Work Text:
On the golden slopes of Mount Olympus, where marble palaces gleamed beneath an eternal sun and the scent of ambrosia drifted lazily through the air, Aphrodite had chosen a particularly delightful evening to bathe in the sacred Naiad Springs.
It was not just any bath. This was a ritual, a divine spa infused with nectar and rose petals, under a sky lit by a crescent moon and the first shy stars. The spring, nestled between two alabaster cliffs and protected by a curtain of flowering jasmine, was sacred to the goddess of love and beauty. No men—mortal or divine—were permitted within a hundred paces unless invited, and even the birds had learned (after one unfortunate incident with a curious dove) not to flutter too close.
Aphrodite emerged from the warm, shimmering waters, her skin like polished pearl, her hair cascading in damp, rose-gold waves. She reached for her towel—woven from silk spun by spider nymphs and dyed with crushed sunset petals—only to find… nothing.
“Hm,” she murmured, tapping a perfect pink nail against her chin. “That’s odd.”
She scanned the garden. A few lilies nodded sleepily. A peacock strutted by, smug and unhelpful. But no towel.
“He did it!” she declared to thin air, as though the universe had already voted.
And indeed, the universe knew.
Because the great winged thief, Messenger of the Gods, Trickster of the Titans, and the single most annoying younger brother in eternity, Hermes of the caduceus and the silver sandals, had done it again.
Hermes, barefoot and laughing, sprinted through the colonnades of Olympus with Aphrodite’s towel flapping behind him like a victory banner. He’d been crouched behind a myrtle bush when she’d undressed, giggling to himself at how scandalously serious all the gods were about modesty. “One would think,” he’d whispered to a passing bee, “that being immortal meant you didn’t care if someone saw your knees.”
But the towel? Ah, that had been too delicious not to steal.
He’d watched her sink into the water, sighing like a love poem, and then—voilà!—a quick flick of his wrist, a puff of divine wind, and the towel was gone, whisked into the night by a zephyr conjured just for the occasion.
Now, Hermes stood atop the Observatory Balcony—the highest point on the celestial mountain—his chiton slightly askew, his sandals fluttering like wings, and Aphrodite’s towel tied around his head like a crown.
“Behold!” he announced to a group of startled dryads. “The King of the Bath Towels! Patron God of Pranks! Keeper of the Silk of Shame!”
One of the dryads clutched her leaves nervously. “But, Lord Hermes, Aphrodite is going to be furious.”
Hermes winked. “Furious is her default setting. I keep her emotionally balanced.”
“HERMES!”
The voice thundered from behind him—bright, hot, and blisteringly annoyed. Like summer lightning in a toga.
Hermes turned slowly, towel-crown askew.
Apollo stood there, sun-kissed and scowling, arms crossed over his perfectly sculpted chest. His golden hair seemed to glow like the dawn itself, and his eyes—piercing, serious, and very tired—narrowed at the sight of his younger brother.
“Are you,” said Apollo, slowly and deliberately, "wearing Aphrodite’s bathing towel as a hat?"
Hermes grinned. “Fashion statement. I’m starting a trend. ‘Undignified Chic.’ It’s going to sweep the mortal realms in twenty centuries.”
Apollo pinched the bridge of his nose. "She was naked, Hermes."
"Well, technically, not anymore. She wrapped herself in a giant lotus leaf. Very botanical. Very elegant."
“You stole her towel while she was bathing.”
“I borrowed it.”
"With no intention of returning it."
“Well . . . not immediately.”
Apollo exhaled, long and deep, like a man trying not to incinerate his brother with solar flares. “You do realize she threatened to turn you into a cucumber the last time you peeked at her through a mirror spell?”
“That was a mirage! I didn’t even know it was her! I thought it was a . . . really . . . beautiful . . . man!”
"She turned Dionysus into a grape once for spilling wine on her sandals!"
“ . . . OK, fair point.”
Apollo stepped forward, his sandals clicking on the marble. “Give. Me. The. Towel.”
“But it’s fashion.”
“Now, Hermes.”
Hermes sighed dramatically, untied the silken fabric, and handed it over with a flourish. “Fine. But you’re ruining my artistic expression.”
Apollo held the towel like it was a live scorpion. “You’re lucky I don’t hand you over to Ares. He’s been looking for an excuse to ‘train’ you in battlefield discipline.”
“Please,” Hermes scoffed. "Ares’ idea of discipline is hitting things until they stop moving."
Apollo raised an eyebrow. “When it comes to you, that seems fine with me,” he said. “Still. This is not acceptable behavior. You can’t keep stealing people’s things. You can’t keep spying on them. You can’t keep—”
“I wasn’t spying!” Hermes protested. “I was . . . conducting ethnographic research on divine hygiene practices!”
