Warnings: Explicit language and sex, friends with benefits, alcohol, possible dub-con

A/N: While both parties enter the situation sober knowing full well it'll end with sex, they are both drunk at the time of consent so technically this is dub-con.
After those formalities, I'll note that the tone takes an odd reflective turn at the end. I'm not sure why. The title comes from the song Paralyzer by Finger Eleven, which was a large inspiration for this fic (as you'll likely notice). Also, I apparently prefer PruAme best when it's FWB. At least they take the sex a little more seriously in this piece.
Please enjoy. ~VV

Gilbert always did this, Alfred thought with a pout. The music was almost too loud, with a bass so strong he could feel it thrumming through the bar and into his bones. Over here the club smelled like fading cigarette smoke and some ridiculous cocktail of liquors – vodka being one of the more prevalent. On the other side of the club people were a pair of pants away from fucking.

Alfred payed for his drink and moved away from the crowd around the bar. He scanned the room again for the tell-tale silver head of hair, but with the pulsing neon lights it was hard to really see. As per usual, he wondered why he'd even bothered showing up. Every other week he'd get a text from Gil inviting him to go clubbing, and every other week he'd show up on time with no sight of the albino. Sometimes Gilbert was already grinding on the dance floor – Alfred scanned the crowd again for his friend – and other times, like tonight, he wouldn't even show until at least an hour later. And when he finally did come –

The doors opened and Gilbert slid into the club. Alfred quickly turned to look anywhere else. He didn't need to look desperate. He still wasn't sure why Gil even invited him out on nights like this. Gilbert strode over to the bar for a drink and Alfred threw back his own. Once he was out of Gil's line of sight Alfred watched him tap his fingers on the counter and rock his hips to the beat of the song pulsing through every inch of the club. Alfred felt the music blending with the alcohol in his veins while Gilbert threw back a shot and slipped into the crowds to go dance. He didn't stop to look for Alfred. He never did.

Alfred ordered another drink and chugged it, trying to tear his eyes away from Gilbert, but every few minutes they'd seek him out again. It felt almost like an obsessive compulsion, the way he'd check again and again if Gilbert was looking for him. He never was. It was infuriating. It made Alfred feel pathetic, just a bit, or at the very least desperate. After a few more shots, he told himself he didn't care.

Every beat of the bass carried him another step closer to the dance floor, if it could even be called that. Alfred shouldered his way between the grinding masses and moved deeper in, to where he knew Gilbert would be. It was harder to see him through the crowd now that they were all more or less on top of Alfred, but Alfred knew he'd be in as deep as possible. Gilbert always went deep when it came to this...

Red eyes met his by chance as a dancer moved left just when Gilbert turned. Alfred stilled. The music was deafening, the constant contact with strangers was numbing him, the alcohol was dulling his senses. Gilbert was grinning, looking right at home and breathtakingly alive. It made Alfred shudder, the light in Gilbert's already striking eyes all but paralyzing him. It was always those eyes that got him, far before any grip on his hips or mouth on his skin.

Gilbert moved towards him, finally. Alfred's pulse quickened until it was no longer discernible against the bass. It was hot here beneath the lights and among the dancers. He could feel his ears burning, and it hadn't even started. An hour ago he'd hated this. He still hated this.

"Hey," Alfred read off of Gil's lips, the sound lost beneath the music. Alfred slid into the rhythm of the song almost involuntarily as Gil danced in place, less than a foot away. A few beats alone, getting a feel for the song, trying not to fall to mush under that red gaze. Those eyes were all on him for the first time that night, and the satisfaction it gave him was bitter sweet but addictive.

Gilbert's hands slid to Alfred's waist – their rightful place – and Alfred widened his stance automatically. He could smell the shot on Gil's breath as his 'friend's leg slid between his knees. Two heart beats. Thump. Thump. Roll.

Up and down, up and down, hot, fast, and heavy. Alfred's hands went to Gil's shoulders for balance. It felt good. God did it feel good. He was panting from more than exertion, staring into those eyes – those eyes – and letting his control slip. He knew what would happen tonight, what always happened. But what did it matter, the alcohol in his veins said. He was already here, enjoying the feel of a leg against his groin, and Gilbert was pulling him closer. He wanted more, he always wanted more. What was he trying to prove by fighting it?

The one good thing was once they started, Gilbert kept his attention on him, and him alone. They didn't last long, they never did here. The dancing was all out from the start, Gilbert never held back, and in just a few songs Alfred was having trouble keeping his clothes on. Everything was buzzing with the perfect undercurrent of ecstasy, and it wasn't enough.

Gil lead the way out, always did, and for once Alfred was happy to follow along with this pattern. His legs felt shaky, but he could feel the excitement building up in his chest. This was why he kept coming back, why he squeezed himself into too tight pants, which were driving him up a wall right now, and spent too much money on drinks he didn't completely care for. Gilbert led him by the hand into a cab and gave the driver his address without letting go. They made out in the back, both tasting of burning alcohol and teeth. Alfred spread his knees and ground into Gilbert's lap, loving the hand at his back keeping him close and the hand in his hair keeping them connected. He moaned as the cab came to a stop.

Gilbert was grinning, or smirking, or doing something amazing with his teeth as Alfred let himself be pushed off and then dragged out of the cab. Money was passed to the driver and then they were tripping up the stairs. Alfred snickered, drunk on more than shots, watching Gil's ass sway as they went.

