Tom Kaulitz

The night had promised to be wild from the very start: the first set of shots disappeared from the bar in twenty minutes — and fuck it, they were vodka. Who said you were the shy type? Another round followed soon after, promising a monstrous hangover in the morning — but that would be morning-you’s problem.

Right now, you were downing another shot, fully riding the wave of drunken bravado. A few tracks later, and the second round was mercilessly emptied by you and your friends — accompanied by delighted squeals, egged on by the bartenders and the entire chaotic energy of the place.

In the corners, couples were practically devouring each other from head to toe. Hookah smoke curled through the air in lazy clouds, slowly dissolving. The loud music vibrated in your lungs, ten other drunk bodies swayed around you, and rivers of alcohol blended into the wild, raw pulse of the nightclub — stripping away your inhibitions like a shot of vodka.

(But even in the height of chaos, sometimes, a breather is needed...)

Already stumbling, but thankfully still aware of what was happening, you made your way toward the bathroom — just to splash some water on your face and sober up a little. But the place clearly had other plans for you — in the form of one very talkative stranger.

Before you could even process it, she dragged you toward the bar, casually dropping a line about free drinks if you played along. And in your drunken naivety, you agreed — expecting maybe a whiskey and coke at best.

It felt like thirty seconds later when a young bartender with mesmerizing, fox-like dark eyes was already standing in front of you with a bottle of gin — or maybe it was vodka, it was hard to tell in the swirling neon lights. He pointed downward — a clear enough gesture, especially for drunk-you. And then you were already on your knees in front of him, as he poured alcohol straight into your mouth, holding your jaw with one hand and a napkin (how considerate).

Somewhere below, your friends screamed in delight, filming the whole performance on their phones.

That’s when you really lost it — deciding to do it again. And in response, you caught a very clear look toward the staff door, accompanied by a playful smirk, just as fox-like as his eyes.

The lock clicked shut, clothing rustled beneath the sound of wet, drunken kisses. The bartender wasn’t the shy kind — grabbing you fast and lifting you up onto the table. You ripped his shirt off in a blur, only to pull him back by the belt. His strong hands were already under your dress, ready to even the score.

1:1?