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Those Magnificent Omegas In Their Flying Machines

Chapter Text

The Winchester Castle is as old as balls.

Despite this, no dancing ever graces its hallowed halls. This is because there are no Omegas in there. And who wants to dance without Omegas? No one, that's who.

The reason for the Omega-vacuum is simple: Robert “Bobby“ Singer of the Winchesters, the founder of this ancient stone monstrosity, got all grumpy after the death of his wife, sweet Omega Karen. In his old manor in Sioux Falls, huge though it was, he did not have enough space to mourn her in peace. The place was constantly full of idiots, most of them young idiots and why the Hell did he even employ so many people in the first place?! They made an awful amount of racket. Sure, they missed Karen too, but mostly they were stupid with hormones and dating. The house and the grounds were infested with romance. It was disturbing Bobby's grump.

He made a valiant effort to be a master of his own house, being an Alpha and King and all and banned the dancing. Then the giggling and after that, the flirting. Of course, it was like trying to herd cats, what with all the Omegas prancing through the kitchens and halls. Stick an Omega in a crowd of serious, business minded folks - of Men of Letters, even  - and all those serious, business minded folks will be giggling and flirting in ten seconds flat. Omegas just have that effect. There's no reasoning with them.

So, he built the Winchester Castle.

For thinking.

Well, ok, mostly for drinking beer and playing pool with the bros, but also for thinking. After he lived out his days and died with last unfriendly gaze at the world, the purpose held. By law and by custom, no Omega could ever cross the threshold of Winchester Castle and it has been used by generations of Kings - all of them Alphas - to drink beer and play pool with the bros think.

'The thing about thinking,' thinks Prince Misha von Krushnic, an Omega extraordinaire and a freshly-wed husband to King Jensen of the Winchesters, 'is that when you need a special crib to do it in - and a huge granite one with a deep-ass moat at that - you are definitely overthinking things.'

He narrows his eyes, looking at the castle from the shadow of the forest edge. His horse rears up and whinnies below him, impatient.

“Shut up, horse,” Misha says, remaining gracefully upright in the saddle and pats Bella's neck. He tilts his head like an owl, considering his options. The Winchester castle looms in the middle of the great lake, all black stone tower after tower, fortified and grim and out of bounds. On the ramparts the ant-like people are bustling, preparing for king's arrival. Only then will the bridge come down; the place is built to be completely inaccessible by any other means.

Well, Misha loves a challenge. Like Hell is he going to be cut off from his new husband's sweet cock, much less for a whole fortnight. He will show them an obedient Omega. HA!

There is FUN to be had!!!



TBC *is hungover as fuck* I KNOW-SHORT-BUT IT'S THE BET, OK *falls unconscious*

Chapter Text

Chapter theme song ;)

SIX MONTHS EARLIER



“Blork! Goggles!” commands Misha and a his tiny Minion Blork dashes to him, hastily polishing the goggles with a buckskin cloth and chattering to itself in Minion speak.  

It is a lovely spring morning and all is well. Misha is in his magnificent dressing room with glass roof and full of sunshine, preparing for a new experiment. His younger sister Jo is perching on a desk, kicking her heels and watching him putting on his working gear: a leather aviation helmet with earflaps still turned up; small anti-gravitational Devices, snapping to his belt and to each cuff with a satisfying click; and now the brass rimmed goggles, resplendent as they are reflecting sun beams off Misha's forehead, ready for adventure.

Jo should not be here at all (and she is lucky that nobody knows). She should be down at breakfast with Father and say Please Sir and Thank you Sir and look all bland and girly and demure. Instead, she woke up from an uneasy dream at 6 AM and instead of trying to sleep again she washed up quickly and rushed to the roof top, to the Conservatory, where Misha claimed his domain.

She is here for two reasons: One, her brother is infinitely more interesting than ALL THAT; and Two…

Well, the thing is this: Today is the day when the official cohort from the Court of Winchester will arrive. They will bring gifts, missive from the King and most importantly, his Portrait. The Winchester coronation is a fairly recent thing. Nobody expected King John to die so soon, but die he did (according to gossip, he drowned in a vat of booze) and his son Jensen now single-mindedly seeks the perfect noble Omega husband.

Marriage to a royal Omega will emphasize his status and ensure continuation of his lineage. The von Krushnic family has very old roots, is wealthy and insanely influential on the international politics scale. The Winchesters started to negotiate months ago; as a result, their Royal Ambassador will today officially propose Courtship between Jensen and Misha. To solidify the bond between the two lineages further, Misha's older Alpha brother Castiel von Krushnic shall receive the proposition of Courtship to Jensen's cousin Charlie.

And Charlie's and Jensen's Portraits will be presented tonight.

“Do you think he will be handsome?”

“Of course he will be handsome,” says Misha over his shoulder loftily. He rummages in his toolbox.

Jo is not having it.

“You have no guarantee that he's a looker just because he is a King-and-an-Alpha,” she sings. “He might have a bald head and wonky eeyeee.”

“He is twenty eight.”

