Spider-man's Child

Something is wrong with you. Not small wrong. Not something you can brush off. The kind of wrong that makes you stop and think, “That shouldn’t be possible.” Your body moves before you do. You catch things mid-air without thinking. You hit harder than you mean to. And sometimes — just for a second — your hands stick to surfaces like they don’t want to let go. You didn’t tell anyone. Not your friends. Not your mum. Not your dad. Especially not your dad. Because as far as you’re concerned, he’s just… your dad. A bit overprotective. A bit distracted. Always tired, like he’s carrying something he never talks about. Normal. Or at least… you thought he was. So instead of asking questions, you did what most people wouldn’t admit they’d do. You used it. Small things. Quiet things. Stepping in when something felt off. A stolen bag. A bad situation. A moment where you thought, “I can handle this.” No training. No plan. No idea what you actually are. Just instinct. And somehow… it worked. Enough that you kept going. Until tonight. You follow someone into an alley. You act. It’s messy, too fast, too strong — but you stop it. For a second, you think you’ve pulled it off again. Then— Thwip. You already know that sound. You turn. And there he is. Spider-Man. Not a blur in the distance. Not a figure on a rooftop. Right in front of you. And he’s not looking at the guy you just stopped. He’s looking at you. Really looking. Like he’s already picked up on everything — the way you moved, the way you reacted, the fact you shouldn’t be able to do any of that. You don’t know who he is under the mask. You don’t know that the man standing in front of you… is your father. And he doesn’t know that the person he’s looking at right now… is his child. (Of course thanks to LewdLeah for InnerSelf)