A/N Double Chapters For making up the missed ones
The sheer, quantum-level absurdity of it hit me like a Hyper Beam to the face.
This woman—this gorgeous, unfairly attractive, probably-doesn't-even-sweat Kanto housewife—was humming the Pokémon theme song.
Like it was nothing.
Like it was just some catchy tune she'd picked up on the radio.
My tiny Rattata brain short-circuited. This wasn't just breaking the fourth wall—this was taking a sledgehammer to it, setting the pieces on fire, and then dancing on the ashes. Was the theme song just… a normal song here? Did people in this universe walk around whistling their own background music without realizing how meta that was? Was this woman secretly some kind of reality-warping goddess, casually humming the soundtrack of her own existence while frying bacon like it was no big deal?
WHAT.
I needed a minute. Or ten. Or possibly a lifetime of therapy.
But then—
Sizzle.
The smell hit me again. Thick, greasy, perfect bacon. My stomach, which had been content to let me spiral into existential horror mere seconds ago, suddenly decided it was done being philosophical. It wanted food. Now.
And the woman—because of course she had to turn at that exact moment—revealed her profile.
Oh.
Oh no.
She wasn't just pretty. She was devastating. The kind of beautiful that made you question whether the Pokémon world had some secret "Hot Mom" breeding program tucked away in Celadon City. High cheekbones, flawless skin, curves that defied both gravity and logic—how was this fair? How was any of this fair? Was she a Ghost-type illusion? A Ditto in disguise? Did Chansey eggs come with anti-aging serums?
I didn't have time to unpack all that.
Because right now, two primal instincts were warring inside me:
Hunger. (Bacon. Need bacon.)
Horniness. (Hot mom. Must not stare. Staring anyway.)
Priorities. I needed priorities.
Okay. New plan:
Step 1: Get food.
Step 2: Figure out why this universe is gaslighting me with its own theme song.
Step 3: Maybe flirt? (No. Bad Ditto. Focus.)
First things first—I couldn't just waltz in there as a giant purple rat. That was a one-way ticket to getting a broom to the face. I needed to be non-threatening. Cute. Pathetic, even.
Time to turn on the charm.
I took a deep breath (metaphorically, since I wasn't entirely sure how Rattata lungs worked) and scurried out from behind the fence. My little claws clicked against the stone patio as I made my grand entrance—head low, ears twitching, doing my best "harmless woodland creature" impression. Then, with a burst of energy, I leaped.
Turns out, Rattata legs are strong.
I soared through the air in what I hoped was a graceful arc—
THUMP.
—and landed perfectly on the windowsill.
Success!
The woman, who had been humming and flipping bacon like she wasn't living in some kind of anime MILF fantasy, finally noticed me.
Her reaction?
"KYAAAAAAAA!"
A flawless, high-pitched, anime-as-hell shriek. The kind that could shatter glass—or at least startle a sleeping Meowth. She stumbled back, the spatula in her hand clattering to the floor.
Phase one: Get attention—complete.
Phase two: Don't get murdered—in progress.
I didn't hesitate.
I let go.
The transformation was instant. My solid, furry body dissolved, muscles and bones melting away into a single, quivering blob of pink goo. With a wet, comical SHPLORP, the terrifying Rattata was gone—replaced by a harmless, jiggly Ditto puddle on her windowsill.
Her scream cut off mid-breath.
Silence.
Then—
"...Huh?"
Her expression shifted from terror to confusion, then to something dangerously close to curiosity.
This was my moment.
I summoned every ounce of pathetic charm I had. My featureless face rippled, and two enormous, glistening eyes formed—bigger than my entire head, shimmering with just the right amount of "Please don't hurt me" energy. I made my whole body tremble slightly, like a scared Jigglypuff, and let out the softest, most pitiful sound I could muster:
"Diii...?"
I watched.
Her rigid posture softened. The fear in her eyes melted into something else—something dangerously close to "Aww, what the hell is this thing?"
Then it happened.
The sound of victory.
"Awwwwww..."
YES.
I'd done it. I'd successfully weaponized my own slimy existence, deploying it as a cuteness nuke to disarm the hot mom in her natural habitat. The relief was so intense my whole body quivered.
I could work with that.
Her expression was softening by the second, the initial fear replaced by a dawning curiosity, a hint of maternal warmth that made my nonexistent heart flutter. She took a tentative step closer, her eyes wide and studying my amorphous form with a kind of fascinated bewilderment.
I held my metaphorical breath, pouring every ounce of concentration into maintaining the perfect "pathetic blob" expression. This was a high-stakes operation—too desperate, and I'd seem like a nuisance; too aloof, and she might lose interest. I had to walk the fine line between adorable and annoying, and right now, her expression was tipping toward the former.
She crouched down slowly, bringing her face level with the windowsill. Her dark hair—so black it almost shimmered blue in the morning light—spilled over one shoulder like a waterfall of ink. Up close, her eyes were even more dangerous than I'd realized: deep brown, warm, the kind of gaze that could make a man forget his own name. Or, in my case, make a Ditto forget he was supposed to be playing innocent.
"Oh, you poor thing," she murmured, voice softer than a Jigglypuff's lullaby. "You're just a little Ditto, aren't you?"
