Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 3

I was definitely becoming a woman. Superwoman!

Benna jolted upright in our massive bed—which now looked like something out of a luxury resort, its carved mahogany frame gleaming under soft ambient lighting that definitely hadn’t been there last night. “Jensen—*Jesus*—what’s wrong?” Her voice even deeper than yesterday, a rich baritone that rolled through the room like thunder.

“We’re rich!” I yelled in a higher, huskies voice, “I think we are becoming ri—”

Benna interrupted with a gasp in the dim light, her hands flying to her chest. “Oh my god—they’re *gone*!” There was an almost giddy disbelief in her newly deepened voice as she scrambled from the bed, sheets tangling around her legs. She rapidly took her undershirt off. Then, she bolted for the bathroom with a stride that was masculine, her broad shoulders catching the doorway as she lunged for the mirror.

Benna’s reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror no longer resembled the woman she’d been yesterday. The changes were incremental yet undeniable—her shoulders had broadened even more overnight, the once-delicate slope now angular, the collarbones jutting like wings beneath skin pulled taut over new muscle. Benna’s hands trembled as they traced the planes of her body, each touch confirming the impossible. The soft swell of her breasts—gone. In their place, the faint outline of pectorals pressed against the bathroom mirror, taut beneath skin that had smoothed overnight, as if someone had ironed out every wrinkle of age. Her nipples sat higher now, smaller and darker, the aureoles tightened into masculine coin-sized circles. The transformation wasn’t complete—still caught between forms—but the trajectory was undeniable. She exhaled, watching the mirror fog briefly before clearing to reveal the sharp jut of her Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Benna’s hair had been a holdout—until now. She ran her fingers through it and froze mid-stroke. It was MUCH shorter. His sandy-blonde hair, cropped close at the sides but slightly longer on top, looked tousled in a way that felt deliberate, stylish. She leaned closer to the mirror, gripping a handful at the crown. When she released it, the strands didn’t just fall back—they *sprang* into place with a resilience that made her breath hitch.

The words slipped out before I could stop them—half-breathless, half-amused, and entirely sincere. “God, you look *handsome*,” I murmured, my newly melodic voice catching on the last syllable as I leaned against the bathroom doorframe. The sight of Benna—almost a him—standing there, shirtless, light catching the sharp angles of her embryonic musculature, sent an unexpected flutter through my tightening stomach.

Benna’s gaze lingered on the swell beneath my grey tank top—the unmistakable curve of my breasts, small but undeniably *there*, pressing against the fabric with each breath. Her newly roughened fingers twitched at her sides before she caught herself, clearing her throat with a sound that was already deeper, richer. “Your voice,” she murmured, stepping closer. “It’s like—” She swallowed, and I watched the bob of her Adam’s apple with a fascination I couldn’t hide. “Like someone tuned a wind chime to perfection.”

Her fingers traced the soft curve of my forearm—featherlight, tentative—as if testing whether I might dissolve under her touch. “Christ, Jensen,” Benna murmured, her voice dipping into that new baritone rasp that sent heat pooling low in my belly. “You’re like polished marble.” The callouses on her fingertips, rougher than yesterday, caught against my poreless skin in a way that made me shudder. My nipples tightened instantly beneath the thin tank top, the fabric suddenly abrasive against hypersensitive flesh.

The walk-in closet smelled like cedar and possibility, its expanded dimensions now accommodating racks that hadn’t existed the other day—designer labels, custom tailoring, fabrics that whispered against each other like secrets. We dressed separately behind our partitions of the space. I changed panties first finding a suitable candidate. Then, my fingers brushed the hangers until they caught on extremely short purple shorts. The words *I’m taken* arched across the back in rhinestone-studded script . “This will keep her attention,” I shimmied into them, the material clinging to my hips. Benna came over to my side already dressed. The silk robe fit Benna’s shoulders like liquid, the burgundy fabric rippling across the widening planes of her chest. She left it untied, the deep V revealing a smooth expanse of skin where softness had been yesterday. I swallowed hard, my throat bobbing as I tugged the hot pink tee over my head, the fabric stretching across my new, small breasts before snapping snug at above midriff.

We walked down the grand staircase to the kitchen. The kitchen gleamed like a surgical suite—professional-grade stainless steel everywhere, the kind of space where chefs would weep with joy. I moved through it with unfamiliar grace, my hips swaying in a way creasing the shorts subtly. The refrigerator hummed as looked for the familiar blue tubes of store-bought cinnamon rolls and crescents. This was our Jenkins Saturday tradition. I had been doing this for years as dad. Now as mom, I wasn’t going to stop; the kids expected it.

