#the walk of the Goddess

[thegainingdesk]

The Walk of the Goddess

0. The Fool

The Fool depicts a young man or woman, dressed in a floral tunic, standing, carefree, on the edge of a precipice, positioned as if to walk off. The figure holds a satchel on the end of a stick in their right hand, and a white rose in their left. A small white dog bays at their feet. The background shows mountains, or perhaps a rough sea.

The Fool represents the beginning of a journey, and limitless potential to learn, to change, to grow, to become. The Fool may step off the edge and fall, or perhaps they may fly.

Morgan laid five cards out in front of him, three side-by-side, one above, and one below.

"The Fool," Morgan said, pointing to the first card. "The Magician, The Ace of Cups, The Hanged Man, reversed, The World." He looked up at Rory and smiled. "All the signs are looking good."

"Yeah," Rory said, not looking up from his phone. "The weather's looking pretty good. I was worried about rain, but its saying it's going to be sunny now." He took a bite of his bacon and egg sandwich. "I don't trust a forecast that changes too much though, you'll still want to take a rain coat."

Morgan shook his head. "It won't rain. Not now," he said confidently. "But I didn't mean that. I meant the portents, the omens. I think today's the day for the walk."

Rory looked up, his eyes wide. "I'd bloody hope it is!" he said. "After driving all the way down to bloody Cornwall and paying ninety-five quid a night for this hotel!"

Morgan shrugged. "If the energies weren't aligned today there'd be no point completing the Walk of the Goddess." Rory could hear the way he capitalised the words, Morgan placing a gentle solemnity on each.

"Bloody hell. If I'd known that I'd have asked you to check your bloody cards before we booked it," Rory sighed, shaking his head. "So what's so special about this Goddess walk anyway then? There's about a hundred places on the coast we could have found the exact same walk, and about two hundred miles closer to Sheffield."

"The Walk of the Goddess," Morgan corrected, his eyes narrowing a little. He'd explained all this a few times, but Rory had never paid any real attention to Morgan's beliefs, seeing them more as a hobby or special interest. "It's a ritual pilgrimage, recreating the journey of the High Goddess with her acolyte and lover from where she first stepped on these shores, to the peak where she looked out onto the landscape and claimed the land as her own."

Rory was checking the inside of his bag. "That's nice. So that's around here then?"

Morgan sighed. "That's around here, yes."

Rory drained his coffee. "And I don't need to do any of the ooky spooky stuff, yeah? I'm happy to carry the bag and be in charge of you not getting lost in the harsh wildernesses of a Cornish public footpath, but I'm not in for all that."

"The ritual needs you to be present, but that's the extent of it," Morgan comforted him. "It really follows the Goddess, but as she traveled with her lover, it can't be completed alone."

"Yeah, and this 'lover' stuff, listen-" Rory started.

"Don't worry," Morgan interrupted. "I know I'm far too skinny for your tastes," he teased. Rory knew Morgan's joking was all in good faith - Morgan was straight, and Rory had confessed a couple of years ago that he much preferred his men on the larger side, and he liked to tease him about it at any opportunity.

"Good," Rory said. "I'm happy to go on a hike, but that's it, no funny business. Right!" He slapped his knees and stood up. "I reckon it's about time to go, if that's alright with you and your cards? Got any crystals you want to ask first?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. "I'm okay for crystals. I might ask a tree on the way though." Rory wasn't sure how serious he was being. Morgan stood as well, and the two made their way outside.

"So the beach you wanted to start is about a half hour walk down this way," Rory said, pointing and making his way. "This bit will all be downhill, but you're alright that the rest of it will be uphill, yeah?"

Morgan nodded. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine as long as you're alright for me to set the pace?" He'd asked Rory here as one of his more outdoorsy friends, so appreciated his concern that he might not keep up.

"Yeah, sure," Rory said. "Its not too strenuous of a walk anyway, and it'll be easier since you don't have a pack."

Morgan smiled. "Thanks for that, by the way. It's part of the ritual. Anything I hold on the Walk would by default become part of the ritual, and it would get elevated to the status of sygil or icon. It would be idolatry against the Goddess."

"Yeah, don't worry about it mate," Rory said, looping his thumbs through the loops on his bag's straps. "Happy to sherpa for you while you do all your witchy shit."

I. The Magician

The Magician depicts a haloed figure in robes in front of a workbench covered with a variety of esoteric obscura. In the raised right hand, the figure holds a wand; the left hand points towards the ground.

The Magician represents the taking of action, and agency. The Magician sees the fates meted out by other cards and takes hold of them, channeling them to their own ends.

Morgan and Rory walked quietly for a while, the wind blowing inland towards them growing saltier with each step. The spring sun dappled through the trees, making it warm but not uncomfortably so. Eventually the two reached a series of narrow steps down into a cove, low cliffs running around its edge. They made their way down carefully, with Rory leading the way and their feet only just fitting onto the narrow steps.

"Right," Rory said at the bottom, "this is it. You know where we're going from here, right?"

Morgan nodded and pointed along the coast to the east. "We'll be following a river just down there. Do you see there's a gap in the cliff? It's basically just going along the banks of the river until we end up at the peak of the mountain."

"It's a fairly big hill," Rory corrected. "It's really not a mountain."

Morgan shrugged. "If you like. I've got to do some preparations, should only be five minutes or so." He made his way to the river he'd pointed out.

