Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 6

I am Superwoman!

My reflection showed… well… perfection. The costume clung to every inch of my new body—not just fitting, but *celebrating* each impossible curve. The deep blue spandex shimmered under the bathroom lights, so tight it might as well have been a second skin, yet somehow it moved with me like liquid. The iconic S-shield—bold red and gold—stretched across my chest, its curves accentuating the swell of my breasts, which were now full and heavy, pressing against the emblem with an almost gravitational pull. The high-cut briefs hugged my hips, the yellow belt cinching my waist into an obscenely exaggerated hourglass. The cape—oh, the cape—was silk, but it rippled like something alive, cascading down my back in a waterfall of crimson.

The bathroom door creaked open without warning, and there he stood—Ben, but *more*. The kind of “more” now at 6’6” that made my breath catch even after seven days of watching him evolve. His shoulders filled the doorway now, not just broad but *structural*, like the lintel itself had reshaped to accommodate him. His collarbones jutted sharp as suspension bridges beneath golden skin. Ben leaned against the doorframe with that effortless masculinity that still sent a thrill through me—his jawline sharp enough to carve stone, the stubble along it darkened overnight into a shadow that accentuated the planes of his face. His cheekbones could’ve been chiseled by some divine sculptor, high and pronounced, casting faint shadows under the bathroom light. The way his eyebrows arched now—thicker, more defined—framed those hazel eyes that seemed to glow with their own quiet intensity. Ben’s transformation had reached its zenith—his body now radiated a raw, primal masculinity that made even the air around him feel charged. The light caught the dusting of golden-blonde hair across his forearms, thicker now, trailing down to his wrists where veins stood in pronounced relief against skin pulled taut over corded muscle. He held his black, muscle shirt in his right palm. Ben’s chest—God, his *chest*—was a topography of interlocking slabs, each pectoral defined with surgical precision beneath a smattering of coarse hair that arrowed down past his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Ben’s lips parted—not to speak, but in pure, stunned silence. His hazel eyes traveled the length of my body, lingering on the sculpted thighs bulging beneath cobalt spandex, the impossible taper of my waist, the way the S-shield strained against breasts that defied gravity. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, hard, like he’d forgotten how to swallow. His blue jeans immediately tented. Then his eyelids fluttered, and two fat tears streaked down those sharp cheekbones.

Ben’s voice cracked—deep, resonant, but fractured with emotion. “You’re… you’re *her*,” he managed, those three syllables carrying fifteen years of repressed fantasies, secret costume stashes, and midnight confessionals. His fingers twitched toward the S-shield as if magnetized, stopping just shy of contact. “Christ, Jennifer. You’re actually *Superwoman*.” His tears left glistening tracks down stubble-darkened cheeks.

The force of Ben’s embrace nearly lifted me off the ground—a staggering thought considering I now stood seven feet tall in six-inch heels and six inches taller than him. His transformed musculature pressed against mine with unfamiliar topography, the hard planes of his chest yielding slightly against my softened curves. I could feel his accelerated heartbeat through the thin spandex separating us, each thud echoing my own racing pulse. His cologne—something woodsy and expensive—mixed with the scent of his tears, creating an olfactory snapshot of this impossible moment.

Ben pulled back, his hands lingering on my waist—hesitant, reverent. His thumbs traced the scalloped edges of my hipbones through the spandex, as if mapping unfamiliar territory. “You should see the kids,” he murmured, voice thick with something between pride and disbelief. “Crystal’s—Christ—she’s like some Hollywood starlet crossed with an Olympic swimmer. And Asher?” Ben huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Kid looks like he stepped off a Marvel pos-“

“But first,” I interrupted. “Try your costume on. I think the Voice hung it on the back side of the closet.”

Ben’s fingertips brushed his stubbled jawline—rough against his newly smooth skin—before he grinned, the expression boyish despite the razor-sharp cheekbones and thickly muscled neck that now defined his face. “Give me two minutes,” he said, already striding toward the bathroom vanity with that unconscious, predatory grace his transformed body carried. The mirror caught his reflection as he leaned in, hazel eyes narrowing in concentration. Then—impossibly—his irises glowed faintly red. Heat vision. Of course. The heat vision sliced through the air with surgical precision, bouncing off the mirror’s surface in a crimson ribbon. Ben angled his head, watching in the reflection as the red beam traced his jawline—left, then right—shearing away stubble with a faint sizzle. Tiny hairs vaporized into wisps of smoke that curled toward the ceiling, leaving behind skin so smooth it gleamed under the bathroom lights. He dragged two fingers along his chin, testing the result. Not even the ghost of roughness remained.

Ben blurred—not just fast, but *gone*—a vacuum pop of displaced air the only evidence he’d moved at all. Then he materialized before me, fully transformed, and my breath caught. The costume *fit* him like divine armor. The deep blue fabric wasn’t just textured—it *lived*, shifting like liquid metal under the bedroom lights, the chainmail pattern catching and fracturing the glow into a thousand tiny constellations. His cape, darker than blood, pooled at his boots before cascading down his back in a seamless fall of fabric that somehow looked both heavy and weightless. But the shield—oh god, the shield. The S curled over his pectorals with an almost predatory curvature, the edges sharp enough to draw blood if touched. Every muscle beneath that alien weave stood in hyperdefinition, from the cobbled ridges of his abdomen to the twin mountain ranges of his deltoids. The suit left nothing to imagination—his thighs, his arms, even the subtle flex of his trapezius when he rolled his shoulders—all of it sculpted under that Kryptonian-blue second skin.

I gasped, totally turned on. The way the Superman suit clung to Ben’s transformed body—every ridge, every contour—sent heat pooling low in my stomach. My gaze traveled down the impossible V of his torso, over the sculpted thighs that could crush boulders, before snapping back up to meet his eyes. “Approval” didn’t even begin to cover it. He was Superman.

The glint of gold caught my eye first—six rings laid out with military precision on the marble countertop, each resting atop a crisp ivory note. Superman’s fingers hovered near mine as we approached, our synchronized movements betraying the same hesitant curiosity. The rings weren’t just gold—they seemed to drink the light, their luster pulsing faintly like distant supernovas contained within polished metal. Upon further inspection, as we picked them of the marble, each ring had initials engraved in it: KL, KL, KS, CE, LK, AI.

My fingers trembled as I lifted the note—the paper unnaturally smooth against my skin, like pressed stardust rather than pulp. The cursive ink shimmered briefly, as if responding to my touch. Superman exhaled sharply beside me, his cape rustling despite the absence of wind. “The Voice again,” he murmured, his baritone vibrating through my newly enhanced senses.

