Disclaimer? not mine. i just like to take 'em out and play with 'em.
warnings- uh... yaoi (duh) lemon (eventually) stupidity (and how!) pairings- Zechs, of GW infamy, and Lotor, tasty blue bish from that old favorite Voltron
Blue with Envy
a crossover PWP
Again he glanced at the slip of paper in his pristinely-gloved hand, reading off the invitation's address. /This is the right place.../ As if from the parking lot alone he couldn't be certain he'd reached his destination.
The hotel's striped asphalt lot was crammed full of all manner of bizarre and eccentric vehicles, from horse-drawn carriages and plush stretch limos (not pink, thank the gods) to magic carpets and gleaming starships. And mechs -- his own he parked next to a squat cyclops mobile suit painted an excruciating shade of red.
/No taste/ Zechs Merquise sniffed disdainfully, descending from the Tallgeese. The last several feet he fell, having leapt from the elevator line before it reached ground-level, delighting in the whip of wind in his flowing platinum locks. A soft scuffle as black jack-boots met the ground, and he straightened, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his scarlet coat. (To his mind, a *much* nicer shade of red than that hideous MS...)
Further confirmation that he was on the right track was given the Sankian Prince upon entrance to the hotel's lobby, where an elegant gilded sign directed to the left, declaring 'Conference'. He followed, striding easily down a lushly carpeted hallway, passing other guests he assumed by their regal bearing and sumptuous costumes must also be attending the conference. Zechs doled out polite head-nods, azure eyes distant and elusive behind the tinted glass slits of his mask.
Finally, a largish pair of doors, propped open and from behind which emanated the buzz and drone one would normally associate with either very large and nasty beasties with ravenous appetites and loads of fangs, or the collective quiet speech of a small crowd. Zechs was rather certain the snobbish hotel staff would never allow a monster inside, to drool all over the upholstery and leave claw-marks on the parquetry floor. Judging by that (rather brilliant, he thought) bit of logic, and the presence of a burnished placard bearing the words 'R.A.S.H. meeting today', the blonde Prince concluded that it was indeed a small gathering of people and not a beast, and that he had arrived.
Then he stepped forward, crossing the threshold, and was met with an impressive wall of silence as every pair of eyes in the room turned to stare at him, and all whispered discourse died immediately on stilled tongues.
Did he know how to make an entrance, or what?
/Life just doesn't get any better than this.../ Lotor, crown Prince of the dread planet Doom sat -- nay, sprawled -- across a conference room chair, sipping on an iced glass of tea. Another chair had been pulled from the regimented rows to serve as a footrest for the prince's decidedly regal and splendidly booted feet. /Quite comfortable, and a wonderful way to spend my vacation.../ Now, if only he could get that droning oaf to hurry up with the introductions and inane meeting details, so that Lotor could take the podium and properly open the 182nd annual R.A.S.H. conference.
R.A.S.H. of course standing for Royal Aficionados of Shiny Headwear. Lotor was president of that respected and prestigious interplanetary association, and this year's keynote speaker. Lurking impatiently in the wings, he has perfectly situated to scan the fidgety and less-than attentive crowd, and decide with snide superiority that by *far* he was the baddest prince in attendance. Surely, there were some other helmets scattered through the audience, amongst the myriad crowns of every conceivable shape, size and level of opulence, from the classic and elegant simple circlet to a gaudy triple-tiered monstrosity laden with hundreds of tiny mirrors. And, surprisingly, the occasional tiara. Last time he'd checked, there had been no women on the group's membership roster...
But, certainly there was not a single piece of head wear that approached his own wickedly winged and gleaming helmet for sheer ability to awe and intimidate. It occupied a chair of its own immediately next to the white-haired prince, and he patted it absently with loving reverence. And then cursed himself for the minute smudge-marks his gloved hand had left. /Not good, not good at all!/ he snarled to himself, buffing the marks out with a tiny silk cloth he carried always just for that purpose. /It's almost time for me to take the microphone, and I *can't* go on looking like this! After all, I have an image to maintain.../
Finally satisfied that the smudges had fled before his buffing attack and that his reflection grinned wickedly back with flawless clarity, Lotor relaxed, sagging further into his chair, and drained the last of his tea. /Doddering old fool.../ As the association's senior member, the venerable Vashere had speaking privileges simply on the merit of having outlived everyone else. Unfortunately, he also possessed a wagging tongue and had no compunctions about using it, and never did so sparingly. /I believe he grows more long-winded every year.../ Staring with cold disapproval at the man's back, to pass the time Lotor gleefully devised unpleasant tortures one might inflict with impunity on boring old men.
/After I've broken into his room and hidden his television remote, I'll short-sheet his bed before stealing all the toilet paper to roll his carriage! And can you say 3:00 am wake-up call?/
Lotor was close to despairing of *ever* gaining the podium when words caught the attention of his sensitive and oh so elegantly pointed ears. "...back again this year to share his love and expertise of shiny head wear... ...will include 'choosing the proper helmet to compliment your formal dress uniform' and 'the advanced application of polishing compounds'... ...welcome our treasured president..."
That was his cue. Standing, the Doom prince flicked back his silver hair, straightened his tunic, and lastly reached for the helmet, placing it on his head. Now there was naught for him to do but stride from behind the curtain, smile and wave dutifully, and drown in waves and waves of deeply gratifying and ego-stroking applause and attention. The real reason Lotor even went to all the trouble of attending these conferences. Not that he didn't truly love his helmet...
Then, several things happened at once. Vashere stood aside, relinquishing the now spit-flecked microphone, Lotor slipped from the shadows with his arm poised to wave, and the crowd fell into an expectant hushed silence, like that which always precedes a thunderous building of glorious applause. Except, why wasn't anyone looking at him?
It was then that Lotor's golden eyes raised to the rear of the room, and he saw The Mask...
Full Disclaimer: Voltron is all its varied incarnations is currently the property of World Events Productions. Gundam Wing is the property of Bandai Entertainment, Sunrise, and Emotion.
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