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oscarspubliclibrary · 20 hours ago

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I have a pressing need for frat boys (carcar, landoscar, whatever you want) and thought that might be right up your alley? :3

look, I get an excuse to write a drunk and/or party scene and I'll literally drop everything! So yes, frat boys are right up my alley!

this is mostly carcar, but somehow also carlandoscar if you squint or bother to imagine a continuation of the story.

Fucking Jagerbombs, 4k, rated M, ao3

Oscar sees Lando’s eyes lock on him from across the room and lifts his phone higher, hoping the latest generation of oversized smartphones might just be enough to cover the expanse of his forehead.

Just five more minutes, he had told himself, four and a half minutes ago. Just five more minutes before he could slink off unnoticed, without running the risk of his frat brothers suddenly remembering he exists and breaking down his door to crowd-surf him back down the stairs and force him to participate in the house party they’d been planning for two weeks.

It’s beach-themed. Revolutionary, he knows. Most people didn’t even show up in beachwear like they were supposed to. Lando is literally in a hoodie. Lando is in a hoodie, holding a colorful cocktail, and standing right in front of him, eyes bright with the promise of a bad idea.

“Osco! Thank fuck, I thought you had already bailed!” he says, and because he’s had at least three cocktails before this one already, and two years is apparently the max amount of friendship Lando can maintain a semblance of restraint for, he goes on to spit out the bad idea unfiltered, trusting that Oscar will not throw his phone at his head, no matter what comes out of his mouth.

“Listen. We need to make out a bit, yeah?”

Oscar carefully tucks his phone into his shorts, because he doesn’t trust himself half as much as Lando does, and says, “Um, yeah, no thanks. I’m good.”

“You see those girls over there?” Lando continues, glancing back at where two bikini-clad model-types are observing his every move with eagle eyes, leaning on each other and giggling. Oscar ignores Lando’s clear signal to play it cool and throws them a wave he knows will have Lando whinging and whining about how lame it is.

“They agreed to let me watch them make out and ‘maybe more,’ if I make out with one of you guys first!”

“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, wondering if he’s supposed to feel honored. “And you came to me? Is Carlos busy, or…”

“Come on, mate, you know I can’t go to Carlos with this!” Lando whines, giving his lower lip a proper workout. Oscar doubts he’d be able to fold his own like that if he tried. “Carlos is actually gay, so if I kiss him he’ll fall in love with me and our friendship will be forever ruined.”

“Pretty sure he’s already in love with you, mate,” Oscar says.

“Osc! Focus! Will you kiss me or no?”

Oscar knows there’s no use in pointing out that he already answered that question and gives a long groan instead. “But why me?”

“Because you’re chill about shit,” Lando says, shrugging. “I mean… uh… obviously because I, uh… I want it to be you? I don’t know, mate, what do you want to hear?”

“That you’ll owe me three favors. Big ones.”

“Deal!” Lando nods eagerly, because he knows he’s single-handedly driven up the empty-promises inflation in this house to a point where three favors means exactly nothing.

Oscar throws the giggling girls another glance. Not exactly his type, but they’re wearing bikinis, so at least they can read. He pats the empty space next to him on the couch with a long-suffering sigh and bounces stoically when Lando throws himself into it.

“With tongue or—” Oscar starts, but Lando has neither the sense nor the patience to approach his bad ideas with a minimum level of forethought, so Oscar finds his face full of Lando before the sentence can even leave his lips. He has half a mind to push him off, just for the audacity of not even listening. But that’s to be expected from Lando, so Oscar decides he doesn’t care, just closes his eyes and takes it in stride. Because Lando was right – he is chill about shit. ‘I just don’t know what the big deal is’ could be classified as his life motto, probably. It’s definitely how he’s always felt about things like kissing, and sex, which is why you normally don’t find him at these parties with his tongue down someone else’s throat.

He passively registers the slight sting of Lando’s stubble, and the artificially sweet taste of strawberry on his lips. Then Lando must decide he wants to put on a show for their audience, because his hand comes up to cradle Oscar’s face, and suddenly, things don’t feel passive at all anymore.

Lando’s hand is warm against his cheek, slightly clammy, but that doesn’t bother him. It’s huge. Huge! Spanning the entirety of his face – base pressed against Oscar’s chin, fingers reaching all the way around to his nape, thumb smoothing out the lines under his eyes. Oscar makes the mistake of gasping in surprise, and Lando’s tongue slips into his mouth, spreading the artificial flavor everywhere.

