Every day is a glorious day on Sakaar. There is only glory to be had for gods in mortal flesh; the best of all worlds is of course, himself. A long time ago, he had a name like his brother. But he has ascended from such lowly living, and being the Grandmaster is most grand.
Glorious as his existence is, today has come with horrible tidings. Tidings that he himself had to seek out because Topaz refused to enlighten him about the masses’ latest obsession. Well, a tiny portion of the masses, a very little mass. Small enough that they would all become gladiators if they tried to revolt. Wouldn’t even have enough of them to quell, merely-
He’s getting off-topic. He has discovered the world of fiction written about his dearest gladiators and friends. His subjects are truly twisted little darlings, writing all sorts of horrific things. It isn’t the subject matter that rankles him – it isn’t as if the thought of one champion fucking another to death is new to him – but the lack of his very presence.
He is their one true ruler. He is their god. He should have the most fiction created in his name. Why, there are gods on other worlds with series of books dedicated to them, some even considered essential reading. Yet, on his own planet, with thousands of stories, not a one features him.
(A passing mention of him is an insult, and if he figures out who ‘douglives84’ is, they’re dead. Like their precious Doug. Is Doug already dead? He’ll have to check on that.)
Perhaps he must simply bring the little mass to water, like a horse. Sure they might not drink at first, but a little water boarding works wonders on equines. And non-equines! Cracking his knuckles, the Grandmaster magics up a story. He’s created worlds, the finest architect in creation, this will be a snap and then all the underlings will start writing about their proper muse – him.
Grandmaster yawns, stretching his arms up high until they crack. He hasn’t used so much magic at once since…
“Topaz! I require-” he nearly jumps as she appears instantly, would accuse her of witchcraft if he didn’t know better. “-food. All of the food. And those little squishy things. Sugary squishy. You know, the sweet ones I like.”
“Yes! I require doughnuts.”
There’s something about freshly made food that magic can’t replicate, something more than even knowing others toiled away for his benefit. That of course has its own charm, his own legion of painters turning the city white to red to gold to white, over and over again.
“And a party,” he decides, doesn’t like the touch of boredom hovering about. Best to squash that before it can manifest.
Apparently publishing a few thousand stories from various accounts at once will bring out all the conspiracy theorists. The most widely held belief is an alternate fansite for the Grandmaster was shut down and all the fanfics were imported, which while plausible, boring. A much better theory is that a writer cloned themselves thousands of times, and each wrote their own story. Better, but still not thrilling. If he were betting on it, one of the unknowing masses, he’d go with the idea that he commissioned a small town to all write about him. (In fact, if this doesn’t work, he might just do that.)
Scrapadoodle suggests that the champions are forced to write erotic fic of themselves with the Grandmaster if they want to live, and every public execution has been a lie. Now that is a titillating tale. (Not that he’d ever directly force people to write for him. He has morals, like at least four of them.)
Reading his own fic, magically created or not, is rather dull. There’s nothing surprising about it, even if the set up is new, it’s all built off old daydreams and suppositions and what-not. And while the main aim of this project was to get other people writing lovely odes to his body, the compliments to his mind are a nice surprise. There’s a gushing letter on the fic about himself and Ares, and whew, did that champ know how to put the die in deity. He misses the strong god, apparently is not the only one as ‘DocAnna’ wishes for a reunion match.
They’re really nice people, with rudimentary but acceptable offerings of praise. Like an appetizer, one of those tiny egg cakes.
Well, the ones that aren’t insecure assholes that he will hunt down.
‘unitzbitch’ is one such trash monger. Daring to comment on his lovely story with Scrapper #142 with, ‘i don’t ship them but this is good! U should write some vahulk’.
He doesn’t even know where to start with such a reply. Well, #142 and the Hulk, heh, that isn’t even anatomically possible. He’s pretty sure. Unless she was- realism isn’t the point here.
He’s the Grandmaster! Scrapper #142 would totally pick him. If he asked her to. No matter what Topaz says, #142 is always nice to him and brings him the best toys. She only trains the Hulk because he pays her, there’s no hidden sexy motivation.
Whatever. Doughnuts and a party and maybe a public execution. Or he’ll have unitzbitch brought to his dungeon, it’s been centuries since he bothered to personally torture someone. (So passe yet so satisfying.)
Not the torture bit, they tracked down unitzbitch to a cafe and killed everyone inside. It was gratifying and given a few weeks based on their past posting schedule, he’ll know if they got them or if they’ll need to try again.
More importantly, someone else wrote a piece of fiction with him in it!
He’s so very excited as he opens it up, doesn’t recognize their username (‘mischiefrost’).
Grandmaster clears his throat dramatically, and begins to read it aloud. “Once upon a time – are you kidding me?” He doesn’t want some boring earthling fairy tale about him, he wants heaps of praise and purple prose. Look if there’s a ten thousand word dedication to Topaz’s thighs as she gently hate-fucks #142, what he’s asking for is more than reasonable.
With a sigh, he lays on a chaise, skipping forwards until something catches his eye.
Loki, the self-proclaimed prince, was a vision on his knees. Silk pooling around his body, and all earlier defiance washed clean of his form. He licks his lips, too slow to be anything but blatant seduction.
‘Does this please you Grandmaster?’ He asks, hands trembling as they race up his legs, ‘Do I please you?’
‘Try harder and you might.’
Oh. Oh dear, no. Grandmaster doesn’t like that at all, wouldn’t treat a lover in such a way. He skims the next paragraph and it becomes apparent that this Loki is fucking him in exchange for transport back to his home world, and he does not like that at all, clicking his tongue.
Topaz appears instantly, the ninja she is. (He really needs to get more of those movies from that weird world to show her. Or a bell. A bell would work.)
“Do I come off as the kind of guy who doesn’t care about consent? Is this a wide-spread belief about me? Do I need to do like, a public relations revolution? Talk to me Paz.”
Topaz blinks slowly, “Who would ever say no to you?”
“That’s sweet – I think. But people should feel like they can say no. Just never ever do it. How do I fix that?”
He coughs, “Ahem.”
Topaz rolls her eyes, “The prisoners with jobs would be a place to start.”
“Yeah, no that doesn’t work for me. I don’t wanna change policy, just perception.”
“You’re the wizard,” she grumbles.
It’s like a light bulb goes off, and this is precisely why Topaz is his favorite. The adoring public simply needs to see him as a doting lover and so it will materialize in fiction. And he has just the simpering character, er man, for the job.
He claps his hands together, excited. “Topaz, I have a task for you. I need you to find me someone, his name is Prince Loki of Ass-gard.”