#farmers wife quilt

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 13

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You finish your tea in tenuous silence. With an agreement between you, there isn't much left to say. You really don't know what to say or do. All the implications pile on you as your mind races.

A wife? A good wife. What does a good wife do?

Support her husband. Love him. Show him affection...

That last thought tingles in your cheeks. You peek over at Walter as you hug your empty mug in your hands. What does he expect of you? Not just in your marriage but tonight? You haven't wed just yet.

He meets your eyes, brushing his hand over his curls. He slides forward on the cushion as your shoulders slope down. He still looks angry.

"Done?" He asks, not waiting for your answer before he stands.

"Yeah, I... I am, thank you."

He approaches and takes the mug from you. He goes into the kitchen without another word. You peer over at the windows, rain still battering the panes. You sniff and stand with a shiver as you search around, your clothes still showing damp patches.

"The truck..." you mutter.

"What about he truck?" Walt frightens you and you turn to face him, wrapping your arms around yourself. He stops to shut off the space heater.

"It's down the road. I couldn't get it all the way here..."

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," he grits.

"Right... tomorrow?"

He blinks, "you can stay. It's safer."

He nears and offers his hand. You stare at it, it seems so big. You slowly unfold your arms and put your hand in his. He squeezes, firm but not unkind.

"Are you tired?" His tone softens.

"A little," you feel a yawn trying to break free and put your chin down.

He leads you around the couch and back into the entryway. He ushers you towards the stairs as the cold air creeps up your legs. You climb up beside him, crowded on the staircase.

"Well, we'll get you tucked in then and we'll figure everything else out tomorrow," he affirms.

"Yeah, sounds good," you wilt out.

We. Not I, not you. We. Together.

He hums and says nothing else. He takes you down the hallway to a room at the end. He flips the light switch. There's a four-post bed on a brown rug with a green quilt is draped atop the layers of bedding. A desk stands in the corner, cluttered and full. Several sweaters hang from the back of the chair, much like the soft wool he wears no.

He leads you to the bed and throws back the blankets. He tugs you towards the edge and lets you go. You climb up and wiggle your cold toes. Before you can reach for the covers, he tosses them over you.

Wordless, he backs away. He rolls his broad shoulders as he turns his back to you and nears the long dresser against the wall, a basket on top of it heaped with clothes. He pulls his sweater over his head, further mussing his curls. As he reveals his thickly muscled back, you look away.

You guess you never thought much about how he looked. You always just saw him as strong and big, but you never delved that deep. Your eyes trail over as he undoes his jeans and steps out of those. He dumps them into the basket of laundry and leans on the dresser as he peels off his socks.

He turns to you, in a pair of boxers, and you shyly flick your eyes to the ceiling and lay back against the pillows. The image of the hair across his burly chest has your insides brewing. He's older than you but can't be that old.

He goes to shut off the light and you sense his shadow in the darkness, lurking closer and closer. You nearly gasp as his weigh shifts the bed and cool air seeps under the covers as he slides beneath them. You're nearly shaking with uncertainty.

You're going to sleep in the same bed. That's not unusual... technically, you're engaged so it's expected. He lowers himself down beside you and you squeak as he grabs you. He pulls you towards him, guiding an arm beneath you as he angles you onto your side.

You let him. Maybe you want this or maybe you're terrified. Either way, you can't deny him. You have a deal.

He curls his other arm around your middle as you lay flush to him, your short figure nestled against his large one. His chest rises and falls calmly against your back as your own heart hammers frantically. You close your eyes, folding your arm around his as you rest your small hand on his thick fingers.

He's as hot as a furnace. His body heat quickly chases away the lingering cold in your flesh. It soothes you in a way you don't expect. You feel safe despite your vibrating nerves.

"Good night, lamb," he kisses the crown of your head.

His deep voice rolls through you, a new sort of chill flowing down your body.

"Night, Walt," you murmur.