“He might have a wooden leg and a hideous scaaAAaar.”

“And a parrot. He's not a pirate.”

“He might have a small diiIIiick.”

“One, stop slagging off Schrödinger's cat's dicks as if you are interested in them. You and me both know you love the soft parts… and the soft yet firm parts.”

They smile at each other sweetly.

“And two, I sincerely doubt that. Prowess of Winchester Alphas has been a gossip fodder since time immemorial. Anyway,” adds Misha and turns around, grinning, “rumor has it he's a dreamboat.”

“Ooooh.”

“Quite. Ready? Let's go!”

 


 

What Misha did not tell Jo is the matter of his back-up plan.

Sex is a fascinating subject, and while Misha decided to wait with the first live hands-on experience for his husband, he certainly does not intend to give up preparatory research. With this goal in mind, he constructed a Mechanical Device, upon which he bestowed a working title EL CONQUISTADOR. He named it after the great Omega scientist and adventurer Zarqimedes of Quiracuse, the first man who ever said: 'Give me a Rod Long and Thick enough and a Pivot Slick an Firm and I shall MOVE THE EARTH.'

The first experiments were extremely stimulating and Misha started to refine the prototype with great enthusiasm.

After some trial and error, he adjusted the length-to-width ratio to roughly 11 to 2 inches and lowered the speed. Further testing brought the speed back, now with optional settings and vibrations. Once, in a heat of the moment, he even added a pair of ornamental wheels and a little chimney with celebratory steam-powered-whistle, but ultimately decided against. Now, the only enhancement to the perfected shape is a telescopic knot, which whirrs out at the press of a button.

It runs on Diesel.

But more about EL CONQUISTADOR later, dear reader. I can promise you that later tonight, after Misha sees Jensen's Portrait up close and personal, he is going to need it. :D \o/

 


 

One would think that the most logical place for a laboratory would be in a thoroughly insulated cellar, because of all the explosions. That only goes to show that One knows diddly squat about Prince Misha von Krushnic. The Omega is blithely uninterested in something so boring as mortal peril. Besides, this week, he is totally into towers.

“Are you coming or what?” he yells from the top of the creaking construction. He leans out precariously, gesticulating climb up already. Tiny Minion Blork on his shoulder, who is adjusting Misha's goggles, closes its eyes in horror.

“Coming, hold your horses!” yells Jo back and shins up the rope ladder. “If I fall down and die tragically in bloom of my youth, you are bringing me back to life with lightning, you hear me, crazy person?”

“Rely on me little blister, I mean sister,” shouts Misha enthusiastically, “I will even throw in mechanical parts!”

“I am so relieved to hear that,” pants Jo at the top. “Let's hear your evil mad laugh and my day will be complete.”

“Krachwachwa! Step forth and observe. I am almost finished!”

“What happened to good old-fashioned Muahahaha?”

“Boring.”

“So, what are you working on, anyhoo? A wind turbine? A mechanical bird? Is it a kite? I love kites!”

“Tcha! Child's trinkets. Behold,” says Misha and rips off a tarp covering a bulky shape, “the...ASTRONEF!”

The ASTRONEF looks like a cross between a stuffed vulture and a bear trap. It has leathery wings, each divided into five wide primaries, wheels clearly stolen off an old barouche and a sinister-looking fan with a propeller at the top. The rest is a wild nest of copper wires, cogwheels, spikes and bolts.

“Whoa,” says Jo.

“Beauty,” says Misha, “is not everything. Don't be shallow. Now. What is the natural partner of Air?”

“Earth,” says Jo immediately.

“What?! No no, it's Fire.”

“It's Earth in your case,” says Jo, “your aeronautical thingies always end up on the ground right after take off. And I say that,” she adds, rubbing her bum wistfully in memory, “from grim experience.”

“Small sacrifices are necessary in the name of Science,” says Misha, dismissive, “But not this time. I have combined a potent aether fluid with combustible pressure blower…”

“Whoa whoa,” says Jo, “I ain't getting on that thing. No way Jose. No siree.”

“Who says anything about just you? We're both going. Now hop on.”

“It will so crash.”

“It might possibly crash,” allows Misha, “but it will definitely fly first. I would even go so far as to say four to five hundred feet.”

Jo's eyes are round as saucers.

“No way.”

“Way.”

Jo looks at the ASTRONEF. It squats there, hideous but suddenly loaded with intoxicating potential. She looks back at her brother, with his mad scientist hair and goggles, a tiny minion on his shoulder and an infectious grin.

“Come on,” says Misha, “It will be FUN!”

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter theme song ;)

 

Fifteen minutes later, they are six hundred feet further from the tower on the grass, surrounded by the burning ruins of the ASTRONEF.

“A TRIUMPH!” yells Misha, wildly stomping down the flames. He is blackened by soot and his leather overalls are ruined, one sleeve flapping behind him like a ribbon. His tiny Minion Blork is rapidly chattering in high voice, dashing around the scene in excitement. “TRIUMPH OF SCIENCE! WE MOCK THE LAWS OF NATURE! WE, THE INTREPID DEATH DEFYING BIRDMEN VON KRUSHNIC!”