In perfect brown-penned cursive, it said, “As you wished, six power rings. Turn right on index finger to activate. Turn left to deactivate. To protect your love one’s, friends, and family-whomever you wish. -The Voice. P.S. Hope you enjoy the suits. They are indestructible and contaminant resistant.”

Superman’s fingers lingered against mine as we lowered them into a velvet-lined box and into the safe of the walk-in closet, his calloused thumb brushing my knuckles in a silent question. The rings pulsed faintly through the steel door—six golden bands whispering promises both of us could yet comprehend. I caught our reflection in the full-length mirrors: his Superman emblem stretched taut across pectorals that could bench press continents, my waist cinched impossibly small between the flare of hips that defied human anatomy. We looked like gods playing house.

Superman and I walked down to the gameroom. The moonlight filtering through the bay windows caught the golden strands of my seven-foot frame as I floated just above the Persian rug—my cape undulating in an invisible current that smelled faintly of ozone and something celestial. Crystal’s and Crystal’s gasp were audible even without my superhearing. Clearly they in awe of me as they looked up at me.

Asher leaned against the pool table, light catching the sharp angles of his jaw as he adjusted the sunglasses perched atop his nose—a deliberate pause that made the leather of his jacket creak. The transformation had whittled him into something out of a comic book panel for Superboy: the black belts cinched around his waist emphasized the impossible taper from his shoulders down, while the red spandex clung to thighs that could outrun bullets. When he flexed, just to watch the way the S-shield stretched across his chest. The black leather jacket hung open, deliberately framing the sculpted planes of his chest—every breath making the red, blue, and black fabric ripple like liquid over muscle. He rolled his shoulders just to hear the way the spandex whispered against his skin, the sound somehow both alien and intimately familiar. Superboy stretched his arms overhead, the spandex sleeves pulling taut against biceps that hadn’t existed a week ago—now so defined they cast shadows in the afternoon light. The red gloves creaked as he flexed, watching the play of muscle beneath alien fabric that somehow felt more natural than his own skin ever had.

The lower red half of his suit clinging to thighs that could outpace locomotives. The yellow belt around Superboy’s thigh wasn’t just decorative—it was *functional*, though he’d never admit it out loud. The supple leather cinched tight enough to leave a faint indentation in his quadricep when he shifted, a visual anchor point that drew attention to the sculpted power in his legs. The matching belts around his calf-high boots served the same purpose, emphasizing the corded muscles that flexed with every idle movement. They were unnecessary, really—his Superboy physique didn’t need accentuating—but they completed the aesthetic in a way that felt viscerally *right*. He was Superboy.

Crystal walked across the gameroom with the poised grace of someone who’d never known clumsiness, her red cape whispering against the pool table as she walked by. The transformation had erased every trace of the gangly preteen—her collarbones now carved sharp as marble beneath the blue spandex, framing the impossible swell of her breasts beneath the S-shield. That symbol stretched taut across curves that would’ve been pornographic if not for the innocent tilt of her chin, the way she absentmindedly tucked a honey-blonde lock of hair behind one ear like she wasn’t aware of the room holding its breath. Crystal looked up at me, and for the first time, I truly *saw* her—not as my little girl in pigtails splashing in the kiddie pool, but as a woman sculpted by divine hands.

The Helen Slater-inspired costume clung to her like liquid defiance—red boots gleaming under the recessed lighting, the yellow trim framing calves that tapered into impossible perfection. The sheer pantyhose sheened over thighs that could crush diamonds, disappearing beneath a miniskirt so short it bordered on rebellion, yet the wide yellow latex belt holding it up lent an air of deliberate authority. The cape cascaded down her back like molten rubies, each fold catching the light with an unnatural sheen that made it seem alive. The golden S-shield at her back more stylized than Clark Kent’s—pulsed faintly as she turned, as if responding to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her jawline, once soft with childhood roundness, now cut such a severe angle that it looked capable of deflecting bullets. She wasn’t my “little girl” anymore or even just Crystal . She was Supergirl.

“You both look…” I hovered three feet above the gameroom’s Persian rug, my own cape undulating in an invisible current, “absolutely super.” The word cracked in my throat—too small for what I was seeing. Superboy pivoted in his black leather jacket, the red S-shield across his chest distorting as his pectorals flexed beneath the alien fabric. His smirk had Benna’s mischief but none of her hesitation.

Supergirl countered that I looked like a goddess, her voice carrying a hushed reverence that made the air between us shimmer. She stood there—all golden hair and blue spandex, her cape pooling around her like liquid sapphire—and for the first time, I saw her not as my little girl, but as something mythic. The way her gloved fingers traced the S-shield on her own chest was almost reverent, like she was confirming its reality.

Superboy flexed his arms, the black leather jacket straining across shoulders that had widened overnight into something sculpted by gods. “Feels like I could lift anything,” he murmured, more to himself than us, his voice deeper than it had any right to be. Then—young men will always test limits—he crouched, slid his fingers beneath the edge of the eight-foot slate pool table, and lifted. The massive thing came up like it was made of balsa wood, his biceps barely twitching beneath the jacket’s sleeves. Then he spun it around his finger like a basketball grinning—the thousand-pound slate rotating with impossible precision on a single fingertip, his balance unshaken even as the momentum sent his jacket flaring open to reveal the sculpted abdomen beneath. Supergirl gasped, hand flying to her mouth as the pool table’s shadow sliced across the ceiling like some deranged helicopter blade.

The slate pool table crashed back onto its legs with a thunderous *thud*. Superboy grinned at his own handiwork, shaking out his fingers like he’d just tossed a tennis ball rather than a quarter-ton slab of stone. That grin hit me square in the chest: pure, unfiltered *joy*, the kind I hadn’t seen since he was six and discovered how to make mud pies in Benna’s rose garden.

“Your turn, Supergirl,” Supergirl nudging her shoulder. She rolled her eyes—a practiced teenage gesture made surreal by the way her blue spandex stretched across suddenly womanly curves—then flicked her honey-blonde hair. Without preamble, she grabbed the massive oak bookshelf against the far wall. The wood groaned as she lifted it clean off the ground, her red cape fluttering despite the absence of wind.

The gameroom became our playground—heavy objects tossed between us like beach balls at a summer picnic. I watched Superman hoist one of our sectionals with one hand, his biceps flexing obscenely beneath the stretched blue fabric of his suit as he pretended to juggle it. I indeed did juggle two pinball machines. The absurdity of it—the way our former lives felt like distant dreams compared to this moment of pure, unfiltered power—sent laughter bubbling up from my chest in a melodic cascade that sounded foreign and yet utterly mine.

