#inviwriting

[invispot]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan/Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid Characters: oh boy - Character, Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan, Haibara Ai | Miyano Shiho, Yoshida Ayumi, Shounen Tantei-dan | Detective Boys, Kudou Yukiko, Kudou Yuusaku, Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid, Mouri Ran, Hakuba Saguru, kind of - Character Additional Tags: Nail Polish, Fluff, Post-Black Organization Takedown (Meitantei Conan), Overuse of the words “nails” “fingers” and possibly “smiling”, sorry - Freeform, Indulgent Kaishin at the end, but not the focus, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Unbeta-ed

  Summary:

And now? How does this patched up, sewed on version of all of the hims he’s ever been feel about stuff like this?

Shinichi thinks, and then he smiles. One way to find out.

“Which color do you guys think would fit me?”

  Or; Shinichi reflects on his life in the aftermath through manicures.

Finally! After months of being in the fandom, I finally posted something to ao3!!

This one is an overgrown "write bad writing" and turned more Shinichi-centric than I initially planned. It's not my proudest work, but I'm just really happy that I finished and can move onto other things :3

Enjoy reading! Yay!!!

[invispot]

Fated Encounter (When Fate is My Hands)

In front of him is a rooftop surrounded by the night. Nonsensically, even under the dark and the blinking stars, he feels as though he’s standing in a grassy plain with a sunny, blue sky.

His vision is blurry around the edges. Like a viginette, like a film. He has a fleeting thought that this might be a dream.

Something rushes past him, and it’s…him. A younger version of him. Six or so, and with glasses for a reason that he can’t begin to comprehend. The younger him chases a ghost, its silhouette peculiar.

He wakes up with a thrum in the back of his head. He has a bad feeling.

He doesn’t ponder on the dream any longer.

Today, he leads Ran around Tropical Land. They go through music and crowds, falling into a rhythm they’ve performed their entire childhood.

She doesn’t know it but he’s nervous. Within the sleeves of his jacket he’s sweating, and his mind recites words he’d written in his notebook. Yet, under the sun and the prisms of lights dancing through the feather fountain, he appreciates her flushed cheeks and her blinding smile.

He keeps the soft, muted warmth that settled in the pits of his rib cage. He keeps it until the sun sets. He has something to tell her.

He never manages to. Because in the shadows of the park buildings weaves a flash of light. There’s a tug that he feels in his torso and suddenly he’s leaning forward, startling into a run.

There’s nothing. He sees an open part of the park, with nothing but grass and trees. He looks around confused, he feels as if he should be seeing something he shouldn’t have (A deal? An open case?). Then the bad feeling crashes into him and he falls forward.

He’s been struck at the back of the head.

Before his eyes slip shut, white dress shoes step in front of him. It's a blur of white (a white jacket, a white cape) and the last thing he feels is a caress of silk before the world goes empty.