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ccorneliast · 7 years

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clouds in my coffee - a carrison fanfiction

Rating: T Summary: Carrie Fisher is a published author who just got out of a toxic, long relatioship. Harrison Ford is a divorced father of two who owns a little coffee shop on 53rd street in New York.What will happen when they meet? Full of coffee, books and cuteness. Disclaimer: this is a real person fan fiction, so it all definitely came from our imagination and we’re not trying to offend anyone (you know the drill). A/N: I've been wanting to write a coffee shop au for these two for the longest time so I'm so excited to have found the perfect person to write it with! Angie ( @soreidy27 ) is a goddess! We planned this great fanfiction for y’all and I’m so happy to have the best co-writer ever!

This first chapter goes out to one of favorite people, Ashley ( @hansoloorgana ) for all the support, love and cheerleading. We hope you love it!

The quotes in the fic are from "Surrender The Pink" by Carrie Fisher, so we don't claim them.

On AO3

I hope you like it and don't forget to tell me your thoughts on it!

The bag hanging on her shoulder weighed her down. Inside, a slick silver laptop and a little black moleskine waited to be used for the first time in months.

Carrie walked into a small coffee shop on 52nd street, the big, cursive letters in the banner read: “Dorothy’s”.

The strong smell of ground coffee beans and milk hits her instantly. The place is half full, a couple of students and a few adults sitting sparsely. A tiny bell sings as she closes the door behind her and looks around. Carrie picks a small, round table at the very end of the coffee shop, next to the cookie and muffin display. She walks hurriedly, brushing her hair off her face as she goes.

Breathe, Carrie. You’ve done it once, you can do it again .

She smooths her shirt absentmindedly, though it isn’t wrinkled at all.

“Hey doll, what can I get ya?” A somewhat short, blonde lady dressed in a brown apron asks in a thick southern accent. Her nearly wrinkled blue eyes run across Carrie’s features, the way her eyes move and the smile that plays on her lips giving Carrie an uneasy feeling that settles in her already stumbling stomach. I guess you do see everything in New York.

“A capuchinho, please.” Carrie gives the lady a small smile. Charlotte , the name tag read.

“Comin’ right up, doll,” she struts back to the counter and prepares her order.

While she waits, Carrie removes the laptop and the notebook from her bag. She sits them on the table and taps a pen on the wood.

He’s gone, she thought to herself. You’ll never have to see him again. That calms her down for a millisecond before her mind starts spiraling: oh no, I’ll never see him again. I’ll never feel his lips on mine, I’ll never say I love you again, I won’t have a date on national holidays!

The song that was playing on the stereo changes and British rock fills up the room. Something about finding the love of your life and never wanting to let go. Great!

Carrie forces herself to focus on work. She opens up the untitled document on her computer and reads the last few sentences she’d written:

“Rudy stood with the door of the limousine open behind him. He’d thrown down the gauntlet of his indifference and now Dinah picked it up. She raised her hand in a wave.”

Words swim around in her head. What should Dinah say? It needs to be witty, sharp. It needs to be memorable, like the abso-fucking-lutely! at the end of the first episode of Sex and the City. This is Rudy and Dinah’s Carrie-and-Big moment.

“ Don’t be a stranger,” she called with gaiety.

Rudy smiled.

Carrie read the last paragraph over again. It doesn’t sound perfect yet. It needs soul.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she called with mock gaiety. “Don’t be Albert Camus.”

Rudy smiled. “The Outsider,” he called, correcting her. Dinah flushed.

“Here you go, ma’am,” a deep voice echoes behind Carrie, but she’s too deep in her trance to get her eyes off of the screen.

“Don’t be either of them. Don’t be anyone if you can help it,” she said, disappearing into her building.

Carrie’s hand grasps the small, white cup full of the energy she so needed.

“Suddenly her head popped back around the corner. “Actually, it can be either one,” she said hurriedly. “I think it depends on the translation.”

“Aham,” the same voice coughs behind Carrie. “You’re welcome.” That tone is unmistakably sarcastic.

Carrie spins around in her chair, in search of the mysterious voice. “Excuse me?”

It’s a man! , she thinks to herself. Well, of course it was a man. She was not expecting someone like him, though. Tall, tan and incredibly handsome, a man in the same brown apron wore a smug look on his face.

“Excuse you,” he cocks one eyebrow and grins. “When someone brings you what you asked for you say thank you.”

“Oh sugar, it's alrigh’! This pretty doll here was just too into her squibblin’.” The older woman, Charlotte , says to the man almost three times her size.

“Still, that's no reason to be rude.” His words and his condescending tone made Carrie raise a perfectly pluck eyebrow as her eyes focused on his grayish blues, defiance blatantly shown through her freshly roasted coffee hues.

Because of the indignation swirling in caused by the man's accusations, the brunette lost her train of thought and creativity on her writing.

“I was never meant to be rude, as you put it.” Carrie gestures around with her hand. “As this very lovely lady said, I was focused and I do apologize, however that is also no reason for you to speak to a stranger, who is also a paying customer, like that.” Carrie responded back, her eyes taking in the disbelief at her words subtly playing on his scruffy yet undoubtedly handsome features. I guess no one ever talks to you like that. She thought silently in her head with a bit of satisfaction, taking his shocked expression at her comeback. The perfect payback for his interruption.

Charlotte and the man exchange glances. His expression softens as the blonde woman grips his arm once, through his cotton shirt.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he offers. “I could’ve been less rude.” The man tries his best at a genuine smile, but fails miserably. Nonetheless, it’s adorable to observe.

