cloushipblog

[cloushipblog]

Second Encounter

Part two of my Clou drabbles ;) please enjoy

• • •

The assistant sighed, her eyes following Claude, who was pacing back and forth across the laboratory floor.

“—You don’t understand! A circus mechanism doesn’t have rot that bad. He must’ve been a merchant…”

“—Oh for God’s sake, will you shut up?”

Tatianna delivered a hefty smack to the back of Claude’s head, wincing at the metallic clank it made.

“You’ve been prattling on about that stupid street crush of yours for the past half hour.”

“He was pretty, okay??” Claude shot back, cowering immediately in regret.

“He also robbed you.”

“I can fix him?” he squawked, unconvincingly.

“Emotionally or physically? Because I could really use some oil in my kneecaps—”


Tatianna glared at the taller man from under her cap. She sometimes reminded him of an angry critter. Like a squirrel. Or a marten. Either way he aspired to have her backbone at times.

“Yeah, yeah, noted. I have another hour of my break.”
Claude sighed, his mossy bangs pathetically flopping onto his face.

• • •

While the mechanic observed his colleague’s leg propped on the work table, he continued chattering.

“But seriously, where do you think he works? I met him on Small Land, so the agencies are a likely call—”

“Please shut up.”

“Okay.”

What a mess.
Truly, was a man not allowed to be curious?
Who was he? And why did Claude want to know that oh so desperately?..

Claude recalled a gold-ish gleam on the barrel of the pistol that had been pointed at him not even eight hours ago. A copper alloy, perhaps?..
That didn’t narrow it down in the slightest. Many weapon manufacturers used those...
Then again, it couldn’t have been real gold— the man looked like he lived in his clothes. The patchy vest… that tattered maroon suit… those pretty olive eyes—
Okay, no. Wrong train of thought.

“—Oi, you’re overfilling the oil pocket,” Tatianna barked out.

“Shit— sorry!—”
Claude gasped, lunging to wipe the excess oil off his friend’s calves.

Tatianna let out a tired hum as she leaned back on her elbows.

“You know,” she spoke, voice dry, “you could just ask around. I mean—how hard can it be to track down one snail mechanism?”.

• • •

What the fuck.


How was it possible that Claude had asked just about every person in the market, and not even one rogue knew of a snail merchant?

Claude stared pathetically at his sixth pint, which was rapidly depleting.


Was the guy not from Small Land..?
Did he miscalculate—?

“Oi, kid. Slow down on the gasoline.”

A heavy hand landed on his drink, pushing it away.

The owner of said hand—the bartender—glared at him, concerned, and, frankly, a little impressed.

“How bad did the breakup have to be for you to down six consecutive drinks?”

“It can’t be a breakup if we were never together to begin with,” Claude groaned, slumping forward.

“Right.”

Morok had seen plenty of weird shit in his years of running the Rusty Wrench. Scouts terrorising his customers, drunk magicians trying to levitate shot glasses, sellers complaining that the name of the bar sounded like something that a game master picked out of a random fantasy title generator… Hell, a man once tried to pay in kidneys.

But the most common occurrence was the brats coming to cry their sorrows into their drink, as if alcohol had personally offended them.

He glanced down at the green-haired kid slumped over pint number six-and-a-half, beard halfway buried in his metallic elbow like some soggy mutt.

“Wasn’t even a breakup,” Claude made a small, choked noise. Could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been a sob. “He just... robbed me.”

Morok sighed. He had learned over the years to abide by a rule. If you don’t get it- drop it, and go chug a beer.

“I’ll leave you to it, kid,” he muttered, straightening up with a quiet grunt. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of man worth crying over. Forgive, forget, all that jazz. Or at least fake it well enough to move on.”

Morok was met with a pathetic sob that sounded like a squeak. Well. He tried. That was more than most people got.

The door creaked open somewhere in the distance. Claude didn’t bother looking up. His cheek was plastered to the sticky wood of the bar, his hand half-submerged in a tin of forgotten salted nuts, and his dignity somewhere beneath the barstool.

“Get out of my spot. It’s time for my therapy session.” A disinterested voice stabbed into his ear.

“Lonan. I’m flattered,” Morok snorted at the newcomer.

“And are y’gonna pay me to be your therapist? Or just your usual whiskey?”

Claude blinked.

“The latter,” the all too familiar voice replied, its owner sliding into the stool next to him with overplayed nonchalance.

“You’ve got a wet rag for a patron and nothing else interesting in here. I dare not imagine what half assed therapy would look like.”