"Right, fair enough," said Rory following him. When they reached the mouth of the river, where it met the sea, he settled down on a rock a short distance from Morgan.

Morgan took his shirt and shoes off, and his hands moved towards his belt. "Woah!" Rory shouted once he'd noticed what he was doing. "Hey! What are you doing?"

"My preparations," Morgan said simply, not stopping in his stripping. "I need to bathe in the sea and I need to be completely naked for the whole walk. Anything I wear will be raised to the status of ceremonial garb and will be considered-"

"Idolatry against the Goddess," Rory finished for him. He sighed. "Right, fine, fine, whatever." He rubbed his face with one hand. "But if you get arrested, I'm not going down with you, alright?"

Morgan laughed. "Don't worry. Everyone else I've spoken to that's done the walk has said they've never seen anyone. It's nice and secluded."

Rory rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say," he muttered under his breath. "I'm sure we won't see anyone on our scenic walk through Cornwall on a public footpath in the middle of spring if your fucking magic friends say so."

Morgan didn't hear, or pretended not to, and now stood fully naked, unembarrassed to be so exposed in front of Rory. Over the years they'd both seen each other naked countless times before, in changing rooms or on holidays, but Rory was surprised how unbothered Morgan was nonetheless. Morgan was agonizingly thin, with ribs showing clearly beneath a thin smattering of body hair, the complete opposite of Rory's type.

Morgan turned to Rory, who tried his best to not look down at his penis. "I'm going to go in the sea now, which is the start of the ritual, and then we'll set off," he told Rory. "Once we start, we can't stop, we can't turn around, and I'm not going to talk to you. This is it. Are you ready?"

Rory stood and nodded. Even if he was a little put off by Morgan's sudden naturism, he understood that this was important to the thinner man, and was here to support him.

Morgan strode purposefully into the sea, gasping loudly at the cold, but continuing on. He didn't stop until the water came up to his navel, when he bent down and submerged himself fully, long enough that Rory began to worry and stood to make his way towards him, but just as he reached the water's edge, Morgan broke back through the surface in a spray of salt water, gasping as he did so.

"Mother Goddess!" he called out, teeth chattering from the cold. "I come to the place of your ascension, and your rebirth! I walk in your footsteps, I follow your path, I give myself to you as supplication. With me walks an acolyte, who shall walk beside me and whose journey shall mirror my own. We give ourselves to you, blood and heart and flesh, memory and sould and mind, for you to mould as you wish!"

With that, he began to wade back towards the shore, still gasping. As he reached the land, he grabbed Rory by the arm for support, but did not stop walking forward.

"Fucking hell!" Rory cried. "What the fuck was that about? You could have mentioned you'd be bloody drowning yourself! And what was that about my blood and soul getting moulded by your Goddess?"

Morgan just stared back, not saying anything. He walked forwards, across the beach, towards the tree line. Rory sighed, hoisted the bag onto his back, and followed. It had begun.

Ace of Cups

Ace of Cups depicts a hand holding a chalice of gold, or perhaps bronze. Water is being poured into the chalice while it overflows. A dove flies above the chalice, holding an olive branch.

Ace of Cups, as the entire suit of Cups does, represents bounty and wealth, both literal and metaphysical. Ace of Cups shows this in its purest form, showing abundance, excess and generosity. In many ways the interpretation of this card is simple - the cup runneth over.

Aside from the utter weirdness at the beach, and having to try and avoid looking too much at Morgan's pale, skinny arse, Rory was quite enjoying the walk. The sun was shining and the sky was clear, but the air was crisp and cool. The scenery was stunning, passing through a seemingly ancient forest and following a crystal clear river.

Every so often, Morgan would pause to touch a tree or a rock, or dip his hand into the water, before moving on, but otherwise was silently striding forward at a fair pace. Rory was content to follow along at Morgan's pace, stopping and starting along with the naked man ahead. Occasionally Rory would open his mouth to say something, or point out a particularly nice view or bird, but remembered his companion's momentary vow of silence, and simply made a mental note to talk to him about it later.

Rory tugged down his shirt. As the walk continued, he found that it kept on coming untucked from his waistline. When he'd put it on that morning, it had seemed a perfect fit, but perhaps he'd washed it on too high a temperature. He hitched his trousers slightly, as he noticed a chill breeze across the top of his bum.

Rory didn't think anything of it, and continued on, occasionally fidgeting with his suddenly ill-fitting clothes. He stopped to watch a large crow, or perhaps even a raven, hop across the path. It tilted its head at Morgan, who smiled, and knelt down to it. The bird stretched up until its beak was nestled in the hair by Morgan's ear, almost lost against the thick black hair there and if Rory didn't know better, it almost looked as if it were telling his friend something. After some time, Morgan straightened up and turned back to give a small smile at Rory, and walked forward once more.

As the raven flew off into the trees, Rory continued on, before stopping. The straps of his bag were suddenly cutting in around his chest and stomach. This was odd - Rory was usually so fastidious about making sure his pack was comfortable, knowing how much of a difference it could make to a hike. He looked down at himself as he adjusted the straps to make more room. He did seem to be filling out his shirt more than usual. Clearly his recent endeavours at the gym, and perhaps at the dinner table, were starting to pay off, as he became aware of a slight pinch of fabric around his shoulders as well.