“‘S alright.” Carrie mumbles. She cannot take his eyes off of him, it’s insane. Now that they’re not fighting, it’s incredibly easy to get lost in his sharp features and plump lips.

“Harrison,” he extends a hand at her. Under normal circumstances, she’d think this extremely unprofessional, however her recent single status plays tricks on her mind and makes her take his hand in hers. “Harrison Ford. I own this place.” He’s proud, you can tell.

“Carrie Fisher.” The skin on his hand is rough, no doubt from working all day. It’s warm though and his scent of coffee and pastries is intoxicating.

Silence. His head nods as if asking her to go on.

“I’m a writer,” she tells him, her lips like a pink line on her face. “Obviously.” She laughs, motioning towards the computer and notebook. Charlotte smiles knowingly and turns around to leave. Funny, I forgot she was here, Carrie thinks.

“So I see,” Harrison laughs back, his eyes the tiniest bit crinkled. Their hands are still intertwined. We should let go . And so she does. Her hand falls to her lap slowly, never touching anything on the way. She keeps it there, unmoved, a token on of their meet-cute. “Well, best get to it then,” he smiles.

She nods and turns back around, facing her computer screen. “Nice to meet you, Harrison.” She tried his name for the first time, tentatively.

“Yes, nice,” he says it like he’s pondering the words. Then, he replies: “Nice to meet you too, Miss Fisher.”

“She smiled her best enigmatic smile at him and was gone again. Rudy watched the space where she had been for a brief moment, smiled to himself, and then was willingly reabsorbed into his car.”

#carrison #carrie fisher #harrison ford #carrison fanfiction #carrison rpf #rpf #fanfiction #tita writes

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vitogrippi · 5 years

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Why Notebooks?: The Origin Story

Since starting Story Supply Co., I’ve been asked on numerous occasions about my stationery “thing.” So, why notebooks?

Usually, the question is more like a suspicion the person is trying to prove. “So, what’s up with the, um, notebooks?”

The truth is, for most of the population, paper and analog writing tools are simply part of normal life that, while tremendously useful, are not often thought about. They’re cheap. They’re disposable, and, for some reason, people never feel the need to return them (pens). Chances are, if you’re reading this now, you probably aren’t one of those people.

Many of us have an origin story when it comes to stationery. For me, it started in high school. In the early nineties, my friends and I had fallen hard for the grunge scene. We were in ninth grade, and after having spent a few years unsuccessfully trying to connect with urban hip-hop culture, grunge made much more sense to us suburban white kids growing up in a mill town. I should probably mention here that it was, in fact, a paper mill.

Long story short, I began taking all of my style, hygiene, and artistic cues from Kurt Cobain. Tattered cardigan sweaters, long, unwashed hair, Converse All-Stars, you get the idea. Like Cobain, I also played guitar, and I also wrote songs, albeit pretty terrible ones. One thing I caught on to almost immediately, though, was that Cobain always carried a notebook. From that day on, I always had a notebook nearby. I’ve never been one to archive or collect things very well, but somehow, that original notebook still exists. That’s a lie. I hardly ever throw anything away. It’s the organizing part that gives me trouble.

After high school, I continued to have a notebook always on hand. I wrote terrible song lyrics and poems in them. Sometimes I wrote misinformed political rants, and eventually, I filled them with songs I was writing to woe the girl who eventually gave in and married me. I’d like to think she didn’t say yes just to stop me following her around with a guitar. During that time, the chosen notebook was a big, blue, Mead 5 Subject, which I also still have around here somewhere.

So, in the beginning, my connection to notebooks had less to do with paper stocks or quality and more to do with the personal relationship I could have with the page and the ability to buy them at a nearby Rite Aid. That all changed once I stumbled into college and proclaimed that I would become a writer.

The requirements of being a writer, as far as I could tell, were drinking lots of coffee, smoking cigarettes, carrying a notebook, and speaking profoundly about books, films and bands we assumed most people had never heard of. The notebooks, of course, couldn’t be just any notebooks. The days of marbleized Meads and standard grocery-store spiral-bounds were over. Many of you, I’m guessing, can see where this is going. Long before we started griping about paper quality issues and our mixed feelings about their availability in big-box stores like Target, there really was only one choice for the somewhat pretentious aspiring writer. The little, hardbound, black Moleskine.

The thing about Moleskine is, at the time, they were somewhat difficult to get, and hadn’t quite caught on yet, and that made them partially more appealing. Only one place nearby sold them — a Border’s on the other end of the county. Borders was, of course, also a huge chain, but they sold books, which made them okay.

There was something about a Moleskine — the off-white smooth paper, the way it fit in your pocket and held up to various abuses. The pocket in the back cover for receipts and business cards. All of this was of course secondary to the fact that these were the chosen notebooks of Hemingway. Did you hear that? Hemingway! And so I walked with a little extra bounce at the thought of a future Farewell to Arms or “Hills like White Elephants” potentially being scribbled into the very pages of my little black notebook. And when someone would ask why I’d spend that much on a notebook I’d mumble through the copy included in the Moleskine packaging. “Hemingway, Chatwin, Italy, centuries… ”

For better or worse, Moleskine changed the way I would view writing tools forever. The notebooks suggested a level of seriousness and professionalism that told people, in my eyes anyway, “Here is a writer, and he is the real deal.” I took myself quite seriously at the time. Moleskine serious. So, my love affair with the brand lasted a long time. However, in time my snobbery for stationery objects took another leap forward.

Stay tuned for part two, where I discuss how I saw the light and moved one step closer to alienating the people closest to me and coming to terms with stationery addiction.

Originally published at www.storysupplyco.com.

#essays #notebooks #journaling #stationery

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