Space Stoners of Shroomshaka #01

Author's Note (A. K. A. Don't Sue Me, Bleu):

This filthy little space-freak romp takes place in the Roobix universe, created by the mad genius Bleu Riddle, who graciously gave me permission to play in his psychedelic, sex-positive sandbox. The crew of The Morning Joint (MJ, Bodi, Grande Juanson, and others) belong to Bleu, but the horny chaos here? That's all mine.

If you like titty cults, cosmic orgies, cock-shaped tacticians, puzzle cubes or absurd erotic lore that makes your nips and tips tingle, you should absolutely check out the original Roobix comics and stories. Bleu's built a universe with more flavor than an alien buffet and more heart than a cuddle orgy on Planet Clittara Prime.

This story is just one slippery slice of that bigger cream pie. Enjoy responsibly. And by responsibly, I mean don't read this at work. Or do. I'm not your boss.

So, spark up, strap in, and lube whatever needs lubing.

•••••

SPACE LOG: PROLOGUE

Classified Entry: The Spores That Birthed Legends

Subject: Origin of the Space Stoners of Shroomshaka

Access Level: ∞ / T. H. C

Mood: Moist with danger. High with destiny.

Shroomshaka doesn't exist on starcharts. That's exactly how it likes it. The planet hides in the sultry back corner of the Sparklevoid Nebula, cloaked in a haze of cosmic lust, planetary funk, and a perpetual sex-glow that never dims. It breathes when you choke, hums as you gasp, and if you inhale too deeply, your third eye doesn't just open. It throbs, pulses, and then squirts visions across your consciousness like cosmic cumshots of universal truth.

Stay too long here and you'll forget your species. You'll find yourself balls-deep in sentient mushrooms, moaning into hallucinated lovers shaped like writhing, horny trees or their jealous cousins. The ground itself is one endless mushroom orgy: slippery, sentient, wet, and always eager. The air whispers obscenities, tickling your skin, while the sky above drips whenever the conversation turns dirty enough.

Beneath forests of moaning mycelium, under clouds of spores that giggle as they fondle your senses, something lurks. Something impossibly green, dangerously forbidden, and ridiculously potent:

Nebulust Kush.

A weed strain so pure, so drenched in orgasmic clarity, so cosmically fuckable, it can only be grown in hiding and smoked in fear. It makes gravity giggle and reality blush. The empires of the known universe have killed for mere rumors of it, but only one crew was ever bold enough, mad enough, and stoned enough to grow it.

Enter the legends themselves.

BODI

He says he came first, and he repeats it often, usually scratching himself obscenely and giggling like someone who glimpsed God through a cosmic glory-hole. Bodi wasn't born. He was spontaneously ejaculated into existence. A horny prophet wrapped in green skin and wisdom-soaked pleasure. He pilots the Morning Joint naked from the waist down, meditating with nipples proudly erect, his genitals freely swinging to the rhythm of the cosmos.

How he built the Morning Joint remains shrouded in myth. Some say he seduced a sentient bong. Others insist he spent years whispering filthy jokes to metal until it climaxed to life. A popular theory claims he astrally projected into an erotic technical manual penned by lust-crazed AIs. All anyone knows for sure is that he deliberately crashed his vessel into Shroomshaka because it "tasted like purpose."

His beard holds crumbs of ancient highs, his orb is a trapped scream of cosmic terror released only when shit gets catastrophically unchill, and he speaks solely in riddles, always prophetic, usually forty-five minutes late. Bodi is simultaneously horny and holy, ready to die doing either or both.

MISTRESS JOINTSLAYER aka MJ

She didn't arrive so much as erupt from a cauldron of chaos, heat, and smoke spirals that moaned her name before anyone else had the chance. MJ doesn't wear clothes. Her breasts bounce freely, weaponized in their blatant disregard for modesty, and her thighs crush planets into submission. Her blade, Spliffcutter, literally hums when she's aroused, and it hasn't stopped humming since the day she first clenched its shaft.

She doesn't fight to win. She fights to punish a universe begging for discipline. Once, mid-argument, she casually erased a moon. It whimpered apologies as it shattered. She met Bodi during a legendary bar bender when some unlucky bastard tried flirting. Without a blink, she stabbed him, rolled his twitching body into a tight blunt, and smoked him down to ashes while sharing a wink with Bodi.

Since that smoky night, MJ has become the heart, heat, and constant threat aboard the Morning Joint. She doesn't believe in safe words. She is the safe word, and you are never, ever allowed to say it.

GRANDE JUANSON

Grande slithered aboard with an arrogance usually reserved for deity-level egos and a silhouette shaped so obscenely cock-like it could inspire wars. Every inch of his veiny, muscled form drips calculated eroticism and intellectual dominance. Glasses perch upon his bulbous head, not because he needs them, but because they lend credibility to his dick-shaped magnificence. His IQ swallows black holes whole.

Renowned as the top strategist in five galaxies, Grande is also an unrivaled botanist specializing in aphrodisiacal plants. He cultivates Nebulust Kush wearing velvet gloves, journals his orgasms in meticulous emotional prose, and systematically seduces danger itself. MJ regularly fantasizes about slapping him senseless, while Bodi barely comprehends half his vocabulary. Yet, they'd both murder armies--or fuck him unconscious--to keep him alive. Whichever comes first.

Together, they accomplished the impossible.

Deep within Shroomshaka's fungal forests, beneath the pulsating orgy of intelligent mushrooms and perverted fungi, the trio grew what entire empires could barely dream of stealing. MJ trained guard-fungi that bit anyone who smelled even remotely like a thief. Grande erected erotic fences keyed solely to Bodi's absurd laughter, vibrating in ecstasy whenever he cackled. And Bodi? Well, Bodi mostly got profoundly high and rubbed himself enthusiastically on glowing vines, but the vines seemed to genuinely enjoy it.

Their hidden paradise was legendary. Corporate empires drooled over rumors, pirates stormed the nebula, and one desperate pilgrim offered his virginity plus a horny hedgehog just for a whiff. All rejected, for Nebulust Kush was not for sale. It was their calling, their climax, their sacred smoke.

Their mission became clear:

Blaze gloriously. Explore dangerously.

Protect the green with horny vigilance.

Violate cosmic laws gleefully.

Challenge gravity to bondage and make it beg.

Moan their intentions into existence and never apologize for the fluids spilled along the way.

For nobody simply finds Shroomshaka.

Shroomshaka finds you.

And once it does, you never leave the same,

if you leave at all.