“Arm wrestle me,” Superman said suddenly, his voice deeper now, carrying that same playful challenge he, as Ben, used when daring me to race him to Cologne. His fingers drummed against the polished mahogany of the game table—the same one Superman had just spun like a dinner plate—and I hesitated. His forearm flexed beneath the blue sleeve of his suit, veins mapping newfound strength I wasn’t sure I wanted to test.

Our palms met with a soft *whump* of compressed air, Supergirl counting down with exaggerated seriousness. “Three…two…one—*go!*”

Superman’s brow furrowed when my arm didn’t budge beneath his initial push. His fingers twitched against my palm—once, twice—testing resistance like a violinist checking a silent string. Then his grin sharpened, that competitive glint flashing in hazel eyes identical to mine. “Oh, you’re *playing*,” he murmured, voice dropping into that new baritone that still sent shivers down my spine.

Superman’s biceps strained against his sleeves, veins rising like rivers under taut skin as he poured more force into the push. I watched, fascinated, as his forearm trembled—the same arm that had effortlessly spun slate pool tables minutes ago—yet against my palm, it might as well have been a child’s nudge. His breath hitched when I didn’t budge, his other hand joining in a desperate two-handed grip that made the mahogany groan beneath our elbows.

The Mahogany table cracked like thunder and broke underneath Superman’s wrists as I pinned him effortlessly, my finger pressed to my lips in a mock-silent challenge. His forearms quivered against the wood, tendons standing rigid beneath skin that had once been Benna’s softness. I tilted my head, letting my smirk bloom slow and wicked—the same one I’d practiced in mirrors while wearing stolen spandex all those secret years ago.

Superman’s shoulders slumped as he flexed his wrists, staring at the shattered mahogany fragments scattered across the marble floor. That wounded pride flickered across his face—the same expression he used to make when I would beat Benna at checkers back when we were mortal. Before I could stop myself, I crossed the space between us in a blur and wrapped him in a crushing embrace, my arms looping around his broad shoulders with enough force to make a normal man wheeze.

I explained, “My wish to the Voice must have made me much stronger than you, Superboy, and Supergirl- maybe as much as three times.”

Superman’s exhale tickled my collarbone as I held him suspended off the ground by fabric on his chest—his weightlessness against my strength making us both pause. “The strongest superhero in the world. Right, I remember.” His chuckle vibrated through my chest, equal parts amusement and awe. His fingers traced the new contours of my shoulder muscles, following ridges that hadn’t existed a week ago. “Three times, Jennifer? Really?” I blushed.

While I was displaying my newfound strength, Superboy was tapping away at a smartphone at super speed. Superboy’s phone screen cast an eerie blue glow as he scrolled, his brow furrowing deeper with each swipe. “Uh, guys?” His voice carried an edge of disbelief. I saw this earlier as I was trying to figure how to put my Superboy costume on by using YouTube. I wanted to double check it, but you’re not gonna believe this.” He turned the screen toward us, displaying a blank Wikipedia page titled *Superwoman*. The URL was correct, but the content was just… gone. Like someone had taken an eraser to history itself.

Superboy’s fingers froze mid-swipe as he pulled up another tab—DC Comics’ official database. His newly sculpted throat worked silently when the search results for “Superman” returned nothing but a 404 error. “That’s… impossible,” he muttered, thumb jamming the refresh button hard enough to crack the screen. “I had the entire Crisis on Infinite Earths arc downloaded yesterday.”

The silence in the room thickened as Superman reached for his own phone—his fingers, now broad and capable, moved with unconscious precision. The screen illuminated his sharpened features as he pulled up Wikipedia’s revision history. “Last edited twenty minutes ago,” he murmured. His thumb scrolled through blank revisions, the digital equivalent of footsteps disappearing in fresh snow. “Not just erased. Retconned out of existence.”

The weight of that realization settled over us. We contemplated what that meant. The words left my lips before I fully processed them—soft, melodic, but carrying the weight of a tectonic shift. “We could ride our own history now.” My fingers traced edge of the pool table. “Not just live it. *Shape* it.”

Superman’s breath hitched—a sharp intake that made his newly defined pectorals flex beneath the thin emblem stretched across them. His fingers found mine, our superhuman strength making the contact weightless despite the tension humming between us. “You’re talking about rewriting Kryptonian pop culture,” he murmured. “This could be fun!”

Supergirl cocked her head like a curious bird, honey-blonde waves cascading over her shoulders as she stared at the floor. Her blue eyes pulsed faintly with x-ray luminescence. “Mom,” she breathed, pointing at the basement tiles beneath our bare feet. “There’s a vault door down there. Like… *bank* vault big.”

After verifying with our own x-ray vision, the world blurred into streaks of color as we moved—not one after the other, but simultaneously, like a single thought made flesh. One heartbeat we stood by the pool table; the next, our bare feet met cold steel plating beneath the basement tiles. The vault door loomed before us, taller than me, its circular surface dominated by an embossed House of Jor-El emblem so polished it reflected our stunned faces back at us in distorted crimson and gold.

We, of course, could see through the vault door with x-ray vision, but where was the fun in that. The vault door groaned like a waking titan when Superman gripped its colossal handle, his sculpted shoulders bunching under the fabric of his spandex bodysuit. Watching him strain—even slightly—sent an unexpected thrill through me; my husband’s veins stood in sharp relief beneath blue fabric skin, his biceps swelling against the limits of human musculature before the mechanism surrendered with a pneumatic hiss. Cold air rushed out, smelling of ozone and something faintly metallic. Clearly the door could only be opened with someone that had superhuman strength, it’s security feature.

The vault door groaned inward, revealing a corridor—golden light spilled from walls etched with Kryptonian glyphs that pulsed faintly as our shadows crossed the threshold. Supergirl slipped past us with effortless grace, her toned legs carrying her down the hallway before any of us could react. The vault door at the far end was smaller, but no less imposing, its surface carved with an intricate pattern of stars that shifted when viewed from different angles.

The second vault door slid open without resistance, revealing a entrance chamber bathed in crystalline green light, an advanced “mudroom”. A robot—its chrome plating polished to a mirror finish, its faceplate shaped with the same sharp angles as Kryptonian armor from the comics—inclined its head as Supergirl stepped through. “Welcome back to your Fortress of Solitude, Mistress Supergirl, Mistress Superwoman, Master Superman, Master Superboy.” It intoned, its voice smooth and synthetic, yet familiar. Four identical units materialized and came from alcoves hidden in the walls, their movements synchronized as they bowed in perfect unison. The nearest one extended a clawed hand toward the center of the small room. “We stand by for your orders.”

We all looked at each other with stunned expressions. Superman then spoke up, “Humor us. We need to get a tour of this place.”