He walked on with a touch of swagger in his step - while in general he'd always taken on more of an admiring role in his enjoyment of a fuller figure, he wasn't adverse to putting on a little weight himself, and if that came with some muscle, all the better. Still, he was surprised he'd not noticed - he'd been going to the gym more yes, eating more maybe, but was it really enough to have caused such a noticeable change? Perhaps the changes had just come so gradually he'd not paid them any attention.

Rory knew he was handsome, if only in a slightly awkward way. A square face framed a large nose and dark brown eyes, deep in his face. Never particularly atheltic, he looked after himself, and, until now, maintained a trim body with a touch more muscle than might be considered average. Dark, scruffy stubble and chest hair perpetually pouring out the top of whatever shirt he wore ensured he always had some admirer or other willing to go home with him.

Suddenly cognisant of the changes to his body, Rory felt hyper-focussed on all the strange sensations of his body. His trousers seemed to be growing more uncomfortable as he walked, not just at his waist where they pinched in at a sudden thickness, but around his thighs as well. He tried to look around to check, but his arse seemed to be coming along for the ride, his trousers riding down cheeks that were clearly bigger than when he'd bought these trousers - but, he thought to himself, surely that wasn't that long ago? Why hadn't he registered in the fitting rooms that these were clearly not the right size for him?

He'd given up on pulling his shirt down to tuck it in, accepting that his newfound pudge and the motion of the walk would just pull it out again. He stroked the underside of his new, small paunch appreciatively, fingers tracing the soft hair there. How had he, of all people, not noticed that it was now large enough to bow out, clearly visible through his shirt, now that he'd noticed it? Surely one of his friends or recent conquests would have commented, knowing his predilection for the larger man? And it wasn't a simple bloat, this was soft, creamy fat, clearly having had a while to develop and form, as he even noticed how it jiggled and shook slightly with each step.

It wasn't simply fat though, oh no, Rory realised. His chest puffed up round and proud, filling his shirt and pulling the top few buttons taut. He flexed his pecs and was delighted to see them visibly bounce - something he'd thought only real gym addicts could achieve. He'd not really been meaning to bulk, but he'd take what he could get. He half-jokingly flexed his arms for himself, and was astonished at the bulge that swelled underneath the short-sleeves of his shirt, the hem actually cutting in to the mound that rose up. While there was a thin layer of fat there, there was real, firm muscle as well. He could almost hear the fabric creak to contain him.

Rory laughed quietly at his own obliviousness. Had he really not noticed such a significant change to his own body? He thought back, trying to convince himself that he'd taken notice of them before, maybe in the mirror of a changing room, or in the way his clothes had fit, and that maybe it was all just heightened now with the exertion of the walk. He couldn't quite convince himself though. He'd spent his entire adult life chasing men with a few extra pounds, and now he'd achieved a body he'd go crazy for without so much as a glance at himself?

He shook his head. He'd in all likelihood put on twenty pounds, no more, probably just winter weight he'd not quite shed yet, that's all. He'd get back to the hotel, look in the mirror, and see a small layer of fat and the slightest muscle tone that wouldn't get a second look in a gay bar. The newness of it all and the exertion of the walk were just exaggerating it in his mind.

Morgan had stopped to pick up a flat rock, no larger than a pebble, held it up to each of his eyes in turn and thoughtfully placed it back exactly where he'd found it. Rory was grateful for the chance to stop. The path must have been steeper than it looked, because he was hot and sweating already. He dug a water bottle out from his bag, squeezing it past the large, soft pack that Morgan had asked him to stash away, and drank thirstily. Panting slightly, he offered it to Morgan, who declined with a small motion of his hand.

Rory was impressed - the thinner man barely looked exerted at all, but then, he didn't have any clothes to keep him warm. Rory saw Morgan's eyes flick up and down his body, before he turned and walked on ahead. Rory self-consciously tugged at his ill-fitting shirt, which somehow seemed to be even tighter now. Why had Morgan not said anything? He looked ridiculous, like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. Rory realised there were even gaps between each button! How had he even got the shirt on this morning, never mind not noticed how it fit?

He packed the water bottle away, slung the bag across his back, and resolved to ignore the confining fit of his clothes and his sudden realisation of weight gain.

He stubbornly tried to think of anything else as his gut shook with each step. Would that milk he had in the fridge be okay when he got back? Shake. He really needed to remember to wash his bed sheets. Wobble. And call his mum, when was the last time he'd rang her, wasn't her birthday coming up, must get her a present. Bounce. And his TV license needed renewing didn't it? Must remember to get that sorted. Jiggle.

As the first button fired off of his shirt, Rory couldn't ignore what was happening any longer. Something very odd was going on. As he heard the tear of stitches along his bulging shoulders and biceps, his cock throbbed in restricting trousers.

XII. The Hanged Man

The Hanged Man displays a figure being suspended upside down by a single ankle on a wooden beam. The figure's hands are tied behind their back, and their face is resolved and at peace. Around their head is a glowing halo or nimbus.

The Hanged Man may obviously represent sacrifice, tribulation, or martyrdom; a lamb being offered to some unknown deity. However, the figure's expression and glowing halo suggests a deeper meaning; enlightenment, wisdom, divinity. The Hanged Man may struggle against the gallows, or embrace them.

"Morgan!" Rory called, jogging ahead and trying in vain to pull the two sides of his shirt together. "Morgan, something's happening to me, something weird."

