aww thank you anon! i wish i had more scenes to share, but i think i've posted most/all of what i have written for retirement au, so all i can offer is my gratitude.
hi yun! hope you're doing well :) i was wondering if you still have plans to release the farmwife au?? i love your work so much, "maybe it was me who brought you here" is one of my fav fics ever <3
hey anon!!! sorry for the late reply. i've actually been meaning to make a more formal post about this, but i've been active fairly sporadically over the past few months and wanted to say that i'm going to be phasing out of my fandom stuff in the next while. i won't be posting anything on my ao3 and probably won't be around much, if at all, on tumblr going forward for various real-life reasons.
i've put a few scenes of farmwife au under the cut for your enjoyment, because in all likelihood nothing will be getting posted, but thank you for enjoying my writing!!! it's so lovely to hear <3 i hope you like these last offerings of this au!!! if anyone wants to pick up the idea or anything, you're more than welcome to it.
Nico places the advertisement in March, once the roads into town thaw out. The cold snap broke just last week, and he’d spent fair hours holed up in the kitchen by the stove, writing out the advertisement in his notebook, then copying it on nicer paper. He gave a thought to mailing NIna first, so she could fix it before he sent it off, but the summer work will become demanding soon enough and he’d rather have a second pair of hands around to help as soon as possible.
A homesteader and dairy farmer living thirty minutes west of town seeking a partner ready for family life to live and work with me. I am twenty-four years old and would prefer someone of similar age. Please reply if interested.
He reads the advertisement over hundreds of times. He had taken great pains to cross out anything overly specific, anything that would point to him having already imagined the kind of partner he wanted: someone with a kind smile, someone who loved adventure, who would make the sort of food Nico's mother did when he was a child.
Finally, he rides into town and files the advertisement with the newspaper. For the next few weeks, there is no news: he makes small talk at the general store when he picks up salt pork and oats, goes to church on Sundays where he hears about the new schoolhouse being built. And still, no responses.
It isn’t until early April when the postmaster sets a pile of letters on the counter and says, “Some mail for you,” that it begins to set in. That evening, Nico sits by the fire to sift through the responses, and it quickly becomes painfully clear that the vast majority were not delivered of the senders’ own volitions.
He reads the line “my father hoped that I would find a husband soon” too many times to count, and feels a sense of pity for the daughters enduring their fathers’ efforts to marry them off. And then, at the bottom of the pile: a scrap of paper folded over twice, the name Jack Hughes signed painstakingly on the outside. The handwriting inside is uneven, but careful all the same.
I saw your notice in the Leader-Telegram and thought I might write in, Jack Hughes says. I’m a good worker, and my family’s farm is getting busy. I wouldn’t mind moving further out west to live with you. I’m the best of my brothers at butter churning, if that helps. My ma and older brother are sitting with me while I write this—they say I should warn you about my cooking. I’ve never been very skilled in the kitchen, he adds, but I can learn, and I’d like to raise a family someday soon. Please write back soon. Yours, Jack Hughes.
Nico reads the note once, twice. He folds it back up along the same creases and tucks it into his shirt pocket, where he imagines it thrumming like a promise, beating in time with his heart.
The next morning when he goes out to milk the cows, he reads it again, tracing over the letters of Jack Hughes’ name. I’d like to raise a family someday soon. It isn’t the most eloquent of the responses that Nico receives, not by far, but something about how earnest he sounds, the simplicity of it—Nico sits down that night to write back.
Hello, he says, first. Thank you for your reply. I believe I may have heard of you in passing; there is news of your family in town often. If you would like to get to know each other better, I can tell you about myself.
He writes of his family, of learning English as a child. Of building the house himself and the wildflowers that grow around his homestead, the ring of violets he often rides past on the journey into town. Of all he has done to make the house more comfortable for the coming summer. It is not large, but I think you may find it cozy.
