Cupid's Curse

At least this one has a plot?

I think it starts strong and starts to fall apart about a third of the way through.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Couplets are boring,
And so are you.

He sat at the back of the coffee shop, staring at the pastel couples tucked into corners, flirting their way through cups of frothed milk, caramel syrup, and in some cases red two. He was doodling his way through a stack of napkins and sipping what he had been assured was coffee, even if it was dispensed from a machine that would put a Star Trek replicator to shame and wondering how long it would be before they forced him to get back to work.
It was easier, he thought, in the days when he had been aloud to flit where he would with his bow and his quiver of arrows. When he had been Eros or Aphrodite, love incarnate. How the times change. His power had been stripped from him, bit by bit. Like the once mighty cherubim he was reduced, pigeon-holed, co-opted by an increasingly commercialized society and turned into a naked winged child.
He was better off than some of the others, he supposed. Better this ignoble alteration that left him with some degree of power than to waste away like the rest of the old gods. His miracles may be invisible to others, but they were miracles still.
Sure they were. He balled up a napkin covered in hearts of various sizes, each with some banal, sanitized, expression of affection. His hands moved automatically, shuffling the next bit of paper closer to him and etching on it a heart in blue ball point. With a great force of will he overwhelmed his instincts and scrawled “Nice Tits”.
He chuckled to himself as sweat began to bead on his forehead and a throbbing sensation began behind his left temple. He downed his coffee and walked out, passed the too sweet drinks and too serious lovers, none of whom noticed that the air around him was more cloying, or that anyone falling under his gaze found their heart beating faster, working double-time to circulate a cocktail of hormones and other, subtler poisons. He saw it though, he knew what he did, and so he kept his eyes to the ground and thanked the fates that his punishment day appeared no later in the year.
He just didn't think he could deal with ant orgies on top of everything else.
They all had their ways of coping, the cursed and the damned, developed over the eons of their imprisonment, but none were more creative than the corporatized three. Nicolas was as vindictive as he was allowed to be, and spent his days of relative freedom devising fantastic clockwork dolls, imitations of life that spread alternate beliefs throughout the more superstitious nations. Through their labors the oldest of the Fairies was occasionally able to appear as was his want of old. He took no greater joy in anything than he did in manifesting before a child in his aspect of Natures Judge.
Oester, the shape changer, fertility goddess, bringer of the harvest, had gone insane. Her personalities peeled away from each other long ago and she spent her days now screaming, nerves raw, weakness exposed. At least her screams had power, and mortals flinched from them. On her day of torment she poured from her holes, her hideaway, a million fluffy white rabbits.
On that day it was only the other Goodly Folk that flinched, and then only to avert their eyes from her disgrace.
How did he deal with it? How did he survive the compulsions, worse than those of any obsessive compulsive because they were pressed on him by hundreds of thousands of emotionally stunted corporate drones, and the mobs of the sex starved and desperate?
There was a time he could find a room in some strange hotel, one with well insulated walls, unplug the telephone, lock the doors, and spend the day chain smoking between cold showers. But his was not the problem of those poor Fae in the aspect of thunder or fire, he was not Atlas to be disproved out of his misery. With each passing year the need for him grew ever greater.
Now if he tried to stay in one place the metaphorical (but nonetheless all to real) They would come to him. First they would come in a trickle, one at a time, as the saw him on the street or caught his scent on the warm February air, but soon the single stragglers would be pairs, and it would cascade from there. He would have died, if he were allowed, the first year that a room service attendant and the cleaning lady had met outside the door to his penthouse room and by their copulations drawn the attention of the rest of the floor.
Fifteen people had died, falling after him through the large plate glass windows. He had staggered away before the paramedics got there and since then he had sweated out the compulsions on ground floors only.
And he had kept moving.
He was in good shape, and as physically fearless as any suicidal immortal (the two traits always go hand in hand) and so he was able to keep ahead of the mob. During the year he would hone his skills in the winding streets of Paris or by walking alone and wealthy on Chicago's south side. He made a hobby of evasion and awareness, honed his skills with Parkour, Krav Maga, Capoeira. Anything to give him an edge, keep him ahead of the press of humanity that inevitably found him every year on the anniversary, for some reason, of the beheading of a certain saint.
He had stayed in the little corner coffee shop too long, three people, two female and one male, followed him outside. He walked quickly, hoping the weren't hooked too badly, yet, for him to lose. They didn't know where they were going, or why, hadn't realized that what they were feeling was an empty ache being filled. No one ever seemed to make the connection between that fake emotional fulfillment and him, or if they did none of them seemed to care.
He ducked down an alley and began to sprint, his scarf coming unwound and eventually flying off, behind him, a flag or a marker, a bright green stain against winter gray cement. The alley terminated in a six foot wall, topped with broken glass. To him that meant a jump, one kick, and a new pair of gloves separated him from the industrial park on the other side.
Once he landed, safely amid the warehouses, loading docks, and towers seemingly constructed of steel girders just for the sake of keeping up appearances and catching low flying planes he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. He pulled off his long coat, even though the morning was yet young he found its wool far too heavy for comfort. As he did so he surveyed his environs, counting potential exits, and alert for anyone looking for love on the weekend shift.
He saw no one, but nonetheless proceeded with caution. Two sounds reached his years, one after the other, freighted with meaning. The first was a roar, a wall of noises, indistinct and ominous, and, most importantly, closing. The second was the sound of a window shattering behind him. He turned in time to see the middle-aged mother of two throw herself soundlessly from her fourth floor flat.
So early this year... He wished, perversely, that he hadn't given up the bow and arrows. Not that they would have helped of course, just that they would have made him feel, maybe, a little bit safer as the first of the desperate ones came charging towards him.
He used all the skills he had accumulated over the decades, vaulting through windows, weaving around buildings, leading the crowds into one another and then breaking in a third direction and hoping that they would sate themselves on one another. It wasn't, any of it, nearly enough.
As the first hand grabbed his shirt, and the multitudes poured from all points towards him he knew people would die, but not him. He reflected on his fate, not perhaps so cruel as that of Tantalus or Sisyphus, Tityos or Prometheus or Loki, but all the more undeserved.
When humanity desires, so ardently it hurts, the Fairest are there to oblige, but they do it unhappily and often too well.