The refrigerator’s cold air curling around my bare thighs as I crouched low—deliberately slow, deliberately exaggerated—letting the purple shorts stretch taut across my newly sculpted ass. I heard Benna’s sharp inhale behind me, the sound unmistakable even over the hum of the appliance. My fingers closed around the tubes, but I lingered, rolling my shoulders just enough to make the muscles in my lower back flex. The waistband of the shorts dug deliciously into the dip of my spine, the rhinestone lettering pressing against skin.

Benna smirked, her newly squared jawline catching the morning light as she leaned against the steel countertop. “Hot for that heart-covered thong under those shorts, Doctor,” she purred, her deep voice curling around the words like smoke. My fingers froze on the cooking pans, my cheeks flushing hot enough I swore my newly delicate capillaries would burst. “How, dear violin teacher, do you know that?

“X-ray vision,” Benna said, tapping her temple with two fingers—the gesture effortlessly masculine now, all confidence and lazy grace. My breath hitched as her gaze trailed deliberately down my spine again, lingering where the thong’s lace heart pattern pressed against the purple shorts. “Just found it out. Figured you’d noticed yours too.”

The cinnamon rolls glistened under the oven lights, their spiral folds steaming as I pulled them from the oven with bare hands—no mitts needed anymore. The heat that would’ve blistered my skin a couple days ago didn’t register now, just a pleasant warmth against my palms. I smirked as I caught Benna’s gaze flickering between my fingers and the metal sheet has she swallowed hard. With deliberate slowness, I drizzled the cream cheese frosting, letting it pool in the crevices before dragging the spatula along the curves of each roll, my wrist flexing just enough to make the tendons stand out beneath my smoothing skin.

The frosting clung to my fingertips in thick, sticky strands, and I made a show of dragging my tongue along each digit—slow, deliberate, watching Benna’s pupils dilate as her breath hitched. My own pulse thrummed in my throat, the rush of arousal sharpened by my heightened senses. Through my newly acquired x-ray vision, the layers of her robe dissolved like mist, revealing the Superman boxers beneath, the iconic “S” shield stretched taut over… nothing yet. But the fabric twitched as if anticipating.

“You’re blushing,” I murmured, licking the last traces of frosting from my thumb while my x-ray vision lingered on the Superman symbol stretched across Benna’s hips. “I never thought I’d see the day—Benna Jenkins, wearing superhero underwear.” The corner of my mouth twitched as I leaned against the marble countertop, the cold surface pressing into the newly softened curve of my hip. “Though I *am* looking forward to when that ‘S’ starts tenting proper-.”

The kitchen door swung open just as Benna’s hands clenched the countertop, her knuckles whitening beneath the taut skin of her now-masculine fingers. Crystal strode in—or rather, glided—her movements eerily fluid for a child who’d been tripping over her own feet just days ago. I nearly dropped the pan.

Crystal paused mid-step—not because she hesitated, but because her newly elongated legs carried her across the kitchen in fewer strides than she expected. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders in waves that shimmered with an unnatural sheen, thicker and heavier than yesterday. Her pajama top—too small now-strained across her chest, the buttons gaping slightly where new, soft curves pressed against the material. When she turned to grab a glass, the light caught the silhouette of her body—no longer a child’s straight lines, but the subtle promise of a woman’s shape and the appearance of a 14-year-old.

“Good morning,” Crystal said—except it wasn’t Crystal’s voice. Not the high, lilting chirp of a ten-year-old. This voice was lower, richer, threaded with an eerie richness that carried the weight of someone twice her age. Her gaze flicked to me, and I saw it—the way her pupils dilated slightly when she took in my face. “Your skin’s different, mom. Smooth. Like mine.” She rubbed her own cheek.

Crystal’s fingers brushed absently through her own hair before turning to Benna with a tilt of her head. “Dad,” she said—the word still new in her throat, still strange—“I like your hair like that.” She gestured vaguely toward Benna’s head, where the sandy-blonde strands had cropped close at the sides overnight, leaving just enough length on top to tousle into something deliberate. “Suits your face now. And…” Her nose wrinkled slightly, but not in disgust—in assessment. “Your chest is flatter. More you now.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” I murmured, my newly melodic voice catching slightly as I took in my daughter’s unsettlingly mature assessment of us. Benna cleared her throat deeply, and reached out to ruffle Crystal’s hair before pausing, fingers hovering. Her brows knitted together at the realization that her head was higher now, her honey-blonde strands thicker, silkier. “You’re… taller,” she said, dumbfounded.

Crystal stared at the metal prepping counter probably deep in thought at our changes—then suddenly recoiled, her hands flying up as if she’d touched something hot. “Oh my *god*,” she gasped, twisting away. Her nose scrunched up in exaggerated disgust, eyes watering slightly. “I can see… everything. Like, *everything*.”