He hears from Jack again hardly a week later, with more enthusiasm than Nico had imagined. Jack responds with stories about his brothers and asks Nico to teach him his native language, adds my ma tried to teach me Latin, but I was always dreadful at it.
Nico thinks of Jack saying it cheerily, his eyes bright, and writes back: I would be happy to teach you, when we meet properly.
He still does not know what Jack looks like, but he makes small talk with the woman behind the counter at the general store every week, and she tells him what a lovely family the Hughes make. “And the middle boy is beautiful—beyond compare, I’d venture to claim,” she says. “I know plenty of the young ladies and men in town have been hoping he might attend a church social this summer.”
The correspondence lasts for a month. Every letter seems like another stroke added to the portrait of Jack in Nico’s head, ready to take shape, fully formed—curls framing his face, blue eyes that look like the prairie sky, a penchant for freckles in the summer. Jack tells Nico about berry-picking and how much he’s always loved children, about his recent efforts at cooking. Hope blooms in Nico’s heart like snap peas after the last snowfall.
He throws caution to the wind and finally writes, should you be interested in coming to live with me soon, I would be more than pleased to arrive next Saturday and meet your family. Space for your trousseau is of no concern—bring as many trunks as you would like. There is plenty of room in the wagon.
After they decide on Saturday morning for Nico to call on him, the gravity of the situation dawns sharp and bright. Nico looks around the snug kitchen and hopes Jack won’t find it suffocating; he surveys the bedroom, with the soft quilt that Nina had sewn from his childhood clothing and blankets, and the pasteboard wallpaper with painted roses, and tries to see it through Jack’s eyes.
The Hughes family home is well-decorated and fairly grand, by all accounts. Nico has no illusions about the size of his homestead, but he’s done all he can to make it comfortable, and he can only pray that Jack won’t mind that the walls creak during windstorms or the cramped furniture in the kitchen, table tucked up in the corner to make room for the stove.
That Friday is a whirlwind. Nina visits, even though Nico hadn’t asked—she brings one of their mother’s cakes and helps him whitewash the cellar and air out the straw-tick mattresses, blacken the stove and hang up the laundry on the clothesline. Every inch of the house is sparkling, and Nico has put up the mare with plenty of water and hay to prepare her for the long ride tomorrow.
“Are you worried?” asks Nina, setting out the now-dry tablecloth.
Nico closes his eyes. “Yes,” he admits bluntly. “But mostly that he—will not find the house livable. Or he will not take a liking to me. He may realize that his interest was unfounded, after all.” And Nico thinks that will hurt more than if he had not written back to Jack in the first place. He feels as if he practically knows Jack, but not whether Jack feels the same towards him, too.
“If he doesn’t, he won’t understand what he is walking away from,” Nina tells him. “But he seems very agreeable, from his letters. And from the talk around town,” she adds. “Someone must have caught wind that you plan to marry this summer. The dressing room at church was wholly abuzz with the knowledge.”
“If he still wishes to marry me after we meet,” Nico points out, and Nina rounds on him, wringing out a dishcloth.
“Nico,” she says firmly. “He will. It is no use worrying about this. If he did not hope to love you, he would not have continued to write back for so many weeks. Be reasonable.”
He looks at the floor, chastened. “I know.” Still, Nina’s reassurance does not curb the growing anxiety in his stomach, the hours he lies awake that night: hoping against all hope that he will measure up to anything near what Jack had imagined him to be.
--
Nico arrives at the Hughes homestead early on Saturday, dressed in his church clothes and with his hair combed, still slightly damp. He hesitates before knocking on the front door, surveying the vast plot of farmland that surrounds the house. Their wheat is growing well, he notices, and he may have to ask for advice on cultivating seed crops.
But the door swings open, then—and Nico is suddenly face to face with who he knows must be Jack Hughes.
“Hello,” he says, taking his hat off and holding it to his chest. He swallows, his throat dry. “You must be Jack.”
