valentines day specialllll 💗💗‼️

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akaza is scared. tremors rock through his body, spooking him to near death. the manifestation of horror itself is beheading him without even needing physical contact. its been a while—three hundred and sixty five days, to be exact—since he felt a primal urge as strong as this.

the clock strikes 12.

his stomach does acrobatic twists and turns, performing and meticulously landing flips as if gymnastics was its part time job when not busy with digesting. it's fluids uproar and wreak turmoil, crawling up the aesophagus, wanting to be expelled.

akaza is tense as a tree, still as a lake, and as frozen as antarctica. but, trees arent tense, lakes aren't still, and antarctica is no longer frozen. weather causes shifts, fish splash about, and verdure has started to sprout in the trilogy of metaphors. none are good examples of something unmoving, because akaza is not. he is quick on his feet, scaling mountains, making his escapade.

he will not waste time like before. he knows he cannot waste a single second. he must stay on the run all night. after all, it's valentines day. the most dreaded day of all on his calendar.

it's far, far away, but he can hear it. the squeals. muffled and distinct, but they are in ear shot, gradually heightening in sound.

they have found him. he can run, but he can't hide. these filthy mortals who look up to him as if he's a deity. someone of godly essence. akaza detests their ideals. he is here to get stronger; to find a worthy combatant which will elicit the flames that kindle deep within his cores to explode and flourish. he isn't here for praise from beings lower than him. he isn't here to listen to their perverse babbling and indecent mannerisms. he is better than that. he's not like a certain superior of his.

after all, he's uppermoon three, a devout follower of that man.

he looks behind him for a second, and he can see their bunched up silhouettes, zipping closer at speeds he hasn't even seen in hashira. just how deep does this dedication run? what fuels it? lust?

mortals truly are indecent.

he growls, picking up the speed, grimacing as they finally get close enough for him to hear their obscene words.

"IT'S POOKIE!!"

what the fuck does pookie mean? that's what akaza wants to know. is he being insulted by their new generation slang? he's pissed. he's aggravated. he tries to tune it out.

"OMG POOKIE AOOKIE BOOKIE COOKIE DOOKIE EOOKIE FOOKIE GOOKIE HOOKIE IOOKIE JOOKIE KOOKIE LOOKIE MOOKIE NOOKIE OOOKIE POOKIE QOOKIE ROOKIE SOOKIE TOOKIE UOOKIE VOOKIE WOOKIE XOOKIE YOOKIE ZOOKIE!!"

he hates his life. he wish he was the one who was poisoned, not koyu-wait, what? what's he thinking? where'd that come from? quite odd. anyway, he was fed up. he's been fed up for a while. humans truly were disgusting. what did he do to deserve this profanity being thrown at him?

"RAAAUUUGGGHHHH!!"

they were making animalistic sounds now? seriously, what the fuck. he wants to explode at them, but akaza isn't only strength. he knows his limits. it's too much. plus, the pungent scent of their new sacrificial offerings was making him quite dizzy. he hated all these fucking asshats and wished for their downfall.

"MY POPEYES BISCUIT WIT NO DRINK WHERE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE FR ASHHAHAHSHSHS!!"

he didn't even understand. what were these abbreviations? what's a popeyes? he can't ponder this for long, because suddenly a hard object—a skull, presumably—is hurled at his ankles with point blank precision and he falls over.

"QUICK!! GET HIM!!"

his internal panic increases tenfold. he scrambles to get up, strong, muscular quads being reduced to flimsy and unreliable toothpicks in the heat of his stress. he can't communicate his preferred set of actions to his brain. he is panicking too immensely to do so, after all.

he seems to have taken too much time, because hands have grabbed onto his ankles. they are dragging him away, grip tough on his pale flesh, digging in.

he's scared. that's an inevitable fact. he's terrified and he wants to leave. he wants to escape. but, he must keep morality in mind. he is a skilled, yet intelligent fighter, isn't he?

with a quick glance, he sees their fighting spirits and internal anatomy. the people holding him just so happened to be men.

great for him.

without a single second to contemplate, he sends his knees straight into one's solar plexus, an instant death occurring. there is one more. with an ironclad fist, he sends them flying into the crowd so that they fall under the stampede.

the sun is rising.

some of his skin chips off once a ray hits him. he shrieks, quickly making a jump back. he activates his blood demon art, sending immense, fatal shockwaves through the ground. the fans fall at his brilliance, some even squealing after being hit with the brunt of the damage.

he doesn't have time to waste. the sky is carmine, and his skin will flake away to reveal flesh of matching pigment if he doesn't get out this instant.

there is a nearby forest. his best, only hope. with all his remaining energy, he bursts out of his spot and practically dives into the jungle of immense vegetation, navigating through the spiky branches like second nature. this doesn't seem to be a place commonly walked through, as there is no cleared out path. the place has grew naturally. akaza gets scraped and cut, but they regenerate. he is not concerned about that. he is concerned about getting the fuck out.

he doesn't knows how long he is running for. he doesn't even know whether or not he's simply going in circles. his sense of direction is fucked up and out of contortion.

at last, the squeals die out, but he doesn't think he is safe until he runs for an hour more through this labyrinth.

alas, he is not cornered.

akaza has survived yet another valentines day, and will live to tell the tale.

will he survive the next? who knows? only time can tell.