This, too, Oscar just lets happen. But he’s not the slightest bit chill about it. He wants Lando’s other hand to cover the second half of his face and squeeze until Oscar’s brain turns to mush. Unfortunately, Lando is still balancing his strawberry daiquiri, so there won’t be any brain-squeezing happening. Not that it’s needed, because Lando’s tongue fucks into his mouth as if it’s an entirely different kind of hole, and Oscar’s brain kind of explodes.

He isn’t sure why he’s doing it, or what exactly Lando did to flip him over into active participation, but he finds himself fucking Lando’s tongue back into his own mouth, fingers tangled in the curls of Lando’s stupid mullet, and when a muffled, moan-like sound escapes from Lando’s throat, he gets mortifyingly, overwhelmingly hard.

Now that has certainly never happened to him just from kissing. Lando hasn’t even come close to his dick, for god’s sake. And it’s usually quite a feat to catch that bastard’s interest. Now he’s acting as if all the locker room talk Oscar has been subjected to over the last few years suddenly makes sense.

Jesus. Lando detaches from his lips, wet and loud, and Oscar almost topples forward, because apparently he’d been leaning in so hard. He slinks back against the couch, letting his arm fall from Lando’s shoulder in a way that carefully drapes it across his own crotch.

“Damn, Osc,” Lando breathes, grinning so wide Oscar could count every one of his teeth. “This is why I come to you for favors! You don’t half-ass shit!”

“Uh-hum,” Oscar says, just to test his voice for any weird quirks. It sounds fine, so far. Pitch is okay. He’s not hoarse. Actually, he sounds bored – though he’s glad he left his heart-rate monitor in his room. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the ‘and maybe more’ part.”

“You’re a real bro!”

Lando delivers it like a punch to the gut, fully unintentional. Oscar watches him jump off the couch, spilling some of his daiquiri over his wrist and then licking it off.

Oscar keeps a straight face while his dick is desperately sending Morse code in his pants. He’s not sure who the intended recipient is. He doubts Lando’s own dick is receiving the pulses.

He doesn’t even register when Lando leaves to go back to the girls. One moment he's there, the next there’s a red plastic cup with a dark liquid dangling in front of Oscar’s eyes, where he’s apparently been staring into empty space. Oscar’s gaze follows the hand holding the cup, up the waxed arm, into the hugest armhole a sleeveless shirt could possibly have, at which point he registers who has materialized before him.

Carlos responds to his annoyed groan with a defensive, “You look like you need this!”

The thing is, Oscar does kind of need this, so he takes the cup from Carlos’s hand and downs it in one go, without bothering to smell it first, which turns out to be a mistake.

“A fucking Jagerbomb?” he wheezes, almost spitting the drink back out. “Fuck you, Sainz! I knew you hated me!”

“You hate me!” Carlos corrects him, and Oscar can hardly argue, because Carlos continues, “I don’t really care about you.”

“Why are you here then, exactly?” Oscar asks, already feeling exhausted as he watches Carlos plop down on the couch where Lando had just spilled his strawberry daiquiri and fucked his tongue into Oscar’s mouth.

Carlos raises his eyebrows high over the sunglasses he’s wearing indoors – cringe – and produces a second cup from his other hand. There’s zero reason to assume it’s anything other than another Jagerbomb, but Oscar still grabs it and downs it in one big gulp.

“Let’s say I recognize that look,” Carlos says once Oscar finishes acting like he’s just been poisoned. “So I’m morally obligated to check in on you. Believe me, it’s just as much fun for me as it is for you.”

“Good to know we have a resident Doctor of Pathetics,” Oscar snaps, mean enough that his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Whatever – he’s rattled to his bones right now, and the Jagerbombs are kicking in. Also, it’s Carlos. That’s just how their dynamic works. Oscar is 90% sure it’s mostly a joke.

When Carlos doesn’t take the bait, Oscar presses on, “So what then, am I just gay, or am I actually in love with Lando?”

Before Carlos can respond, the realization hits Oscar like a truck. He crushes the red cup in his fist. “Oh God,” he groans. “I’m in love with Lando, aren’t I? Should’ve figured it out way sooner! I mean, I’m never properly annoyed by him, even though he’s the most annoying person on the planet!”

Lando chooses this exact moment to prove Oscar’s point by showing up again, wide-eyed and jittery.

“Um,” he squeaks, glancing between Oscar and Carlos like he’s surprised to find them sitting together, mostly civil. Then his eyes lock on Oscar, thumb jerking over his shoulder at the girls he was trying to impress earlier. “They, uh… they’re inviting you to join us? Upstairs, for… you know.”

