MATURE: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping: STILL GOING, BABY (april fools chapter up)

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    Default Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping: STILL GOING, BABY (april fools chapter up)

    MASSIVE X AND Y SPOILERS. IF YOU HAVEN'T BEAT THE GAME, GO AWAY.

    Intro Image:


    LYSANDRE'S MAJESTIC DIRECTORY
    PROLOGUE: LYSANDRE'S MAJESTIC AWAKENING (oh my god use your eyes it's literally two inches under this)
    CHAPTER 1: THE TRAGIC GOODWILL COCKBLOCK
    CHAPTER 2: THE JOURNEY ON THE WAY TO THE MALL: SYCAMORE THE STREET RACER
    CHAPTER 3: PARADISE LOST (AT THE MALL)
    HALLOWEEN SPECIAL, CHAPTER 666: LYSANDRE'S HORRIFYINGLY HETEROSEXUAL HALLOWEEN HOUSE PARTY
    CHAPTER 4: MOTIVES AND MOHAWKS
    CHAPTER 5: THE RETURN OF THAT ONE GUY FROM BEFORE
    CHAPTER 6: THE CONFRONTATION
    CHAPTER 7: YOUR MOVE, LYSANDRE
    CHAPTER 8: THE CHAPTER ABOUT NOTHING
    CHAPTER 9: THE RICH CUNTS CLUB (IN SEPIA VISION)
    FINAL APRIL FOOLS DAY SPECIAL CHAPTER: LOVE NEVER DIES


    BONUS: INTRO PICTURE GALLERY (videos not included due to forum restrictions)


    PROLOGUE: LYSANDRE'S MAJESTIC AWAKENING



    The sun rose with great flair over Kalos like a croissant gently rising phallic-like to touch a fat man’s lips before being ripped in half by his yellowed dentures. Beyond the land of Pokemon Stonehenge, and beneath the super secret hidden base inside of a gigantic artificial boulder ten yards from a tourist trap with gigantic neon doors, slept Lysandre… eccentric billionaire, genocidal maniac, sexy beast and fashion genius. He was the closest thing to John McAfee the Pokemon world had, and John McAfee was the closest thing to Tony Stark the real world had, so by extension, Lysandre was an even sexier version of Robert Downey Junior, if he was a ginger and had awesome hair and was a genocidal maniac.

    Lysandre was curled up like a Skitty in heat beneath his stylish white and blue Pokemon bedsheets, vintage-chic all the way from Generation 2, ordered online from Unova for over a million Pokedollars with an additional million poured into modifying them to fit the bed of someone over the age of eight. Being rich had its perks, and the ability to have Pokemon bedsheets and still get laid by Kanto supermodels was only one of many.

    Anyhow, Lysandre was having his favorite dream about being a Pyroar inside of Pokemon Amie with Kate Upton as the player and Professor Sycamore as the stylus when his majestic Pillsbury Doughboy alarm clock awoke him from his slumber. “HEE HEE! HEE HEE!” it shouted, jiggling about like Santa Claus at a strip club. Lysandre yawned and opened his eyes as he watched Kate vanish into his subconscious, smashing the clock in anger with his manly fist. His manly fist bled slightly as he picked shards of manly plastic from it, and his manly clock was ruined, but it was worth it to show that fat laughing bastard who was boss. “Cecil,” he shouted to a bald man in the next room over, “please order me another clock, and send in one of the exotic dancers to lick my hand clean.”

    “Mr. Lysandre,” he replied, “we don’t have any exotic dancers, that’s at your base in Brazil. And for hell’s sake, there are no more Doughboy clocks on ebay or craigslist or even, Arceus forbid, Etsy, you’ve gone through all of them. How about the rock and roll chicken alarm—”

    Lysandre violently and sexily threw his covers aside, violently and sexily rolled out of his bed, threw on a burgundy robe in a sexy manner and grabbed Cecil sexily by the neck. “We’ve discussed this before, Cecil,” he growled violently (but not sexily), “I have bad memories with the goddamned chicken clock. Either you get me a doughboy clock or I’ll be putting you in the oven instead of the dough, boy. Now move.”

    “Yes, my lord,” Cecil replied, sighing and trudging away.

    This trial over with, Lysandre began to regain his usual chipperness. “Now then,” Lysandre said, regaining his usual chipperness, “It’s time to begin my morning routine.” To begin the start of his morning routine, he pulled his holocaster from inside the internal pocket of his robe and called his entire staff via the holocaster, being the sexy genius he was. “Attention, all Team Flare volunteers and employees,” he shouted into the holocaster (which was pulled from the inside pocket of his robe), “I’m ready to begin my morning routine.”

    “Perhaps you should begin with tying the front of your robe,” one of his attractive female scientists’ voices rang in response. “Either that or start wearing pants when you sleep.”

    “Silence,” Lysandre replied, silencing her, “I’m not ashamed of my body and you shouldn’t be ashamed of my body, either. You’ll get your turn, bitch. Now, cancel the order on the exotic dancers, my hand is healing just fine, no thanks to that rat bastard Cecil. Seriously, fuck interns. But anyway, I am heading for my shower now. I fully expect the path to be clear, or I will run you over without remorse.”

    “Mr. Lysandre, with all due respect, sir, you aren’t that fast,” a stupid grunt intern replied. “I think we can just step out of the way when you run by.”

    “You misunderstand me,” Lysandre explained as he climbed onto his brand new motorcycle next to his bed. “I’m literally going to run you over, as I have just climbed onto this brand new motorcycle next to my bed. And since I warned you, I won’t have to compensate your families. Maybe I’ll use your souls to fuel my toaster, if that shit works on Az’s stupid laser tag rock it should work to make waffles.” Lysandre revved the engine and tore through the hallway, his majestic morning-hair mane waving like a Pyroar’s in the breeze, a scene straight out of a L’Oreal commercial aimed at the homosexual population of Key West. Lysandre’s robe flew open again, and his second mane followed the wind-blowing breeze pattern, like a rather different sort of commercial aimed at the homosexual population of Key West. An admin who happened to glance in his direction fell to the floor and smashed his head open in sheer shock of Lysandre’s below the belt majesty. Or perhaps it was because Lysandre went out of his way to hit him with the Harley. One can never tell with these zany rich folks!

    “Lysandre to all troops,” he called into his holocaster as he drove impressively with his feet, “I will arrive at the showering facility in t-minus twenty seconds.” He paused to enjoy Cecil’s final scream and brace himself for the brief turbulence to follow. “Ready my musical accompaniment, and prepare the towel maidens,” he finished, the turbulence past and Cecil unable to ever scream again.

    “Goddamn it, Lysandre,” Professor Sycamore replied, “wear some goddamn pants when you’re on the camera. And I’m not one of your troops. What troops are you even talking about?”

    “I’m not the leader of Team Flare, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lysandre replied. “I just like to wear orange. Got it? Don’t question me or the majesty of Team Flare ever again. Not like I’m their leader or anything. Alright? God damn it, Sycamore, I said alright?”

    Sycamore tried unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. “I’d be more alright if you wore some briefs when you video called me,” Sycamore replied, trying unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. “Also,” he continued, still trying to avert his eyes, and still suspiciously unsuccessful at the task, “when did you get a Harley?”

    “It was a gift from Team Flare, for not being associated with them in any way,” Lysandre replied, noting that Sycamore, while attempting to avert his eyes, was suspiciously unsuccessful. “Now I’m sorry, but I must go. I need to call the people I meant to call. And I don’t mean Team Flare, so don’t even try to pull any bullshit allegations on me, you prick! Love you, Morey.” With this, he blew a totally heterosexual bromance kiss at Sycamore’s hologram, then hung up and leapt off of the bike into the shower. The bike kept going and smashed into the furthest wall of the secret base, exploding and killing three grunts.