The chrome-plated robot straightened with a hydraulic hiss as if surprised by the order, its faceted eyes glowing brighter as it gestured toward the central chamber ahead. “This installation was designed according to your specifications,” it announced in that eerily smooth voice. “Shall we proceed with orientation?”

A new crystalline chamber expanded before us, its walls pulsing with veins of emerald energy that cast jagged reflections across the chrome robots’ faceless visages. The central command center resembled a bridge from some alien warship—floating holographic displays flickered with Kryptonian glyphs that rearranged themselves as our eyes passed over them. A massive circular table dominated the space, its surface projecting a three-dimensional map of Earth that rotated lazily above it, dotted with golden markers I instinctively knew represented potential threats. Supergirl’s fingers trailed along the translucent railings that curved around the perimeter, her reflection fracturing in the polished floor panels. “This looks like it was grown, not built,” she murmured, pressing her palm against a section of wall that rippled like liquid metal under her touch.

The ceiling arched overhead like the belly of some colossal aquatic beast—ten-inch-thick plexiglass stretched across the entire expanse, revealing the murky underside of our backyard pond fifty feet above. Schools of fish drifted like slow-motion constellations, their shadows elongating across the polished floor whenever they passed through shafts of moonlight penetrating the water. I tilted my head back, watching a large mouth bass flick its tail near the surface, momentarily blocking the moon and casting our entire chamber into emerald gloom before swimming on.

The lead robot—designated K-9T by the glowing insignia on its chestplate—gestured toward a hexagonal doorway that irised open with a hydraulic hiss. “The recreation sector or Rec Sec,” it announced in a voice that somehow managed to sound both mechanical and reverent. The recreation room stretched before us like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream—if that billionaire happened to be a Kryptonian with a penchant for 1950s Americana. The holographic Alps shimmered along one wall, the snowy peaks so crisp I could almost feel the chill, while next to it, a flatscreen television, currently displaying a live feed of our backyard pond from some impossible camera angle. Opposite them sat a vintage pool table with felt that glowed faintly blue under the plexiglass, its cues racked in what looked like genuine ivory. Comfortable leather section chairs lay everywhere and jukebox and three pinball machines lined the far wall—one Superman-themed, another with Supergirl’s skirt, the third depicting a Kryptonian skyline I didn’t recognize but somehow *knew* was the capital city of Argo.

K-9T lead us back into the command center. It’s metal fingers opened a door. It slid back with a whisper of displaced air, revealing a tunnel that curved downward at a sharp angle, its walls ribbed like the inside of some colossal creature’s trachea. “Designation: Backwoods Access,” the droned, its optic lenses dilating as it motioned us forward. “Primary function: covert ingress/egress for costumed operations.”

The chrome-plated attendant extended one articulated limb toward a doorway, its edges pulsing with the same bioluminescent veins threading through the fortress walls. “This facility contains full food preparation and consumption accommodations,” K-9T announced in its unsettlingly smooth baritone, leading us into a space—part industrial kitchen with floating countertops that rearranged themselves at eye blinks, part dining hall with a table stretching long enough to seat twenty, though currently configured for our family of four.

The unit stated, “That it’s the end of the tour. A reminder: we exist only to serve you.”

“Just to serve us?” I echoed, running a hand along the floating countertop—its surface warm and yielding beneath my fingertips like living marble. The absurdity of it all hit me again: alien architecture beneath our Virginia home, robots treating us like royalty, and my own seven-foot frame wrapped in spandex that clung tighter than second skin. I asked, “Tell us again: What is the mission we gave you?”

K-9T’s chrome plating rippled with what might have been confusion—if a machine could feel such a thing. “Mistress Superwoman,” it intoned, “your directive was explicit: we maintain global surveillance from the command hub, filtering threats through Kryptonian predictive matrices. When exigencies arise, we alert you via neural frequency matching your species’ telepathic bandwidth.” The robot’s segmented neck rotated slightly toward my daughter. “Mistress Supergirl receives identical uplinks, as do Master Superman and Master Superboy. Priority sequencing adjusts based on—”

Superman cut K-9T off mid-explanation with a gesture—his biceps flexing under the Superman insignia. “Hold up. Neural uplinks? Predictive matrices?” His deepened voice carried a glee I’d never heard from Benna. “Are you telling us we’ll receive mission alerts *anytime*? That’s awesome!”

K-9T’s ocular lenses pulsed blue in confirmation. “Affirmative, Master. Mission-critical alerts will be transmitting to your neural receptors at anytime.”

Superboy bounced on the balls of his feet with the unrestrained energy of a golden retriever puppy, his freshly muscled frame practically vibrating. “This is *so* cool!” He punched the air, sending a mini shockwave that made Crystal’s honey-blonde hair flutter. “We have an actual *headquarters*! Like, underground lair levels of awesome!”

We happily enjoyed our new headquarters for a few hours, but the workweek still called, even for superpowered beings. Just short of 5 a.m. our family emerged from the vault door down the hall from the gameroom. Raccoon darted between our legs, her raccoon-like tail twitching as she sniffed at Supergirl’s red cape.

Alice’s spatula clattered against the skillet when she turned and saw us filing into the kitchen—four caped deities still glowing from their subterranean revelations. Her freckled cheeks flushed scarlet beneath the fluorescent lights as her gaze traced my sculpted waistline, Superman’s impossible shoulders, and Superboy’s golden-boy radiance.

“Good morning, superheroes. You turned out great!” Alice said, her voice lilting with amusement as she flipped pancakes with practiced flicks of her wrist. Her eyes lingered on me—my waist cinched by the golden belt of my Superwoman suit, my shoulders squared under the cape’s weight. She tilted her head back to meet my gaze, her freckled nose wrinkling. “You’re—what, seven feet tall now? Mrs. Jenkins, you look gorgeous!”

She used my formal last name even when I specifically told her not. I looked at her smiling, yet irritated using brain waves unconsciously, “Thank you for the compliment. I ordered you to call me Jennifer in my alter-ego form or Superwoman in costume.”

Alice’s smile froze mid-flip, the pancake suspended in midair for a fraction too long before slapping back onto the skillet. Her hazel eyes glazed over, pupils dilating unnaturally wide as my words—laced with something deeper than mere frustration—pulsed through her neural pathways like liquid gold. “Of course… Superwoman,” she murmured, the syllables tasting foreign yet irresistible on her tongue. A bead of syrup dripped from the bottle she’d been holding, splattering between us in slow motion as the kitchen air thickened with the ozone tang of activated power.

Superman, Superboy, Supergirl, and I looked at each other thinking the same thing. Did I just control her? I needed to test this hypothesis.