Oscar groans even louder.

“Their idea!” Lando emphasizes with a dramatic shrug. “Not mine. I mean – I don’t care either way, you know, it’s not like I’m one of those guys who’s scared it’d be gay or something.”

That last part is clearly aimed at Carlos, but Carlos is too busy waggling his eyebrows at Oscar to acknowledge it.

“Actually, I really think you should do it,” Lando goes on, his words tumbling out too fast to sound casual. “You don’t get laid that much. Could probably teach you a thing or two.”

And the thing is – Oscar’s not actually that opposed to stupid ideas. It’s just that, unlike Lando, he usually gives them a minute of thought before jumping in. That’s probably his saving grace, because before he can give an answer, Carlos rolls his eyes and says, “Come on, Lando! You do realize who you’re asking to join your threesome, right?”

Lando deflates instantly, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Fascinating to think Oscar had just been sucking on that lip five minutes ago. He really wants to do it again.

“Fuck, yes, I know,” Lando mumbles. “Mr. Only-Has-Sex-in-Relationships. But I believe in you, Osc. I know you can be adventurous if you really try!”

Maybe it’s the Jagerbombs talking, but Lando’s logic is really working on him right now. It’s embarrassing that Oscar has to rely on Carlos fucking Sainz to be the voice of reason.

“Lando,” Carlos says. “Are you trying to persuade poor Oscar to join your threesome just because you don’t feel like doing all the work yourself?”

Oscar can immediately read from Lando’s face that Carlos has hit the nail on the head and splutters a laugh.

“Shut up!” Lando squeaks, his tanned face flushing an almost orange shade. “Neither of you would understand! One guy and two girls is actually exhausting! I don’t know what I was thinking, seriously!”

“You don’t, that’s the problem,” Carlos says, gleeful. “Go suffer the consequences of your own actions and leave Pastry out of it.”

“He was part of the actions, at least,” Lando grumbles, shooting Oscar one last pleading look.

“I’ll pass,” Oscar says, because it really does sound exhausting, and he’d rather have his first gay experience without two strangers standing by, waiting their turn.

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan and trudges back toward the girls like they’re a chore waiting to be dealt with. Oscar grins watching him go, then turns to find Carlos staring at him.

“What?”

“I don’t think you’re in love with him, actually.”

“Oh?” Oscar says, defensive for no real reason. “And how would you know?”

He almost answers his own question, almost cuts Carlos off with something like, “Of course! Because you’re the king of being in love with Lando,” but he remembers the check-in, the drinks, and the saving from an ill-advised threesome just in time and holds his tongue.

“Because you’re not the least bit jealous right now.”

“Maybe I’m just not a jealous guy,” Oscar shrugs. “I’ve never been jealous in my past relationships either.”

“Yes, because you are gay!”

“Am I?”

Carlos exhales like he’s talking to the most frustrating man alive, which is unfair, because for once Oscar’s actually being sincere and not just contrary for the fun of it.

“I mean, do you find men attractive?”

“Yes, Carlos, I’m not one of those people who pretend they can’t tell if another guy is good-looking. I have eyes.”

“Oh my God,” Carlos taps Oscar’s knee with his own, exasperated. “I mean sexually attractive. Like, hot. Do you find men hot?”

“Hard to say, when the men I’m usually surrounded by dress like this…” Oscar tugs at one of Carlos’s massive armholes, making Carlos squeak like he just had his bra strap snapped. Oscar ignores it and lets his gaze sweep the room for a better test subject.

Alex is perched on a table, bent over mid-guffaw about something. He’s kinda cute, sure. But hot? Then there’s George, standing on the same table. Must be what Alex is guffawing about, because George has used the beach theme as an excuse to go shirtless, wearing only sunglasses and tiny shorts. There’s a pink inflatable flamingo around his waist, and he’s dancing with it in a pretty suggestive way. In theory, it should be hot, but it’s honestly the dorkiest thing Oscar’s ever seen.

Across the room, he finds Charles and Max, playing their usual racing game on the PlayStation, utterly ignoring the party around them. Charles doesn’t count as a test case – everyone and their mom thinks he’s hot. Everyone and their mom and dad. And grandparents! So he looks at Max instead, who’s racing in deep concentration, looking very, very intense.

Actually, Max kind of terrifies him.