Jack curtsies slightly and looks up at Nico, shy. His eyelashes are long, curling up as they frame his wide blue eyes. His dress is a fine muslin, wine-dark burgundy with a feathery print. “I am,” he says. “I must confess that I looked forward to finally meeting you, Mr. Hischier.”
“Please call me Nico,” he says, and watches Jack’s cheeks pinken prettily. “And the pleasure is all mine.”
Jack smiles. A curl of hair falls into his face and he brushes it aside absently. “You are much more handsome than I had expected,” he tells Nico quickly, as if he had not quite meant to let on the sentiment.
Nico laughs, and it seems to break the tension between them. “I do not hope to know what you had expected me to look like, then,” he teases, and Jack giggles.
“Not as sharply dressed, perhaps. And not as tall,” he says. “Or with dimples. Why, my younger brother tried to convince me you might have been lying about your age. He thought you must have been a bachelor of three-and-forty, come to steal me away.”
“Luke?” asks Nico. When Jack nods, he adds, “Well, Luke may be disappointed to learn that I am not close to forty years of age, not quite yet. And I hope the second part of his assumption may be proven false.”
“I told him he was full of it,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. He steps forward, closing the distance between them; this close, he has to tilt his head up to meet Nico’s gaze. A soft lock of hair curls over his ear. “He is tired of hearing me wax poetic about your letters.”
Nico is not sure what compels him to take Jack’s hand, but he holds it between his and runs his thumb over the finger where a ring might sit, soon. Jack’s hands are slender, lightly calloused from embroidering. “I am glad to hear that you enjoyed them half as much as I enjoyed yours.”
Jack laughs. “My brothers were not fortunate enough to hear the end of it, I’m afraid,” he admits. “I read each of your letters aloud five times, at least.” He blinks and says, “Oh! My apologies—it slipped my mind to invite you inside.” Nico steps in after him, sits down on the chesterfield when Jack shows him to the front parlor.
Jack gathers his skirts and tells Nico, “My brothers will be here in a moment. Let me get my luggage and we can depart soon.”
He disappears down the corridor, skirts swishing behind him. Nico folds his hands in his lap, but it’s hardly a minute before another boy appears, long and lanky, a mop of curls on his head, who Nico guesses must be Luke. “Mr. Hischier,” Luke acknowledges with a tilt of his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Nico says.
“You may be waiting here several hours for Jack to finish packing,” Luke tells him. “He misplaces his belongings often—you’ll have to hope that he has not forgotten where he put all his best clothes.”
Nico laughs. “It is no trouble,” he answers, truthfully. “I do not have any commitments today. I had hoped to meet your parents, though. To receive their blessing, if I may be lucky enough.”
Luke nods. “Pa should be coming in soon. Ma often visits with the women at the parlor at this time, but she was plenty charmed by your letters,” he says. “And the advertisement. She told Jack that he should write in, if he wanted to. He had not planned on doing so.”
Nico smiles. “I suppose I should have to thank her, then. Jack’s letter was a welcome surprise for me, and most of the others were not exactly compelling.”
“It surprises me that you found Jack’s letter compelling,” Luke remarks lightly. “He has not been known for his composition prowess.”
Jack, hurrying back into the parlor with a hat box, says admonishingly, “Luke. Please excuse him, Mr. Hisch—Nico,” he corrects himself. “Ma didn’t quite teach him all his table manners.”
Nico stands. “It is no trouble,” he reassures Jack. “I understand how brothers often are.”
“Your brother—Luca?” asks Jack. He sets down the hat box on the side table. “I hope, for your sake, he is not much like mine.”
“He is not,” Nico allows. “But he rarely passes up an opportunity to tease me, all the same.”
Jack laughs. “I suppose it escapes my notice, what one could possibly tease you about. I doubt you have many moments of mortification.”
“And you do?” Nico asks teasingly.
Luke interrupts, “Well, just last week he—”
“Luke Hughes,” says Mrs. Hughes, walking into the parlor. “Please think carefully about scaring off our guest. My apologies,” she says as she turns to greet Nico. “I had not been sure about what time you might arrive. I hope you and Jack have been introduced well?”
