The only way I could think of writing this was if you met the guys at a party. And I know that's not how you play quarters, I just had to alter it a bit to fit. Hope it's alright!
You had managed to run into someone spilling both of your drinks all over each other, within the first ten minutes of being at the party. To make matters worse it wasn't just anyone, it was a boy, probably the best looking guy you've ever laid eyes on, he was tall and curly with dimples that made your knees go weak. And if that wasn't enough you completely lost your ability to talk. "Ohh...uhh...I'm...You're...so sorry!" You stutter. He chuckles as he runs his hand through his hair, which you noticed were massive. "'S alright babe. I have the perfect way to get us outta these wet clothes." You're positive that you're face is the darkest shade of red possible. "It's called flip sip or strip."
These parties were always the same, your friends would run off with random guys and leave to fend for yourself in a house full of inebriated strangers. As much as you hate to admit it you noticed the the muscular brunette as soon as you walked into the kitchen. When he spoke everyone in the room was eating out of the palm of his hands, like he was the most interesting man in the world. He must of felt you watching him because he looked right at you flashed you a grin that quite possibly made your heart skip a beat. You fumbled around with plastics cups and ancho trying your hardest not to make a complete fool of yourself, when the mystery boy leaned against the counter next to you. "We need another for beer pong, I reckon you'd be an ace partner."
Zoomie is one of your favorite party games. It's loud, obnoxious, and mostly girls who play it until some guy decided to turn it into strip Zoomie. You would have been annoyed if you weren't sitting across from the scruffy brunette who's forearms were covered in tattoos. "Zoomie zoomaay, zoomie zoomaay, zoomie zoomaay, zoomie zoomaay.." Everyone chanted and clapped to the beat. You struggled to keep your focus on the game and not the stranger across from you. If you weren't distracted enough, the stranger missed his number resulting in him stripping off his shirt. He was slim and toned, not too muscular. His chest, like his arms were covered in tattoos and you couldn't stop your mind from wandering off, thinking about tracing every line.
You were just trying to find your friends when some guy, drunk off his ass, backed you into a corner to chat your ear off about something you had absolutely no interest in knowing. You didn't both making an effort of paying attention to what he was saying, instead you weighed your escape options. "(Y/N)!" One of your friends yelled from across the room. "We need an anchor for flippy cup!" You were grateful for the distraction as you managed to dip past the stranger. You can hold your own when it comes to chugging, so you were often made the anchor in most drinking games. You swear you would have won if it wasn't for the blonde making eyes at you from across the table.
You were sitting on the counter drinking your vodka and cranberry, keeping to yourself when you noticed him. You were interested as soon as you saw him. His auburn eyes drew you in and his jawline and cheekbones were perfectly chiseled, along with the rest of his body. You watched him flick a quarter at an empty glass of whiskey missing every time. You finished the last of your drink before you dropped to your feet. Liquid confidence was pulsing through your veins, giving you the courage to walk over to him. You grabbed the stray quarter on the table a flicked it right into the glass. "It's all in the wrist," you said with a wink.
This is how it always looks in her dreams: a field catching fire, flames swaying with the night-breeze, glowing under the moonlight, wildly out of control. But it is not fire to her touch, just silk-smooth petals and fragrant pollen within them.
Flowers don’t mean anything to her. She is not impressed by the fragility of a single long-stemmed flower waved underneath her nose, does not find the time to lace them through the winding plait of her hair, does not stop to smell them. Katara flutters her lashes against the sticky breeze and the field of fire lilies dies in front of her eyes.
She blinks. Charcoal, black petals float from dry stems. She blinks, again, and they are vibrant with color once more. Just the haunting memory of such a tranquil death pricks tears in her eyes.