Morgan didn't turn round or slow at all. Rory tried to ignore the shaking of his body as he hurried after him. He heard further ripping, and felt a coolness on his thighs as cool air hit them. Looking down he saw buttons straining against soft, hairy flesh pulling against them. As he looked another button pinged off, and his gut shook as it expanded into its new freedom.

"Morgan, stop! Morgan, look at me, something's wrong, I-" He reached out and grabbed Morgan's shoulder. As Morgan spun round, Rory almost took a step back. He let go of his shoulder immediately. Morgan's eyes were wide and angry, his nostrils flaring. Rory saw Morgan's eyes fixed on his hand, still outstretched. He let it fall to his side, and Morgan's expression softened a little.

"Morgan, I know this is important to you, but something really fucked up is happening, look at me," Rory implored. He could feel the stitching on his sleeves pulling apart, as his muscles fought against fabric. Morgan didn't reply, instead merely looking into Rory's eyes.

"Look, I get it, walk of the Goddess, magic ritual, no speaking, no touching, communing with nature, but I thought this was some kumbaya, healing crystals, meditating and connecting to the wonder of Gaia bullshit." Morgan's eyes narrowed slightly, but he still didn't react. "But I get that this is real and I promise to never make fun of you and your witchy friends again but something is happening to me Morg." Rory gestured down at himself, somewhat needlessly. Morgan's eyes didn't leave Rory's. "We need to turn back." Morgan was still for a moment, before turning back, and continuing up the path.

Rory walked a few more paces, doing his best to keep up, but between his growing body and the tightness of his clothes, he struggled. Another button fired off into the forest, this time from his growing chest. The feeling of construction around his waist grew unbearable, and he struggled to undo his belt and trouser button, needing to suck his gut in to make any progress, but even this left his waistband far too tight to move the button. He stumbled on a little, his belt open but his trousers closed - after a few steps, the unyielding button gave up, the thread snapping and the button falling amongst some pebbles. Rory sighed in relief as his ball belly and fat pad pushed the zip down. He laughed to himself at the thought - his ball belly and fat pad as if he wasn't as trim as ever that very morning. Words he'd so erotically used to describe one-night stands and crushes, he was using to casually describe himself, and all it took was a gentle country-side stroll.

Rory continued to laugh despite himself, unable to stop. He laughed at the feeling of fat shaking, at the way his flesh bulged out between tears and hems of once perfectly fitting clothes, at his broad shoulders hunching over against fabric and too narrow bag straps, and at the ridiculousness that this was really, actually happening. Morgan had stopped at a ridge and looked down at Rory passively, seemingly unconcerned with the breakdown happening just 30 feet away. Rory walked heavily forward, making no effort to rush now, laughing breathlessly.

A few steps from Morgan, Rory felt the entire back of his shirt tear to shreds. Despite the sudden release of tension, the single remaining button on his shirt still strained against a wall of fat and muscle and hair, bisecting a heaving chest from a firm, round gut, just starting to encroach downwards over the folded waistband of his underwear. Rory's trouser legs had continued to split down the sides, and now thick muscle squeezed out of a gaping tear all the way down to the hems, which still held on, although Rory realised that even his ankles seemed to be growing.

"Please Morgan. Please." He collapsed down in front of him, and the sound of tearing that ensued elicited one final bout of hysterical laughter. "Please Morgan," Rory continued to beg. "I know this is important to you but, but… you said I wouldn't be a part of this, you said." Rory looked up at Morgan, whose face was unmoved. "We've got to turn back." Still, no reaction. "Fine, if, if you don't come back, then I'll go." Rory struggled to stand, unused to new contours of his body. "I will, I swear." Morgan made no move to walk in either direction. "Morgan, I'm not bullshitting you, I'll turn back right now and you can do you little goddess stroll without your acolyte."

Morgan's face was stony and unmoving, but Rory could read it perfectly. Go on then, it said. Try it. Rory did try. He willed his body to turn around, his legs to step back. He gritted his teeth with effort to try and move himself away from Morgan and the path ahead. He even tried to launch himself backwards, tried to allow himself to fall onto the slope below him, closed his eyes and spun round before attempting a step, anything to break this spell that had him rooted to the ground.

Morgan smiled slightly, turned, and walked up the hill. Rory stood for a while longer, willing himself away. Less than a minute later, he resigned himself, and took a single, easy step forwards. Rory thought that he could see Morgan's self-satisfied grin even through the back of his head.

"Fine! Fine! You win!" he called up to Morgan's naked, thin back. "But at least stop for a minute yeah? Let me get these fucking clothes off." Morgan didn't turn around, but stopped. "Fuck me," Rory muttered to himself. He threw the pack down next to him, the straps struggling to get past his newly square shoulders, even as he extended the straps to their furthest extent. He realised quickly that removing his clothes in the normal way was impossible, as the fabric simply didn't have anymore stretch to allow him to manipulate it around his hulking body. Recognising that his clothes were already in tatters and were of no use to him anymore anyway, he opted instead to simply tear them off. Even through his confusion and shock at what was happening, he thrilled at his developing strength, easily ripping through the fabric like it was paper.

