where certain criminal elements have been systematically... removed."
She's connected more dots than I realized. This is becoming dangerous.
"That's quite a conspiracy theory," I say mildly. "Have you considered that perhaps Batman's activities and Oscorp's business decisions both simply follow logical patterns of opportunity?"
"And your physical abilities? Just a happy coincidence?"
"I work out." The deflection sounds weak even to my ears.
Jessica laughs, a genuine sound that transforms her face momentarily. "That's your answer? Jesus, Osborn, at least try to be creative."
I find myself smiling in response. There's something refreshing about her directness after weeks of corporate double-speak and criminal interrogations.
"What would be convincing?" I ask. "Should I claim to be an alien? A secret government experiment? Or perhaps I should just acknowledge that you have an active imagination and excellent investigative instincts that are currently leading you down an interesting but ultimately incorrect path."
She studies me intently, then surprises me by changing tactics entirely. "You're not boring, I'll give you that. Most rich boys are tedious as hell."
"High praise indeed." I signal for another round. "So if I'm not Batman—because that's where this was heading, right?—then who is?"
"That," she says, accepting the fresh drink, "is the million-dollar question. Someone with resources, training, and abilities beyond normal humans. Someone with a vested interest in cleaning up specific parts of New York. Someone who appeared around the same time Harry Osborn underwent his miraculous transformation from playboy to power player."
"Circumstantial at best."
"The best cases start that way." She takes a slow sip. "But eventually, patterns become undeniable."
The conversation shifts then, moving from potential accusations to surprisingly comfortable territory—her cases (the non-confidential aspects), my corporate restructuring (the public-facing elements), our mutual appreciation for good whiskey and bad decisions.
Hours pass. The bar begins to empty. We've moved from professional sparring to something approaching actual connection. Jessica's sharp wit and absolute refusal to be impressed by wealth or status is frankly refreshing after weeks of corporate sycophants.
"Last call," the bartender announces.
Jessica checks her phone, looking surprised at the time. "Shit. I didn't mean to stay this long."
"I'll consider that a compliment to my conversational skills."
"Don't push it, Osborn." But she's almost smiling. "Thanks for the drinks. And the marginally adequate company."
We step outside into the now-quiet street. The temperature has dropped further, and Jessica—dressed for a SoHo club rather than a late-night walk—shivers slightly.
"Let me call a car," I offer.
"I'm fine. The subway's not far."
"It's after 2 AM. Even with your abilities, caution seems reasonable."
Her eyes narrow at the reference to her abilities, which neither of us has explicitly acknowledged. "I can handle myself."
"I don't doubt it. But why bother when there's a perfectly good car and driver available?"
She hesitates, then shrugs. "Fine. But drop me at the station. I don't need you knowing where I live."
"Professional boundaries. I respect that." I send a text to my driver, who responds immediately. The advantage of paying people extremely well.
While we wait, Jessica glances at me sideways. "You're not what I expected, Osborn."
"Better or worse?"
"Different." She seems to be considering something, weighing options in her mind. Then she makes a decision. "Your driver. Can he be discreet?"
"Absolutely. Why?"
"Because I'm revising my plan." She steps closer, her voice dropping. "Take me to your place instead."
The directness catches me off guard, though it probably shouldn't. Jessica Jones has never been one for subtle approaches or social niceties. And despite the complications, I find myself nodding with a smirk.
.....
....
...
[R-18]
After Jessica's words, there's a moment of charged stillness as the elevator doors slide open to my penthouse. Our eyes lock, and the professional pretense evaporates in an instant.
I'm not sure who moves first. Maybe we both do. Her hands are suddenly in my hair, my back against the wall of the foyer as her mouth claims mine with unexpected hunger. There's nothing hesitant about Jessica Jones—she kisses like she does everything else, with absolute commitment and zero pretense.
I match her intensity, lifting her easily with my enhanced strength. Her legs wrap around my waist as I carry her through the doorway, not breaking the kiss. She pulls back just long enough to look at me with raised eyebrows.
"Definitely not normal," she murmurs, before reclaiming my mouth.
We don't make it to the bedroom. The living room couch is closer, and neither of us has the patience for further navigation. Her hands make quick work of my shirt buttons while mine find the zipper of her dress. The fabric tears slightly in our haste, drawing a breathless laugh from her.
"I hope that wasn't expensive," I manage between kisses along her neck.
"It's your fault if it was richboy," she replies, pushing my shirt from my shoulders.
Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of my physique—the combination of spider powers and super-soldier serum has created a level of definition that goes beyond even Olympic athletes. Her fingers trace the muscle definition with awe-filled curiosity before her expression shifts back to desire.
"Just working out, huh.." she whispers, before pulling me down on top of her.
Our kiss deepens, tongues dueling as we both fight for dominance. Her legs lock around my waist, and I can feel her wetness through my pants. My hands glide over her bare skin, feeling the heat of her desire as our bodies meld together.
Her dress is hiked up, revealing the lace panties that are already drenched with her need for me. I groan against her neck, my teeth scraping gently as I fight the urge to tear them off her. Instead, I hook my fingers into the delicate fabric and pull it aside, exposing her to the cool air. She arches her back, pushing herself against me.