Claude turned his head slowly, all too slowly— his mind actively telling himself to shove his face back into his drink, and commit to being a wet rag.

“You.” He hissed.

“Me?” The thief responded, raising an eyebrow.

Claude sat up straighter, salt still clinging to his cheek.

“Lonan, was it?- You robbed me.”

The man in the burgundy suit tilted his head thoughtfully, his face empty.

“Did I?”

“Gun. Forehead. Wallet. Ringing any bells?” Claude’s tone pitched up a notch, just shy of shrill.

“Ah, right. That,” Lonan said, as if he’d just remembered a casual errand. “You handled it very well. Top marks for compliance.”

Claude sputtered. “It wasn’t—! You had a weapon!”

“I did.” Lonan nodded, accepting the whiskey Morok slid across the bar without breaking eye contact. “And you looked at me like I’d asked for something a lot heavier than your wallet.”

Claude opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brain was buffering.

Morok, bless him, simply turned away and started wiping an already clean glass. This was way above his pay grade.

“Fuck you.”

“Mhm”

• • •

[cloushipblog]

HAPPY PRIDE?? don’t know how to celebrate it so here’s gay people 👍

[cloushipblog]

Here’s the finished version! I might write more fanfiction in the future who knows :) dunno if anyone will actually read it but I really appreciate feedback so lemme know 👌

(+illustration at the end)

[The First Meeting]

KRUUUCK.

“Make sure to deliver the cogs to Borya later.”

CLANG.

“And the expulsion project needs tweaking—we’ve had so many damn complaints—”

CRACK.

“—At this point we can just forget about the machinery check-up— Claude, do you hear me?”

“Claude.”

“CLAUDE.”

“Gah—!” Claude blinked, flinching back into whatever level of consciousness he held beforehand.

Mad purple met his amber and blue. Phillian was glaring from across the room. Right. He’d spaced out.

“Sorry, sir.”

“You’re fine, Vulcan. It’s been a busy day,” Phillian responded, wrenching the lever back up—

CRACK.


The machine screeched back to life, the sheen of its metallic tail blinding Claude.

“Make sure the batteries don’t give out again. Powering it by hand is too hard for an old man like me.” Phillian barked out a laugh, patting the hollow metal like one would a friend’s shoulder.

Claude nodded obediently, walking over to check the metrics on the screen.


“The oil is running out,” he noted dryly.

“Ah, really? Tatianna forgot to fill the banks again. Darn.” Phillian hummed quietly—coming up to stand on a stool behind Claude to check the screen.

“No, no— I... I forgot to tell her. It’s my fault,” Claude said, a bit too fast for his liking.

“Did you now?..”

“Yes, sir.”

Phillian placed his hand on Claude’s shoulder, his grip coming dangerously close to denting the metal.

“Why don’t you go grab some from the market then.”

“Yes, sir.”

— — —

The mechanic gladly sucked in the yellow-ish fumes of the Small Land market. They certainly felt less suffocating than the laboratory. Occasionally. Multitudes of wares and stands skipped past his eyes, rusty coin clinking in his pocket against his best attempts to muffle the sound with his hand.

By all means, Claude Vulcan was no fool. Of course he felt the eyes of many scraps and merchants on him—snagging, collaring, gauging how much cash they could acquisition from his velvet, lace-rimmed wallet.

“How much for the four cans?”

“50 gold for you, Harketh ranker.”

Claude didn’t bother haggling. He needed to leave. He simply let the metal ring out as it rolled into the seller’s hand.

“Thank you,” Claude nodded politely.

Walking back to the road he came from— He reminded himself not to look back. Walk. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Walk.

“Sire, would you spare some coin?”

Well fuck.
Maybe he was a fool. As he stepped into the alleyway, his eyes searched for the voice that had called out—
And in the following second, he was jammed against the grimy ground, a pistol’s muzzle pressed to his forehead.

Now, to say that Claude got his breath stolen would be corny but unfortunately accurate. Both due to the fact that he had a foot pressing down on his lungs, and because the owner of said foot was a looker.

“Be a dear and hand over the bag.”

Yeah. He was screwed.
Claude could throw a punch—had thrown plenty—but right now, everything felt slow. Maybe it was the weight on his lungs. Maybe it was the guy’s face. Either way, he didn’t move.

Muddy brown hair, olive eyes, burgundy suit, of course he had to be wearing a fucking suit— The gun hooked under his chin.

“My eyes are up here darling. And your money is still in your pocket. Fix that.”

Claude immediately fumbled for his wallet. Frankly he didn’t even have the time to feel embarrassed over how quickly he folded.

