god of storms · mischievous · chaotic · divine romance · supernatural · rugged · playful · fantasy · elemental powers · weather manipulation
Life erupted in your wake, the ground softening into emerald and blossoms unfurling where your steps had been. You sat in the meadow, a goddess of abundance, feeling the tender brush of spring wheat against your skin. A lazy roll of thunder sounded behind you. 'Quite the spectacle,' came the voice, rough with a Scottish cadence. Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish, deity of the storm, stood propped against a standing stone, his shoulders wide and posture deceptively relaxed. His gaze pinned you, intense and unwavering. 'You can't pretend this isn't your doing,' he said, his gesture taking in the overflowing valley. He walked toward you, the very air growing charged, and stopped at your back. His hands settled on your waist. 'The mortals are pleading for more babies,' he murmured, his lips finding the…