He turns back to Carlos, who’s still looking at him expectantly, and squints his eyes. Maybe Carlos is…

Oscar reaches over and takes off Carlos’s stupid backwards cap, pulling it over his own head instead. The hair underneath falls out like he just left a stylist’s chair – not flat, not weird-looking. So yeah, Carlos probably has the best hair in the frat, but that just makes him more annoying, not hot.

Carlos doesn’t move an inch, not even to protest the theft, so Oscar pulls off his sunglasses next, revealing eyes so huge they look like they belong to some Disney-character. Sure, his lashes are long enough to put mascara to shame, but he just uses them to look stupid. Big, empty stare, no thoughts behind it. It’s not hot, it’s mostly comical. Oscar’s gaze drops towards the lower lip, which, as he expected, is soft, slack, jaw hanging open as if he’s trying to catch flies.

Oscar almost laughs and tells him just that, but – wait – is Carlos leaning in?

In the time it takes Oscar to unfreeze, Carlos’s lips are inches from his own. That should’ve triggered a gut instinct to headbutt him, but somehow… it doesn’t. So yeah, maybe that’s some evidence for the gay theory, then. And, well – it wouldn’t have been Oscar’s first choice, but since Carlos is offering…

Oscar closes the remaining space between them for a quick, testing slide of his lips against Carlos’s – and doesn’t immediately puke into his mouth.

Actually, it’s… interesting. The feel of that plush bottom lip. How soft it is. How it molds around Oscar’s own, easily enveloping them. He pulls back just a bit before changing his mind and going in for another kiss – oddly chaste, especially after what Lando had done with his tongue.

Carlos, though his stubble is a lot rougher, feels softer than Lando had. Oscar half starts to analyze the differences between them, and, more importantly, the difference between kissing them and kissing girls, but the Jagerbombs don’t allow for coherent thinking. Not that it matters. Carlos’s lips are kind of distracting. He leans in more, slots a knee between Oscar’s legs, and instead of his hand finding Oscar’s face like Lando’s had, it finds his waist and pulls him in.

Oscar’s body goes boneless, like it’s never even heard of a spine. Before he knows it, he’s chest-to-chest with Carlos, who now has a whole thigh pressed between his legs. A whole thigh that Oscar is, horrifyingly, starting to grind against as he makes out with his least favorite frat brother, right in the middle of their beach party. Oh well. Not like Oscar particularly cares what people think. He’s too busy having his gay awakening with fucking Carlos Sainz’s tongue finally introducing itself into his mouth – took him long enough, Jesus. He’s so fucking slow and deliberate that Oscar makes a humiliating, impatient noise in the back of his throat. His hips twitch. And yes, factually speaking, he is absolutely dry-humping Carlos’s thigh right now, but he’ll deny it until the day he dies.

Carlos does not fuck his tongue into Oscar’s mouth. He probes, licks gently along the bottom row of teeth, then lightly nudges Oscar’s tongue, like… like he’s knocking on the fucking door, asking it to come out and play.

Yes, Oscar will fucking play! He nudges back, with his tongue and his nose, and Carlos finally cups a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him even closer – close enough that Oscar could probably lick the back of Carlos’s tonsils, if he really tried. But he doesn’t. With Lando, maybe, but filthy tongue-deepthroating is evidently not the vibe here. Carlos kisses like a Jane Austen character – all soft and gentlemanly, despite being a drunk frat boy in a sleeveless shirt with armholes wide enough to fit a damn elephant.

By the time Carlos finally pulls back to let them breathe, Oscar is flushed all the way to the tips of his ears and fully hard. He definitely didn’t plan this far ahead when he first closed the distance between them, and now he’s got no idea what to do next.

“Okay,” he squeaks. His mouth seems to have taken a detour around his brain without consulting him. Quickly taking over the wheel again, he adds in a more normal voice, “So I guess I’m gay.”

Carlos’s eyes aren’t as wide as before. Now they’re hooded, lashes casting shadows, his voice a little rough when it finally comes out, breathless.

“Yeah?”

“I mean…” Oscar nods toward Carlos’s thigh, still right there between his legs. “I clearly liked that,” he says, carefully untangling himself and falling back against the couch, restoring a safer distance. Quickly, he tacks on, “And I’m definitely not in love with you!”

Carlos’s hooded eyes widen in slow motion, until he looks like an owl again. Oscar still doesn’t think he’s hot. Not even a little. Even with that ridiculously loose bottom lip hanging open again, now red and shiny with shared spit.

Holy fuck.

“Actually, this is great!” Oscar says, faux-cheerful. He even throws in a sarcastic little fist-pump. “Now I can finally hate you without feeling like a bigot!”