“You were hiding in a bush, Hermes.”
“Academic fieldwork!”
Apollo placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You’re going to get yourself turned into pond scum. Or worse—banished to the mortal realm with only one pair of sandals.”
Hermes shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Apollo nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now go apologize to Aphrodite. And mean it.”
Hermes groaned. “But she’ll probably hit me with a perfume bottle.”
“Serves you right.”
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Hermes shuffled off toward the Naiad Springs, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty, defiant tune.
Apollo watched him go, sighed again, and muttered, “One day, little brother . . . one day you’ll learn.”
He did not know how right he was.
Aphrodite had not calmed down. In fact, she had escalated.
She stood in her bath chamber, wrapped in that ridiculous lotus leaf, her hair still dripping, her eyes blazing like emerald fire. When Hermes entered, she didn’t even wait for him to speak.
“You!” she shrieked, hurling a bottle of rosewater at his head.
He ducked. It shattered against the wall.
"Whoa! Easy! I came to apologize!"
“You came to gloat! I saw you on the balcony!” She advanced, footfalls echoing. “You were wearing my towel like a jester’s hat!”
“Well, it was very festive.”
“You humiliated me!” she screamed.
“I didn’t even see you! You were submerged!”
“But I felt it! I felt the theft! Like a cold wind on my soul!”
Hermes blinked. “That’s . . . oddly poetic.”
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger. “You will suffer for this!”
“Oh, come on,” Hermes whined. “It was a joke! A prank! That’s what I do! I’m the Trickster God! It’s in my résumé!”
“Your résumé,” said a deep, calm voice from the doorway, “is about to include ‘Former God of Mischief, Now a Very Sorry Young Man.’”
Apollo stood there, arms crossed, sun-gold radiance filling the chamber like a summer’s noon.
Aphrodite turned to him. “Apollo! Thank the Fates! I want justice!”
Apollo inclined his head. “And you shall have it. But not violence. Not magic. Not cucumbers.”
Hermes perked up. “So I’m off the hook?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” said Apollo, stepping forward. “You’re over my knee.”
Silence.
Then— “What?!”
“You heard me,” Apollo said, voice even. "You’ve gone too far this time. Stealing Aphrodite’s towel—while she was naked—is not just mischievous. It’s vulgar and invasive and disrespectful."
“But—”
“No excuses.”
“Apollo, you can’t—!”
“I can. And I will.”
Aphrodite watched, wide-eyed, as Apollo strode toward Hermes, who immediately tried to dart past him. But the God of the Sun was faster. He caught Hermes by the wrist, spun him around, and—
SMACK!
Hermes found himself facedown across Apollo’s lap, his bare feet kicking, his white chiton riding up to his waist.
“NO! NO! APOLLO, I SWEAR—PUT ME DOWN!” he howled.
“Not a chance,” Apollo said, firm as granite.
Aphrodite gasped. “You’re not . . . you’re not actually going to—?”
“I am,” Apollo said. “He needs this. And frankly, I’ve been saving this lecture for centuries, since spankings seems to be the only things he listens to. They worked very well all of last time.”
"Last time?"
Hermes twisted, trying to buck off, but Apollo’s grip was iron. One massive hand pinned his back between the shoulder blades.
“Let go! This is barbaric! I’m a god! Not a child!”
“You behave like a child,” Apollo replied, “so you’ll be treated like one.”
Then— SWAT!
Hermes yelped as the first spank landed squarely on his bare bottom. It wasn’t brutal, but it was sharp—a stinging crack that echoed through the chamber.
SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!
The spanks came fast and rhythmic, like a drumbeat of discipline. Apollo’s palm was broad and sun-warmed, and each swat flared across Hermes’ backside with increasing fire.
“Ow! Ow! Apollo! That hurts!”
“Then stop wriggling,” Apollo said calmly, not pausing. “You’re making it worse.”
“You’re—OW!—you’re spanking me like I’m some mortal schoolboy!”
“Exactly,” Apollo said. “Mortal schoolboys get spanked for stealing girls’ things too.”
Hermes howled, kicking his legs. “I didn’t steal it! I borrowed it—OW!—with romantic intent!”
“Romantic intent?” Aphrodite shrieked. “You pervert!”
“I meant fashionably! Artistically! Apollo, stop!”
But Apollo didn’t stop.
He spanked Hermes until the mischievous little messenger god was sobbing, his voice cracking, his bare backside glowing a deep, angry red.
“Please—sniff—please, I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again! I—OW!—I’ll return anything I take! I’ll write a poem! A long one!”
Apollo paused, hand mid-air. “That’s better.”
He let Hermes catch his breath, still pinned across his knee.
Hermes whimpered, tears streaking his cheeks. “You—you didn’t have to spank me bare!”