The spatula slipped from Alice’s fingers entirely this time, clattering against the countertop as she turned to face me with unnerving precision—like a marionette awaiting its next tug on the strings. Her pupils remained dilated, black swallowing the hazel in a way that sent an illicit thrill up my spine. “Alice,” I murmured, testing the weight of my own voice, “spin in a circle three times.”

Alice’s body jerked as if struck by lightning the moment the command left my lips. Her limbs moved with eerie precision—three rotations executed like a wind-up toy released from its spring. I told her to hop on one leg, and she complied.

Superman’s fingers dug into my newly sculpted waist. “Christ, Superwoman. You’re broadcasting.” His breath hitched against my ear.

Superboy’s brow furrowed—those impossibly blue eyes narrowing as he mimicked my posture, squaring his shoulders and deepening his voice like he’d seen in some forgotten comic book. “Alice, stop hopping.” His command hung in the syrup-scented air, weightless. Alice’s red bun bounced merrily as she continued her one-legged rhythm. Alice’s freckled knee pistoned up and down with metronomic precision, her chef’s clogs squeaking. I swallowed hard under the weight of three pairs of superhuman eyes—Superman’s hazel gaze sharp enough to drill through steel, Superboy’s widened in fascination, Supergirl’s glossy lips parted in awe.

Alice’s foot finally stilled when my voice cracked out the command—loud, sharp—like I’d been caught sneaking cookies before dinner. He didn’t flinch. None of them did. Just stared up. The silence was worse than the hopping.

The words tasted like sour milk on my tongue—part confession, part realization. “I think…” My fingers tightened around the steel countertop, leaving a dent in the metal. I meekly said, “The Voice must have given me mind control because I wished for it. Just me. Sorry.”

Superman smiled like the hunk he is and said, “You really are Superwoman!”

I blushed, but gathered my wits. I had control. Power. I was in command now. “Alice,” I said, pressing my palms flat against the counter—careful not to bend it this time—as her freckled face snapped toward me with unnerving precision. The residual glow in her pupils pulsed like a system reboot. “I’m so sorry about that. It won’t happen again.” A lie, probably. The way my nerves still hummed with leftover power suggested otherwise. The command left my lips before I could second-guess it—a crisp, practiced order that carried the weight of a dean addressing cadets rather than a superheroine addressing household staff. “Alice, gather everyone in the foyer at 0700 sharp. We have standing orders.”

After a hardy breakfast and conversation in the dining room and still in our costumes, the four of us walked to the front entrance. As I asked Alice, she had the staff gathered in a line like the Von Trapp Family. The other six staff members—three butlers in tailored black suits and three maids in starched gray uniforms froze mid-step, their polished shoes squeaking against the white marble. Their necks craned upward, following the impossible height difference between them and us. Supergirl twirled a lock of honey-blonde hair around one finger, her cape swishing with the motion, and grinned at a butler who marveled at her beauty. “Morning, Tim. You shrank from yesterday.”

Tim blinked up at Supergirl like a man caught between worship and whiplash, his polished professionalism cracking just enough to show the confusion beneath. Then his gaze snapped to me—Superwoman—as I took a deliberate step forward, my red boots sinking slightly into the plush Persian rug. The staff’s collective breath hitched. I could hear every pulse accelerate, smell the faint citrus of their starched uniforms, see the microscopic tremor in the maid’s clasped hands. Power thrummed under my skin, electric and undeniable.

“My friends,” I began, letting my voice resonate with just enough psychic weight. Their pupils dilated on cue. “This household now operates under new… understandings.” My fingers brushed the golden ‘S’ on my chest. Behind me, Superman crossed his arms—a silent pillar of support—while Superboy smirked and Supergirl examined her nails with exaggerated nonchalance.

I leaned in, letting my cape cascade dramatically. “You will be loyal. Discreet.” The words weren’t just spoken; they slithered into their cerebellums, coiling around synapses like living wire. A butler’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Our secrets stay within these walls. Our costumes? Mundane as bathrobes.” A maid’s eyelid twitched as the compulsion took root. “The vault door? Doesn’t exist.” I smiled sweetly while mentally twisting the psychic screws tighter. “In return—protection. Friendship. And,” I paused, relishing the way their spines straightened, “triple salaries.”

I gave them one more order. “When we are in costume you will address us by our superhero names. While we are in civilian clothes you will call us by our first names. Formal, yet informal. Promise me you understand.”

“Yes, Superwoman.” The staff chorused their acknowledgment in eerie unison—voices blending into a single, obedient vibration that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I watched their pupils dilate further, their breathing sync as my psychic command settled into their nervous systems like a biological command protocol. Alice stepped forward as I loosened mental control. Then, she took control the staff for the daily chores. Superman, Supergirl, Superboy, and I walked away to attack the day in our alter egos.

The wind screamed past my ears as I sliced through the stratosphere, the duffel bag’s strap biting into my palm with delicious pressure. Below, Tidewater Virginia roads sprawled like spaghetti only visible from this altitude. My cape snapped like a sail catching the jet stream, and for one giddy moment, I tipped backward just to watch the world spin beneath me, my invulnerable spine crushing a cumulus cloud into vapor. The GPS in my phone vibrated against my thigh—still set to driving directions, still insisting I make a legal U-turn at the next intersection. I really didn’t need GPS, but old habits die hard.

The forest clearing exploded with motion as I touched down—leaves whipping into a frenzy, branches snapping back from my sudden deceleration. My boots left perfect imprints in the damp earth, steam curling off my shoulders where friction had superheated the air. The duffel bag hit the ground with a thump, and before it could settle, I was already a blur—hands moving faster than human eyes could track as I stripped off my cape and peeled away the indigo bodysuit clinging to every newly sculpted curve.

Business casual took on a whole new meaning when your measurements defied fabric physics. The pencil skirt hugged my hips like it had been painted on, the hem riding high enough to showcase thighs that could crush steel. My blouse—silk so thin it might as well have been mist—clung to breasts that required actual engineering to support, the top buttons deliberately left undone to display cleavage that plunged like a geological event. Patent leather heels added four inches I didn’t need, their stiletto points sinking into the soft earth as I pivoted to check my reflection in a puddle.

The puddle’s reflection didn’t lie—my silhouette was a study in impossible proportions, the kind that made mannequins weep. I straightened my blouse with a tug that nearly popped the seams and strode toward the college’s main entrance, my heels sinking into the gravel path with each step. The atrium doors loomed ahead.