Benna’s fingers twitched against the countertop, her widened pupils darting across the stainless-steel surface. “Christ,” she breathed, her deepened voice hushed with awe. “It’s like… I can zoom in.” Her fingertip hovered millimeters above the metal, tracing invisible patterns. “There’s a whole friggin ecosystem here.”

I confirmed it. I think we discovered our microscopic vision!

Asher walked in just then probably wondering why we were staring at a counter. Asher stood frozen in the doorway, his shadow stretching long across the kitchen tiles—too long for the boy who’d been barely five-foot-six yesterday. His shoulders strained against the fabric of his Salem High t-shirt, the sleeves now taut around noticeable biceps that flexed unconsciously as he gripped the doorframe. Asher shifted in the doorway, and that’s when I saw it—the way his shoulders filled the frame differently now, the way his back tapered down to his waist in that unmistakable inverted triangle. The beginnings of a swimmer’s V. Yesterday, he’d been all elbows and awkward angles, but now—the Salem High t-shirt clung to him in ways t-shirts never had before, the fabric stretched taut across shoulders.

Asher’s voice cracked halfway through his question—“What are you guys *doing*?”—but what emerged wasn’t the adolescent squeak of last week. It was a rich baritone that vibrato, smooth as bourbon-aged oak, the kind of voice that made heads turn in hallways. He blinked, startled by his own vocal cords, then swallowed hard. The movement made his newly prominent Adam’s apple bob sharply—a sight that sent an absurd pang through my chest. When had his throat become so… sculpted?

“Come look at some microscopic bugs, Asher!” Crystal listed.

“No, thanks. I can see the perfectly from here.” He said. And he probably could. Then he continued, “Mom, dad, sis…You look fab! I especially like the bare-chested, hair-cropped look, Dad.”

Benna’s hand shot out before any of us could react—broad, veined, and unmistakably masculine now—grabbing Asher by the collar of his stretched-too-tight t-shirt. She dragged him forward, her other hand coming up in a loose fist to knock lightly against the top of his head in that roughhousing way fathers do. The gesture was so instinctively male it made my breath catch. “Thanks, bud.” She said.

After we got our food and coffee from the kitchen, we walked out to the larger dining room and sat down. I looked at the Washington Post on my phone. Asher even got coffee. He never had it before. Asher lifted the steaming mug to his lips with an ease that belied his previous caffeine aversion—no sugar, no cream, just black like he’d been drinking it his whole life. He took a slow sip, his throat working smoothly. I caught Benna staring at him over her own coffee, her fingers tapping restlessly against the ceramic.

Asher exhaled sharply through his nose, steam curling from his coffee mug. “Christ, it’s already cold,” he muttered, fingers flexing around the ceramic. Then—without warning—his pupils flared crimson. Two thin beams of heat lanced from his eyes, striking the coffee with surgical precision. The liquid bubbled instantly, releasing fresh tendrils of steam that twisted toward the vaulted ceiling.

The steam curling from Asher’s reheated coffee formed perfect spirals in the air as we all burst into laughter—mine higher and lilting now, Benna’s a rich baritone chuckle. We clapped exaggeratedly, the sound echoing through our suddenly palatial dining room. Asher rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his smirk, his newly prominent Asher’s apple bobbing as he took another sip. “Yeah yeah, laugh it up,” he said, his voice settling deeper than yesterday. “You should’ve seen me downstairs earlier—nearly torched Mom’s favorite lavender candle first when beams came out of my eyes when I just stared at it. That was unexpected. Then, I had to I figure out how to dial it down.”

Asher’s voice faded into the background as my fingers scrolled through the Washington Post article, my grip tightening imperceptibly on the phone’s edge. The screen displayed rows of barbed-wire fencing encircling prefabricated structures—faceless, windowless boxes baking under some southern sun. ICE detention centers. The caption called them “temporary housing solutions.” My thumb trembled; I imagined hearing heartbeats through the concrete walls in those photographs—dozens, hundreds, layered over one another like trapped birds fluttering behind my temples.

The ceramic coffee mug shattered on the oak table before I realized I used my own heat vision staring at in anger. Shards skittered across the surface, leaving dark streaks of liquid in their wake. My breath came fast—too fast—and the room tilted as distant heartbeats pounded louder in my skull. Those weren’t photographs anymore. I imagined I could taste the dust from the detention center yards, smell the sour tang of fear-sweat through the phone’s speakers.

I told my stunned, but understanding, family, “Someday I would to take action with this authoritarian, presidential administration.”