    “Mr. Lysandre, your Harley’s been totaled,” a scientist hollered from the next room over.

    “It’s okay, dear, I’m rich. Did anyone die?”

    “Yes, it’s terrible! Three interns, cut down in their prime.”

    “A new record. I should be a professional bowler. Because I’m rich.” Lysandre closed the Yu-Gi-Oh shower curtain and threw his robe over the top of the mammoth tub, letting it fall majestically to the ground outside. “Please, ladies, don’t fight over my robe,” he shouted, flipping his majestic hair out of his eyes, but his robe remained mysteriously untouched.

    Lysandre turned the water up to maximum heat and maximum pressure, because what kind of Team Flare member would bathe in cold water? “Lisa,” he shouted, “turn on my showering music!” His sound waves were launched over the curtain and across the building like the bullet that killed Kennedy, piercing Lisa’s ears like the bullet that killed Lincoln, only she didn’t die, no matter how much she wished she could.

    “Of course, my lord,” she sighed, tinkering with the laptop he had purchased for this purpose and this purpose alone. “Animal” by Berlin began to crank out of the massive speakers mounted above the shower.

    “When you see me in my tiny dreeeeess, does it make you wanna take me oooon?” Lysandre sang along seductively to himself, secretly hoping everyone else would hear and would see how much better his singing was than their pathetic plebian yelps. He reached for a shower poof but, in his state of eyes-closed-diva-ism, he grabbed a Flabebe that was passing by, and began scrubbing himself all over with its flower. “Can you feel the animaaaaaal, I feel it when you touch mah boooodyyyyyy,” Lysandre continued to croon, singing the song with such testosterone that he was three octives down. Flabebe, beginning to grow a bit angered and nauseated at being used like a sponge by a hairy ginger man, prayed for death, but due to an incident involving a 3000 foot tall man who lived for 9 years (or something like that, Lysandre was too rich to remember such trifling details), it was immortal and would have to endure the memory of Lysandre’s ginger backhair for all eternity. Realizing, in a terrible moment of realization, that it was immortal—and, therefore, would, for all eternity, have to endure the memory of Lysandre’s ginger backhair, Flabebe used Grass Knot, causing vines to burst through the shower’s floor, grip Lysandre’s ankle, and trip him. He fell through the Yu-Gi-Oh shower curtain, his own Winged Dragon of Ra slamming painfully into the floor, followed by everything else and ending with his face.

    “I’m alright,” he shouted to the shocked room of grunts and admins, wrapping a towel quickly around himself from the blushing (or barfing? Hard to tell when you’re rich) towel maiden beside the tub. “I was just trying out a new dance craze. It’s called the drunken soap-dropper.” He slid to the left, shook his groove thang, then slid to the right and repeated, almost falling over each time he came to a stop. “Am I paying you to watch or to participate?” he shouted, and in moments the entire room was throwing their shirts off and sliding left and right like maniacs in beautiful unison. “Oh can you feel the animaaaaaal?” Lysandre boomed. His people’s faces were stone cold, sad, and some were teary or turning slightly green, but he knew they were just green with envy because he had invented this dance craze before them and would become ever richer while they would forever be his towel maids.

    A Houndoom in the main chamber was growing annoyed at all of the noise and, due to the noise causing him to grow quite annoyed, vowed to destroy the source of the noise which was annoying him in an ever growing manner. He howled like an old man being stopped across the way to bless the rains down in Africa, and, hoping to stop the old forgotten words and ancient melodies, started burping up fireballs haphazardly all over the fucking place like Bowser at a taco eating contest. One blast came right for Lysandre, who bent backwards in slow motion, matrix style, as the fireball cruised over his head, and continued through the open door to his bedroom, to the open door to his closet, to the open door to the walk in closet in his closet… exploding at the end in an inferno, torching all of his clothes (except for the one pair being valiantly guarded by his nauseous towel maid) and leaving his fabulously stylish wardrobe in ashes.

    “Oh my god,” the Houndoom’s owner, a young female grunt, cried, “I’m, like, so so so sorry.”

    “It’s fine,” Lysandre said, dusting himself off. “I forgive you. Haha, just kidding, you’re fired and I’ll see you in court tomorrow. But really, I like clothes shopping. It’s so fabulous. Maybe I’ll level up my style!” The room of grunts groaned audibly out of jealousy that such an ingenius Pokemon pun had not been thought up by them first, those plebian bastards. Lysandre pulled his shower holocaster from his towel and called his best friend, Professor Sycamore.

    “Please tell me you’re wearing pants this time,” Sycamore groaned, trying to keep his eyes cautiously closed but suspiciously unable to keep his right eye from being hopefully opened just a sliver.

    “I’m wearing a towel this time,” Lysandre replied heroically. “An orange towel, to be exact, but not because I’m the head of Team Flare or anything, I just like orange. Anyway, I’m going clothes shopping today and it’s going to be totally fabulous, and you’re the manliest, straightest man I know, so I thought I’d ask you to accompany me and give me fashion advice to make sure that the next time I use Attract, it’s super effective. I-I-I mean use attract on girls, of course, because I’m not gay, that’d be weird, since you’re a guy, too. And of course I don’t mean using attract on the girls at Team Flare, or on my army of oiled up muscley bald admins at Team Flare, because that would imply that I’m associated with Team Flare, or that I’m gay for the muscley bald admins there, which I’m not. I just—”

    “You just really like the color orange, I know, I know. Well, X’s mom was just leaving, so I’m in. It’s been a long time since we’ve hung out. Well, I mean, since we’ve hung out together. You were hanging out of your robe earlier, but—oh god. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way when I said we hung out together, because that’s not something straight male friends do, hang out of their robes together, and, like, and we’re totally straight male friends, broseph. Uh… I… yeah. I’ll meet you at Goodwill.”

    “At…what?” Lysandre asked, his jaw dropping to the floor, his fist killing something.

    “Goodwill. It’s where people shop. For clothes.”

    “Isn’t that where the homeless CEOs of companies I’ve bought up shop for clothes, though!?”

    “Well, I mean, poor people do shop there I guess, but it’s got so many clothes from so many regions and time periods, and there’s stuff from the 90s, so, you know, if you like orange—”

    “I fucking love orange. And not because I’m like, secretly the boss of Team Flare. Just because it’s so fucking manly, like me.”

    “Exactly. Well, I’m glad you’re being so open minded about this. I was afraid you’d be like, ew, poor people store, and kill one of your interns or something.”

    “Well,” Lysandre sheepishly replied, removing his fist from the skull of an intern he’d crushed upon initially hearing the word Goodwill, “I actually did kind of kill an intern or something when you mentioned it, but you’ve since convinced me. He wasn’t a Team Flare intern, though, that’s just silly. And it’s okay I killed him, because I’m rich. But I’m rich from inventing, not from being the descendent of an ancient king who’s been kidnapped by Team Flare or anything. Because that’d be silly, since I like oranges. Like, seriously, fuck grapefruit, oranges are where it’s at, right homie?”

    “…whatever you say, Lysandre. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”

    “Bitch, you better meet me there in twenty. Love you Morey. No homo.”

    And thus begins our saga…

    CLICK ME TO GO TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, BITCH!
    Last edited by Lysandre; 3rd April 2014 at 11:23 AM.

  2. #2
    Yare Yare Daze Lysandre's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    Now... on to our first chapter in this epic, heartwrenching saga.



    Lysandre pulled seductively up to the parking lot of his local Goodwill in his orange stretch limo taxi, almost running over a random nerdy pedestrian in the process. Wait a minute, this was not just any nerdy pedestrian… this was his bestie, PROFESSOR SYCAMORE!