“All Omegas,” proclaims Jo with feeling and pats her leg, smothering the last of the sparks, “are insane.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” says deep gravelly voice behind her and a hand grasps her collar, hoisting her up as if Jo weighs nothing.

“Ow,” she says. “Oh hey, Cas! Guess what! Misha can FLY!!”

 



Castiel and his brother are like the Sun and the Moon.

Actually, no. Castiel and his brother are like the Sun and the unpredictable volcano from the planet Mraquaxawablechaqax. But you get the point. Where Misha talks fast, his brother's speech is deliberate, each word carrying a weight, as if he is constantly searching for the most accurate meaning and judging every expression for being too frivolous. Where Misha sparkles and sizzles with bursts of ideas, emotions and all the impossible things, Castiel is burning with steady flame, bright and righteous like a blade of a sword.

Where Misha finds joy in dressing himself like bird with curious plumage, Castiel has his tie and his trenchcoat.

“I HATE that thing on you,” says Misha, eying the offending item of clothing in hostile manner. “When are you going to wear something with a bit of colour in it? You do realize there are other shades in the world than… beige?”

He shudders. The very concept of...beige is hurting his sensibilities.

“It is practical, versatile, and I like it,” says Castiel, unmoved. He paces around Misha's Conservatory, picking up objects at random. He looks at a book about aerodynamics, tilting his head like an owl. This gesture is one of the few obvious things the two brothers have in common. At that moment - aside from their clothing - no one would be able to tell them apart.

“At least let me spiff it up. A few nice leather straps, brass buckle of two, a small steam-machine-cum-doom-ray integrated in the sleeve...“

“No.”

“Not even a thin anti-gravitational coating?”

“No. Be silent. I have long intended to talk to you about the serious matter of Marriage.”

“But Cas, this is all so sudden. Whatever will people say? I know we love each other, but folks do tend to frown upon inter-family couplings.”

Castiel frowns at him.

“Marriage,” he says in a clipped tone, “is not supposed to be...fun.”

He spits the word out with contempt just like his brother the word beige.

“Which,” he continues, pacing on, “makes me worry about your well-being. If unprepared, you will likely find marriage taxing. Royal alliance with an Alpha of Jensen Winchester's status is not one to be taken lightly. You will have Responsibilities. You will have to follow a Strict Protocol. And you will not be able to continue to,” he waves his hand, at loss for words, “...spaz all around like an insane person, bouncing from the walls and setting things on fire.”

Misha barely stops himself from rolling his eyes and reaches for a glass of water instead. Castiel absent mindedly picks up a metal object from a top of a cabinet and continues to wander around the room.

“The Objective attitude to emotions,” he continues, warming up to his theme, “has much to be lauded for. While I understand your...passion and...zest on an intellectual level, in our modern political life it represents a dead branch destined to be cut off.”

He turns around sharply, searing his brother with eyes blazing with persuasion. “As our Father stands firm, holding almost single-handedly the taut reins of the impetuous Stallion of Europa, we, his children, must do all which is in our powers to strengthen his position!!”

Misha chokes a little on his water as he watches his brother waving EL CONQUISTADOR in the air unconsciously during his impassioned lecture. At the same time, his heart is choking with love for Castiel.

“And your marriage to the Lord of North Pan-Americas should be a great boon in our struggle. Yet…I would sincerely prefer my brother to be happy.” He sighs deeply and sits down on Misha's bed, silent.  

As he turns the phallic object in his hands, his brow furrows and he looks at is brother.

“I long for our Father to succeed. You know that all my life I have been his...tool. I went where he sent me. I won all which he wanted me to win. I am, without any doubt, capable to do more of the same.”

Misha, staring at Castiel and EL CONQUISTADOR, gropes for words and finds none.

“And yet…”, says Castiel, rising up again, “I am not a Hammer, Misha." He adds a few vigorous movements with his equipped hand to illustrate his point. "I am not willing to ram and ram and ram for our cause mindlessly just because Father’s advisors would have me.”

He crosses the room and grasps his brother's shoulder. He searches his face earnestly.

“Misha,” Castiel says. “You are clearly full of emotions you cannot express.”

Misha nods and hangs his head, his ears turning crimson.

“I...understand,” says Castiel after a moment of Misha's attempts to control his breathing and speak. “I shall leave you at peace now, to ruminate.”

“Thank you,” gasps out Misha eventually, breathless, “brother.” Reaching the limit of his strength, he buries his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Castiel regards him fondly and turns to leave.  

“You surely realise, Misha, that - regardless of our Mission - I...deeply honour your craft. This, for example,” he adds, hefting the object in his palm, “has a very pleasing shape. If you added a set of wheels and perhaps a little chimney, it could serve as a whimsical transportation model.”

He puts the object on the desk, says grimly, yet affectionately, "See you in the evening, brother," and leaves the Conservatory.

After half a minute of breathless silence, a gasping burst of laughter from the topmost part of the manor frightens a dole of doves off the roof.