Fics like a glove, a bolt, and an atom bomb

“Oh, you’re lovely,” Akira breathes. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you as many second chances as you desire.” Goro tries to create distance out of nothing. His back presses against the shaking bones of the carriage. Akira’s fingertips never leave his skin. “I—I didn’t ask for—whatever you have to give me.” “No, but you did plead,” Akira says softly. “You want your life back. I can grant you that. I’m no arbiter of life and death, space and time, but regret is a potent thing.” A cold finger travels down Goro’s neck, coming to a rest between his collarbones. Akira’s smile is gentle but distant, an astronomer enraptured with the light of a galaxy long dead. “One more chance. Just one. And afterward, if you tell me just one more, it’ll be yours.” Eighteen years and eight months, and Goro is still a fool. In which there are a million ways to live and die, and Goro Akechi has a thousand second chances.

Fics like a glove, a bolt, and an atom bomb

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