He lets out a noise, somewhere between a growl and a purr, and you feel the tension slake away from his body. It might not be so bad. He can be nice so long as you go along.

[konigsblog]

I would give farmer!König the chunkiest baby girls he’s ever seen on GOD. This man deserves to have chubby babies

And GOD just imagine him coming home from working in the fields and seeing you, his gorgeous, sweet wife, curled up under a quilt with your twin daughters sleeping in your arms, dozing away happily 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

(ik it’s soft and cheesy as hell but sometimes we need soft and cheesy!!!!!!)

definitely :( he has chubby baby genes, as well as the tall genes! his daughters will definitely grow to a tall height, just like their father. 🌾🍼🍇

two chubby babies in your arms, sighing deeply and shutting your eyes tightly, letting them breastfeed off of you. your arms weak and exhausted from carrying them around all day, their wispy, light ginger hair that'll darker as they age just grazing against your chest every now and then.

there's so demanding :( needing their mummy or daddy, always giggling whenever they see their father. but today, they'd refused to cooperate with you, only feeding off of you because of their father's presence. he holds them both, taking them to their bedroom and putting them down for the night. he finds you curled into a ball on the couch, hearing him call you over to sit on his lap after a hard day.

sitting on the wooden rocking chair with his large arms wrapped around you, his body heat spreading onto yours. “so pretty, such a hard working mother.” he smiles, kissing your forehead, your eyes fluttering closed as the chairs rocks you two back and forth.

or instead, having a picnic together, your twin girls giggling and playing with your hair, making you laugh. könig smiles when he looks over at you :( gorgeous in your natrual beauty, the golden sun shining on you! definitely feeds them blueberry cheesecake that you'd made after picking the blueberries off the bush, small spoonfuls given to them, playing with their small curls.

perhaps, you under the knitted quilt, a fuzzy blanket at the end of the bed and your two babies around you. your face buried in a pillow, putting your arm around the small of their back, seeing at they giggle with eachother. coming in, covered in hay on his jeans and a basket full of blueberries and strawberries, seeing you fast asleep with your babies on your chest, cuddling into you for warmth. :(

please, please! i don't even want kids, as pregnancy scares me, but könig's babies? 😖🫐

[cherrygirlfriend]

rina she / her 21 lesbian fairy rules

rafe’s bunny baby. spencer’s bookworm. dean’s angel. lottienat’s illegitimate child.

cherries. films. lip gloss. books. calico critters. cowboys. flowers. lust. white wine. cats. dolls. sour candy. pink lace. snoopy. lipstick marks. angel wings. quilts. hearts. baby pink. venus. love letters. romance.

hot off the press: sugar sugar sugar! feb 2, postcards under the bed jan 30, heart-shaped cut-out jan 28, pervert reader jan 26, farmer’s wife reader jan 24, safe haven jan 23, sunshine reader jan 22, my nerdy boy jan 21, safe in your arms jan 19⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

─── masterlist ─── goodreads & letterboxd ─── dividers ─── requests are… open ⊹₊⟡⋆ ─── chatting in asks is more than welcome ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼

©cherrygirlfriend do not copy, translate, or repost my work on other sites. this blog contains 18+ material

[yuesgirlfriend]

of birds and honey

part 1

(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU

summary: the year is 1312, and your fathers knight follows you to the wood.

The great hills surrounding the castle are a patchwork of green and yellows, as they always are during the summer months. Gray skies up ahead do nothing to dampen the mood of the castle; everyone is bustling about, preparing for the feast marking the new battalions arrival, as if their presence signifies something happier than impending war. 

She can see them, now, where she is perched atop the highest wall-practiced, without fear- in a way her old governesses would have certainly called unbecoming of a lady. But did not the bible speak of the virtues of a young lady- justice, fortitude, among them?

(It takes great fortitude to learn the secrets she has learned, to climb over steep walls like they were bales of hay, to listen to words she would have heard anyway, had she been born a man. Listening from the eaves and skulking about is an act of justice, not a sin.) 