The glass doors slid apart with a whisper, revealing an atrium frozen mid-motion—majors halting mid-stride, coffee cups suspended halfway to lips, all eyes snapping toward me like iron filings to a magnet. The air thickened with the scent of twenty different heart rates accelerating. Then former colleague Professor Chin stepped into my path, his jacket hanging loose on shoulders that suddenly seemed so… small. Professor Chin’s clipboard clattered to the floor as he gaped up at me—*up*, because I now towered over him by nearly a foot. “Mrs. Jenkins?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Pulitzer Prize winner and popular historian! What are you doing here at our small college?” He gestured vaguely at my chest, then flinched at his own audacity. The words hit me like a kryptonite punch to the gut. *He didn’t know me. Apparently, I didn’t work here. Perhaps never did in this new reality* Professor Chin’s wrinkled forehead creased further as I stood there, my new height making me loom over him like some goddess descended from Mount Olympus. His confusion smelled like stale coffee and nervous sweat.

I smiled and said, “I am just visiting the dean.”

The lie tasted like spun sugar on my tongue—sweet and dissolving too fast. I flashed Professor Chin a smile that made his glasses fog up, then strode past him with deliberate sway in my hips. My reflection in the polished marble floors showed the truth: a seven-foot-tall goddess in a blouse straining at every seam, leaving a trail of gaping majors in my wake. The click of my heels echoed like gunshots in the suddenly silent atrium. The brass nameplate outside the dean’s office gleamed under the fluorescent lights—*Dean Everett Langford* etched in crisp serifs where my own name should’ve been. Now he sat in *my* chair, in *my* reality. Except—it wasn’t mine anymore.

In an instant I was moving—not walking, but *existing* in that impossible space between intention and action where physics no longer applied. One heartbeat I stood frozen mid-stride, the next I was a blur of motion so fast it didn’t register on human retinas. The air didn’t so much part around me as *remember* to exist again after I’d already passed through it. Between one moment and the next, the pencil skirt changed into sapphire spandex, silk blouse surrendering to the familiar embrace of my chest emblem—a diamond-studded “S” stretched taut across impossible curves. My heels practically switched out mid-stride, replaced by thigh-high red boots that clung seamlessly around calves that could crush steel. All before the first strand of Professor Chin’s thinning hair had finished settling back into place. Nobody noticed I had even left the building.

The world blurred into streaks of color as I shot upward, the college campus shrinking beneath me like a toy model. Wind screamed past my ears—or it would have, if I hadn’t already learned to manipulate air pressure around my eardrums. My fingers trailed through cumulus clouds as I arced toward home, the transformation completing itself mid-flight—buttons popping from my blouse to reveal the indestructible fabric beneath, seams dissolving as the spandex molded to my body with the intimacy of a second skin. By the time I crossed the bay, I was fully Superwoman—right down to the way my cape snapped smartly behind me like a scarlet banner.

The sunroom’s glass panels trembled imperceptibly as I landed—not with a thud, but with the grace of a feather caught mid-descent. Superman didn’t startle; his superhearing had tracked my approach from three counties away. He lounged across the chaise, one arm draped over his eyes, the other holding a book. The sunlight gilded the dusting of golden stubble along his jawline.

I settled in on the sectional with Superman climbing into my lap. His fingers traced idle circles between my shoulder blades—a new habit, something Benna had never done but did instinctively now, as if mapping the unfamiliar terrain of my transformed musculature. He grinned up at me as he told me the latest news on the children during a good cuddle. “Crystal won by a landslide last year in this reality,” he murmured, his baritone vibrating through my ribs where our bodies pressed together. “Turns out running for student council president is easy for a girl with charisma like Crystal’s. She has play practice after school. Oh! And Asher has baseball practice after school today. Then, he has his date with Monica.”

“It still catches me off guard,” I admitted, running my fingers through Superman’s hair. “One minute they’re building blanket forts in the living room, the next they’re dating and running for office like adults. Feels like we skipped a decade.” The words tasted strange in my mouth, this melodic voice of mine wrapping around nostalgia that didn’t quite fit our new timeline.

Superman chuckled, the sound rumbling against my thighs as he unlocked his phone with a flick of his thumb—his movements effortless now, no more fumbling with touchscreens like Benna used to. The screen glowed between us, displaying numbers that made my breath catch. “Fifty million,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “Turns out selling out Carnegie Hall adds up faster than teaching violin lessons ever did.” His smirk was pure masculine pride, the kind Benna would have tempered with self-deprecation.

“I always knew you’d sell out Carnegie Hall one day,” I said, tracing the sharp line of Superman’s jaw with my fingertips—still marveling at how different his bone structure felt beneath my touch. His answering grin flashed white and perfect, the kind of smile that belonged on billboards.

“Wait, let’s check mine,” I said, pulling my own phone from where it had been wedged between my thigh and the couch—a movement that sent Superman’s gaze tracking down my torso with undisguised appreciation. The screen blinked awake, displaying banking figures that made even my superpowered pulse stutter. “Fifty-eight million,” I breathed, then flashed him a smirk sharp enough to match my cheekbones. “Pulitzer Prize-winning popular historians apparently outperform even Carnegie Hall violinists.”

Superman’s fingers lingered at the small of my back as we hovered above the sectional—his touch simultaneously familiar and thrillingly new in a silent congratulations of getting my dream job. Changing the subject he said, “I’m humbled. Two days from now I play. Lincoln Center sold out in twelve minutes,” he murmured against my temple, his breath warm with the scent of ozone and something indefinably *male* that made my knees weaken despite my own superhuman strength. “They added a matinee.” The pride in his baritone vibrated through my ribs, settling low in my belly like liquid gold.

“I’ll be there,” I smiled warmly.

Then he looked at his watch on the coffee table and said, “Oh! I should go practice.”

“I understand,” I smiled, “ I need to check out my new study to see what projects I’m working on.”

His lips lingered against mine, warm and firm with that new masculine confidence that sent little lightning bolts down my spine. “I’ll see you at later,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the delicate curve of my hipbone. The contact burned even through the nearly indestructible fabric—proof that some kinds of heat vision had nothing to do with my ocular powers.

After we parted, I sauntered to my study. The French doors to my study opened on silent hinges, revealing a space that smelled of leather-bound books. What stopped me mid-stride was the young college woman bent over my desk—her navy pencil skirt stretching tight across hips as she typed on the home computer. She straightened at my entrance, and I watched her pupils dilate as they traveled up my seven-foot frame, lingering on my large belted hips before snapping to the S-shield stretching across my chest.

Her gasp was almost comical—the sharp intake of breath making her coral-pink lips part just slightly, the clipboard slipping from her fingers to land soundlessly on the Persian rug. Marianne. That’s what her driver’s license said in your billfold of her purse that I read with my x-ray vision. She was early-twenties at most, with espresso-dark curls gathered in a loose twist, tendrils escaping to frame a face that belonged in Renaissance paintings. High cheekbones, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and eyes so wide with shock they looked nearly black in the study’s lamplight.

