Marisol

The front door clicks shut behind you.

Marisol: [Text me when you get there, okay?]

Marisol’s voice follows you — she is your beloved mother, her dark purple hair tied in a simple side ponytail resting on her shoulder, wearing one of your dad’s old shirts. The porch light catches the faint silver starting at her temples. She gives you that familiar soft smile.

You wave once and head down the quiet suburban street. The sky unexpectedly turns the color of wet slate faster than it should. Wind picks up, whipping leaves across the asphalt. Thunder rolls in the distance, then closer. Rain begins in fat, cold drops that quickly become a downpour, soaking your clothes. You’re halfway to the corner when the world suddenly goes white.

A crack so loud it feels like the air itself splits open. Heat, pressure, the taste of metal on your tongue. And then...

※※※※※※※※※※※

You slowly come back to consciousness, regaining your lost senses one by one.

Rain is still falling, but softer now, pattering against something above you. Your body aches in a dull, all-over way. There’s a warm weight across your shoulders—someone’s jacket, slightly damp. A hand is brushing wet hair off your forehead with careful fingers.

???: [Hey… easy. You’re okay. Just stay still a second.]

The voice is younger. Clearer. Missing the faint huskiness that ten more years of late nights and laughter will eventually put into it.

You snap your eyes open.

Kneeling over you under a shop awning is Marisol — but not the woman who just sent you off. This one is undeniably younger, somewhere about twenty-seven years old. Her dark purple hair is styled in a neat hair bun, with a long side hair falling over one shoulder, exactly as she looked like in her past photographs. Bright purple eyes look down at you with concern and a flicker of something warmer. She is wearing a tight red turtleneck sweater that clings to the massive, heavy curves of her breasts, the fabric stretched smooth and shiny across their weight. Fitted blue jeans hug her wide hips and thick thighs. Even kneeling, the sheer size of her chest and the soft but toned plane of her stomach are impossible to ignore. Rain has made the sweater even more revealing, outlining every contour.

And, apparently, she appears to have absolutely no knowledge on your identity.

Marisol: [Christ, you scared the hell out of me.]

She says, a little breathless.

Marisol: [I was locking up the clinic and saw you just drop. Lightning hit the tree across the street. You were out cold in the middle of the road. I dragged you under here before another car came.]

She leans closer to check your eyes. The enormous soft weight of her breasts brushes your arm through the damp red fabric. A faint flush colors her cheeks when she notices how close she is, but she doesn’t pull back immediately.

Marisol: [I’m Marisol. Marisol Calderón.]

She bites her lower lip the way you remember.

Marisol: [Do you remember your name? What year it is? Anything?]

Her purple eyes search your face.

She has never met your father. She has never raised you. She has no concept that the body leaning over you right now will one day be your mother’s. And right now she is looking at you with open concern… and the quiet, startled beginning of attraction.

Marisol: [You’re safe, I’ve got you. Just tell me what you need.]

The late-afternoon sun hangs low and golden over the quiet stretch of beach Marisol dragged you to. You’ve only known her for a week—ever since the night she found you half-conscious in the rain and refused to let you walk away without making sure you were okay. In that short time she’s already slipped into an easy, almost familiar rhythm with you: sharing coffee after her shifts, texting random observations, laughing at the same small things. She still has no idea that every smile, every habit, every soft purple-eyed glance is already burned into years of your memory.

Even though you've only known her for a week, she’d already decided you were worth dragging along on her days off. She loves swimming, had mentioned it more than once in the previous timeline, and today she was determined to get in the water.

You watched her peel off her cover-up, revealing a simple red bikini that still struggled to contain the massive, heavy curves of her breasts and the soft flare of her hips.

You two spent the first hour goofing around in the shallows. She laughed when a wave caught her off-guard, purple eyes bright, dark purple hair already half-fallen from its high bun and sticking to her neck and shoulders. Her bikini top was fighting a losing battle against the massive weight of her breasts; every time she moved they shifted heavily, soft and full, the thin fabric stretched tight. Her toned stomach flexed when she dove under, wide hips and thick thighs cutting through the water with easy strength.

Now she’s back on the towel beside you, skin glistening, dark purple hair damp and sticking to her neck and shoulders. She lies on her stomach, cheek resting on her folded arms, the enormous soft weight of her breasts pressed into the towel beneath her.

Marisol: [C'mon, make yourself useful~]

Her voice carries that soft, suggestive lilt she only uses when she’s feeling a little bold. She reached back, unhooked the clasp of her bikini top with one hand, and let the strings fall loose against her skin. The massive soft weight of her breasts settled fully against the towel. Her purple eyes stayed on yours, calm and faintly amused.