    “Morey!” Lysandre crooned, leaping from the passenger’s side of his vehicle with the grace of a Snorlax rolling post-coitally out of a bed of thorns. “Somehow I had a feeling that we would meet here. It’s like destiny.”

    “It’s more like you called me on the holocaster and told me to meet you here twenty minutes ago, but whatever. Lysandre, have you ever been thrift shopping before?”

    Lysandre stroked his beautiful red beard quizzically. “Is that like the Macklemore song?” Lysandre asked, quizzically stroking his beard which was beautiful and red. “Like, I’m gonna pop some Shadow Tags, this is fucking awesome?”

    “Sort of, except you’ve got significantly more than twenty dollars in your pocket. Come on!” He laced his fingers heterosexually between Lysandre’s own and pulled, but Lysandre’s arm snapped slackily back, jarring his arm out of socket, Lysandre’s body remaining frozen in place.

    “What’s the deal, Lysandre? Come on!”

    “Sycamore… I just… I just saw a woman walk in there.”

    “So?”

    “A poor woman. Wearing Crocs.”

    “You can do this, Lysandre. Real people aren’t always fashionable. That’s what makes you so special. Come on, buddy.” Sycamore led the very paranoid and upset Lysandre through the sliding doors into the bleak, mold-smelling, white walled paradise that was Goodwill. Ancient television sets in the back were showing off a VHS tape of a movie where some boys were walking on railroad tracks, a boy in a red hat decides to go along too, and they all get run over by the fucking train and die, because who the fuck walks on railroad tracks? Sycamore’s eyes drifted nervously about, marking all the sections in the Town Map of his mind. “McDonalds toys. Check. Gardevoir dresses. Check. Old woman clothes. Alright.” As he spoke he wandered dreamily through the complex as onlookers stared uncomfortably at him.

    “Lysandre, the men’s clothes are this way,” Sycamore called, but his friend was already gone.

    “Sycamore,” Lysandre shouted muffled from behind the dressing room door, “does this color work for me?”

    “Lysandre, I can’t just go in the dressing room with you. Straight guys don’t do that.”

    “How about I call you on the holocaster and then you tell me?”

    “Lysandre, the holocaster only displays images in blue. I won’t be able to tell whether the color works for you or not.”

    “Well fuck, who makes a mindblowing communication device like that and makes it monochrome? What kind of fucking idiot—don’t answer that. Don’t. Answer. That. Alright, fine, I’ll step out.”

    Blue Collar Man by Styx blared majestically from the old 8-track player in the corner as Lysandre swaggered out of the dressing room. Sycamore’s jaw dropped to the floor.

    “Well, Morey? Am I a sexual tyrannosaurus in this outfit or what?”

    “Lysandre, what the—why the bloody hell are you wearing a bra!?”

    “A what? This is a chesthair enhancer, my friend, perhaps you would understand if you were a member of higher society like myself. It frames my majestic ginger chest-mane.” He seductively twirled a curled lock of Pyroar-like red goodness betwixt the curious chest-locking device with his index finger. “You know if you were a woman you’d be all over this.”

    “Well, yeah, because it’s a BRA and WOMEN wear those. Lysandre, do you even know what a bra is?”

    “Well, duh,” Lysandre replied, crossing his arms defiantly.

    “Then explain it to me.”

    “It… it makes your chesthair show up better?”

    “My god, Lysandre, it’s what female humans and humanoid Pokemon use to support their breasts! How did you go all these years without ever seeing a bra? Don’t you have female employees at least or something!?”

    “Well, yeah, but… I don’t allow them to wear clothes. I’m rich, remember? I mean, the front lines wear the Team Flare suits, but—”

    Lysandre realized what he had just said. His face froze like a Slowpoke’s. His eyes grew wide like Jynx’s hips. Time stopped like a Pikachu that… could… stop… time. He watched the legions of poor trainers in the aisles slow to the pace of molasses dripping seductively from Professor Oak’s nipples as his mind shut down and the world moved in slow motion. You done fucked up, the little Whismur in his head whispered to him. Your cover’s blown. You’re going to prison, and if you drop the soap there, you don’t get a flashmob dance party from your interns, you get raped in the ass by a Machoke named Bubba.

    “Team Flare…? What?” Sycamore asked, raising an eyebrow. “Lysandre, my god, you aren’t--”

    “Seam Fair!” Lysandre shouted. “You misunderstood me, my friend. I said Seam Fair. Sometimes I send some of my female employees to the Seam Fair tailoring meet in Kanto, and they wear the designs from there around the office. Because I’m rich. And so I can afford to do things like send my employees who don’t work for Team Flare to fashion shows. Yep.”

    Smooth as fuck.

    “Lysandre, please, put on a shirt. You’re embarrassing me.”

    “Do you think I’m in Team Flare? Because, bitch, we have been over this before, I just like the color orange. Don’t get all colorist on me. I could be all like, you’re on Team Kill All the Indians because you’re white! How’s Team KKK doing? How’s team Fucking My Cousin in West Virginia Because the South Will Rise Again, WHITE BOY!? But that’d be racist. So don’t be racist against me because I’m orange haired, alright? At Team Flare, we’re genocidal maniacs, but we draw the line at racism. Not that I’m in Team Flare. But if I—”

    “JUST PUT A FUCKING SHIRT ON,” Sycamore growled under his breath, shoving Lysandre back into the dressing room. As the door closed behind him, an attractive brunette beauty in a graceful, wing-like purple kimono dress thing locked eyes with Sycamore from across the room and skipped bubbly over to him. “Oh, hi Valerie!” He called, his heart increasing to 150 Pokebeats per Pokeminute. After all, Sycamore’s heterosexual bromance with Lysandre couldn’t hold him back from his burning lust for the gym leader who looked sexily like a Sylveon with black holes for eyes. Seriously, it sounds weird, but this all somehow combined to make her very sexually appealing, and Professor Sycamore knew it. He had a PHD in Studying Dat Ass. His thesis was about her jiggle physics. He wanted nothing more than to fill her Pokedex with his Master Balls. Though he knew it’d be more like Quick Balls, which made him sad. “I, uh, I was just happening to shop here, by myself, without the leader of Team Flare in a bra or anything, and here you are, so, like, it must be fate, right? Maybe we were meant to be? Meant to be in this shop at the same time I mean. Not meant to be a couple and go to your gym to have weird trainer/Sylveon roleplay sex. Because that’d be weird and I never think about that when I get lonely at night. I’ll shut up now. Hi.”

    “Hi! I was just shopping for Pokemon clothes, thinking maybe if I dressed up like one I’d be closer to my full spiritual transformation to be a Sylveon, you know? But I need your help! I tried on this stupid Jynx bra and now I can’t get it off!” She shifted her shoulders as the back of her dress opened up as if on command, revealing her youthful, shapely, vaguely floral-scented body from behind in full glorious skin-bared view, right down to the Sylveon-print purple panties plastered against her fine, plump posterior. Sycamore’s heart was off to the Ponyta races even more than before, and his face turned as red as Lysandre’s pubic hair.

    “I… I…” He put all of his energy into trying to guide his quaking hand towards the bra’s tiny locking clasps. Hundreds of times splicing Pokemon DNA on a microscopic level with his bare hands couldn’t have prepared him for this. “I’ll do my best, milady,” he whispered nervously.

    “I know you will, Professor-sama,” Valerie cooed, blushing slightly as his hands glided sensually up her back and towards the clasps. “I’ll need your help getting the next one I’d like to try on, too, if you wouldn’t mind. I mean, if it’d be too awkward, I can get someone else, but I trust you more than anyone else, and I thought maybe we could—”

    “Hey Sycamore, help me get this fucking bra off,” Lysandre’s muffled cry pierced through the dressing room door.