Benna’s rough, newly calloused fingers pried the cracked phone from my grip. “Later,” she murmured into the shell of my ear vibrating against my shoulder in a way that made my hips shift unconsciously. Her arms wrapped around my waist—my waist, narrower than a few days ago—and squeezed until the phantom heartbeats faded beneath the solid thump of her own pulse. “We’re not ready. You’re not ready.” The unspoken yet hung between us: Not strong enough. Not yet.

I relaxed into Benna’s warmth, my breathing slowing as her familiar scent—now layered with something muskier, distinctly masculine—anchored me back to our kitchen. The distant cries from the detention center photos faded beneath the rhythmic thump of Benna’s heartbeat against my shoulder blades. Then Asher cleared his throat, the sound deeper than yesterday, rougher around the edges like gravel in honey.

Asher cleared his throat again—a sound that shouldn’t have come from a boy who’d been in middle school last week. His fingers drummed the dining room table, each tap sending minute tremors through the surface that my enhanced hearing picked up like seismic activity. Crystal stood beside him, hip cocked in a way that made her pajama bottoms stretch over curves that hadn’t existed three days ago.

“Dad. Mom, I hope this isn’t a bad time.” Asher began, then hesitated. The stubble along his jaw caught the morning light. He exchanged a glance with Crystal, who nodded once. Her lips pressed together in a line that was somehow both nervous and determined.

“What is it bud?” Benna asked with concern.

Asher’s fingers stopped drumming. The silence stretched taut between us, his blue eyes—sharper than any human’s had a right to be—flickering with x-ray reflections of objects behind ceilings and walls. Crystal exhaled through her nose next to him doing the same thing.

“Dad,” Asher said carefully, “we can see through your dresser drawers.” His voice cracked only once—less than yesterday. “All twelve of them.”

Crystal rolled her eyes. “Sixteen if you count the shoe boxes under the bed.” Her voice had lost its childish lilt, settling into something richer. “The red boots are cute.”

My spine locked. The Chester drawers—the ones I’d stocked over years of discreet online orders of mostly superheroine costumes, the ones Benna only discovered last week—glowed like neon signs in their vision. My Spider-Girl suit, the Superwoman replicas with reinforced stitching, even the custom Starfire bodysuit with the micro-perforated fabric…

Asher’s fingers flexed against the table edge—knuckles pronounced, tendons standing in relief beneath skin. The question hung between us like the scent of ozone before a storm. “There’s more to this,” he said, not as an accusation but with the eerie certainty of someone who could now *see* the molecular composition of lies. “There’s more to the wish-why you made it-isn’t there?”

The kitchen clock ticked three times before I exhaled. The truth felt like a splinter I’d carried for decades—finally pried loose under my children’s microscopic, x-ray scrutiny. The air between us thickened like cooling molasses. Crystal’s fingers traced the rim of her juice glass with unnatural precision. Asher leaned forward.

For the next five minutes, I reluctantly told them of my secret transgender superheroine fetish, the impetus of how I wanted to be woman, how I wanted to be a Superwoman. “I didn’t mean to rope all four of us in.” I said earnestly. Or maybe the Voice knew I did? I apologized to my kids. “Asher and Crystal, I didn’t want you to lose some of your childhood. Please forgive me.”

Crystal looked stonefaced. Asher didn’t flinch. His pupils dilated, irises flickering with the barest hint of heat-vision gold as he absorbed my confession. What was verdict going to be?

Crystal’s stone-faced expression cracked first—not into disgust, but into a grin so wide it dimpled her cheeks. “Mom—” she started, then paused, her newly melodic voice testing the word before continuing, “or should I say *future* Superwoman?” She launched herself around the dining room tables and, colliding with me in a hug that nearly toppled my chair. The scent of her shampoo—something fruity and expensive—filled my nose as she buried her face against my collarbone. “You’re literally living out a comic book. That’s *awesome*.”

Asher’s arms wrapped around us next, his grip firm—too firm—and I felt the new strength in his embrace as his biceps flexed against my back. His stubble scraped my temple when he leaned in. The vibration of his deepening voice buzzing against my shoulder. “Honestly? The powers and good looks are sick. And if this makes you happy…” He pulled back just enough to flash me a grin that was already too handsome, too grown. “I’m stoked.”

Benna’s chair scraped backward—the sound oddly deep, like everything about her now—as she rose from the table. Her movements were still adapting to the widening of her shoulders, the new heft of her stride. When her arms enveloped us, they didn’t just hug; they *enclosed*. The scent of her—musky and unfamiliar.

Crystal pulled back first, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the oak table. Her gaze flickered between me and Benna. “So…” She chewed her bottom lip, a nervous habit that looked eerily mature on her refined features. “So, who is taking me to our daddy-daughter date today at the New Dinner Theater ?” I could tell the gender confusion in her eyes as she looked at Benna and I.