“Perfectly, thank you,” Nico answers. “For me, at least. Whether Jack feels the same—”
“Yes,” says Jack, quickly. “Yes. Nico has been wonderful.”
Mrs. Hughes smiles. “Good. I know how excited Jack was to meet you,” she tells Nico. “He spent all yesterday evening trying to tame his hair and steam his clothing.”
Nico laughs. “I was doing the same,” he acknowledges. “My sister visited with me yesterday, to clean the house for today.”
He is spared the embarrassment of being asked the size and comfort of his homestead by the arrival of Mr. Hughes. Jack disappears again to pack his trousseau and, from the sound of it, find his hairpins; Nico speaks to Mr. Hughes about his crop yield while Jack dashes around looking for newsprint to stuff his trunk.
“Take care of him,” says Mrs. Hughes when the luggage has been loaded into the wagon. “And visit often.”
Nico nods, an arm around Jack’s waist. “We will,” he promises. “Thank you for trusting me with Jack. I swear I will give him everything I am capable of. I hope he will want for nothing,” he continues.
Jack steps closer to him, takes hold of Nico’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you,” he says, quietly. “I hope for the same.”
“Tell us as soon as you have a date for the wedding,” Quinn chips in. “Ma will want to plan everything.”
“That may be for a later time, I’m afraid,” says Nico with a sheepish smile. “I would like to make sure Jack gets settled in first.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hughes allows. “You had better set off soon, then, to get back in time for dinner. Why, it’s almost noon already!”
Nico helps Jack into the front seat, his skirts rustling as he steps up into the carriage, before he gets seated himself and takes the reins.
“Write to me,” Jack says desperately, turning back to his family. “Whenever you can.”
Luke scoffs. “You’ll only be thirty minutes from town. Won’t we see you at church, anyhow?”
“Still,” Jack insists. “I want to hear everything.”
Nico coughs lightly. “We should be going,” he says. “I’ll have to tend to the sheep before the sun becomes too bright.”
Jack flushes. “I apologize. I just—” he swallows, the hitch of his throat nervous, uncertain. “I suppose I hadn’t thought about how much I would miss my family.”
“I understand,” says Nico softly, dwelling too long on the curl of Jack’s fingers into his palms, how the tilt of his mouth has gone too unsure for Nico’s liking. “We can visit next weekend,” he assures Jack. “You will see them plenty.”
Jack brightens. “Alright,” he says, seemingly comforted.
And the wagon rolls away, Jack waving to his family and calling, “Goodbye! Goodbye!” until the Hughes house shrinks, and then disappears from sight. Jack shuffles closer to Nico in the carriage, and Nico takes the reins in one hand to lay an arm over Jack’s shoulder, instead. They stay like that until they reach the homestead.
trying to figure out how to say this delicately. i do think that the pwhl is going to make some progress, and already the support for the league is showing how much of a market there is for women's sports even from a few years ago. but it's kind of been irking me to see so many posts that act like there has never been any arena for women's pro hockey before. like do you understand how many people — how many leagues!! — came before this to even make the pwhl a possibility. do you know how many people have fought tooth and nail for women's pro hockey for DECADES. i'm not saying don't support the league, but don't act like it's the perfect solution to a brand new issue
heavily biased "what fandom was the first fanfic you read for" but for my specific fandom generation instead of people who are currently teenagers
power leveling shonen juggernauts (g1 naruto, bleach, dragon ball, etc)
weeaboo crew (anything that made you more of a weeb than watching dragon ball)
harry potter
superwholock
cult classic live action american tv (buffy, xfiles, star trek, etc)
homestuck
boy band rpf (anything in the span from backstreet boys to one direction)
emo bandom (mcr, fob, p!atd, of course, along with anything else in that realm)
twilight (books or movies)
lord of the rings (books or movies or extended universe)
star wars (books or movies or extended universe)
other (put it in the TAGS i am a fandom HISTORIAN i need to KNOW)
Voting ended onJan 13, 2024
addendums: cult classic tv overlaps with early supernatural seasons somewhat, i am aware, just choose based on the cultural context in which you read your first fic.