The men, traversing down the trail, look like ants, she thinks- where she sits high above them, balancing on the stone, they look like children's toys. Tiny wooden figures, a small boy's idea of heroes, lined up on the yellow-green patchwork quilt. 

When they finally ride over the moat and into the stronghold, they look like any other collection knights she has seen- some cloaked, some helmetless, all shining in the half clouded, setting sun. 

That night is boisterous and rowdy, like any other feast. The courtyard is crowded with people- servants, villagers, everyone coming together to eat and drink and be merry. The tables are laden with the finest of foods. The smell of roast goose and heron, wine, and vomit hangs in the night air with the shouts and bawdy songs. The new knights drink and eat and throw things, singing their songs with everyone else.  The castle hums with life, every voice and every soul another cell in one great organism. 

(The whole time, she sits quietly as a lady should, but listens as a lady shouldn’t. No one notices, and why would they notice the Lord’s waif of a girl, silently eating at his right hand? The servants, the townspeople, even her father speak of her when they think she isn’t listening- she is, to them, as unnaturally quiet as a changeling and as likely to smile as a mourner. Such a shame, my lord, that  her birth took your wife, god rest her soul. And for the child to not even be a boy…)

The stories that feast are rambling and, wine drunk, but the message is clear- they are hired soldiers with no Christian names, under orders from the king to protect the stronghold that is her home.

But one stands out. The only one still wearing his painted  helmet, and as such doesn’t eat or drink with his companions. Instead, he sits on her fathers left side, speaking in low and gruff tones only when spoken to. 

She picks at her food as her ears pick up words like more men and allies and a thousand dead, all spoken in an accent she thinks more suited to a farmer than a soldier.

As the feast begins to die down, dancers lying about drunk, he walks with her Lord father, presumably to show him a weak point in the castle walls.

She follows along, unseen, silent footsteps trailing behind them in the shadows. The knight with the painted helmet is tall and broad when he waves a hand at a wall that, upon closer inspection, does seem weaker than the rest. A chink in the castle’s armor, he says. 

The fire dies out, people lay around in drunken heaps, and rats are scurrying for food in corners of the room by the time she retires for the night. Her maid is nowhere to be found- based on the way the Scotsman and her were wrapped around eachother earlier, it is likely best not to go looking for her- so she wanders alone to her quarters, a candle in one hand and a half eaten honey cake in the other. 

The halls are dimly lit labrynths, and every footstep she takes makes a wet scuff along the perpetually damp straw covering the chilled stone floors. She does not believe in sneaking about when not needed, and enjoys a reprieve from constant surveillance as she licks honey carelessly from her fingers, focusing more on the sweetness of the honey cake than her surroundings.

And just as she turns the corner to the starcase, a hand shoots out from a shadow  and grabs her arm. 

Her gasp is muffled by a large hand, gloved. His other hand plucks the candle from her grasp, rests it on the narrow windowsill behind him. She scrapes and thrashes at the silver of his forearm, scrambling to reach for the knife at his side before he speaks. 

“Pray, be silent, Lady- I know you are able.”

In response, she bites down on the gloved hand, hard. The man hisses but doesn’t let go, only roughly spins her to face him; and this is when she realizes it is the helmeted knight, eyes and armor shiny in the candlelight. 

She shoves at his arms, and he concedes, letting her retreat three steps up the stairs before he takes her by the hand again. 

“Release me, sir, or you will not enjoy the consequences,” She hisses. Something furious inside her is growing like a wildfire. 

“I meant no offense, but only to warn you, fair lady,” he says, seemingly contrite, but with mirth in his voice. Is he smiling, behind that hideous helmet? 

“Warn me?” She rips her hand from his. “Of what? Churlish knights, skulking behind corners?” She turns to go. 

“You are one to scold on skulking behind corners, Lady. ” Her feet freeze where they are on the steps. 