The words tasted strange in my mouth—not wrong, but *new*, like speaking a language I’d only ever studied in secret. I watched Crystal’s face as I said it, the way her delicate eyebrows arched slightly before smoothing into acceptance. “Your dad Benna can take you,” I repeated, softer this time. “After all, she’s the new daddy now.” My fingers brushed the swell of my hip, still unused to the curve.

Asher laughed, “Guess we’re rewriting family traditions on the fly.” When he grinned, the dimple that appeared looked borrowed from some matinee idol’s face. Then he thought briefly before saying, “I have an idea for you and I, Mom, for a mother-son date if you are up for it.”

“First, your dad must be okay with going to the theater with you, Crystal.” I said.

“Daddy?” Our girl pleaded with Benna.

“Of course I’ll take you,” Benna said, his voice rolled out of her broadened chest like a bass note, rough at the edges but warm. Her transformed hand reached out to ruffle Crystal’s honey-blonde hair, but stopped halfway, fingers curling awkwardly. A father’s gesture in a body she was still learning.

Since that was resolved I curiously asked, “What’s your idea, Asher?”

Asher’s grip on my arm was strong, pressed into my bicep with an enthusiasm. Before I could protest, he’d whisked me upstairs with effortless speed. We left Crystal and Benna planning their date. The wooden stairs groaned under his weight—his frame, once wiry, now carried the dense promise of a young athlete. Asher’s fingers dug into my forearm with almost painful enthusiasm as he propelled me toward the cherrywood dresser—the same one where I’d hidden my secret for years. His grin was all mischief and confidence. “Okay, Mom,” he said, the word still unfamiliar off his tongue, “As I know what’s in here, let’s test these babies out.” Before I could react, he yanked open the fourth drawer with a flourish, revealing rows of meticulously folded spandex in jewel tones.

The spandex shimmered under the bedroom lights—electric blues and crimson reds folded like sacred relics. Asher’s fingers hovered over a pair of costumes. “Norfolk Comicon’s starts in an hour,” he said. “Thought we could debut these here.” He showed be the familiar colors of Elasti-girl and Dash from the Incredibles movies. His grin showed teeth that looked whiter, straighter—as if his entire body was editing itself toward some ideal teenage pinnacle.

I hesitated, running my fingers along the sleek fabric of Elasti-girl’s costume. The spandex felt cool and impossibly smooth—like liquid confidence poured into thread. “Asher, I don’t know about this,” I murmured. “Being so… forward. A woman in tight clothes in public.”

Asher’s fingers tapped against the dresser’s edge. “Mom,” he said, the word deliberate this time, like he was tasting its shape, “you spent years dreaming about this. Hiding it.” His voice dropped into something softer, almost conspiratorial. “Don’t you wanna know how it *feels* to walk out there like *her*? Before the powers finish baking?”

Asher’s words hung in the air between us, charged with an understanding that shouldn’t belong to a boy who’d been twelve just days ago. His traced the hemline of the Dash costume laid across my bed. “Look,” he said, tilting his head with a grin, “worst case scenario? People think we’re just really committed cosplayers. We both could experience what it may feel like wearing superhero costumes out in public. That may be good experience for us in the future.”

I relented. I told him to get dressed in his room and meet me in the mudroom to the garage in 30 minutes. The moment he bounded out, his footsteps unnaturally light for a boy whose bones had just stretched three inches overnight, I exhaled sharply and reached for the Elasti-girl suit. The fabric slithered against my skin as I stepped into it—cool at first, then warming like a second pulse. My fingers trembled at the zipper. The spandex stretched taut over newly rounded hips, the waist cinching in a way that made my breath hitch.

The bathroom mirror didn’t lie—but it might as well have been a portal to another dimension. The woman staring back at me had my hazel eyes. The black-tinted pantyhose made my legs look endless, the grey bodysuit clinging to every new curve—the swell of hips, the subtle dip of a waist that now tapered sharply before flaring out again. The red belt cinched everything together, accentuating what couldn’t be hidden anymore. I turned slightly, watching the way the light caught the latex of my thigh-high boots, how the stilettos made my calves flex with unfamiliar tension. My fingers brushed over the embossed “E” logo between my breasts. They weren’t large, not yet, but they were undeniably *there*, pressing against the spandex in a way that sent a thrill down my spine.

The bathroom door creaked open just as I was adjusting the elbow-length gloves—black latex. Benna froze in the doorway, her breath catching audibly even without my enhanced hearing. Her eyes dragged down my body with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she crossed the room in three strides, her gait uneven with the unfamiliar weight of muscle and bone. Benna’s lips crashed into mine before I could process her words—hot, urgent, tasting faintly of coffee and something deeper, muskier, an unfamiliar masculinity clinging to her breath. Her hands framed my face with rough tenderness, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as she deepened the kiss. I melted into her, the Elasti-girl suit suddenly tight in all the right places.

