Fandom: Lovecraft. Characters: Nyarlathotep, Shub-Niggurath, Nodens. Rating: PG, ridiculous.
Disclaimer: I'm not as twisted as Lovecraft. Arkham House owns it all. I'm just a freak. I'm making no money for this.
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The problem, thought Nyarlathotep, was that Shub-Niggurath had gotten so that sex was all about the spawn, and not about the fun anymore. Honestly, when was the last time Shub-Niggurath had really enjoyed a good fuck? And it was a serious mood-killer when Nyarlathotep was getting into the swing of things, and would clutch at the Black Goat and cry out in his passion -- Iä! Shub-Niggurath! -- and she'd look up pensively and say with one or two of her frothing mouths, "do you think the young of this mating will be corrupt?" Sometimes it really shriveled a manlike-thing's 'nads to know that the Outer God he was putting it to was just using him for his reproductive capabilities.

And, let's face it, those young were a big waste of energy. If you asked Nyarlathotep, they weren't much higher up the food chain than shoggoths, but the damned Goat acted like they were something special just because they were the spawn of an Outer God. Vile shambling little beasts.

He'd torn out of the flat in a huff and not returned, ditching She of the Thousand Young. Last he heard, she was getting some new play from Cthylla, and Nyarlathotep wondered how long it would take Shub-Niggurath to figure out that Cthylla was female, and wasn't going to be any help in the engendering department. Usually he'd have stayed around to watch the hot girl-on-girl action, but while a multitude of goat legs could be a major turn on for him, Great Old Ones were just so greasy.

So he took off, and now here he was wandering around Earth -- Brighton, England, to be exact -- and bored bored bored. Also horny. He'd entertained himself for a short while by picking up humans at pubs while wearing his swarthy, slender, and sinister human guise, and then, halfway through the sex, remanifesting as the Father of Locusts, or the God of the Bloody Tongue, or the Skinless One. Where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of a nightmare. But he just wasn't getting his rocks off on the psychosis the way he once had.

If he hadn't been so bored, he never would have left The Ball and Socket the minute the Nightgaunts appeared. Nasty rubbery little beasts whose coming probably heralded that bastard Nodens. On the other hand, he didn't have any plans in place right now for Nodens to screw up, and right now, he felt he could use the distraction. Taunting Nodens would at least distract him from his blue balls.

But when Nodens walked in, wearing a fatherly, Sean Connery-like form, and reached forth a wizened hand to bring forth instruments most strange to chastise Nyarlathotep for consorting with humans, Nyarlathotep realised there might be a better cure for his state of arousal than distraction.

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