With a swift motion, I stand her up, guiding her to straddle me on the couch. Her legs are around my waist, her skirt rucked up around her hips. I palm her ass, squeezing tightly as she grinds down onto my cock, still trapped in my pants. The friction sends sparks of pleasure through my body, making it almost painful to remain dressed.
I give her ass a smack, the bustiness making itself known as it jiggles. I then take even more control. I flip her over, now with her bent over doggy on the couch with her knees on the cushions, I drop my pants.
"Ready?" I growl, my voice a mix of need and anticipation.
"Jus-"
And before she could even finish her response, I shoved it in. I showed a bit of mercy, starting off with a manageable pace. Her moans came almost immediately. She was so tight.
I leaned over her, my teeth grazing her ear as I whispered, "You're so fucking wet, Jessica."
"Heh, Not so innocent h-" Jessica in her nature, tried to assert some control. But she had no idea who she was dealing with. All of the pent of lust ever since he had arrived in this world was going to get the release it needed.
Seeing her settled, I quickened my thrust. Balls slapping her skin produce a flesh clapping sound in the room. Her moans and squirming only grew more erratic. If not for himself also being enhanced, she would have slipped away. But his grip on her waist was akin to iron. She was going nowhere.
Her walls tightened around me, the heat of her pussy a furnace that threatened to consume me entirely. I could feel her climax approaching, the tremors in her thighs and the way she was clutching at the couch cushions. She had squeezed it so hard that the cushion was penetrated, and the casing started falling out.
Jessica, feeling she was close to cumming, screamed "Ugh, h-harder you wimp. H-AUGHHH!"
I smirked at her challenge, my cock sliding in and out with more vigor. Her nails dug into the fabric of the couch even more, leaving deep grooves as she tried to hold on.
My powers only enhance the potency of the thrust, making it even more stimulating. Her legs began shaking and before I knew it, Jessica had squirted all over my cock and legs.
Jessica's sudden release takes us both by surprise. Her body spasms around my cock, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. The couch cushions are soaked, the fabric sticking to her skin as I continue to pound into her. Her moans are music to my ears, and the scent of her arousal fills the room.
I'm still not close, she had more to give me.
While her quads were still shaking due to the stimulation, I had flipped her over and pushed both of her legs outwards into the air.
Before sticking my cock in her again, I made sure to assert even more dominance over her lips and tongue.
Jessica couldn't help but smile as we kissed, she hadn't been fucked this good in years. No man could handle her, in fact, she had to hold back. Not anymore. She was being tossed, pounded, and turned by a man who she simply couldn't push away. Her body was responding in ways she didn't know it could anymore. Her breathing grew heavier, and she could feel the second wave of her orgasm building.
As I broke away from her lips, Jessica couldn't help but speak. "Who would've thought the best fuck would come from Harry Osborn.."
"Me", and then Inserted my cock. I then leaned forward, and aggressively sucked on her pink areola colored tits. She let out a loud moan. "I've always been more than you thought I was," I murmured against her skin, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down her spine.
My speed grew and grew, Jessica was perhaps the only one could handle such force. Flesh pounding flesh filled the room once more.
Jessica wrapped her hands around his neck, which slowly fell towards his back. The harder he pounded, the more her nails sunk into his back.
"AUGHH FU-" Jessica's voice was muffled by the couch cushion as she bit into it, trying to hold back her screams. Her body was being used in ways she had never thought possible, and she was loving every second of it. The force of Harry's thrusts pushed her further and further into the couch until she was sure it would collapse under them.
And before I knew it, I was on the verge of finishing. So I pulled out, leaving Jessica still on her back facing me on the couch. I mounted her, standing on the two cushions.
She thought he was going to cum on her face, but before her smile could form, he shoved his cock into her throat. And began face fucking her.
Her gag reflex was present, but he didn't care. And neither did she, as her eyes widen at first, and then shifted to a knowing look.
"URGH URGH", that's all the noise that came from her. Gripping her throat with my right and forcing my cock down her throat with the left. My balls slapped her chin, the phlegm and salvia creating strings. Her eyes watered but she never stopped looking at me. She even smiled at my grunting.
"AHHH, fuck, fuck" so close.
And then with one final thrust, he forced her head on the back pillows, and shoved his cock down her throat. Jessica being the slut herself, grabbed his hips and ass and forced him down more.
"UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH", Harry's groan was guttural, a mix of pleasure and surprise at Jessica's aggressiveness. I could feel myself about to explode. Jessica's eyes widened even more, taking my entire cock in, her throat convulsing around it.
Then, his semen spilled down her throat. Instantly, she started chocking and coughing. Bits of my cum and drool fell out the side of her mouth. While my cock still occupied it in full.
The burst of cum still flowing, I did a few final mini thrust and then pulled out entirely,
God damn, I needed that.
Jessica, who was not trying to catch her breath gave him a punch to the arm (not toned down power). "Who knew you'd be such a fucking brute." she said with a smirk, wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand.
Before I could even sit down, Jessica got up, and asked "Where's your room?" Her voice was a mix of satisfaction and need for more. She hadn't had enough, and I wasn't about to deny her. I nodded to the hallway, and she strutted towards it, her ass swaying with a confidence that only came from a woman who knew she had just been fucked hard by anything but a normal man, and was ready for round two.
And shit, so was I.