Naked, he looked down at himself. While he was undeniably fat, his firm muscles couldn't be completely hidden, and he was developing the look of an overfed powerlifter. He flexed, marvelling at his python-like arms, bigger around than many men's thighs, while his thighs were surely bigger than his waist used to be. His cock hardened, unseen below a great cauldron of a gut, as he examined his new body. Despite himself and the bizarre situation he was in, he found himself loving this. Wasn't this the kind of body he'd always idolised? He realised he was even bigger than more than a few of the men he'd slept with over the years, and that he'd be the one to be idolised now.

He realised, as he undressed, that he'd stopped growing for the moment. He turned back to look down the path and thought back to what Morgan had said earlier - it was the act of walking that was the catalyst for this change, not simply being in the woods. He looked up, past Morgan, to where the trees thinned slightly. He could see the path continue to rise and rise, with no end in sight, and remembered from looking at the map earlier that there were barely halfway along the trail. How much bigger would be get? He slung his bag back over one shoulder, took a deep breath, and took a step forward, up the path, towards whatever may come.

A while later, he realised that he could almost feel his growth with each step. There was a tension deep in his flesh, a tingling over his skin, that faded whenever he stopped, which was growing more frequently as his bulk required him to stop to catch his breath more and more - even with the increased strength from his expanding muscles, there was no getting away from the fact that with each step he was carrying more and more weight, and it was clear that more fat was being added than muscle.

Rory tried, on the whole, to not spend too long examining his body, choosing instead to push his way forwards and not think too much about the implications of what was happening to him. Nonetheless, he couldn't ignore the way that his gut rounded further and further out, firm and shapely yet soft and pliable to the touch. While the powerful muscles at his core were still evident in the way his body-shape formed in a series of heavy spheres, suspended by the muscle beneath, they were no longer visible, continually being further buried in a now thick layer of fat.

Rory's cock had been hard for quite some time now. If he'd met a man with this body, hell, if he'd achieved this body himself in any normal timeframe, he'd have been over the moon, absolutely beside himself with arousal. As it was, that arousal was tinged with fear and confusion. What was Morgan doing? What would happen at the end of the walk? When he had to go back to his regular life? Hell, how would he even get back to the hotel, for that matter? Rory looked up at Morgan's indifferent back. If he ever got back to the hotel and his regular life, some quiet part of his brain said.

Rory reached under his heavy gut, and lifted it slightly. With his other hand, he reached between his legs, searching for his cock, leaking with precum, seeking to rearrange himself and free his equipment from the prison of his tree-trunk like thighs. He realised ruefully that despite his expansion, his penis had stayed the same size. While he'd certainly never had any complaints in that department before, he was concerned at the way he could feel the way the fat at his groin subsume his length, even while fully erect, making his cock feel short and stubby. He wondered what it looked like - his penis had always been rather thick, and now it must be positively disproportionate. Rory managed to push his privates forwards, still a little uncomfortable between mammoth thighs, but at least no longer pinned between their unstoppable growth.

He closed his eyes and walked forwards, trying to distract himself, singing songs, listing types of birds and trees, remembering world capitals in alphabetical order, anything to distract from the delicious, impossible feeling of his flesh expanding, stretching, moving against itself as he walked.

Eventually, huffing and puffing, sweat dripping from his forehead and running in rivers down plump tits, and through canyons and valleys of flesh, Rory looked up as he realised he'd just stepped into sunlight. He saw Morgan stood in a spring at the top of the hill, arms outstretched. He turned around to face Rory.

"What the actual fuck Morgan?"

XXI. The World

The World depicts a naked feminine figure, often identified as Hermaphrodites from Greek mythology, draped in a long cloth, breasts displayed proudly. The figure holds a white wand in each hand, and is surrounded by a wide, circular wreath. In each corner respectively, there is represented the heads of a young man or woman, an eagle, an ox, and a lion.

As the final card in the major arcana of the tarot, The World represents the end of a journey, both literal and spiritual. Once disparate and conflicting natures are unified and balanced. Masculine and feminine energies are both represented in The World, both in harmony and distinctly. In a reading, The World represents one's most true desire.

Long black hair framed Morgan's slender face, ending just above small, pert breasts. Further down, Morgan's penis was conspicuous in its absence, legs instead framing a dark triangle of public hair.

"Morgan, I-" Rory started.

"It's Morgana now," she said, shaking her head gently. Her voice was softer now, and higher.

"Oh fuck off," Rory said. "Morgan the warlock turns into Morgana the witch in an ancient magic ritual in Cornwall? Bit on the nose isn't it?"

Morgana shrugged. "I didn't decide to get into ancient transgender magic for the subtlety of it all."

"So the point of the Walk of the Goddess…" Rory could hear himself capitalise the words himself now.

"Is to turn someone into a woman, yes, just as the Goddess transformed millennia ago" Morgan walked forwards, out of the spring. "For a price."

"The price being…" Rory gestured down at his newly massive stature.

"The bodily transfiguration of another, yes. There's a towel in that pack I gave you, would you grab it?"

Rory complied, pulling the bag off and rooting around in it, until he found the pack. Opening it for the first time, he found it contained several large pieces of fabric. He passed a towel over. "How long have you known?" he asked.

"That I was trans? Oh, forever, really. I've always been Morgana, this was just about getting my body to show what I knew inside." Morgana's face was a bright smile, and she moved slowly, as if exploring her body anew.

Rory strained to stand. "You know, I'm pretty sure there's other ways of transitioning these days."