 “Yes.” His voice is rough. “You are not as invisible as you may think- not to those trained to see, Lady.  You should exercise more caution, when listenin’ from rafters and castle walls like a little bird.” He tilts his head, eyes trained on her, like a cat looking at a tree it’d like to climb. Or a bird it’d like to claw.

“I have been told you have a lovely mind. It would be a waste to see it dashed on a tower’s stony base.” 

For the first time in ages, she forces her eyes to meet anothers. His are dark, redless, with what looks like coal smudged on his eyelids and undereyes. His eyes never falter from her stare, as would be proper. His pale lashes don’t so much as flutter. 

She turns and continues walking upstairs- but before she rounds the corner, she looks behind and down to where he stands, at the base of the stairs, licking remnants of honey off his glove. 

[gallusrostromegalus]

AEIWAM ask: Do you have any thoughts about what you're doing with Senjumaru of the Royal Guard? She's the fiber-arts junkie with an extra six arms and as much as I sometimes feel like I need an extra hand when doing spinning or tricky cables, I know I have problems getting my own two hands to work things properly. Since she presumably made them herself, did she also self-create her own mental multi-threading so she can run the things? I get that she's probably supposed to have spider vibes, but the wiki says the arms are prosthetic, not part of her zanpakuto, and probably mentally controlled so idk.

:)

8)

Shutara Senjumaru? You mean my wife?

I kid, but I'm a fourth generation fibercraft bitch and a member of three quilt guilds, a knitting circle, friends with sheep, alpaca and Yak farmers and despite knowing stuff only by proxy, modify if not outright make a lot of my clothes. Shutara is to me, the platonic ideal of all those Fibercraft Bitches. She's insanely technically competent, generous (You're Getting A New Fit Whether You Want It Or Not) and absolutely ready to engage in spectacular and inventive violence.

[snailmail444]

happy birthday week! (i am late my b). could you either do a fic for maru with her testing out her """inventions""" on the female farmer or just a fic of sam body worshipping his lover?? i eat up your writings btw keep up the good work 💗🎂

The Perfect Subject

18+ 🌱 MDNI 🌱 NSFW

Just the first one for now! Never written a Maru piece before but I had SO MUCH fun with this idea thank you for the primo concept anon! NSFW under the cut!!

Their bedroom makes a good lab.

Maru’s gone to great pains to make it clinical. Sterile, even. All of their knickknacks are gone—any sentimentality is stripped. Pictures gone off the walls, souvenirs ferreted away to wherever they’ve been stowed. Even the bedding has been swapped from their usual worn quilt and flannel sheets in favor of white-on-white linen.

Folded at the end of the bed is a slip of a medical gown, and her throat is dry as she holds it up. It’s a tasteful black, with loose ties in the back to preserve her modesty until it has to be removed.

She almost wants to look for cameras. They didn’t discuss if it would be recorded or not, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it were. Maru doesn’t tend to leave details to chance when it comes to her research.

It’s cold, she realizes. In only the thin gown, she can feel goosebumps shivering up her arms and her nipples pebbling. That’s definitely atypical. The thermostat must be turned up, cranked—maybe maxed out.

Despite everything nerves begin to squirm in her stomach. Crawl up her throat.

“State your name for the record,” Maru didn’t make any sound when she entered, simply snuck in, and the nerves sting like wasps hearing the cool detachment in her voice

“Anise,” she says, squeaks it really, and when she turns to look at her wife she’s greeted with a placating smile and an unaffected stare. Anise swallows, hard so that it hurts, because she’s wearing a lab coat maybe a size too small in the chest, buttoned up and pushing and squeezing her soft cleavage over the top. She’s got on gloves, tight around her knuckles so that Anise can see the ligaments flexing as she holds her pen and clipboard. Her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose, and she’s staring over them and she’s so, so still. It reminds Anise of the piranhas she’s seen at the aquarium.

“Anise,” she repeats, like she’s making sure she has it right. Like they aren’t married. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We’ll begin shortly.”