Gilbert never fumbled with his keys. It always baffled Alfred, but then the door was closing behind them and he could feel it pressed snug against his back while Gilbert was pressed snug against his chest. That tongue slid in his mouth and those hands slid down to his hips. Alfred bucked and swallowed Gilbert's pleased noise, groaning out his own. His own hands pulled at Gilbert's shirt, either pulling him closer or pulling it off, it didn't matter. Whatever got him more. He was always looking for more.

Gilbert latched on to his neck then, alternating smirks with bites and ground their hips together. It felt fucking amazing, but if they didn't shed some clothes soon Alfred was going to scream. After another bite, Gilbert agreed with him and stepped back. He led Alfred by the hips to the bedroom. Alfred left his shirt in the hall.

At the foot of the bed Gilbert dropped to his knees, flashing smug teeth – god bless those teeth – and relieving Alfred of his pants and shoes. He rose again to crotch height, and Alfred tugged again at the jacket. He wanted it gone. Gilbert laughed and pulled away to slid it off, and then he was back and Alfred's boxers were slipping and hell yes.

The alcohol lessened some of his coordination, but Gilbert still managed to light Alfred's nerves on fire with that tongue of his. His dick disappeared behind those pale lips, and Alfred gasped at the way Gilbert moaned when he tugged at the silver head of hair. He tried to guide the albino rather than thrust his hips, but his own coordination was trashed and all he could really focus on was the feeling of that mouth, that tongue, and the slick sounds they made.

First he was breathless, then gasping. Groaning as Gilbert opened wide and pulled him in deeper, into his throat. Someone moaned and electricity burned in Alfred's toes and spread white hot fire up higher, threatening to explode on Gilbert's tongue.

"Gil," His head was lolling back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling and higher still. Gilbert did his best to grin around the cock sliding up and down his throat. Another moan cut off Alfred's air. Alfred's throat caught once, twice, and he was right there, right on the edge and tipping over, about to spill, and there was a hand closing around him and fuck

It stopped, the pure white bliss cut off by Gilbert's grip. They both shuddered as he was pulled out of the other's mouth, and Alfred tried to remember how to drag air down into his lungs. Gilbert kissed the dripping tip of his dick and Alfred had to close his eyes.

After several rapid heartbeats, just as they began to slow into something countable, Gilbert released him and moved away. Alfred opened his eyes and watched Gilbert drag his shirt up and over his head, revealing that pale chest, mapped with lines Alfred longed to trace with his fingers, with his tongue. Pale hands on a belt buckle reminded Alfred of the boxers wrapped around his feet, so he leaned down and tossed them. Gilbert's belt clattered to the floor, and as he slid his jeans down his hips, Alfred saw nothing but skin and a trail of silver hair, slowly leading the way down to Gilbert's pride and joy, standing at full mast and just begging Alfred to take it in, anyway he could. He shuddered, grinned.

Gilbert moved towards the bed and the nightstand beside it. Alfred all but jumped onto the mattress. He was ready, eager, and desperate. It didn't matter, never did by this point. All that mattered was the lubed fingers now sliding into his ass, and the promise of so much more.

Gilbert stretched over him and brought back those fantastic teeth, nibbling on his ear as he scissored his fingers. Alfred grunted and pressed back, shuddering and pleased when he earned himself a third finger.

"You're such a slut," Gilbert purred into his ear. Alfred laughed. Only for you, he wanted to say. But they knew better, even when drunk.

"You love it," he grunted.

"You're so ready for me, look at you."

"You're rock hard and I haven't even touched you, Gil."

The other moaned and moved down to his neck. Alfred choked as Gilbert pressed on his prostate and sunk his teeth into his shoulder. Alfred rocked on those fingers a few times, rolling his eyes back and losing himself with a few gasping moans before Gilbert's patience wore through and he pulled away.

Alfred spread his legs for the main event and tried to regain some kind of mental composure, but found it hard to care. It was a lot harder to lie to himself while kneeling nude across the other's mattress. He knew why he kept answering those texts, why he let Gilbert drag him off the dance floor and down between the sheets.

Gilbert pressed the head of his cock into Alfred slowly, and Alfred didn't have to look to know he was watching it disappear. Watching as they joined, as Alfred slowly yielded to him and that mind ravaging sensation rose between them once again. The albino was just as addicted as he was.

Gilbert rolled a moderate rhythm, testing. Alfred grunted and started to roll back, shivering at the pleasant slide and trying to ignore the tear. When Gil deemed them ready, he snapped his hips, shoving in hard and deep and catching Alfred off guard. He knocked out a moan not entirely painless and set a pace that said more of his own desperation than any of Alfred's wanton pleas for more to follow.

"Yes"'s and explicatives took the place of "I love you"'s and pet names as they worked a dent into the wall with the headboard. Gilbert's teeth yanked at Alfred's throat and Alfred's nails tore at Gilbert's sheets. Bliss came in the form of rapid fire assaults on his nerves, and the rising tide of white liquid fire in his veins. Alfred seized, forgot to breathe, and whited out with a high pitch gasping moan and a hot spilling mess. Gilbert was three heartbeats behind him.

There was a brief clean up, and then they crashed together on fresh sheets, comfortably close. In the morning there would be pancakes and Gatorade to ward off hangovers' steel fingers around their temples. Then Alfred would be seen off with a fistbump and a feeling of loss that would stretch into loneliness and an ache that had nothing to do with his sore ass. His frustration would boil into anger at no one but himself, but his pride would shove it elsewhere as soon as the next text came in.

In truth, he knew, the only thing he hated was the sunrises bringing the Morning After.