    “Oh, are you here with someone?” Valerie squeaked, startled.

    “No, I’m not,” Sycamore replied, gritting his teeth. “It must be the wind. They very obnoxious, rich, overly fabulous, ambiguously straight wind.” He said this last bit loud enough to let the wind hear, but the wind wasn’t listening today.

    “Morey, we made an agreement,” the wind continued, “we’d go shopping and you’d help me learn how to shop like a poor-ass hipster chick. Now help me get this fucking bra off or I’m calling Team Flare to torch your ass. Not that I have their number on speed dial, or anything. I just like the color orange.”

    “I didn’t know you swung that way,” Valerie snapped, pulling away from Sycamore. “How could you lead me on… make me think you wanted me… with your crossdressing boyfriend mere feet away? This is why I hate people. You don’t get this bullshit from Pokemon. I and my Sylveon panties are out, you fucking pervert.” With this, she stomped tearfully away with the fury of a thousand Miltanks using Rollout in a bowling alley full of McDonalds employees.

    “He’s not my boyfriend!” Sycamore shouted after her as she stomped away tearfully with the fury of a thousand Miltanks using Rollout in a bowling alley full of McDonalds employees. “He’s my totally straight friend who decided to go shopping for totally fab outfits with me, and he needs my help to get his bra off because he’s rich! Is that so hard to under—” But Valerie had already made it through the door and was speeding away in her tiny purple Miata before he could finish his explanation.

    “Never mind,” Lysandre shouted, emerging triumphantly as Sycamore watched Valerie speed away in her tiny purple Miata. “I got it. Just had to flex my muscles a bit. Do I still have to buy it because my pecs ripped it or can I get away with it because I’m rich? I don’t know how poor people stores work.”

    Sycamore didn’t respond, but his right eye twitched slightly, like Cubone’s mother possessing an angry piece of spinach stuck in the teeth of a possessed medium at the top of Pokemon tower. His fists clenched like a Hitmonchan trying to open a fortune cookie made of diamonds and the bones of Cubone’s mother. His rage burned like the flames that would be on Lysandre’s uniform if he was secretly the leader of Team Flare, which he totally wasn’t.

    “Lysandre… you just ruined my… and Valerie…”

    “Poor white boy say what?”

    “I was trying to get her bra off. She asked me to remove her bra. In public. With my hands. And then to go in the dressing room with her, and put on another one for her, and see where it went from there. And then you fucked it up.”

    “So did she get the bra off?”

    “Well, no, but—”

    “Tell her to flex her pecs, then. That worked for me. It’s the only way. It’s like a Rubik’s cube back there.”

    “She had Sylveon panties, Lysandre. I saw them. I was this close to getting in them.”

    “You know, I think sometimes guys should be more open minded about these ‘bra’ things. I may be in good shape, but even I could use some extra support sometimes, mainly due to my manly-ass chesthair, which I keep shaved in the shape of a flame. Not because I’m in Team Flare or anything. Because I’m flaming. I mean, because I like orange.”

    “…Lysandre, I think we should go.”

    “But I haven’t found any outfits yet.”

    “Lysandre, look at this place. Look at it. Is ANYTHING here fabulous enough for you? No. No it isn’t. We’re going.”

    “I don’t know, Syc, I kind of liked that bra. It had extra support, you know, for the buxom beauty hidden inside all of us.”

    “I almost had one of those today, Lysandre. Then you had to come along and ruin it.”

    “A bra with extra support? Look, you can have this one, I can fix it with some duct tape or something, I’ve got some back at Flare HQ. Uh, I mean, that’s what I’d say if I worked at Team Flare HQ, as their secret boss. Which I don’t. I just--”

    “Let’s fucking go, Lysandre. Let’s fucking go. And you owe me big time after what you did to me just now.”

    “How much?”

    “A hot chick who looks like a Sylveon, or a million dollars, your pick.”

    “How about I buy you that bra and we call it even? Now let’s go do some real shopping. This place sucks. The atmosphere totally ruined my experience.”

    “Speaking of totally ruined experiences, Lysandre… you know what, forget it.”


    Next on the list…

    THE JOURNEY ON THE WAY TO THE MALL: IS SYCAMORE A STREET RACER?

    To be continued…

    CLICK ME TO GO TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, BITCH!
    Last edited by Lysandre; 15th February 2014 at 01:08 AM.

  3. #3
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    Oh. My. God.

    Thank you for making me crap myself laughing, resulting in my whole family just staring at me.

    It's not because I'm a member of Team Flare and get all the jokes or anything! I just like comedy!

    Seriously though, this is fabulous. As fabulous as Lysandre in a bra or Sylveon panties.

    10/10.

    But I'd like to see the characters interacting with Pokemon more. That's the only flaw for me. Oh, and the immortal Pokemon was a Floette, not Flabebe. But still, close enough.

    PLEASE DON'T KILL ME WITH A FABULOUS MEGA GYARADOS OR A FABULOUS YVELTAL OR YOUR FABULOUS HARLEY OR A FABULOUS HARLEY YVELTAL OR A DABULOUS HARLEY MEGA GYARADOS OR A FABULOUS MEGA YVELTAL GYARADOS OR A FABULOUS MEGA HARLEY YVELTAL GYARADOS LYSANDRE! I'M TOO YOUNG AMD FABULOUS TO DIE!
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  4. #4
    Yare Yare Daze Lysandre's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

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    Now... without further ado...



    The time was 3:45… making it that fateful hour of the day when it is precisely 45 minutes after 3’ o clock. But of all the 3:45s Lysandre could remember, this was the most stressful 3:45 by far. For, Lysandre, in typical fabulous fashion, had forgotten that he had pulled up in a stretch limo with the Team Flare logo painted on the side, “FLARULEZ” as the license plate, “How beautiful is my driving? Call 1-800-FLAR” on the back, and a driver in a Team Flare suit. If his bestest buddy Sycamore noticed even one of these things, he would probably realize that in actuality, Lysandre did not merely like orange, but actually was the leader of Team Flare. There were only two things that could follow such a realization: off to prison, and then being on the receiving end of bad petting in a Pokemon Amie game run by his cell-mate, a Gurrdurr named Wifebeata666. Needless to say, he had to keep Sycamore from seeing his car.

    “Morey,” Lysandre said, sensually placing his velvet-clad hand on Sycamore’s masculine shoulder in an incredibly heterosexual manner, “I was just thinking… it doesn’t make any sense for us to drive two cars, and, um, hurt the environment or whatever poor vegan bitches on food stamps worry about. So let’s carpool, and—”

    “Oh my god, you’re letting me ride in your limo!?” Sycamore squealed, sounding happier than a Skitty after a long egg-making session with a Wailord pimp in a leisure suit. “Oh my god, I’ve never gotten to ride in a limo before! This is like, radically tubular. Sandy, you’re the greatest.”

    “Um. No. We, uh, we can’t ride in my limo.”

    “Why not?”

    “Why not?”

    “I’m asking you.”

    “Oh. I thought I was asking you.”

    “Why the fuck would you be asking me?”

    “Because it’s the eye of the Pyroar?”

    “Lysandre, seriously. Why can’t we take your limo?”

    Lysandre paused. Sexy sweat slid sexily down his manly forehead, sensually dripping from the camouflaged Dorito’s crumbs in his fantastically ginger beard. “I… well, because it has a problem.” As he spoke, he fumbled with a Pokeball in his pocket.

    “But you drove it here just fine.”

    “Yes, well, that’s funny, you see. Because, um, it has a very odd problem, where if I try to drive it twice in one day, it explodes into a flaming inferno from hell. I think it must be something with the transmission fluid. I hate when it does that.”

    “How did you plan to drive it home, then?”

    “I… well, I figured you’d drive it home.”