for weeaboo crew i was thinking of examples like hetalia, black butler, soul eater, etc--popular anime absolutely included but the distinction is that people who were into dragon ball weren't necessarily going to anime club every week and making deviantart stamps about yaoi, but people into ouran high school host club ABSOLUTELY were.
homestuck is in its own category because homestuck changed fandom forever at a critical time which just happened to be when i was growing up in fandom. harry potter, lotr, star wars, and twilight are in their own categories because they were such multimedia juggernauts they had entire archives dedicated solely and only to their fic that spanned multiple franchise reboots (books -> movies -> extended universes). (i acknowledge star trek technically would fit under this but at the time culturally it had more overlap with other cult classic tv fandoms.)
honorable mentions that didn't make it to the list because i had to pick-and-choose with the 12 answer limit: the final fantasy franchise (axed because i am not familiar enough with the fic scene to know if it was as iconic of a gateway drug as, like, naruto or twilight or star wars fic), a general YA lit category (YA lit outside of twilight only went mainstream slightly after this time period), the MCU (i have a hate boner for the MCU), a broader "american superhero comics" category (this would be valid as an option but i don't have the space)
important question here: how many kids do we think nick and jack will be having? 3 boys? 🙇🏻♀️
i think they would both decide that three is the perfect amount! lil and i have discussed this many times and figured out that they would at least have an eldest daughter, mostly for our selfish agenda re: nico being a girldad (and lil's current fic project) and then maybe a son and another daughter! but honestly i think it could go either way - i love the idea of them being SO committed to parenting but in totally different ways. like, nico would be buying them cute lunchboxes while jack would be trying to clean up their skating edgework by the tender age of three.
Extract from Refaat Alareer's course on English poetry in 2019:
"Of course we always fall into this trap of saying, 'she [Fadwa Tuqan] was arrested for just writing poetry!' We do this a lot, even us believers in literature. [We say] 'Why would Israel arrest somebody or put someone under house arrest, she only wrote a poem?' So we contradict ourselves sometimes; we believe in the power of literature changing lives, as a means of resistance, as a means of fighting back, and then at the end of the day, we say 'She just wrote a poem!' We shouldn't be saying that. Moshe Dayan, an Israeli general, said that 'The poems of Fadwa Tuqan are like facing 20 enemy fighters.' Wow. She didn't throw stones, she didn't shoot at the invading Israeli jeeps, she just wrote poetry. And I'm falling for that again—I said she just wrote poetry.
And the same thing happened to Palestinian poet Dareen Tatour. She wrote poetry, celebrating Palestinians' struggle, encouraging Palestinians to resist, not to give up, to fight back— She was put under house arrest, she was put into prison for years. And therefore, I end here, with a very significant point: Don't forget that Palestine was first and foremost occupied in Zionist literature and Zionist poetry.
When the Zionists thought of going back to Palestine, it wasn't like 'Oh, let's go to Palestine.' It took them years, over 50 years of thinking, of planning, politics, money and everything else. But literature played one of the most crucial roles here.
Palestine in Zionist Jewish literature was presented to Jewish people around the world... [as] Palestine is a land without a people for a people without a land. Palestine flows with milk and honey. There is no one there—so let's go. [but] there were people—there have always been people in Palestine. But this is an example of how poetry can be a very significant part of life." [13:05-14:40]
credits to @/protosemite on X for the transcription.
Prof Refaat Alareer was killed by an israeli airstrike that targeted his house 2 days ago.
Back in the 1800s you could just show up to a town and be like “I’m a wealthy prince” or “I’m a doctor” and no one checked if you were lying. I was born in the wrong time because in that madness I would thrive
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