“Yes, I did,” Apollo said. “You needed to feel it. To remember. This isn’t a game, Hermes. You can’t treat the gods—especially the women—with such disrespect. What if it had been Artemis? She’d have shot you with an arrow.”
“I—I know, I know…”
Apollo sighed. “I know you’re clever. I know you’re quick. But cleverness isn’t an excuse for cruelty. Or shamelessness.”
“I’m not cruel!” Hermes sniffled.
“No. But you’re careless. And that hurts people too.”
He gently helped Hermes sit up. The younger god rubbed his sore backside, eyes red, face flushed.
Aphrodite watched, arms crossed, but her expression had softened to something between docility and amusement. “Well," she said. "I suppose that was . . . adequate.”
Apollo turned to her. “Will you accept his apology?”
She looked at Hermes. “Only if he means it.”
Hermes nodded rapidly. “I mean it! I’m very sorry, Aphrodite. Truly. I’ll never steal your towel again. Or your sandals. Or your mirror. Or—”
“Just the towel is fine,” she said dryly.
“Deal.”
Apollo kissed her hand. “Thank you for your patience.”
She smirked. “Next time, let me turn him into a cucumber. I’ll pickle him.”
With a final glare at Hermes, she swept out of the room, her lotus leaf surprisingly dignified.
Hermes collapsed to the floor, knees drawn to his chest, still sniffling. He looked up at his older brother beseechingly and raised his arms, wanting a hug or a cuddle or any form of affection at all.
Apollo studied him. “If you're done with the theatrics now, you can go and fetch my hairbrush,” he said quietly.
Hermes’ eyes widened in horror. “What?! You spanked me until I cried! What more could you possibly want?”
“I want you to understand,” Apollo said firmly. “And sometimes, understanding requires reinforcement.”
He stood, straightened his chiton, and fixed Hermes with a solemn look.
“Go fetch my wooden hairbrush.”
Hermes' face crumpled. “But that's just cruel!” he wailed.
“And stealing a woman’s towel while she bathes is funny?”
Hermes scrambled to his feet. “I’ll apologize again! I’ll sing you a song! I’ll polish your lyre for a moon cycle!”
“Too late. Go get the brush.”
Hermes glared, eyes blazing. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No,” Apollo said quietly. “I’m doing my duty. Now go.”
With a groan of despair, Hermes flapped his wings and shot down the corridor.
He returned two minutes later, face sullen, holding the hairbrush like it was a cursed artifact.
Apollo took it. It was smooth, heavy, and slightly warm—from the sun, or perhaps divine intention.
“You understand why you’re getting more?” Apollo asked.
“Because you’re mean!”
“No,” Apollo said. “Because you didn’t stop when you should have. You kept running. You kept joking. You didn’t take it seriously. So now you will.”
He gestured to his lap.
Hermes shook his head. “No. Not again. I’m not—”
Apollo raised an eyebrow. “Would you like me to summon Zeus and let him handle it?”
Hermes paled. “No!”
Much as he hated all this, he loved and trusted his brother a hundred times more than his father, even though he would never admit it of course.
“Then over my knee. Now.”
Grumbling, red-faced, Hermes reluctantly positioned himself once more across his brother’s lap. His bottom was already tender, glowing faintly from the earlier spanking.
Apollo positioned the hairbrush over the center of Hermes’ bare backside.
THWACK!
The sound was louder this time—cracking sharp as a branch snapping in a storm.
Hermes screamed.
“OWWW! APOLLO, THAT HURTS!”
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Each stroke landed with precision—firm, even, unrelenting. The wooden brush bit into Hermes’ skin, turning pink flesh to deep rose, then faintly striped with heat.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Hermes sobbed. “Please, no more! I can’t—OW!—I can’t take it!”
Apollo didn’t stop. He spanked steadily, counting under his breath.
“Thirty,” he said, delivering the final stroke with a firm SMACK!
Hermes howled, kicking wildly, tears streaming down his face. He clutched Apollo’s thigh, fingers digging in.
“Please, please stop! I can’t—sniff—I can’t breathe!”
Apollo set the brush aside and gently helped Hermes sit up. The younger god collapsed against him, shaking, his bottom on fire.
“Shhh,” Apollo murmured, rubbing his back. “It’s over.”
Hermes buried his face in Apollo’s shoulder. “You’re so mean! I hate you! I hate you!”
“No, you don’t,” Apollo said softly. “You just hate being punished.”
“Same thing.”
Apollo chuckled gently. “No. It’s not.”
He helped Hermes to his feet. The younger god wobbled, hands instinctively cupping his sore backside.
“Go stand in the corner,” Apollo said.
Hermes blinked. “The corner?”
“Yes. Ten minutes. Face the wall. No talking. No turning around.”
“But—”
“Hermes.”