    Sycamore raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms suspiciously. “I see. And who would drive my car home?”

    “Um... your mom?”

    “Lysandre, I don’t think I believe you. I think you’re hiding something. And as the sexiest scientist in the Pokemon World, it’s my duty to figure out what the fuck it is.” Sycamore used Swagger, strutting towards the limousine and leaving Lysandre very angry and confused.

    “Yeah, well… you better not get too close, or it’ll do that thing it does, where it like, explodes.”

    “I’m not listening,” Sycamore replied, swaggering ever closer. As he said this, Lysandre finally got his hands into the pocket of his skinny jeans enough to push the button on his Pyroar’s Pokeball. “Pyroarusefireblastonthelimorightnow,” he whispered to it quickly.

    “Py?” Translated, that means “crazy rich white boy say what?”

    “Just torch the fucking limousine,” Lysandre reiterated, and just as Sycamore was getting close enough to almost make out the markings on the vehicle’s side, a lightning-fast fireball pierced the gas tank and sent the whole limousine, along with the intern driver in the Team Flare costume, up in flames in a gorgeous, patriotic French—er, Kalosian—explosion. Lysandre fist-bumped--paw-bumped??--the Pyroar, and said "Word."

    “HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK ON A FUCKSTICK!” Sycamore shouted, falling onto his finely shaped ass... not like Lysandre, who never had a non-hetero thought in his life, had noted how finely shaped his ass was, or anything. “YOU WEREN’T KIDDING ABOUT THE EXPLOSION,” he continued to shout, still resting on his fallen, finely-shaped ass.

    “Yep,” Lysandre replied, relieved and quickly returning Pyroar to his Pokeball before Sycamore could catch on. “Gotta’ watch out. Never know when your transmission fluid is gonna’ break and catch the gas tank on fire.”

    “I’m going to pretend that made sense,” Sycamore replied. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re rich enough to pay for the damages and the driver’s life insurance, so I guess we’ll be going in my car after all. Sorry about your limo.”

    “It’s not your fault,” Lysandre replied, patting Sycamore gingerly on the back. “It’s the poor people’s fault. Like everything is. And interns, too. Fuck interns. Now, let’s get going—to the mall!”

    Lysandre’s jaw dropped when he saw Sycamore’s car. He had expected the usual science major car—you know, a beat-to-hell Oldsmobile with duct tape holding the bumper to the rest of the car. But no—Sycamore was driving a black motherfucking Skyline GTR. Lysandre didn’t know what the G, T, or R stood for (Great Team Rocket? Gorgeously Tight Rear?), but he had seen one on one episode on Initial Z or whatever the fuck that manly racing cartoon was called, and he knew how serious it was. “Morey, you… your car… it’s… sexy.”

    “Eh, it gets the job done,” Sycamore smugly replied, unlocking the car. Lysandre slid into the leather bucket seat, drooling uncontrollably. How the fuck did he not have this car, if he was rich? All those Doughboy clock payments could’ve gone to getting one of these fucking things. When he got back to Team Flare HQ, he was totally hitting up Autotrader.com.

    “Morey,” he said, buckling his seatbelt, “this is a pretty fly car to use just for science trips.”

    “Haha! That is where you are wrong, my rich, misled friend. I am only a scientist by day. By night, I am a street racer.” As he said this, his face seemed to be framed by a soft focus, shoujo sort of glow, as if to say, “what a manly son of a bitch this Sycamore fellow happens to be.” Lysandre’s jaw dropped even further, so far that his gorgeous ginger beard almost ripped to keep up with it.

    “You’re… so cool… in a totally straight kind of way,” Lysandre said.

    “LET’S ROCK AND ROLL!” Sycamore shouted, flooring it out of the parking lot, darting between traffic on the main road like a bat out of hell. He reached down with his right hand and cranked up a Eurobeat CD on the stereo, with the bass cranked up to wannabe-ghetto-white-boy-in-a-Civic-at-a-gas-station-in-Tennessee levels of BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

    As he neared the mountain pass which, inexplicably, led to the mall, a red Honda Civic pulled up next to his car at the stoplight. Lysandre gasped. This was no ordinary Honda… this was a RICED-UP HONDA, BITCH-ASS. It must have had at least 100hp stock, but its ripped-off-of-an-EVO spoiler (so manly!), cheap muffler (such sound!), gold rim tires (so blingy!), rap CD (so gangsta!) and Initial D sticker (so kawaii-desu-chan!) must have taken it up to at least 850 HP more than stock. A man with spiky brown hair and obnoxiously retro sunglasses rolled down the window and shouted across to Sycamore, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Suck-a-more. Or was it Dick-a-more? Heheheh!”

    “Gary Oak!” Sycamore shouted spitefully, punching the armrest but it wasn’t really the armrest it was Lysandre’s crotch and he was probably sterile now and oh god the pain. “My street racing nemesis! What are you going on Mount Nosepass for?”

    “I just came here to show my gaggle of topless Kanto supermodels how easily I can kick your ass in,” Gary replied, rolling down the back window. In the backseat were, indeed, four supermodels from Kanto, not wearing tops, and pouring vegetable oil down their chests for some inexplicable, but admittedly sexually appealing, reason. “God damn it, girls, stop with the oil when I’m trying to trash talk, it’s distracting! Anyway, how about I prove once and for all that I’m the biggest douche in this town. You and me, to the bottom of the pass, no rules. Whoever loses has to suck my dick. No, just kidding, you’d enjoy that too much. Seriously, though, fuck you.”

    “I accept your challenge!” Sycamore growled, frothing at the mouth like something that froths at the mouth a lot (sorry, our simile research budget was cut significantly this chapter, fuck congress). “THREE-TWO-ONE-GO”

    "SMELL YA LATER!" Gary pulled his eye socket down and stuck his tongue out, which probably meant something in Japanese, and rocketed off. On the back of his car was a bumper sticker reading "GARY IS IN FIRST, ASH IS A LOSER." This probably also meant something in Japanese.

    Sycamore floored it like the fancy bitch he was as Lysandre was thrown back into the seat, still clinging to his crushed nether-regions like something that had its balls crushed by an angry fist (Get our simile budget back! Vote them all out!) as the two cars rocketed from the starting line. Sycamore blew ahead to a clear lead, and was laughing maniacally while singing along to Running in the 90s on the stereo, but suddenly Gary’s Honda Shitass-er, Civic blew past him. When Lysandre squinted his eyes, he could make out Gary’s trickery—Arcanine was standing on the trunk, using Fire Blast to propel the car ahead like a rocket, while a Glaceon on the roof was using Ice Beam to cool the engine! “The fiend!” Sycamore shouted, “tainting the name of us brave souls who go way too fast on the road and take turns really fast. Lysandre, help me, what do we do?”

    Lysandre thought for a moment. He could send out Pyroar and try Gary’s trick, but then if Sycamore figured out that he had Pyroar, he would figure out what really happened with the limo, and that would be bad. “Think, you magnificent bastard!” Lysandre said to himself, clenching his brain. Suddenly, he remembered Oak’s words:

    “ASH! NOW’S NOT THE TIME TO USE THAT!”

    …wrong Oak.

    “God damn it, girls, stop with the oil when I’m trying to trash talk, it’s distracting!”

    “THAT’S IT!” Lysandre screamed. “Sycamore, do you have any vegetable oil?”

    “Oh, fuck, I think I forgot to bring that along today,” Sycamore replied sarcastically… he was up to 140 mph, after all, the perfect speed for sarcasm.

    “WELL WHAT DO YOU HAVE THEN, FUCKER!?”