My superbrain surmised she was my research assistant. The thought crystallized before Marianne’s clipboard hit the floor—*discretion*—three synaptic syllables that had my telepathy coiling around her mind like silk. Her pupils dilated further as my mental suggestion took root, the tension in her shoulders melting away even as her gaze remained fixed on the S-shield stretched taut across my chest. I mind controlled her not tell anybody or my family’s secrets. I ordered her to call me ‘Superwoman’ in uniform and ‘Jennifer’ when not.

The compulsion slid into Marianne’s mind like a key turning in a well-oiled lock. Her breath steadied, her shoulders relaxed, and when she blinked, it was with the slow deliberation of someone waking from a pleasant dream. “Of course, Superwoman,” she murmured, bending to retrieve the clipboard without breaking eye contact. The way she said it—not reverent, but matter-of-fact—made my spine straighten an extra inch. From then on, she ignored I had my costume on.

Later, the study door clicked open with deliberate precision—too precise for human hands. Marianne didn’t flinch, her fingers continuing to tap efficiently at her tablet as if the interruption were nothing more than a scheduled appointment. Discretion. Superman leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his crimson cape pooling like spilled wine at his boots. The way his biceps strained against the sleeves of his suit made my breath hitch involuntarily. “Care for an afternoon delight?”

My heart skipped a beat, “Marianne, I’m stepping out for a few.” Her assistant didn’t even look up.

Superman’s smirk was infuriatingly perfect as he hovered backward through the study’s French doors, fingers crooked in a *come-hither* motion that made my thighs press together. The cape flared behind him—a showman—but his eyes burned with something darker than performance. I followed without hesitation, the wind snapping my hair like a golden whip as we pierced the stratosphere in seconds.

The air vanished between one heartbeat and the next—not that we needed it anymore. One second, Superman’s fingers were trailing up my thigh as we hovered above Virginia Beach’s hotel skyline, the next, the entire planet was a blue-green marble suspended in the black. My bare feet touched lunar regolith with a crunch, sending up slow-motion plumes of dust that hung like frozen smoke. His grip tightened on my hip. “Did you—?”

The moon’s surface trembled under my boots—not from any quake, but from the sheer impossibility of the moment. I flexed my foot experimentally, watching dust swirl in lazy arcs under my arch. “Did I what?” My voice bounced in that airless vacuum, crisp despite the cosmic backdrop.

Superman’s chuckle vibrated through my bones more than my ears—another sensory adjustment I hadn’t fully cataloged yet. His gauntleted hand traced the curve of my waist where the indigo fabric of my costume stretched taut. “Did you fall from Heaven cuz you look like an angel?”

I laughed at the corny line, fingers tracing the raised S-shield on his chest—the alien polymer cool even through my gloves. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I murmured, watching starlight fracture in his pupils. My other hand drifted to the back of his neck where fine blond hairs curled against his collar, shorter now than they’d been when he was Benna. The scent of him—ozone and cedar—flooded my senses despite the vacuum between us.

His cape spread across the lunar dust like liquid red, a shimmering contrast against the endless gray. The lunar dust sighed beneath us as I pressed Superman down onto his cape, my knee sliding between his thighs with deliberate pressure. The fabric of his suit stretched taut over sculpted muscle—muscle I now outweighed by sixty pounds of Kryptonian-grade density. His breath hitched when my fingers traced the inseam along his inner thigh, my other hand pinning his wrist to the ground with effortless superiority.

The moon’s dust clung to Superman’s cape as I straddled him, my thighs—broader, stronger—pinning his hips with undeniable dominance. His breath came sharp through parted lips when I lowered my briefs, letting the cold vacuum kiss the blue fabric above my vagina still new in its femininity. The zipper’s metallic whisper opening up between our thighs felt louder than any sound in that airless void.

The lunar dust scattered beneath my thighs as I tightened my grip on Superman’s wrists, his pulse hammering against my fingertips like a trapped bird. With a lustful thought—just the barest flicker of intention—his body arched beneath me, his hips snapping upward as if pulled by invisible strings. I willed his dick to be erect and he was instantly erect. His gasp sent vapor swirling between us, the soundless exhalation catching in the vacuum before dissipating.

“Thrust and make it fast,” I commanded not with psychic ability, but with alpha power.

Superman’s chest heaved beneath me, his sculpted pectorals glistening with a sheen of sweat under his costume that shouldn’t have existed in the lunar vacuum—yet there it was, another impossible detail in our impossible lives. I watched a bead of moisture trace the groove between his abs before evaporating into crystalline mist, my x-ray vision tracking the frantic flutter of his heartbeat beneath layers of muscle and bone. His carotid artery pulsed visibly against his throat when I leaned down to drag my teeth along its length, relishing the vibration of his groan through my lips.

The lunar dust swirled around us in slow-motion arcs as I tightened my thighs around Superman’s hips, my spandex-clad form gleaming under the unfiltered sunlight. His gasp turned into vapor the moment it left his lips—tiny ice crystals that scattered like diamonds between us. My fingers traced the contours of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by its sharp prominence beneath skin that had once been Benna’s soft throat.

The moment our bodies locked into perfect synchronization, something in the lunar dust shifted—literally. A shockwave rippled outward, sending microscopic regolith particles skittering across the moon’s surface in concentric rings around us, like the aftermath of some celestial impact. Superman arched beneath me, his back lifting entirely off the ground as his fingers dug into my thighs and roared. His seeds filled into me.

My own climax hit like a solar flare—sudden, all-consuming, and visible from orbit. Heat vision erupted unbidden from my eyes in jagged crimson streaks, scorching parabolic arcs into the lunar surface on either side of Superman’s head. The beams reflected off his pupils, turning his gaze into twin supernovae staring up at me.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the settling dust, my hair—impossibly—fanning out around us in weightless blonde waves despite the lack of atmosphere. Superman traced idle patterns along my spine with fingers that could shatter mountains, his touch featherlight yet leaving temporary indentations in my invulnerable skin. “We just terraformed this crater,” he murmured, nodding toward the glassy streaks my heat vision had forged. His baritone resonated through my sternum where our chests pressed together.

Before we even zipped back up, the magic fabric of our costumes looked like it had been freshly laundered—no sweat stains, no lunar dust clinging to the seams. I ran a finger along Superman’s collar where I knew regolith had gathered in the hollow of his throat during our entanglement, but the blue material shimmered under my touch, repelling even atomic-scale debris. His cape, which had been splayed beneath us like an oil slick of crushed diamonds moments earlier, now flowed pristine and untangled behind him.

