“Please explain to me,” Crowley said, attempting a dignified slouch in a folding lawn chair, “why you felt the need to drag me to this fiasco?”
“It’s the football,” Balthazar replied, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Or ‘soccer’, as the heathens call it. And, as the token Europeans on staff, we have an obligation to care about the college team.”
“The English only care about soccer when we’re winning,” Crowley said pointedly. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose with one finger. As someone whose wardrobe consisted of black, black, and a slightly darker shade of black, he was not habitually dressed in the correct attire for sitting in the sun and watching sport for several hours. He and Balthazar had only managed to secure a place under a tree by parking their chairs nearby and talking loudly and at length about boring academic things until the students who had so proudly staked out that position abandoned the spot shortly before the end of the first half in order to save their reputations.
“Alright then, we’re out here because we’re seedy lecturers and there is a field of boys in tiny shorts for our perusal.”
“That sounds more like us,” Crowley said with an agreeable nod.
“Also, I have a question to ask you that could get me fired if anyone in our department were to overhear.”
“Yes,” Crowley said, fishing a hip flask out of his pocket. “That definitely sounds like us.”
The two men sat in the relative shade of the tree, Balthazar in a boneless sprawl and Crowley with a more dignified posture of boredom. “Our side is completely awful,” Crowley finally observed. “I should have brought papers. Paying attention to this thrashing is just embarrassing.”
“The only papers you have to mark are the ‘local churches and their art’ ones,” Balthazar replied. “And you swore you would never actually mark them. Remember? We have a bet going.”
Crowley paused in thought. “Was I betting that I would mark them, or that I wouldn’t?”
Balthazar shrugged, and plucked the flask out of Crowley’s hand. “Cassie will have it written down.”
Someone who may or may not have been a member of staff paused by the duo and inquired as to the score. “Nil all,” Balthazar and Crowley replied in unison.
“Oh, has the match just started?”
“Come on then,” Crowley said when they were finally alone. “Give me your death question. The question that will get you fired and damned to hell as even our creator gives up on you.”
“You want the death question already?”
“Unless you have a cake question to help pass the time?”
“Sadly not.” Balthazar stared out at the field for a moment, composing himself. “John-”
“Last names only, dear.” Their department was known by the wider faculty at the ‘John Storage Co’, as the entire staff (all five of them) were Johns. They had a strict policy on name usage in effect to avoid confusion.
“Crowley, you are the nearest thing to a friend that a sexually and morally ambiguous religion studies professor can have. You are unparalleled in the fields of giving advice, situational analysis, and skiving off meetings. I want you to know that, not only are you my first port of call with this issue, you are also my last hope of receiving counsel. No one can match your words of wisdom.”
“You forgot to mention that I’m incredibly handsome and that I was robbed when Zachariah was offered the fellowship.”
Balthazar placed a hand over his heart and gazed at Crowley with a look of shock upon his features. “I had assumed those things went without saying.”
“Very well, carry on.”
Finally having reached the moment of truth, Balthazar allowed his arms to flop out over the sides of his rickety chair as if he had been half-deflated. His head lolled back, and he stared at the branches above him. “How do I tell the students with a crush on me, that yes, I am open to receiving blowjobs in exchange for grades?”
“How would you do it? Probably drop a marked essay and when the student bends down to pick it up, unzip your trousers.”
Balthazar slapped Crowley on the arm. “Very funny.”
“And also very in character,” Crowley retorted. “How would I do it? Hm...” Crowley propped his chin on one hand for a moment. Given the sunglasses, Balthazar couldn’t tell if he was staring thoughtfully into the distance, or admiring the sheer surface area of leg on display.
“I would get them alone,” he finally said. “In my office, or a lecture hall. Yes, the hall, that would be much better. No Zachariah to avoid, no department Cas-sistant to shoo away.”
“A public place always adds a thrill,” Balthazar commented.
“Not all of us feel the need to sell tickets,” Crowley shot back. “But yes, alone, in a place that won’t be disturbed. Give them some lies about expecting better, tell them they would be my star pupil if only they could get their grades up. There would be touching. You know the kind, the little touches that no one can ever pin your for later. And, if they do have a crush on you,” Crowley let his voice drop and a grin spread across his face, “the magic will happen.” He shrugged one shoulder, switching suddenly to a careless demeanour. “And if it doesn’t, fail the bastard.”
Balthazar nodded slowly. “It’s a solid plan, I’ll give you that.”