The tone brooked no argument.
Sniffling, Hermes shuffled to the far corner of the chamber—where two marble walls met in a sharp angle—and pressed his forehead against the cool stone.
Apollo sat in a nearby chair, arms crossed, watching.
Almost immediately, Hermes peeked over his shoulder.
Apollo raised an eyebrow.
Hermes quickly turned back.
Ten seconds later—another peek.
Smack!
Apollo had risen and delivered a sharp, stinging swat to Hermes’ bottom.
“OW!” Hermes yelped, jumping forward.
“I said face the wall,” Apollo corrected. “Not ‘gawk every ten seconds.’”
“I wasn’t—”
Smack!
Another swat, right on the sorest spot.
“YOWCH! Okay! Okay! I’ll face the wall!”
He pressed back into the corner, arms crossed over his head.
But after another minute, he twisted slightly, peering sideways.
Smack!
“APOLLO!”
“Turn. Back. Around.”
Hermes groaned, but obeyed.
This went on for the full five minutes.
Every time he turned—even slightly—Apollo would rise, stride over, and deliver a sharp, stinging swat to his already well-spanked backside.
By the end, Hermes was weeping quietly, his nose running, his bottom a hot, stinging mass of pain.
When Apollo finally said, “Alright. Corner time’s up,” Hermes didn’t move.
He stayed there, forehead against the wall, shoulders trembling.
Apollo approached gently.
“Hermes?”
Still no movement.
He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”
Slowly, Hermes turned.
His eyes were red, his face swollen from crying, his lower lip trembling.
“I just wanted to be funny,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Apollo pulled him into a hug.
“I know,” he said softly. “But sometimes, being funny isn’t worth the cost.”
Hermes clung to him, burying his face in Apollo’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“I know you are.”
They stayed like that for a long moment—two brothers, one radiant with sun, the other wrapped in shame and tears.
Finally, Apollo pulled back. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
Hermes nodded, wincing as he walked.
Apollo’s chambers were bathed in soft light—candles flickering, a lyre resting on a marble bench, the scent of citrus and sunlight lingering in the air.
Hermes lay on Apollo’s bed, curled on his side, a silk sheet draped over his lower half. His bottom still stung, but the worst of the pain had faded to a dull ache.
Apollo sat beside him, gently brushing his hair with the same wooden brush—now used for its proper purpose.
“You know,” Hermes said, voice small, “I thought you’d laugh. When I stole the towel. I thought everyone would think it was funny.”
“Some might have,” Apollo admitted. “But not Aphrodite. Not me. Because it wasn’t about the towel. It was about respect.”
Hermes nodded slowly. “I get that now.”
“And you will write her a proper apology letter. By hand. With no spells. No shortcuts.”
“Yes, Apollo.”
“And you’ll deliver her bath oils every morning for a month.”
Hermes groaned. “But that’s beneath a god!”
“It’s beneath a jerk,” Apollo corrected. “But you’re not just a god. You’re my brother. And I won’t let you become the kind of immortal everyone fears or mocks.”
Hermes was quiet for a long moment.
Then, softly: “Do you think I’m a bad brother?”
Apollo set the brush down, turned, and took Hermes’ face in his hands.
“No,” he said firmly. “You’re impulsive. You’re reckless. You’re infuriating. But you’re not bad. You have a good heart. It just needs, ah, shaping.”
Hermes sniffled. “Like clay?”
“Like sunlight through a prism,” Apollo said. “Beautiful, but needs direction.”
Hermes gave a shaky smile.
Apollo lay down beside him, pulling the sheet over both of them.
“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, you’ll have penance. But tonight, you’re safe.”
Hermes turned and curled against his brother, head on Apollo’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his divine heart.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
Apollo raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“For the spanking?”
“For not giving up on me.”
Apollo kissed the top of his head.
“Never,” he said. “You’re stuck with me, little brother. For eternity.”
And as the moon rose over Olympus, painting the marble halls in silver, the God of the Sun held the Trickster God close.
Epilogue: The Next Morning
Hermes stood at Aphrodite’s door, holding a basket of rare rose oils, his wings drooping slightly.
She opened the door, already divine in a gown of woven light.
He bowed deeply. “For you, my lady. With sincere apologies.”
She took the basket, sniffed it, and nodded. “Acceptable.”
Then, with a sly smile, she added, “But if you ever steal my towel again… I’m telling Artemis.”
Hermes paled. “Not—her!”
Aphrodite winked. “Sleep tight, Hermes.”
And as he walked away—his backside still tender, his pride bruised, but his heart lighter—he muttered to himself:
“Note to self: Never prank a goddess before breakfast.”
Then he paused.
“Or after.”
And with a grin—small, but genuine—he took to the skies, the morning sun warm on his wings.