"On the NHS? You must be joking, I'd be on a waiting list until I was 40. And there's forms to fill in, and I'd have to get my name changed and come out to everyone and-" She ran her fingers through her hair. "No, this was so much easier."

"Sorry, this was the easier option?" Rory asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well I knew it would work, after Natasha did it, so-"

"What? Natasha's not trans," Rory interrupted.

Morgana looked over at him, from underneath her towel as she dried her hair. "Yes she is, she used to be Josh," she said simply.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'd know, we went to school with her," Rory protested.

"That's part of it. Makes everyone remember you differently. Doesn't change anything, just sort of makes people not think about it too hard." Morgana looked at Rory's confused face. "Okay, so, in school, you did PE with Natasha right?"

"I mean, yeah, that's how we met, we were on the same footie team," Rory said.

"A football team for…" Morgana prompted.

"Under-14s…" Rory said, not getting at what Morgana meant. She made a motion with her hand, indicating Rory should continue the train of thought. Rory's eyes went wide with realisation. "Under-14 boys. Fucking hell, how does that work?"

Morgana shrugged. "Like I said, doesn't change any events, just makes you not think about it too hard."

"So people won't be shocked that I'm…" Rory shook his gut. Morgana shook her hair and continued drying herself. "So who did Natasha make fat?"

"She brought Ollie along."

"Her brother? What? Ollie's tiny."

Morgana sighed impatiently. "It's different for everyone, Ollie got cured of cancer," she said, like she was explaining something blindingly obvious to a particularly annoying child.

"Ollie never had cancer," Rory pointed out.

"Terminal thyroid cancer. Four months to live. Natasha invited him along, bam, no more cancer, hair all grown back, everyone's very confused about why they'd been visiting him at the hospital so much." Morgana smiled. "It's two spells working in tandem. One spell slowly transforms the acolyte's body into their heart's desire, that transformation gets reflected at the person acting as the Goddess, and it all sort of stores up and zaps all at once."

Rory stared down at his body, finally starting to get over the shock of all that had happened. "So you're saying that I grew this fat because I wanted to be this fat?"

"Basically," Morgana said. "I'd sort of guessed, to be honest, you always a sort of wistful, unfulfilled look in your eyes whenever you talked about fucking a fatty. I figured that I needed someone who's heart's desire was a physical transformation of their own body, and you wanted to get fat. Win-win really."

Rory looked down at himself properly for the first time since he'd entered the clearing, and attempted to take his whole body in. He was enormous - if he saw someone with a gut his size, he'd say they were 350 pounds easy, maybe even 400, but he had no idea how much weight his muscles might add. Fifty pounds? A hundred? Even having been obsessed with fat men all his life, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen a man so large, not in person anyway, and couldn't guess at a weight. He must outweigh most powerlifters now, but who knew by how much?

He let his hands paw at his body. He lifted his plump pecs, soft and round and pert, and let them fall, a sharp slap ringing out as they collided with the top of his gut. His belly was a masterpiece - one of the largest he'd seen, but it somehow defied gravity to hang, suspended in front of him. His hands could push into it, moulding the fat with thick fingers, but it couldn't be shifted, a firm core keeping it stationary. His hands followed it's curve around the tyre of fat to his broad back, before they stopped, unable to explore any more of his body, his own size resisting his movements.

His limbs were huge. Thick fat formed his arms and legs into mighty pillars, and creased with each motion, and while the muscle underneath might never be visible, it mounded up even through layers of flab to push his biceps and thighs into great balls of muscle and beef. His hands roamed upwards to his neck, which felt wider than his head, and shortened by encroaching delts. His face felt round, and wide, and soft. His cheeks were large enough to cup in his hands, and he could feel a double chin compressing and changing shape each time he spoke or turned his head. He longed to see a mirror.

"I packed some clothes for you," Morgana said, as she pulled a black dress over head. She smoothed it down and gave a small twirl, her face practically glowing. "Over there, in the pack. I sort of had to guess how big you might end up." Her eyes moved up and down Rory's body. "To be honest, I'm not sure I quite appreciated just how big you'd want to get."

Rory nodded and moved over to pile of clothes. He held them up. They looked like tents, absolutely obscene sizes, surely not meant to be worn by real people. Holding them up to his body, he realised they would probably be too small.

He started with the t-shirt, struggling to pull it over his head. He tugged it down, not quite covering his belly button, and straining around his arms. It rode up as he bent down to pick up the trousers.

He was relieved that the 54 inch waist was elasticated. He had to sit down on the ground to pull them on, his new size meaning he couldn't balance on a single leg for long enough to get it into the trouser legs. He pulled them up as high as they would go, stretching them over thighs like rhinos', and tried to determine if his privates were at least covered.

"Am I decent?" he called over to Morgana, who was running her hands up and down as she explored her new body.

"Not at all," she replied immediately. "I can't see your cock though. Pubes out the top and about half your arse crack is showing, but that's the best we can do for now I suppose."

"Right. Yeah, right." The realities of the situation were starting to set into Rory. Where would even sell clothes his size now?

"Come on then," Morgana said, heading back the way they'd come.

"That's it?" Rory asked.

"That's it."

"And it won't… reverse or anything? While we walk down?"

Morgana spun round and smiled at him. "Would you want it to, big guy?"