“Does require some subtlety, which I know isn’t your strong suit.” Balthazar pulled a face at Crowley, and Crowley ignored him. “But that’s not the real problem, is it? If it were just a student with a crush you’d wait until the post-exam parties, get your jollies off and then grade them accordingly if you could remember their name later. No...” Crowley turned and gave Balthazar what can only be assumed to be a penetrating look from behind his sunglasses. “Someone’s caught your eye, haven’t they?”
Balthazar stayed silent, and Crowley nodded. The home team made a run for the goal, lost the ball, and nothing continued to happen in terms of the score.
“Go on then, which one is it?”
“The Winchester,” Balthazar said with a sigh, pointing to one of the young men on the field. “The puppy with the giant everything. His Latin is good enough that he gets my dirty jokes, and when he’s smirking at me in the lectures I just want to grab him by his stupid hair and make him choke on my cock.”
Crowley contemplated the mental image for a moment. “Overestimating yourself a bit there.”
“I’m just saying, the volume of cock provided to the estimated volume of space to fill-”
“Shut up or I’m texting Cassie and asking him to join us.”
“Fine,” Crowley challenged. “Ruin all of our days.” Balthazar made no move for his phone, and Crowley handed the hip flash over. “You may as well get all of your lustful sighing out of the way,” Crowley said, tapping one of his feet.
“He’s just… He’s adorable, but he’s got those muscles and things, but he keeps writing these amazing essays, but I have to keep grading him down because the boy finds it physically impossible to use any kind of authoritative source. And he plays sports with his shirt off all the time. And he stands very close to me.”
“He’s a giant. He’s automatically close to everyone.”
“He’s not a giant.”
“He is. Never have relations with someone who could crush you with their weight, Zaza. It always happens in the end and there’s just no dignified way to explain those injuries to the nice nurse in the emergency ward.”
“See, that’s the problem with you, you’re always so predictable and old fashioned about these things. Why can’t I bend him over my desk and hump away with wild abandon? Why can’t I lash him down and then ride him as if he’s an incredibly virile pony and I’m an Olympic-level jockey going for the gold?”
“Because you look ridiculous in silks?” Crowley suggested.
“Never mind the silks,” Balthazar snapped. “He is built like a god and there needs to be some kind of conference between his anatomy and mine that involve cocks, orifices, and a glorious amount of exploration.”
“Who are you talking about?” a dry voice asked from behind their shoulders. Balthazar and Crowley both jumped, though Crowley would later deny it. Castiel, the post-grad who had been integrated into the department so long ago that no one really knew what his role was these days, was standing behind them with his shirtsleeves rolled up, squinting against the sun.
Balthazar and Crowley exchanged a look. “James McAvoy,” they said in unison. Castiel nodded, as if this made perfect sense to him.
“Er, you’re not here on faculty business, are you?” Balthazar asked. There may or may not have been a meeting scheduled at the same time of the match that they were both ignoring.
“No,” Castiel replied. “I’m meeting someone here.” Balthazar and Crowley exchanged raised eyebrows at this piece of information. John Castiel was famous in the department for his complete lack of a social life. Though he had been under scrutiny for several weeks, when someone finally noticed he’d stopped eating lunch hunched over his shambles of a desk. “Has the match been awful?”
“Yes,” Crowley replied. “I want those two hours of my life back. You have missed nothing.”
“Thank you,” Castiel said, his voice almost lost in the sound of the final whistle being blown. Castiel departed from them then, walking over to the home team.
“Nil-all-draw,” Crowley said with a sigh. “Good old…” He trailed off as Castiel approached the young Winchester they had been gossiping like old maids about, and tapped him on his naked, sweaty elbow. The Winchester turned around, and his face lit up with a grin as he saw Castiel. He had dimples, Crowley observed. Balthazar was a little more occupied with the way Sam wrapped Castiel in a giant, sweaty, two-armed hug. When they separated, Sam dropped a kiss on Castiel’s cheek, and Cas rose up on his toes to murmur something into Sam’s ear, and Sam dropped a hand to the small of Castiel’s back.
“Well…” Balthazar said, and then trailed off, unable to find any words to conclude his sentence.
“Well indeed,” Crowley returned, grinning. “Weren’t you intending to court our young and irritatingly pedantic departmental pet at some point?” Crowley asked.
“Yes,” Balthazar replied. “After I found out he owned lederhosen. But this changes the game a little.”
“It does,” Crowley said in agreement. Then he turned to Balthazar with a wicked grin on his face. “First one to a threesome wins.”