She gestures with her pen to the bed, and despite the fact that this is the bed they share every night Anise is stiff as she climbs on top and arranges herself back against the pillows. Too aware of the fact that she’s completely bare underneath the gown.

“Is there anything you might need to be comfortable before we begin? Water, perhaps?”

Anise doesn’t think she could even choke that down, despite the fact that she’s parched. So she just shakes her head mutely, tries to get comfortable even though her malaise is solely mental.

Maru tilts her head, and the hair she’s pressed flat falls like a sheet, glinting in the light when she nods. “Very well,” she jots a note, and then looks at Anise plainly, “let’s begin.”

The bed had been made so immaculately, there was no way Anise could’ve noticed the straps tucked between the mattress and box spring. Maru uncoils each, stalking predatorily around the bed as she looses each restraint.

And then she’s fixing them to Anise, the cool rubber of her gloves alien against her skin as she makes the adjustments. They snake around her skin, too tight on her wrists and thighs. And Maru pulls at each connection to ensure there’s no give.

“Anise,” the name is a command for attention, and Anise snaps to attention instantly. Maru shows no sign of anything at all when she does have Anise’s gaze. “I’m going to remove your modesty gown now.”

Anise wants to be a good subject. “Yes,” she licks her lips to try and smooth the cracks in her tone, “yes ma’am.”

Maru nods once, and then sets about the ties along Anise’s back. Her breasts are dangerously close to Anise’s face, and she can feel her cheeks begin to burn because she can’t make herself look away. Her cheeks begin to burn because she’s out and out staring.

Maru certainly notices, but doesn’t show any sign of it. Simply pulls away and removes the gown, leaving Anise unnervingly exposed.

Her eyes rake across her body once, clinical, sizing up her ties and position and ensuring that everything is as it should be.

“Excellent,” she says, and it’s a comment on her own work and not Anise, but it still washes over her body in a slow roll.

She steps away, not a sparing look into Anise’s eyes, and begins to make a few notes. “How is that? Comfortable?”

It’s not, exactly. It’s too tight, biting especially into the fat of Anise’s thighs, but she nods anyway. Maru doesn’t look up at her, so she speaks, too, “comfortable.”

“Good,” she says, and sets her clipboard aside on their dresser, “allow me a moment to set up the apparatus, and we’ll begin.”

It feels vaguely sinister, and a real sense of danger has cold sweat beading at her brow.

When Maru returns, it’s difficult for Anise to parse what exactly the thing is because it’s held too tightly between her hands.

“What is it?” Her nerves get the better of her, and Maru skews an eyebrow as she glances back up. Annoyed—she looks annoyed by the question. Anise’s legs would buckle were they not splayed open and held in an iron grip.

“That,” she says, “is what we’re determining. I ask that you keep unnecessary questions to a minimum.”

“Yes ma’am,” Anise squeaks, and her body feels tight, tight, tight.

Maru kneels, one knee pressed firmly to the bed between Anise’s. The labcoat stretches against her bare thigh, taught over the skin. “Relax,” she commands. Snaps it, actually, “this might cause a bit of discomfort.”

Anise tries, but the moment she feels the press of silicone against her she’s seizing.

“Anise,” she’s even firmer this time, and Anise tries harder to even her breathing and unwind her muscles. She needs to be a good subject. “May I proceed, now?”

It’s impatient. Impatient because Anise isn’t being good for her. “Yes ma’am.”

The next time Maru tries, she slides the device across her folds delicately, and Anise is surprised at how wet she is, how easily it glides towards her entrance. It stretches her out inch by inch as Maru presses it inside her, fits it in to the point Anise feels so full she wants to cry out.

And then another piece of it fits around, down and against her clit, and nothing happens but it’s snug. Feels like it’s not going anywhere.

“We’ll begin at the low intensity,” Maru stares down at her, at whatever is on and around and inside of Anise, and her eyes are just a little glazed over. “After a period of five minutes, I will incrementally increase the strength until we arrive at the highest setting. Of course,” her eyes snap up and they’re sharp enough that Anise clenches around the toy—certainly it’s some sort of sex toy—and shudders, “you’ll need to announce each time you climax for the duration, and describe the sensations so that I might record them.”