    “Uh… there’s some motor oil in the back som—”

    “THANKSBYE” Lysandre interrupted, leaping into the backseat, getting caught on his seatbelt, almost choking to death, unbuckling his seatbelt, and then leaping into the backseat for real like something that was really jumping into a backseat (final note from the simile department: donations are accepted). He grabbed the bottle of motor oil beneath the back seat, took a deep breath, then climbed back into the passenger chair and began to roll down the window.

    “Sycamore, I can help you, but you’re going to have to trust me, keep your eyes on the road no matter difficult, and give me a huge-ass blast of speed. Can you do those three things?”

    “Well, I do have some nitrous, though I was saving it for the twenty-fifth hairpin. Tell me when to use it.”

    Lysandre roared and ripped off his shirt, revealing his flame-shaped mane of beautiful burgundy chesthair. “EYES ON THE ROAD,” he reminded Sycamore, who was trying to deal with a sudden (totally heterosexual) nosebleed. “This is for you, my friend—this is for Team Flare, if I were their leader, which I’m not, though I do like orange—this is for gingers everywhere. NOW! NOW, YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN!”

    Sycamore activated the nitrous with a manly push of a button, and the GTR blazed up to Gary’s Civic, keeping pace right beside it and pulling ever so slightly ahead. Lysandre leaned out the window, flexed his amazing pecs towards Gary, and began seductively pouring motor oil all over his ginger-fuzz-framed nipples whilst belting the ancient Team Flare mating call: “IIII'M TOO SEXY FOR MY SHIIIIRT, TOO SEXY FOR MY SHIIIIIRT, SO SEXY YEAHHHH.” He rubbed the oil in with his hands, for good measure, and then tweaked his oily nipples while warbling like a Talonflame, and then licking his fingers.

    After the first "TOO SEXY FOR MY SHIIIIRT" Gary hard turned instinctively to see what all the terrible (and arousing) noise was. It was clear that his poor young heart could not stand to hold all of the massive lust this sexy display put into his once pure and innocent mind, because he suddenly leaned out the window and barfed chunks all over the place. Sycamore’s right tires hit the slick, and his GTR spun out of control, sending Lysandre flying out the window and onto Arcanine’s very confused back. As he tried to move Arcanine’s tail aside to get a peek at the panicking topless maiden’s in Gary’s back seats, Sycamore’s mind went into slow motion as he executed an amazing drift, sliding at a full horizontal around the curve, past Gary, all the way down the hill, past the finish line, and right past the path of a lurking cop car.

    Gary wept at his loss, crying into the loving chest balloons of his harem ladies, as Lysandre crawled down and stumbled, shirtless, filthy, and windblown over to Sycamore’s car. A handsome fellow in a tan trenchcoat with a nametag that had “LOOKER” scrawled on it and then X-d out in red Sharpie was speaking very harshly to Sycamore in a harsh tone.

    “Sir, I’m not a member of the International Police who’s hiding out here as part of a sting operation. Really. I’m just a normal cop who saw what you did and thought, as a normal, non International-Police police officer, that I should probably stop you and give him a fine or something. So, I’m afraid you’ll be paying a fine… or, or something.”

    “Can I see some ID?” Sycamore demanded.

    “Yeah, I’d show you my ID, but my identity is a secret, and so, though I’m not actually a member of the International Police, and am just a regular police officer, I can’t. You just have to trust me. That’ll be 50,000 Pokedollars.”

    “I’m not paying that until I see some ID.”

    “Perhaps my fists will be ID enough!?” the man who was totally not Looker shouted heroically, but Lysandre quickly leapt in-between the two and handed the mysterious stranger a 50,000 Pokedollar bill.

    "I'm not an International Police Officer, but if I was, I'd ask where you managed to find such high denomination bills," Looker said.

    "I'm not the leader of Team Flare, but if I was, I'd tell you to mind your own goddamned business, you prettyboy cunt."

    “I like your style, not-Team-Flare-boss. Would you like to leave a tip?” Looker asked.

    "No, not-Looker, but I can appreciate your style as well. In a totally straight way, of course. Though you are a bit of a Looker."

    "You sure, not even a tiny tip? Because gas is really expensive these days and--"

    “Just take the money and go,” Lysandre said in a deep voice, out-of-character-ly heroic. Looker hopped back in the seemingly normal police car and sped off, as the “LUMIOSE POLICE DEPT” sticker fell off and went floating through the breeze, revealing the “LOOKER’S SECRET UNDERCOVER CAR” logo beneath, which was also X-ed out with red Sharpie.

    “Lysandre, that was… that was so uncharacteristically charitable and friendly of you,” Sycamore said, tears in his eyes.

    “I guess you could say that this case…” Lysandre paused to put on a pair of orange sunglasses. “…is closed.”

    “…Lysandre, that wasn’t a pun, and it wasn’t even funny. But still, thanks for having my back. You really are my best friend ever.” He ran tearfully to his friend and embraced his broad, muscular chest before realizing that it was still naked and covered in motor oil.

    “…I just got motor oil all over my labcoat, didn’t I?”

    “…yep.”

    “How the fuck will I explain this at the mall?”

    “Just tell them you got it smeared all over you from your totally straight best friend’s oiled up chest hair.”

    “…how about we go get us both some new shirts before we go back in public.”

    “Agreed. So fucking agreed.”

    TO BE CONTINUED…

    NEXT EPISODE: SHOCKING REVELATIONS AT THE MALL!!

    CLICK ME TO GO TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, BITCH!
    Last edited by Lysandre; 15th February 2014 at 01:03 AM.

  5. #5
    Master Exploder GastonGibus's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    I am writing this from the afterlife, as, unfortunately, I have died laughing. Or is it really fortunate? Either way, hats off to you sir for this incredible work of comedic writing! Whatever you do, don't stop writing. This is seriously good stuff!
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  6. #6
    Has converted to Helixism Miles101's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    MY SIDES ARE PHYSICALLY HURTING

    I CAN NO LONGER BREATHE

    ARE YOU A GOD?
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  7. #7
    BABY MURKROW ♡ Crystalanachrony's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    Suddenly, I feel like every decision I ever made in my life was wrong.

    Except for the decision to read this fic.
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  8. #8
    Crying Baby 'Roach Slayer Eternal Shadows's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    I'm glad you liked my comments, Lysandre-I mean boss-I mean FABULOUS SEXY BEAST MAJESTIC HAIR!!!

    In all seriousness, this chapter was amazing. I snorted up milk at the tipping reference.

    All the obviously heterosexual fun between Sycamore and Lysandre is amazing.

    Hmm... I wonder whom the leader of the fabulous and amazing... I mean diabolically fashionable Team Flare is? It's obviously not Lysandre.

    And who can Not Looker be?

    Love the interaction between Pyroar and Lysandre.

    All the characters are great.

    My rating?

    Fabulous/10
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  9. #9
    Master Exploder GastonGibus's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    This story... so majestic. Almost as majestic as totally-not-the-leader-of-team-flare Lysandre! But that's impossible. That kind of majesty would break the fabric of our reality and force Chuck Norris to assume the fetal position and weep bitterly.

    10/10 would read again. xD
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    "How can you read this? There's no pictures!"

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  10. #10
    Yare Yare Daze Lysandre's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    Comment responses/commentary:




    It was seven hours until the sun set, which meant that there was no point in mentioning the sun at all. No sooner had the heterosexual protagonists of our totally not homoerotic story exited Sycamore’s sexy car than did the drama flare up again like a Volcarona in heat. “Sandy,” Sycamore said under his breath, trying not to arouse the attention of the others in the crowded parking lot, “your shirt is embarrassing me. Are you sure that’s the ONLY thing you had in your purse?”

    “What’s wrong with it? And it’s not a purse, it’s a manbag.”