Rory looked down at himself, the enormous clothes that barely fit, the gut that stuck several feet in front of him, the frame that would stop him comfortably sitting in any seat again. He thought about having to replace his entire wardrobe, and probably more than a few pieces of furniture. He wondered if he'd need to move, to comfortably fit into his own shower. He thought about the looks of shock and horror he'd receive from now on.

He smiled at Morgana. "I'm quite hungry actually." He scratched the side of his gut.

Morgana grinned back and practically skipped into the forest, back down the path. Rory lumbered after her.

[adrift-in-thyme]

There’s something terribly poetic in the inevitability of events in EPIC. The choices Odysseus is given lead to no win situations. They aren’t really choices at all.

Kill a foe’s child or witness the death of your own. Sacrifice six men or sacrifice them all. Allow your crew to starve or watch as they slaughter sacred cattle.

Sacrifice your friends, your brothers, or give up your last chance at reaching home.

In the end, the result is always the same. He destroys himself

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere Daryl Dixon taking care of traumatized reader—why can't everyone just go away? except you, you can stay. (cw(s): Daryl's trauma, talks of anxiety, ptsd, non-descriptive self-harm)

Yandere Daryl didn't think much of you at first. You're just another weaklin' that'll be gone in a few dawns. He shouldn't waste his time lookin' after people like that anyway.

You barely talked since he met ya. You refuse to make eye contact with anyone else in the group. You contribute, but it isn't much. Unlike him, you appear to be a sweet lil snack for the walkers: defenseless and skittish, a rabbit.

Still, like a leaf holdin' onto a sickly oak in a tornado, you stayed alive. From the quarry to the prison, you ambled along, not opening up to anyone. Well, maybe you opened up to him just a lil.

Yandere Daryl ends up being your safe place. He's someone who listens. He may not be good with feelings n' shit but he listens well. He lets you curl up next to him and tell him about anything. Sometimes it's nothing, and he appreciates that.

You both can sit in silence, and it's never awkward. It's like two kin souls meeting each other and simmering together.

Yandere Daryl grows closer to you. He doesn't want to think about it. He's always thinkin' about ya. There's always at least one eye on your figure.

He refuses to let you go on trips alone or without him. So naturally he gets somewhat aggressive when others talk down to ya. If someone raises their voice atcha, then he's ready to punch their teeth inward. He's proud of the sick and twisted thoughts that roll through his head of the things he wants to do to anything that threatens to hurt you.

He doesn't want to show you that side of him.

He's heard about your past and how the fall of the world affected you. He promised himself that he wouldn't ever be the reason you shut down or have a pstd flashback. He's workin' on being better than his mom and pop's relationship. Even the notion of possibly raising a hand against you makes his stomach churn, his head spin.

Yandere Daryl is always there to comfort you when something goes awry. He's still shitty at it, but he provides himself and hopes to whatever is out there, that's it's good enough. He tends to wrap one or both arms around you when you shut down/regress. He enjoys placing his chin over the top of your head and humming a sweet tune that he heard from the uppity church ladies that used to frequent his shitty neighborhood. 

He tries to say those nice things.

"Is alright."

"I'll protect ya."

"You're safe. The bad people can't hurt ya no more."

It helps heal his inner child as well. He gets to protect you, and it feels like he's protecting little Daryl Dixon as well. There's no screamin', hittin', broken booze bottles, or half-tapped-out cigarettes. There's only you and him. 

He'd murder anyone that got in the way of that, even Carol, even Rick.

He'll never admit it, but he likes it when you play with his hair, especially when you're stressed or overwhelmed. If you trace his scars, then he's in heaven.

Yandere Daryl always makes sure you have whatever health stuff you need. It could be meds, certain foods, prosthetics, or anything else. He'll do anything. He puts himself in the toughest situations just to make sure you are happy n' alive.

Have a medical condition? Meds are yours. He'll find substitutes if he can or learn medicinal remedies.

Allergies or food restrictions? No worries. He may be a shitty cook, but it's the end of the world. He's got plenty of time to practice so you can have a fully tummy and plenty of energy.

Hard of hearing or deaf? He learns sign language. He may be bad at it, but he'll learn! He doesn't mind repeating himself or repeating what others said for you. He'll do his best to find hearing aids or batteries if you used those before the world went to hell.

Partially or fully blind? He'll find you a cane or wittle you a walking stick. He'll be your guide.

Have a missing body part or limited mobility? He'll search high and low for a prosthetic. He'll carry you if he needs to. He'll help you in any way. He can't really find how practical wheelchairs are in the apocalypse, but he'll figure somethin' out.

Some other restriction or something rare he's never heard of? He'll go hell n' back to make sure you have whatever you need.

You just need space? Fine. He's still going to watch you from afar.

There are times when walker bites seem to pale in comparison to that innocently bright expression in your eyes. It's the look that he's always wanted to see from somebody. You look at him like he's some sort of protector, some hero. The first time he saw it, his initial reaction was to brush it off and call you stupid. He regretted that as soon as he saw you deflate and curl back within yourself. He mumbled a 'sorry' and made sure to never do it again.

Yandere Daryl almost breaks down the first time he notices your self-harming tendencies. It could be fresh cuts or starving yourself. It isn't good. He tries not to be harsh with you.

He tries.

It's just so hard because he's crying. He's trying to be quiet but he can't. He loves you so much that the thought of you not loving yourself makes him want to worship you until you do.

Why can't you see it? Why can't you see how special you are?