Benna said after she recovered herself, “Asher filled me in that you guys were cosplaying at the convention. It would be good for you to expose yourself to public attention. Your missing one thing though: makeup.”

Benna’s hands trembled as she uncapped a tube of crimson lipstick with a soft *pop*. The scent of waxy pigment flooded my hypersensitive nose, mingling with the musk of her sweat-dampened collarbones. “Hold still,” she murmured, her voice low, the vibration thrumming against my sternum as she braced one broad palm against the small of my back. “The makeup has to be vibrant and stand out.”

The lipstick dragged across my mouth—thick and waxy, like someone had pressed melted crayons to my lips. My reflection blinked back at me from the vanity mirror, eyeshadow already making my lashes look impossibly long, my cheekbones highlighted into sharp relief.

My fingers curled instinctively into fists at my hips—the classic superhero pose—as I studied myself in the mirror. The Elasti-girl suit clung to every curve with an intimacy that would’ve mortified me a week ago. Now, it just felt *right*. The grey spandex hugged my narrow waist, flared over hips, and lifted my small but unmistakable breasts into perfect, perky hemispheres. The thigh-high boots added inches to legs, the black material stretched taut over toning muscle.

A clean-shaven Asher stood in the mudroom of the small manor leaning against the wall, his one hand adjusting the black latex glove that stretched taut over his other forearm. The Dash costume fit him like a second skin—the red spandex clinging to every emerging muscle of his adolescent frame, the orange-trimmed briefs riding higher than they would have a week ago, before his hips narrowed and his thighs thickened. His knee-high, latex boots added an extra inch to legs that seemed to lengthen by the hour, and when he turned, the stylized black “I” emblem on his chest caught the light, the yellow and orange threads shimmering against the deep red fabric.

“Lookin’ good, Asher!” I said looking him up and down.

“You really look like a woman, Mom!” He returned the compliment.

The overhead light caught Asher’s jawline—sharp, smooth, *too* smooth. My brows knit together. “Wait, when did you shave?” The question slipped out before I processed the impossibility. “Your skin’s invulnerable now. A razor wouldn’t—”

Asher grinned, flexing his gloved finger. “Mirrors,” he said, like it was obvious. “Angled them just right so my heat vision bounced back and—” He mimed a precise slicing motion near his throat. “Took a few tries. Melted Dad’s good hand mirror earlier.”

We walked Into the garage to hop in my silver Z-4 BMW. We left the garage with the top down. It was ten degrees out, but what did we care. It was sunny.

Thirty minutes later, Asher and I stepped into the convention hall’s buzzing chaos, our latex costumes drawing immediate stares. The air smelled like popcorn and body spray—too much body spray—but my enhanced senses caught every note: the plasticky tang of action figure packaging, the ink from freshly printed comics, the nervous sweat of cosplayers adjusting their outfits.

Asher and I barely made it ten feet into the convention hall before the first camera phones came out. A squeal cut through the chatter—“Oh my god, Elasti-girl *and* Dash!”—and suddenly we were flanked by a trio of teenagers in homemade superhero costumes, their faces flushed with excitement. The tallest one, a girl in a frayed Spider-Gwen hoodie, practically vibrated as she thrust her phone at her friend. “Take one with me between them!” We obliged, of course.

I should have known it would happen. The Syndrome cosplayer—tall, broad-shouldered with a jawline that could’ve been carved from granite—lingered after the photo, his fingers brushing the small of my back as he leaned in to whisper, “You ever think about upgrading from Mr. Incredible?” His breath smelled faintly of cinnamon gum. I felt my cheeks flush—not just from the attention, but from how *right* it felt to have a man’s gaze linger on the curve of my spandex-clad hips. My male wedding ring on the outside of my glove caught the convention center lights when I raised my hand to tuck hair behind my ear (a gesture that came unnaturally smooth now). “Sorry,” I said, my voice melodic in a way that still startled me, “this superhero’s already taken.”

The fifth guy—dressed as Nightwing with arms thick enough to strain the seams of his costume—actually licked his lips when our eyes met. “Damn, Elasti-girl,” he murmured, leaning against a vendor booth so his biceps flexed. “You ever consider stretching those limits with someone who appreciates a *real* superhero?” His gaze dragged down my latex-clad torso with an intensity that made my new, softer skin prickle. I caught myself arching my back slightly, letting the costume exaggerate the swell of my hips before flashing my wedding ring with a practiced flick of my wrist. “Appreciate the offer,” I said, surprised by how effortlessly my voice carried that feminine lilt now, “but I’m happily *incredible* with my husband.” I was flattered and enjoyed the attention I was getting as a woman. I consciously started to emphasize my feminine traits as we walked through the hall.

