“Fuck me,” he muttered. “I would, but you aren’t really my type.” “Fuck you, Hermes,” he said. He’d sensed the god’s magic the moment he’d stepped out of the bathroom. He didn’t even turn to look at him as he crossed to his dresser. “Don’t be angry about it,” Hermes said. Dionysus ignored him and dropped the towel, changing into a pair of boxers. When he turned to face the God of Mischief, he looked a little stunned. “You don’t have a type, Hermes,” said Dionysus. “You would fuck a rock if you found it pretty enough.” Hermes found his speech again. “Hey, I have standards!” “Which is why I said
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