He wants to think you're selfish, but he knows you're not. It's your body. Is he being selfish? No. Yes? No.

He doesn't know.

All he knows is that he ends up on his knees with tears streaming down his face. He's begging. The words aren't intelligible, but he is.

This is what you do to him. This lil lamb just had to lay in his pasture.

Just stay alive. He'll do the rest for you.

Yandere Daryl just protects you. He hates groups but he knows they're important. You've made bonds, and so has he, unfortunately. He'll just keep you close. Maybe one day he'll be able to confess his undying reverence for you. Hopefully you won't figure out how many people he has killed for you. The things he has done... oh, they'd make the devil cry. As long as you sleep well at night knowing your Daryl Dixon is protectin' you. Well, he doesn't care about the so-called 'collateral damage' because of it.

[succulentsiren]

The Dark Feminine Archetypes

[spineless-lobster]

The weird thing about my asexuality is that it’s kinda like watered down bisexuality in which everyone around me is so so so beautiful and I want to give them all the kisses but anything more and I will bite your hand off

[ser-ratking]

Have you ever seen a woman so beautiful you started crying? Arthur and Gwyar sure have-

Thank you to @s-4-fira for drawing Imara, my hound for @the-kingshound . Good luck getting through meetings without thinking about how beautiful she looks!!

[skeletoninthemelonland]

ough i just had to

THEYYYYY AAAAAAAAAAARRREEEEEEEEE

[witchthewriter]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐙𝐞𝐮𝐬/𝐉𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫

These women are electric; they're leaders, the ones who make hard decisions and reap the repercussions. They're the ones people turn to when times get tough. They fight with everything they have and defend without a second thought. They're independent, forward-thinking and bold.

𝑅𝘩𝑎𝑒𝑛𝑦𝑟𝑎 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛

𝑀𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑖𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛𝑒

𝐶𝑎𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡

𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛

𝐿𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑡𝘩𝑎

𝐴𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛 𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑒𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡

𝐷𝑎𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑠 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛

𝐶𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙

𝐵𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑦 𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑠

[rodpower78]

Alycia Debnam-Carey

[ray935sworld]

MOST ITALIAN REACTION TO DOMI'S ABS

[distressed-bird]

Kalina is the most interesting character to me because of all she has going on…

she is Cassandra’s familiar, she is simultaneously a pet and a friend and a servant and a family to a goddexx that is simultaneously her owner and friend and creator and parent and her god and reason to be—Kalina’s relationship to Cassandra is hard to put a name or label on (since what does being a familiar even mean?) but the bottomline is that this cat loves her deity enough to put everything and everyone on the line for her…

And adding in that she is a child of divorce. So to speak. I am extremely normal and haven’t been driven mad by the detail that baby itty bitty kitty Kalina was at Cassandra’s wedding to Ankarna and is remembered to have been toddling after her as she walked down the aisle…

Kalina will be the death of me /lh

[naturistgirl]

Daron, Celtic Oak Goddess - Reprise

I would like to revisit this theme and anyway, it is a good excuse to post more naked woodland pictures. Here goes :-)

Here I stand in the lower Oak Grove of our 'Wild Wood'. It is one of the nearest pieces of local countryside to my house; only a few minutes walk away. I am a naturist and I wear almost nothing wherever I go, yet I love most of all, to walk completely naked here. Somehow it energises me, heals stress and promotes calm.

I love to touch, feel and listen to these trees. The sounds are subtle; a creak of wood bending; the rustle of leaves; the warm rough skin of the tree; in Autumn, the soft fall of an acorn and the flutter of falling leaves.

We are currently in the latter part of the 7th, complete lunar month of the year. Traditionally, this is the Oak Moon. The Ancient Britons worshipped an 'Oak Goddess', Daron whom I have mentioned in an earlier blog. The long lived Oak itself was held to be a symbol of wisdom and also fertility. It was one of the Celtic sacred trees.

Like my husband I speak Welsh. In our language, 'Oak' is 'Derwen'. Our word for Druid comes from the same root. References to the Oak exist in place names across the Celtic World, for example Cill Dara (Kildare) in Eire. Across our various nations the word for this magnificent tree is almost the same: Irish, Dair; Scots Gaelic, Darach; Manx, Daragh; Cornish Derowen; Breton, Dervenn.

The ancient Celts had a respect for their environment. They also believed that they were custodians of the nature; not her master. We hold our lovely woodlands in Trust; not only for my two lovely daughters but for the whole world. I am not ashamed to be a naked tree hugger, no matter how quirky others might think I am. We have one world and one life. I live mine naked and respect the world I'm in.

Call me ridiculously romantic but as I walk naked, hand in hand, with my husband here, I feel a special honour and blessing beneath these trees. This is our sacred place and I am so pleased to share it here with you in writing.

Thank you to my Welsh Prince of a husband for the images. He loves this place as much as I do. If you are a nemophilist and naturist like myself, or just naturally inclined; please like, share and re-blog with our blessing. Positive comments and questions are always welcome.

If you just prefer to enjoy the naked outdoor pics and ignore the story; no worries; that's okay too (if a little sad). Please like and appreciate. I don't judge, even if you have a completely empty blog with a strangely sexual name to it :-)

Jane xx

[spartanexperience]

thinking about a modern human AU....

[misandriste]

the goddess of spring (1934)

[clubhoops]

Gabby + Goddess Braids = Baddie