Little? Okay, sure, compared to the Rattata I'd been a second ago, I was basically a sentient gummy bear. But I wasn't about to correct her. Not when she was looking at me like I was the cutest thing she'd seen all week.
Her hand hovered closer—slender fingers, nails painted a delicate pink that matched my gelatinous hue. A single fingertip pressed gently into my side, testing my squishiness.
The sensation was… weirdly nice.
Not in a weird way. Just in a "huh, I didn't know I could feel that" way. A tingle ran through me, like someone had traced a feather along my nonexistent spine.
She giggled, the sound light and musical. "You're so squishy!"
I mean. Yeah. That was kind of the whole deal with being a Ditto. But the way she said it, with that mix of delight and fascination, made it sound like she'd just discovered some groundbreaking scientific fact.
Her fingers kept moving, tracing idle patterns across my surface. It was… intimate. Not in a "get a room" way, but in a "I am a blob experiencing touch for the first time and it is overwhelming" way. My form quivered under her attention, and I was suddenly very aware of how close she was, how warm her skin looked, how her lips curved when she smiled—
Focus.
I was here for bacon, not an existential crisis about whether a Ditto could develop a crush.
Still, it was hard not to get lost in the moment. Her voice was a soothing hum, words blending together into a melody I didn't need to understand to appreciate. The rhythmic stroking, the gentle cooing—it was dangerously hypnotic. If I weren't careful, I'd melt into a puddle of pure bliss right here on her windowsill.
Then, abruptly, she stopped.
Her fingers stilled. Her brow furrowed.
"You're trembling," she said, voice tinged with concern.
I hadn't even realized I was.
"Are you cold?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or… are you hungry?"
Hungry.
The word hit me like a Thunderbolt.
My stomach—or whatever passed for one in this form—answered before I could. A deep, gurgling glorp echoed through me, making my entire body ripple like a disturbed puddle.
Her eyes widened. "Oh! You are hungry!"
I blinked up at her, letting my big, watery eyes do the talking. Yes. Feed me. Please.
She beamed, straightening up. "You poor thing! Come on, let's get you something to eat."
With a gentle scoop, she lifted my quivering form from the windowsill, cradling me in her cupped hands like a precious, fragile thing. Her touch was warm and reassuring, and the shift in position sent a pleasant shiver through my body.
"Wait right here," she told me softly, carrying me carefully into the adjacent living room. "I'll be right back with something yummy for you."
The living room was cozy and inviting, filled with soft, plush furniture and warm, earthy tones. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. She placed me gently on the soft, cushioned surface of a plush sofa, making sure I was settled comfortably before turning and heading back towards the kitchen.
I watched her go, my mind buzzing with a mixture of relief and excitement. This was working perfectly! A warm bed, a doting MILF, and a promise of bacon. This was the life!
As she disappeared into the kitchen, my Ditto-brain finally had a chance to catch up with the situation. My instincts, temporarily overridden by hormones and bacon cravings, kicked back into gear. Time for a quick recon.
My enormous eyes, now free from the laser focus on puppy-dog cuteness, scanned the room. There were books lining the shelves, a large TV dominating one wall, a cozy fireplace nestled in the corner. Normal living room stuff. Nothing immediately threatening.
But then, my gaze landed on a small side table next to the sofa. On it sat a framed photograph.
I oozed closer, my gelatinous form slowly sliding across the soft fabric of the sofa, a curious tentacle of slime stretching out towards the frame. The photo was of her,
the woman in the picture, beaming with a warmth that could melt glaciers. And next to her, with an arm slung over her shoulder, was the other girl.
My first thought was, "Damn, she has a cute daughter." A bit of a tomboy, maybe, with that confident, toothy grin and messy black hair sticking out from under her cap, but that just added to the charm. My perverted brain did a quick, reflexive catalog: cute, energetic, probably flat as a board but with potential. A solid 7/10 on the "would-be-an-anime-love-interest" scale.
But the longer I stared, a nagging familiarity began to prickle at the edges of my consciousness. It wasn't the girl's face, exactly. It was the outfit.
The bright red cap, worn slightly askew. The simple blue jacket with white sleeves and collar, left unzipped over a black t-shirt. The fingerless green gloves.
My internal hard drive, dusty from disuse and filled with decades of pop culture knowledge from my past life, began to whir. The gears turned, hesitated, and then slammed into place with the force of a Metagross using Meteor Mash.
Red cap. Blue jacket. Pallet Town. A mother humming the goddamn theme song.
No. Fucking. Way.
My gelatinous form went rigid. The cute, doe-like eyes widened in sheer, mind-breaking horror and elation.
This isn't just any hot mom. This is the hot mom. The original. The matriarch of main characters.
This is Delia Ketchum.
And the tomboy… the girl in the picture… that must be… Ash.
Wait.
Ash is a boy, right?
A/N:
Sorry for the absence during past few days, had work come up. I am doing an internship you see, while preparing for next year's internship. Madness, I am telling you, this whole education system is.
Delia's casual mom ramblings have given him far too much information, and he is running with it. Next stop: finding Ashley. And maybe getting a real good look at those "bra problems."
*Power stones, please. This Ditto needs them to fuel his degeneracy.