    “Um… right. Well, I mean, I’m no prude, but… ‘It’s not gay if it’s in a triple battle?’ Really? Like we aren’t raising enough suspicion being two gorgeous men out clothes shopping together already without your shirt bringing your sexuality into question? And calling it your ‘manbag’ doesn’t make it any straighter sounding, either. That actually sounds really dirty. Next thing you’ll ask me if I want a warm drink out of your ‘teabag.’”

    “Don’t be silly, I keep my teabag in the limo. Well, I did, before Pyr-er, the transmission fluid made it explode. And I will have you know,” Lysandre added, defensively straightening his shirt across his bulging pecs, “that many of my rich friends have complimented me on this shirt, and that my rich friends are straight as the telescopic stylus on my 3DS XL. Well, most of them, at least. I’m pretty sure Eusine swings the other way, and I’m still not sure if Diantha is secretly a dude or not. But whatever.”

    “Wait, Diantha’s a—d-damn it, never mind, I’m not getting into that again. Just be on your manliest behavior, and stop talking about XL sized telescopic styluses. If I run into any of my potential female love interests, I don’t want them to think we’re, like… together, you know?”

    “But Morey, I thought you were proud of our love,” Lysandre said loudly and sarcastically, grabbing Sycamore’s hand as the Professor’s face blossomed into a Blaziken-red blush, skipping along beside him as fabulously as possible. Valerie exited the majestically sliding doors of the mall at that very moment, noticed the rather misleading spectacle, stopped in her tracks, dropped her bags, then ran wildly about with tears in her eyes, screaming “I KNEW IT, I KNEW NOBODY WOULD EVER LOVE ME!” as she stumbled straight into a Hiker’s oncoming Jeepokemon Cherokee.

    “Goddamn it,” Sycamore said, glancing down at her (still maddeningly attractive) unmoving body, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

    “Well, anyway,” Lysandre said, casually tossing a 50,000 Pokedollar bill in her direction to cover medical expenses or funeral expenses or whatever the fuck poor people who get hit by cars have to pay as he and Sycamore strolled up to the entrance, “I’m like, totally excited. I’ve never been inside a mall before. Is it like Malva’s strip club at Team Flare HQ? Not that I’ve been there or anything. I just watch the webcam on my orange laptop sometimes. As a totally normal civilian who is not affiliated with Team Flare, certainly not as their boss or anything. And I only watch when the girls are the ones stripping. In fact, I didn’t even know Xerosic was one of the exotic speedo dancers until Eusine told me, rea—”

    “…no, Lysandre. No, it is not like that at all, thank Arceus. It’s like… well… there’s over a hundred stores, all inside one building, so that’s really cool. And there’s a food court, of course. And an arcade. And--”

    “Oh my god. So it’s like my master bathroom, only with an ARCADE!? Hot DAMN this place sounds groovy!”

    “You… you have stores in your bathroom?”

    “And a food court,” Lysandre corrected him. “It’s not very big though. Just a Kentucky Fried Combusken and a Taco Weepinbell. The Taco Weepinbell ends up keeping me in the bathroom in a terrible loop of money mismanagement and bowel movements, though. Seriously, fuck Mexican food, and fuck the interns that make it. I think there’s some Ponyta meat in that shit.”

    “…aaaaaaanyway,” Sycamore said, trying to expunge the tragically unsexy mental image of Lysandre ordering a horse burrito from atop his porcelain throne, “this is the mall directory. It tells you all the stores and stuff. I’m up for anything, so I’ll let you choose.”

    “First I just want to go to the arcade, and maybe buy it for my bathroom,” Lysandre said.

    “Cool, just find the number on the list, then match it to—”

    “AHA!” Lysandre shouted, poking the spot with “43” written on it on the map. “Quilladin’s Castle, the arcade!”

    “Cool, let’s g—”

    But he didn’t stop. Lysandre kept attacking the map with his thick, muscular finger, growing more confused and infuriated with each prod like a Zangoose and a Seviper in a poke war on Facebook. “Why the hell isn’t it working!?” he shouted even louder, attracting the attention of several offended soccer moms who flipped him off while cursing him out for ‘setting such a motherfucking bad example for our fucking children, you cunt.’

    “Sandy, what are you trying to do?” Sycamore concernedly inquired.

    “I just want to go to the arcade,” Lysandre replied, “but this fucking peasant machine is broken.” In his anger, he finally poked it a bit too hard, which is to say he punched it as hard as he possibly could as the whole panel shattered into a cascading HM05 of glass shards. His hand sensually ejaculated a manly fountain of blood all over Sycamore’s second and only backup lab coat of the day. “Teleporter’s broken, I think,” he concluded calmly.

    “Sandy,” Sycamore sighed, ripping part of his now ruined labcoat off to wrap lovingly around his best friend’s spewing wound, “normal person stores don’t have teleporters. We figure out from looking at the pictures on the map where to go, and then we walk there. On our legs.”

    “But… but my leg hurts,” Lysandre said, still oblivious to the fact that his hand was fucking bleeding all over the motherfucking place like Charmander’s head in that one Pokemon Origins scene where Squirtle bites his fucking face off and he screams like a little bitch.

    “I think you’ll live,” Sycamore sighed, tying the makeshift bandage tightly. “Now you go ahead to the ‘cade and start your fun, I’m gonna’ call mall security real quick to apologize for the directory and see if they need any help mopping up the blood.”

    “But…” a frightened expression crept like a Gengar stealthily across Lysandre’s well chiseled, masculine face, “what if… what if I get lost?”

    “Sandy, it’s two fucking stores away. Again, I think you’ll live.”

    Lysandre wandered independently to the arcade like a strong independent ginger woman don’t need no man as Sycamore explained awkwardly to the workers that his ambiguously straight rich friend didn’t mean to break the directory, but had merely hurt himself in his confusion. After a twenty minute exchange that ended with Sycamore paying the replacement costs, and cursing under his breath about how Lysandre better pay him back or he’d be sleeping with the Stunfisks, he decided he had earned some coffee before returning to his friend’s antics and stopped by Starmiebuck’s for a quick coffee break with his Bulbasaur.

    “Bulbasaur, I just don’t know,” he said, sipping his coffee and looking wistfully into the distance. “I really want to be Lysandre’s bestest best friend, but I feel like I’m always getting him into trouble, you know?”

    “Bulba,” Bulbasaur replied, gripping his latte with a vine and taking a polite sip. Translated, this meant “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, but thanks for the coffee.”

    “Yeah, you’re right; I guess it really is more the other way around. Seriously, who does that fucker think he is?” Sycamore took an angry gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue, but he didn’t care because he was so fucking pissed off and oh my god Lysandre was such a little bitch. “Bulbasaur, do you think he’s a shitty friend?”

    “Saur, bulba saur,” he replied, using his other vine to pour some creamer in his latte. Translated, this meant “Damned if I know, I’m just a Bulbasaur. Go to a fucking marriage counselor or something.”

    “Yeah, you’re right,” Sycamore replied, looking a bit guilty. “I guess I really was the one who got him into all this by pushing him past his comfort zone into normal civilian life. I’m sure he’ll have fun at the arcade though. There’s DDR, and Initial Z or whatever the fuck that manly racing game is, there’s Pokemon Catch, there’s pachinko, and… oh god, no… Bulbasaur, you don’t think--!?”