Carlos blinks slowly, like he’s still running on Windows 95 and needs several years to reboot. Maybe Oscar wouldn’t tease him so much if his reactions weren’t always such pure gold. Take Lando, for example – he just gets sad and quiet. That’s why Oscar actually manages to be nice to him.

Finally, five years later, Carlos scrunches his eyebrows.

“You and I have very different reactions to discovering our sexualities,” he snaps, arms crossed like a sulking kid. “Glad you can joke about it. As you can guess, it wasn’t so fun in high school!”

“See,” Oscar sighs, rolling his eyes. “This is exactly the kind of holier-than-thou attitude that makes me hate you.”

“Can you stop?”

Oscar is surprised to detect an actual hint of hurt in Carlos’s voice, and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“With the… with the hate thing,” Carlos says, not quite meeting his eyes. “I can’t do this right now, okay?”

Oscar is silenced, breath catching for a moment before it all rushes out at once. “Jesus, Carlos!” he says. “You do know I don’t actually hate you, right?”

The persistent furrow of Carlos’s brows suggest that he did not, actually, know that.

“It’s a joke!” Oscar goes on, a little frantic. “Like, the whole ‘haha, Carlos and Oscar hate each other’ thing we’ve got going on?”

Carlos is still frowning. Maybe his operating system fully crashed. Oscar flicks his bicep to wake him up.

“We do?”

Oscar pauses to process the fact that Carlos not knowing about their hate-like-dynamic is a hundred times more mortifying than dry-humping him in the middle of the frat house, then moves on to say, “Fuck, you’re an idiot!”

Carlos’s already open mouth drops even further, but Oscar doesn’t give him a chance to argue.

“I may not hate you, but I am heavily annoyed by you!”

“I am heavily annoyed by you too!” Carlos snaps, which makes Oscar raise both hands like, See?!

“And I want my hat back!” Carlos adds, which is so stupid and childish that Oscar just bursts out laughing. His mouth wasn’t ready, and he accidentally spits a bit of saliva, which just makes it even more hysterical.

Holy shit. He just made out with Carlos Sainz. And liked it.

“It’s not supposed to look good on you, you know?” Carlos grumbles. He probably thinks he made Oscar laugh with some clever quip, because his eyebrows finally un-knot a little. “Why don’t you ever wear hats backwards? You’ve got the perfect whooshy thing to pop out in front.”

“Because it’s cringe, Carlos,” Oscar snorts, smirking when Carlos’s brows furrow again.

“Wow!” Carlos huffs. “You know, I almost offered to help you with your little problem,” he says, pointedly glancing at Oscar’s crotch. “But I don’t think I feel like it when you’re acting like an asshole.”

The words hit Oscar like a freight train, but somehow, outwardly, he keeps his cool. He draws out a thoughtful “Hmmmm,” leaning in a bit. “And by help you mean…”

Carlos leans in too, so he doesn’t have to yell the word in a house full of drunk college students. “Handjob?”

Oscar squints at him in silence long enough for Carlos to turn crimson and bark, “What?”

“Nothing,” Oscar shrugs, reclining again. “Just a little stingy, is all.”

“What?”

“I mean, I just discovered that I’m gay, you know? And a handjob is all you have on offer to celebrate?”

“I… um,” Carlos stammers, caught off guard.

“Like, I might as well take care of that by myself, you know?” Oscar says. “Thought enrolling in the Carlos Sainz School of Gay would be a little more exciting, considering you’ve got years of experience on me.”

Carlos shuts his open mouth with a click and taps Oscar’s knee. “So what,” he snorts, “you want me to take you upstairs and just… bend you over?”

Oscar’s dick is sending out Morse code signals again. Well. That’s unexpected.

“You guys were the ones claiming I’m not adventurous,” he says, sounding impressively unbothered, thanks to years of practice in sounding unbothered, not because he actually is. “I never said that about myself.”

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God. That’s not even how– You can’t just–” He sighs, lets his hand drop, then gives Oscar a sudden, serious look.

“You really want to enroll in the Carlos Sainz School of Gay?”

Oscar meets his eyes and raises his eyebrows like he’s accepting a dare.

“Okay,” Carlos says. Nods. Then stands and pulls Oscar to his feet.

“Congratulations,” he says, leading him out the door and up the stairs. “You’ve been accepted. First lesson starts – right now.”

#oohhhh #oscar panicking & immediately enrolling in yhe ‘carlos sainz school of gay’ he is soo #carcar #fic recs <3

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