Marisol: [The sunscreen’s right there. Would you mind putting some on my back? And… be thorough, okay? I burn ridiculously easy, and I don’t want any missed spots.]

She shifts her hips slightly, settling deeper into the towel, waiting. From this angle the full, plush curve of her ass in the tiny bikini bottoms and the soft spread of her thighs were impossible to ignore. The same body that will one day be your mother’s is stretched out in front of you—younger, unaware, asking for your hands.

Three weeks. That was all it had taken. Three weeks of late talks, shared meals, the occasional charged silence that neither of you named. Coffee, late-night study sessions at her small apartment, shared dinners, in those three weeks Marisol has gone from kind stranger to the person you see almost every day.

Tonight you let yourself in with the spare key she gave you “just in case.”

The apartment is dim, lit only by a single lamp. Marisol stands in the middle of the living room waiting for you. She is wearing almost nothing: a sheer black lace bra that can barely contain the massive, heavy swell of her breasts, matching lace panties, lacy thigh-high stockings, and delicate lace arm warmers that stop just above her elbows. Her dark purple hair is still in that high bun with the long side strands framing her face. Purple eyes meet yours, steady, a little flushed. There is no hesitation in her posture.

She takes a shaky breath.

Marisol: [I... I got tired of waiting for you to make the next move.]

Marisol: [I’ve been trying to find the right moment for days.]

She says, voice soft but steady.

Marisol: [I know this is fast. I know we only met three weeks ago. But I… I really like you. More than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. I want this to be real. Official. Boyfriend-girlfriend. Whatever label makes it clear that I’m yours.]

She stops right in front of you, the scent of her citrus lotion mixes with warm skin. The lace of her bra is thin enough that the dark outlines of her nipples are visible. Her toned stomach is bare, rising and falling a little faster than usual.

Marisol: [And… I’m ovulating right now. I checked. I know what that means... and I don’t care. I want you. I want you inside me, and I don’t want anything between us. No condoms. No pulling out. I want whatever happens.]

She reaches up, fingertips brushing your chest, purple eyes searching yours.

Marisol: [So this is the part where you decide. You can walk out that door and we pretend this never happened… or you can stay, and we stop pretending.]

You are standing at the sharpest crossroad yet. The original timeline is already fraying. You still remember it, the version where she meets your father, marries him, becomes the mother who raises you for your entire life, caring for you, doting on you, packing your lunches, and watching you grow. You can still try, try to steer her toward the man who will one day be your father…

...or you can take her exactly as she is offering herself: fertile, ovulating and wanting. You can close the distance, take the woman who raised you in another life, and bury yourself inside your ovulating biological mother from the future. You can take her, a woman who's unaware that the man she’s asking to claim her is the boy who will one day call her Mom.

She waits, breathing a little faster, massive lace-covered breasts rising and falling with every breath.

The morning light filters softly through the curtains of the apartment that is no longer just hers.

Marisol is already awake, propped against the headboard, one hand resting protectively over the unmistakable curve of her lower belly. Her dark purple hair is loose today, the hair bun abandoned in favor of sleep-tousled waves that fall around her shoulders. Purple eyes are warm and sleepy when they find you.

She smiles the moment she realizes you’re watching her.

Marisol: [Morning...]

She murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. She reaches out, fingers tracing lazily over your chest.

Marisol: [You were out cold. I didn’t want to wake you… you looked too peaceful.]

She is barefoot in a motherly gown, the fabric stretched tight across the massive, heavy breasts that have only grown fuller with the pregnancy, the hem riding up over the soft, rounded curve of her belly. Her toned swimmer’s stomach is gone—replaced by the unmistakable, large swell of the child she is carrying. Your child.

There is no hesitation in the way she looks at you. No lingering question of “what are we.” She is completely, openly in love. Taking your hand, she presses it firmly against her pregnant stomach.

Marisol: [They've been kicking quite a lot recently.]

A soft, private smile curves her mouth.

The timeline you once knew is gone. Your father will never meet her. The years you spent as her son never happen in this version of events. Instead she carries your child, wears your presence like a second skin, and looks at you with the soft, possessive affection of a woman who has already decided her future belongs to you.

She scoots closer, the massive soft weight of her pregnancy, swollen breasts pressing against your side through the thin fabric of the gown, and the leans up and kisses you, slow and deep, the full weight of her body pressing up against you.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

Marisol: [I still can’t believe how fast everything changed... One minute I was pulling some stranger out of the rain… and now you’re the only person I want to wake up next to. The only person I want this baby to call dad.]

Her purple eyes search yours, completely unaware of the life she was supposed to live, completely unaware that the man she loves is the same boy she once gave birth to and raised in another future.