    “Saur.” Translated this meant, “no, I don’t think, because I don’t even know who you’re talking about, but the coffee was really good, we should do this again sometime, I love being outside of my Pokeball with you like this, for the first time I feel like you really do love m—”

    “You’re right, Bulbasaur!” Sycamore shouted, leaping from his chair and returning Bulbasaur to his Pokeball. “Lysandre is in danger of falling prey to the wiles of gambling, and as his best friend I have to stop him!” Sycamore waltzed into the arcade as fast as he could and oh god Lysandre really was at the gambling machines this couldn’t be good

    “Syc…a…more…” Lysandre droned demonically, turning twitchingly from his seat in front of the Diantha’s Dazzling Dance pachinko machine. His eyes were black holes, like Valerie’s but with even less humanity within, and his mouth was frozen in a Gengar-like sardonic grin. “…why… why do I keep putting my balls in the machine… and I don’t get money…? I… I wanted money… when I… put my balls… in… the holes… ”

    [EDITOR’S NOTE: for our less otaku readers, pachinko is a Japanese gambling game where you buy tiny balls at a counter, put them in a machine, use them to make an in-game slot machine turn, and hopefully win more balls from said slot machine to trade for MORE MONEY. They also have them in Vegas, and I’ve never won them there even once, goddamnit.]

    “Lysandre, we have got to work with you on using wiser word choices in everyday conversation. And pachinko is gambling, Lysandre. It’s meant to make you keep putting your ba--er, round metal spheres into it, and to not give you any in return. You’re wasting your money, it’s statistically not going to give you any profits. I can show you spreadsheets on it in Excel, because I’m a scientist and we’re nerds like that. How much have you put in?”

    “Uh…” Lysandre slumped against the machine and drooled a bit, the room spinning around him. “Like… uh… one million dollars worth of balls or… uh… something.”

    “OH MY FUCKING—”

    “It’s okay, though, because I’m… uh… I’m rich. Maybe I’ll buy some m—”

    Sycamore bitch-slapped Lysandre across his broad, musk-scented face to break him free of his addicted trance. “Lysandre, you’re not putting another ball in that machine and that’s final. You’re bad enough at money without being a gambling addict. Come on, let’s leave this dangerous place and go clothes shopping, since that IS THE NAME OF THE FUCKING STORY, AFTER ALL.”

    “Sycamore, we’ve discussed this, I don’t mention that night in Tohjoh Falls in public, and in return, you don’t break the fourth wall. Unless you want me to tell all these fine people about how Giovanni showed up at our barbeque and—yeah, never mind, I won’t do that. But seriously, have you ever tried one of these games before?”

    Sycamore bashfully rubbed his neck with his hand. “Uh… well, no, I’ve, uh, I’ve never gambled before,” he admitted, rubbing his neck bashfully with his hand in the process. “I’ve never even played those damn games where you try to stack the blocks on the screen to win an iPad,” he continued, as his neck was rubbed bashfully by his hand.

    “Sycamore,” Lysandre said, rising and leaning mischievously on his friend, raising his eyebrows seductively, “you can’t knock it until you’ve triiiiied iiiiiit…”

    “Lysandre, I don’t know—” Resist the temptation, Sycamore said to himself, resist the temptation, resist the temptation…

    “Come on, it’s fun! It has lights and sounds and stuff. Give it a try. Just one. Pleeeeaaaase? You can even use one of my balls.”

    …lights and sounds. Lights and sounds. Damn, it did have a lot of lights and sounds. Reaaaally shiny lights and sounds. Sycamore’s resolve was waning. And the ball was so shiny… and no money out of pocket… and…

    “…we really, REALLY need to work on your word choices, but fine, whatever.” Sycamore lustfully slipped Lysandre’s ball into the hole, gripped the shaft (we’re still talking about pachinko, you pervert), and watched gleefully as it went up to the top, tumbled down the pegs, landed in the hole on the board… started the on-screen slot…

    “…Lysandre, is three sevens good?”

    Lysandre’s face was dead. His eyes were glazed over. His shapely jaw twitched uncontrollably.

    “Lysandre, look at all the balls it’s giving me! Lysandre, can I trade these for money?”

    Lysandre’s eyelids shuddered. His spine crinkled. His liver sang a shitty N-Sync song. His heart cried tears of blood.

    “Lysandre, oh my god, they’re still coming! So many balls! Damn, I guess now I’m the one who needs to work on my word choice. But seriously, I’ve gotta be rich now!”

    A single tear slid down Lysandre’s face.

    “Lysandre, the guy at the counter said I had the biggest jackpot he’d ever seen, and he gave me five million Pokedollars! I’m rich like you, now! I can buy another GTR!”

    Lysandre laughed inaudibly, manically, insanely. His eyes rolled back into his head.

    “I can have an arcade in my bathroom, too, Sandy! We can be rich buddies!”

    Lysandre’s sorrow mega-evolved into MegaSorrow.

    “We can go on yachts together, and drink expensive Sake together at our beach mansion in Kanto, and we can go jetskiing with the Sharpedo, and I can buy out half of your shares, and we can be company buddies, and you can show me your secret base, and…”

    Lysandre collapsed to the floor, catatonic, his face frozen in a shocked, half-smile half-grimaced expression. The official explanation given by the mall paramedics was loss of blood from the cut… but everyone knew better. Yes, even Bulbasaur. Sycamore learned that day that being rich doesn’t mean you’re okay for your friend to win the slot machine with your balls the try after said friend made you stop playing, and that being a billionaire doesn’t make you any happier that you just missed out on five million Pokedollars.

    WILL LYSANDRE WAKE UP?
    WILL THEIR FRIENDSHIP EVER RECOVER?
    WILL THEY EVER ACTUALLY SHOP FOR MORE CLOTHES?

    ALL OF THESE QUESTIONS, AND MORE, TO BE ANSWERED IN CHAPTER 4

    CLICK ME TO GO TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, BITCH!
    Last edited by Lysandre; 15th February 2014 at 01:04 AM.
    Eternal Shadows, Jolene and Leggo like this.

  11. #11
    BABY MURKROW ♡ Crystalanachrony's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    ...I’m pretty sure Eusine swings the other way, and I’m still not sure if Diantha is secretly a dude or not. But whatever.
    I KNEW IT

    I FUCKING KNEW IT

    Anyway, another quality chapter. Now I really want Starbucks.
    Lysandre likes this.

  12. #12
    Crying Baby 'Roach Slayer Eternal Shadows's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    I must be Jesus, because I died laughing halfway through, and then came back to read the rest. But it wasn't Xerneas' power because Team Flare has it... I just resurrect a lot.

    My Awe has evolved into Admiration for the amazing Flare Lord Lysandre for this story! Please don't kill me because I crossed your fabulousness out, I just don't want your totally not obvious cover to be ruined!

    The totally hetrosexual moments are great, Lysandramore is OVER 9,000! But in a perfectly hetrosexual way.

    OMG Bulbasaur and Quilladin mentioning. Those two are my 1st and 2nd favourite starter lines (Fennekin got overtook by Chespin upon sight of Chesnaught and Delphox... But it's still 3rd because it has Flare and Flair and its obviously manly robe is gorgeous!

    Mega Fabulous/10
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  13. #13
    Has converted to Helixism Miles101's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    *rides in majestically on a Suicune* I have come to pass judgement.



    Hmm, yes.

    Perfect.

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  14. #14
    The Ice Queen Autumnbreeze's Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    Oh my arceus that was amazing. I think what actually makes it are those pictures. OH MY ARCEUS

    Keep up the awesome work, man. This is freaking hilarious.
    Lysandre likes this.

    "I don’t put much stock in anyone else’s opinions of a person.
    I prefer to judge the people I meet with my own eyes."

    -tumblr- -fanfiction- -dreams-

  15. #15
    Outplay the Coinflip -Glory Blaze-'s Avatar
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    Default Re: Lysandre Goes Clothes Shopping

    10/10 if it were a sandwich it would be a good sandwich


    In all seriousness, one of the best crackfics I've read. Thumbs-up for the clean formatting and no glaring spelling or grammar errors, many crackfic writers let those slide because they think that it's OK when you're writing crack anyway, it it actually really takes away from the humor and starts to feel more like trolling than bizarre surrealism.

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