What I.F.? Victoria Justice

 

A Fireside Dream

The fire crackled softly in Victoria’s cabin, casting a warm golden glow across the room. She lounged on a plush rug, her red plaid pajamas clinging loosely to her skin, the fabric soft and worn from countless cozy nights. A glass of ruby-red wine rested on the wooden floor beside her, its rich aroma mingling with the faint, earthy scent of weed that hung in the air. The Neon Merry Christmas sign flickered above the mantel, its pink and green hues pulsing gently, painting the walls with a festive, otherworldly light. Her favorite Christmas records spun lazily on the turntable, filling the room with nostalgic melodies, each note wrapping around her like a velvet ribbon.

Victoria took a slow pull from her bong, the water bubbling as she inhaled. Wisps of smoke curled from her lips, rising in delicate spirals that danced in the firelight before dissolving into the shadows. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dreamy, followed the smoke as it twirled, her mind drifting into a hazy, sensual reverie. The wine had softened her edges, and the weed had loosened her thoughts, letting them wander to places she rarely allowed them to go.

She stretched languidly, her body sinking deeper into the rug, the warmth of the fire kissing her bare feet. The cabin was her sanctuary, a world away from the chaos of life, where she could surrender to her desires without judgment. Tonight, though, there was a restless energy stirring within her, a quiet ache that pulsed in time with the music. She closed her eyes, letting the sensations wash over her—the heat, the smoke, the wine, the soft hum of the holiday tune.

In her mind’s eye, a figure emerged from the haze. He was a stranger, yet familiar, his silhouette framed by the firelight. His eyes glinted with a mischievous spark, and his smile promised secrets. Victoria’s breath hitched as she imagined him stepping closer, his presence filling the room with an electric charge. The air grew thick with anticipation, the scent of pine and smoke blending with something muskier, primal.

She took another sip of wine, the liquid warm on her tongue, and set the glass down. Her fingers brushed the hem of her pajama top, the fabric sliding against her skin, teasingly light. In her fantasy, the stranger knelt beside her, his hands hovering just above her, not touching, but close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him. Her heart quickened, a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed the crackle of the fire.

“Victoria,” he whispered, his voice low and smooth, like the vinyl spinning on the turntable. She didn’t question how he knew her name; in this dreamlike haze, it felt right. Her lips parted, but no words came—only a soft exhale, a surrender to the moment. The smoke curled around them, a delicate veil that blurred the edges of reality, making every touch, every glance, feel heightened, intoxicating.

Her fingers trailed down her collarbone, slipping beneath the top button of her pajamas. The stranger’s gaze followed, his eyes darkening with desire. She unbuttoned the top slowly, deliberately, each click of the button a quiet invitation. The fabric parted, revealing the curve of her skin, glowing in the firelight. She felt bold, alive, her body humming with a need she hadn’t acknowledged in far too long.

In her mind, his hands finally found her, warm and sure, tracing the lines of her body with a reverence that made her shiver. The touch was imagined, yet so vivid it sent a rush of heat through her. She arched into the sensation, her breath catching as the music swelled, a crescendo of strings and soft vocals that seemed to score the moment. The Neon Merry Christmas sign flickered faster, as if mirroring the quickening of her pulse.

The wineglass tipped slightly as she shifted, a single drop spilling onto the rug, dark and glistening like a forbidden promise. She didn’t care. All that mattered was the feeling—the way the smoke, the music, the fire, and her own imagination wove together into a tapestry of pleasure. The stranger’s lips brushed her neck in her mind, a ghost of a kiss that sent a spark straight to her core. She gasped softly, her fingers tightening in the rug, grounding her as her thoughts spiraled higher.

The record skipped, a brief stutter that pulled her back to the present. Her eyes fluttered open, the stranger dissolving into the haze. She was alone, yet not lonely. The fire still burned, the smoke still curled, and her body thrummed with the afterglow of her fantasy. Victoria smiled, a slow, secret smile, and reached for the bong again. The night was young, and her dreams were hers to shape.

She took another pull, the smoke rising like a lover’s whisper, and let herself sink back into the embrace of the firelight, the music, and the sweet, heady haze that carried her away.