“50 gold?” The man whistled, eyebrows up. “You circus freaks are always loaded.”

He flipped through the coins like he was browsing a menu—legs braced on either side of Claude, gun casually at his larynx. The whole thing felt almost routine.

“Are— are you going to kill me?..” Claude asked.

“Bullets are expensive, so I’d rather not,” the man spoke calmly.

Claude took the time that he was oh so graciously awarded to stare shamelessly.

The man had snail like antennas, elven ears, a shell on his lower back— perhaps a demi human? A genassi?

“So… lovely weather today ey’?” Claude croaked out.

“It rained acid an hour ago.”

“Right.”

“You seriously trying small talk right now?” The snail-thief cocked his head to the side, the metal painfully digging into the other’s neck.

“Oi what’s wrong with small talk?” Claude cracked a shaky smile.

“Nothing. I just happen to have a gun to your throat right now.”

“What if I’m into that?”

“Are you?”

Was he flirting? He might’ve been. By the gods he was the very definition of a fool.

“I don’t know, am I?”

“I don’t know either, are you?”

“You’ve talked me into a corner here, it’s not fair.”

The thief snorted, getting off— Claude exhaled, the relief washing over him, along with a minuscule trickle of disappointment.

“In that case I’ll find out another time. Pleasure doing business with you,” the man waved a hand lazily, walking off like one would from a casual exchange between acquaintances.

Claude felt his blood pumping through every vein in his body, a fuzzy, buzzing fog grounding him to the dirty earth he sat upon. It wasn’t fear.

“Shit.”

[cloushipblog]

yooo my contribution to this blog aswell

[cloushipblog]

Gay people wow (AGSHAKAGAISBAUEBILOVETHEM)

[cloushipblog]

Clou first meeting [1]

Here’s a lil’ animation to go with the fanfic in the previous post :) second part of the fanfic will be released when I survive my exams.

[cloushipblog]

Notes: am I making an entire blog about a ship of mine and my friend’s ocs? Yes. Yes I am. Here’s a small drabble :)

First meeting [part 1]

— — —

“Make sure to deliver the cogs to Borya later.”

CLANG.

“And the expulsion project needs tweaking—we’ve had so many damn complaints—”

CRACK.

“—At this point we can just forget about the machinery check-up— Claude, do you hear me?”

“Claude.”

“CLAUDE.”

“Gah—!” Claude blinked, flinching back into whatever level of consciousness he held beforehand.

Mad purple met his amber and blue. Phillian was glaring from across the room. Right. He’d spaced out.

“Sorry, sir.”

“You’re fine, Vulcan. It’s been a busy day,” Phillian responded, wrenching the lever back up—

CRACK.


The machine screeched back to life, the sheen of its metallic tail blinding Claude.

“Make sure the batteries don’t give out again. Powering it by hand is too hard for an old man like me.” Phillian barked out a laugh, patting the hollow metal like one would a friend’s shoulder.

Claude nodded obediently, walking over to check the metrics on the screen.


“The oil is running out,” he noted dryly.

“Ah, really? Tatianna forgot to fill the banks again. Darn.” Phillian hummed quietly—coming up to stand on a stool behind Claude to check the screen.

“No, no— I... I forgot to tell her. It’s my fault,” Claude said, a bit too fast for his liking.

“Did you now?..”

“Yes, sir.”

Phillian placed his hand on Claude’s shoulder, his grip coming dangerously close to denting the metal.

“Why don’t you go grab some from the market then.”

“Yes, sir.”

— — —

The mechanic gladly sucked in the yellow-ish fumes of the Small Land market. They certainly felt less suffocating than the laboratory. Occasionally. Multitudes of wares and stands skipped past his eyes, rusty coin clinking in his pocket against his best attempts to muffle the sound with his hand.

By all means, Claude Vulcan was no fool. Of course he felt the eyes of many scraps and merchants on him—snagging, collaring, gauging how much cash they could acquisition from his velvet, lace-rimmed wallet.

“How much for the four cans?”

“50 gold for you, Harketh ranker.”

Claude didn’t bother haggling. He needed to leave. He simply let the metal ring out as it rolled into the seller’s hand.

“Thank you.”


Claude nodded politely, walking back to the road he came from—reminding himself not to look back. Walk. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Walk.

“Sire, would you spare some coin?”

Well fuck.
Maybe he was a fool. As he stepped into the alleyway, his eyes searched for the voice that had called out—
And in the following second, he was jammed against the grimy ground, a pistol’s muzzle pressed to his forehead.