I wasn’t the only one; Asher got stares from teenage girls too. Asher’s elbow nudged my ribs as a trio of girls in pastel anime wigs openly stared at him from across the vendor aisle. One bit her lower lip in a gesture so theatrical it had to be practiced. “Looks like someone’s the main character today,” I murmured, watching my son’s shoulders squared instinctively, spine straightening until he stood at his full, still-growing height—a movement so distinctly *male* it sent an unexpected pang through my chest.

The Stratogale cosplayer moved with the kind of effortless grace that made the crowded convention floor seem to part for her—black ponytail swaying with each confident stride, knee-high stiletto boots clicking against the linoleum in a rhythm that turned heads. Up close, her costume hugged every curve: the spandex stretched taut over generous hips, the salmon briefs riding high enough to emphasize the dip of her waist, the black tornado emblem perfectly centered between breasts that filled out the fabric with impossible symmetry. When she stopped in front of Asher, she cocked one hip in a pose that made her stilettoed legs look even longer.

The Stratogale cosplayer twirled a lock of her ponytail between gloved fingers—an affected gesture that somehow didn’t feel rehearsed. “I never do this,” she said, voice pitched low enough that the crowd noise nearly swallowed it. The red-colored fabric stretched taut across her chest as she leaned slightly toward Asher. “But your Dash is *chef’s kiss* perfect.” She punctuated the compliment with a quick, exaggerated kiss thrown from her fingertips.

Asher’s grin flashed with an easy confidence. “Thanks,” he said, tilting his head toward her tornado emblem. “I dig the stitching detail on your Stratogale suit—most cosplayers skip the reinforced seams she has in scene 20 of the movie.” His fingers twitched as if itching to trace the embroidered lines himself, stopping just short of touching her.

The Stratogale cosplayer’s eyebrows lifted—just a fraction—but it was enough. Asher had surprised her. Her laughter peeled out bright and sudden as she flicked her ponytail back over one shoulder, the motion sending a ripple through her spandex-clad torso. “No capes!” she mimicked Edna Mode’s sharp inflection perfectly, pressing two fingers to her lips as if stifling another giggle.

I could tell Asher was interested in her and for a new adolescent almost adult, he was charming. At the end of their conversation, Monica, as she identified herself, offered Asher her phone number. Asher’s fingers twitched again—not toward Monica’s Stratogale suit this time, but toward the pocket where his phone would’ve been, if not for the skintight Dash costume. The realization flickered across his face, followed by that new, unnervingly adult-like smirk. “Guess I’ll have to rely on this,” he said, tapping his temple with one finger. His voice had that baritone ease again, the one that kept catching me off guard.

After providing him with her number Monica sauntered away with deliberate sway, her Stratogale suit clinging to every curve—especially the exaggerated hourglass silhouette that looked painted on. Asher’s gaze tracked the movement with a focus that made my cheeks flush hotter than they already were. I couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up—half maternal amusement, half giddy recognition of how *adult* my son suddenly seemed.

The phone’s vibration startled me—Asher’s smirk still fresh in my mind as I fumbled with the unfamiliar curves of my Elastigirl-suited hips to retrieve it. Benna’s baritone hummed through the receiver, richer than yesterday, edged with that new masculine confidence that kept catching me off guard. “Babe, I just snagged last-minute symphony tickets at the Kauffman Center tonight. Three of them.”

“That’s great darling! Three?” My voice came out higher than I intended—not quite shrill, but definitely hovering somewhere between maternal concern and Elasti-girl-worthy squeakiness. The spandex suddenly felt tighter across my chest as I glanced at Asher, who was still watching Monica’s retreating figure with that disturbingly adult focus. “What about Crystal? She’d kill us if we went to the symphony without her.”

Benna laughed—a deep, rich sound that resonated through the phone like a cello note—and I could practically *feel* the grin stretching across her sharper jawline. “Oh, Crystal can absolutely come.” A pause, then her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried that new masculine timbre. “Jensen. *I’m* the 1^st chair violin player tonight. The Chrysler Hall just called me—apparently, I’m their new principal violinist. Had the job for years, according to their records.”

I was astounded, but regathered my wits. I asked, “Aren’t you worried you won’t know the music?”

Benna responded, “I looked at the sheet music and with my new powers, inherited genius, and new violin skills, it looks fairly easy.”

The convention floor blurred around me as Benna’s words sank in—her casual confidence hitting with more force than any superpowered punch. A man bumped into my shoulder, muttered an apology, and I barely registered it, too focused on the deep, amused certainty in Benna’s transformed voice.