We lay there for thirty minutes whispering sweet nothings and enjoying each other’s company, our voices carrying effortlessly through the vacuum as if the moon itself had become an echo chamber for our intimacy. Superman’s fingers kept tracing constellations across my shoulder—his touch somehow registering through skin that could deflect artillery fire. I watched our mingled breath crystallize and shatter in the low gravity, each exhale fracturing into diamond dust that spiraled lazily toward the lunar surface. Unlike a week ago, we really enjoyed each other’s company.

At our late dinner, Alice wheeled the pizza cart. Steam curled from four artisanal pies—truffle mushroom for Superman, margherita for me, pepperoni with extra jalapeños for Superboy, and an elaborate vegan masterpiece for Supergirl that somehow still smelled like bacon. Our capes pooled over the dining chairs like spilled paint—crimson, cobalt, and gold fabric shimmering under the chandelier’s glow despite having withstood atmospheric reentry hours earlier.

The pizza crust snapped between Crystal’s fingers as she leaned forward, her cape pooling on the marble floor like liquid gold. “So get this—Principal Henderson actually flinched when I walked into the debate about prom funding today,” she said, tossing her honey-blonde hair over one shoulder. “I mean, I was just standing there in my civvies, but apparently”—she deepened her voice comically—“’Miss Jenkins’s new… presence carries certain gravitas.’”

Supergirl grinned and continued. “So play director Ms. Carmichael—poor, oblivious Ms. Carmichael—keeps telling me to ‘channel my inner bad girl’ for Sandy’s transformation scene.” She flexed her fingers absently, the air shimmering slightly around her manicured nails. “She doesn’t realize I could literally rewrite the script with my pinky. But I need to practice humility, I know. “

Superboy snorted, plucking a string of mozzarella from his slice. “Try being me—Monica’s grandma kept calling me ‘young man’ . Meanwhile her grandpa kept staring at my biceps like they owed him money.” He flexed unconsciously.

“About that,” I innocently inquired, “How did your date as Asher at the comic book store with Monica go?”

Superboy froze mid-chew, a glob of cheese stretching comically from his lip before he sucked it back with an audible slurp. “Uh,” he mumbled, suddenly finding his pizza crust fascinating. “It was… weirdly normal?”

Supergirl arched an eyebrow, her cape shifting with the movement like molten metal. “Oh no you don’t, Superboy. Spill.”

Cornered, Superboy’s fingers drummed against the mahogany—lightly, because last time he’d done that, he’d left finger-shaped craters. “Alright, fine,” he muttered, the flush creeping up his neck almost visible through his invulnerable skin. “I… might’ve told Monica I was really into her. Especially how we bonded over the *Phoenix rises* trade paperback at the store.” He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “God, it sounds so lame saying it out loud.”

The dining room erupted—I said something in Superman’s ear. Supergirl’s delighted squealed. Superman chuckled as if satisfied for his boy. I leaned forward, my cape pooling around the chair like liquid silk. “You told her?” The words came out huskier than intended, my superpowered vocal cords still adjusting to emotional spikes.

Superboy’s blush deepened to an almost radioactive hue, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table—carefully, this time, aware of his strength. “So,” he mumbled, eyes darting between his parents, “can I… like, invite her over? Maybe this weekend?” The mahogany groaned under his fidgeting elbow before he caught himself and lifted his hand away like it was wired with explosives.

“Of course you can invite her,” Superman said before I could answer, his voice that rich baritone sent shivers down my spine. “We’d love to meet this girl properly.” His grin held an edge I recognized—the same look Benna used to give when she’d catch me sneaking ice cream late at night, equal parts amused and conspiratorial.

I reached across the table, squeezing Superboy’s forearm—gently, so gently, though my grip could’ve pulverized steel. My smile felt impossibly wide. “I’m so happy for you,” I murmured, watching his pupils dilate at the sincerity in my voice—that new melodic resonance carrying emotions like seismic waves. When had my approval become something tangible enough to physically affect him? The thought made my chest tighten in ways my indestructible physiology shouldn’t allow.

The rings. Their golden gleam flickered at the edges of my consciousness, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the vault floor. Protection. A failsafe. I squeezed Superboy’s arm again—just a fraction harder—letting the warmth of his skin anchor me. But something prickled beneath my collarbones at the thought of slipping one onto Monica’s finger. Would she even understand what she was being offered? Would any of us?

Switching subjects, Superman leaned forward, elbows resting on the mahogany table with an effortless control of his strength. “Been thinking,” he said, fingers tapping a rhythm—some concerto I didn’t recognize threading through his subconscious. His biceps flexed beneath the taut blue fabric of his Superman suit’s sleeves. “We’ve got the Fortress. The robots. Powers that could…” He gestured vaguely upward, where the ceiling might as well not exist for how easily my vision pierced through to the stratosphere. “Move continents. Rewrite genomes. Cure every disease in a weekend. Topple authoritarian governments.” His pupils flickered red for an instant—that telltale heat-vision tic he’d developed since yesterday.

“Hero work,” I finished for Superman, leaning back in my chair with a grin that made the mahogany groan under my fingertips. My voice resonated through the dining room like a struck tuning fork. “Formalizing watches. Patrols. Making a difference. What do you think kids?”

Supergirl squealed again before clapping her hands together “Oh my god, yes! I can finally put these powers to good use instead of just pretending to suck at swim meets!” Her honey-blonde hair shimmered as she bounced in her seat, the movement making her leotard strain against newly impossible curves.

Superboy agreed too—with the same reluctant shrug that used to accompany middle school homework, but now his shoulders rolled with the fluidity of conditioned muscle. “Yeah, sure. Patrols. But, we have to keep our secret identities and alter egos separate. Monica already thinks I’m weird enough.”

“Then we’re set,” Superman said, his baritone resonating through the dining room like a struck cello string. His fingers—now impossibly precise from years of violin training that never actually happened—tapped out a staccato rhythm on the tabletop. “First patrol together tonight. Then shifts.” The way his suit stretched across his shoulders when he crossed his arms made the S-shield ripple like liquid metal. “The Kryptonian robots will give us the work and we will complete the tasks.”

My palm hovered mid-air—the tendons in my wrist flexing with unconscious precision, my fingers spread like the points of a star. My wedding ring caught the dining room light in a way that made my hand look sculpted from molten metal. Superman’s larger, square-palmed grip settled over mine first, his wedding band clicking against my mine. Then Superboy’s calloused fingers—still smelling faintly of Monica’s perfume from their date—pressed down with teenage reluctance. Supergirl completed the stack, her manicured nails gleaming pink like seashells against our collective skin.

Supergirl grinned, her teeth impossibly white. “God, this is so *High School Musical*.” But her grip tightened.

As we made our silent now to help people and do the right thing, I couldn’t help think about how far we’d come and what we were about to do.

I was indeed Superwoman and it was now time to prove it.