Pot-Smokin' Polaris

BY : salarta
Category: X-men Comics > General
Dragon prints: 1269
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men properties, its characters or any ideas or concepts contained herein. This story is a mere fan-made work, and I make no money or profit from its creation and dissemination.

Author's Note: This was a strange idea I had, and ultimately wound up writing up one night for fun. It does not represent Polaris, what I think of her or what I would want to happen with her in any official products in any way. It's just a bizarre fic.

 

“Oh my god, I’m so fuckin’ baked.”

Laid back on her comfy recliner, the smell of burning weed filled every square inch of the room. For the first time in a long time in her life, she found herself truly relaxed. No pesky villains or end of the world threats to defeat, no mutant rights abuses to rush out and stop, and the horrors of Genosha’s genocide? All of it went up in thick clouds of pot smoke fuming from her nose.

Her worries weren’t the only things going up in smoke over her past few days toking it up. Sweat-stained sweatpants and a little extra fat on her normally lean superhero-fit muscles showed the effects of her newfound cannabis comfort. Pizza boxes, open potato chip bags and empty soda cans littered the floor and coffee table. It was a slob’s mess, the kind Lorna Dane used to hate, but she couldn’t find the will to care. Instead, she scratched away the itch in her healthy case of verdant armpit stubble.

Underneath her carefree drug haze, there was something strange and exotic about cooping herself up in her apartment and letting herself go. To think Polaris, the Mistress of Magnetism and heir to Genosha, could easily turn her back on the whole world to get high! She didn’t need to impress anyone here, least of all herself. She could sit for as long as she wanted, cast off the shackles of society and savor her body in all its natural glory.

Thoughts and fantasies bubbled through her blazed mind. One of these fantasies overtook her as she looked herself over.

“Whooooa, I’m so green. Like pot green. I bet it’s cause I’ve got pot powers.” She giggled and snorted. “Hehe, Pothead Polaris. I’m like Popeye. I should get that on a shirt.”

As that rattled around in her head, she realized: she wasn’t wearing a shirt! She was wearing a tanktop. But better than that, if her hair, eyes, powers and costume were all green, she might be green in other places. With excitement unusual for someone in her state, Lorna lifted her tanktop, looked down at her very nice, soft, sweaty boobs and frowned with disappointment.

Her nipples were pink. Boring, bland, ordinary pink, like everyone else. She took another hit off her bong, held her breath and really eased into it. That’s when it came to her: she could make them green! As she blew out a jet of smoke, she concentrated on one of the markers on her nearby desk and floated it to her chest. She laughed while the felt marker tickled from aureole to tip. In only a few seconds, Lorna had her cute pair of perky emerald peaks.

“I’m baked to the last, cause I smokes my grass, I’m Polaris the pooo-othead!”

Lifting the remote control into her hand, she rubbed its neato rubber buttons and flipped through channels. Foot fetish porn flickered on the screen between finger snaps, its source obvious when the guy in the downstairs apartment cursed at his PC for interrupting his marathon masturbate-a-thon with Days of Our Lives and Tide commercials. Lorna braved this knowledge, for she was on a mission: find an episode of Popeye!

Unfortunately for Lorna, all the stations she tried brought nothing of the sailor with the bulging biceps and his thin-as-a-rail girlfriend. Fortunately, her crazy clicks gave her something better.

“Hehe, Mary Jane.”

The news report on the redhead talked up Mary Jane Watson’s appearance at a glamorous event. For the average viewer, it was all about MJ’s fashion faux pas. For Lorna, she imagined how much fun she could have with the woman herself. With a quick phone call, she could have Mary Jane next to her on the couch, that winning smile aimed her way between tokes.

“Wait. Waaaaait.” Another drug-fueled epiphany bubbled to the surface. “Her name’s Mary Jane. Mine’s Lorna Sally Dane, like LSD. Man, my name’s a drug too. We could… whoa, we could be Cheech and Chong! With titties!”

Mary Jane and LSD, druggie icons! As she took another hit, she very slowly, very hungrily, concocted a plan.



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