“Okay, darling. Sounds great! Congratulations! I know that you have been waiting for this your whole life.” I said earnestly.

“I have.” I could hear the emotion in her voice. We then said our tearful goodbyes.

Asher looked at me with concern and asked, “What was that all about?”

I recovered and winked as I asked Asher, “You want to go to the symphony?”

The usher’s flashlight cut through the dim symphony hall as we climbed to our seats, our transformed bodies moving with unfamiliar grace in formalwear that shouldn’t have fit so perfectly. I adjusted the emerald-green satin wrap dress clinging to my new hourglass figure—the fabric whispering against suddenly sensitive skin—while Asher tugged at his collar, his broader shoulders straining the seams of a tailored suit that had appeared in his closet that morning. Crystal floated ahead in a champagne-colored gown, her coltish legs navigating stairs with unnatural poise, the delicate straps highlighting shoulders that had widened.

Crystal frowned, peering over the balcony railing at the distant stage below. “Upper Grand Tier Left. Why are we way up here,” she said, her matured voice carrying an unexpected petulance that clashed with her poised appearance. The dim light caught the delicate hollow of her throat as she turned to me—her collarbones sharp beneath gossamer fabric.

“It’s the best your dad could do on such short notice,” I whispered, my newly melodic voice carrying an unfamiliar lilt as I smoothed the satin over my thighs—still unused to how fabric draped differently over softer curves. Asher snorted as he leaned forward, forearms resting on the railing. “Free seats beat no seats,” he muttered, though his fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the brass railing, betraying his restlessness.

The house lights dimmed, plunging the auditorium into velvet darkness as the first violin’s note sliced through the silence. Crystal gasped—her hand flying to my wrist—as our collective vision telescoped unnaturally, the entire stage snapping into impossible clarity despite our balcony seats. Asher grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dark as he whispered, “Holy crap, we’ve got Superman vision.” Below us, Benna’s transformed silhouette commanded the violin—her broad shoulders squared beneath the tailored tuxedo, fingers spanning octaves with impossible precision.

Benna’s fingers danced across the strings with impossible speed, her transformed musculature allowing for precision that would’ve made concert violinists weep. The music wasn’t just played—it was *breathed*, each note vibrating through my enhanced hearing with crystalline purity. Crystal squeezed my wrist tighter as Benna hit a crescendo.

Later backstage, Benna stood bathed in golden light from the dressing room mirror, her tuxedo jacket slung over one shoulder like some rakish matinee idol. The sharp angles of her jaw caught the light as she turned, I noted with a pang—and when she grinned at our approach, the dimple that appeared wasn’t the one I’d kissed for fifteen years. “You were magnificent,” I breathed, and my voice hitched at how naturally the words came out in this new, lilting register. I then kissed her.

We headed out. Benna’s contentment radiated off her like heat from pavement in July—undeniable, enveloping, *alive*. She stretched her arms overhead, the crisp white dress shirt pulling taut across shoulders, and sighed with such deep satisfaction it made my throat ache with something between envy and desire. The kids, already halfway to the parking garage with their unnaturally long strides, didn’t glance back. They didn’t need to. We all felt it—this electric thrum of rightness humming through our bones whenever one of us embraced the changes.

It was the 11 o’clock hour. We wanted to stay up until midnight to see how the changes worked to our bodies. The game room’s new mahogany table gleamed under warm lamplight as we settled in playing Monopoly, pajamas clinging to bodies that no longer matched yesterday’s dimensions. My silk camisole—straps perpetually sliding off narrowing shoulders—brushed against nipples still tender, while the matching shorts gaped at my rounded hips. Benna’s cotton sleep shirt stretched across her back like a second skin, the fabric straining between shoulder blades. She wore grey sweat shorts. Crystal’s pajamas were a far cry from the unicorn-print cotton sets she’d worn just days ago—now they were sleek satin shorts with a matching cropped camisole, the deep emerald green shimmering against her soft skin. The straps kept slipping off her shoulders, revealing collarbones that looked sculpted rather than merely grown. Asher, meanwhile, lounged in what could only be called loungewear: charcoal-gray joggers that clung to his thighs and a fitted white tee stretched taut across his chest, the fabric pulling slightly at the shoulders. His socks were pushed halfway down his ankles in that careless way teenage boys wore them.

The grandfather clock’s chime vibrated through the mahogany-paneled game room just as Asher swept the last of Crystal’s hotels off the board. Twelve resonant strikes—each one sending a visible ripple through the air that our enhanced hearing caught like sonar pings. We abandoned the game without discussion, drawn toward the ornate wall mirror behind the bar like moths to some impossible flame. What would the changes bring?

Will I be a woman? Superwoman?