Anise nods because she can’t speak.

“Oh, and of course,” Maru leans forward, bears down on Anise, “you can always opt out with a simple ‘over,’ however it would be ideal if you could complete the entire experiment without interruption.”

“Over,” Anise repeats, looking to confirm, and Maru nods sharply.

“If you say no, or stop, that will not suffice. Overwhelming sensations often confuse the language center of the brain, and cause one to say things they don’t actually mean. Over is the only word that means over, unless I observe enough nonverbal cues otherwise. Tell me you understand.”

Anise is mesmerized, and dizzy, and probably dripping onto the fresh, unsullied bedding. “I understand.”

“Excellent,” she says, and stands, palms a remote. And then she pauses, like she just remembered something. “Oh, and Anise? Try not to struggle.”

The first jolt of it turning on has Anise’s back arching on instinct, a low whine spilling from her throat. She feels like it suctions her clit, stimulating just enough that it almost itches, and she swears that inside of her it’s moving. Like it’s thrusting in and out, even though that can’t be possible.

“If you would, describe what you’re experiencing in detail,” Maru’s in a chair, studying her, her legs crossed over one another and her clipboard perched on her lap.

Anise struggles to reach for words. “It’s like,” she swallows, tries to hold still, “like somebody’s eating me out, and also like somebody’s fucking me. Really gently.”

Maru’s eyes light up, but her expression doesn’t move. Pleased yet imposing. Impossibly turning Anise on even more.

“Noted,” she says, writing on her clipboard. Anise can hear the pen scratching across the page. “I’ll ask you again at the next level.”

The supposed second level isn’t that much higher than the first, really. It feels good, but infuriatingly so. Not good enough, if she’s honest. The sensation squirms under her skin.

She repeats variations on the same response for the first four levels. To the point where she’s agitated and flushed and twitchy. Desperate for more. Needing more.

And then they hit level five, and the sensation multiplies tenfold. It definitely feels like she’s being fucked, and eaten out, and held down, and studied, and she goes from needy to on the precipice of an orgasm in a matter of moments.

“Would you say you’re close, Anise?” Maru’s voice pierces her pleasure like a knife, and her whole body contorts as she comes.

“Ye-es,” she manages to speak over the waves of her pleasure. It quickly lapses into overstimulation as the toy continues, unaffected by her body’s giddy spasms.

She’s panting, trying to catch her breath, but she’s still being pleasured too intensely to think straight.

“Anise,” Maru’s annoyed again, and despite the sensations burning up Anise’s thighs she manages to turn her head and make eye contact. “I was quite explicit in my instructions, no? Or should I be expected to infer it every time you orgasm?”

“No,” Anise stutters, legs trying to jerk in her restraints, “yes—I mean—ah.”

Maru clicks the remote up three times, and Anise is thrown into another orgasm without warning, “com—coming.”

Maru pouts at her, “you’ll behave from now on, won’t you?”

She nods dumbly, feeling another high creeping down her stomach. If she had the presence of mind, she’d say something about scientific integrity and skipping two stages completely.

But they’re past the game now, and Anise is coming again with a wail. She thinks she makes the shape of a word, because Maru’s purring. Preening.

Anise isn’t sure if she spends any time at nine, but she knows when they hit ten. Knows because she goes from crying to screaming, coming so hard she near blacks out.

It happens again, maybe. She’s not sure because she’s blacked out. And then the next time she’s aware, she’s out of her restraints and Maru’s rubbing lotion into the places where the fabric burned.

“Ru?” Anise’s voice is cracked, and she feels the rawness in her throat.

Maru is instantly up by her head, holding Anise to ber chest and shushing her. “No baby, shh don’t try to talk. I’ll get you some water, okay? Just drink.”

She pets Anise’s hair while she drinks, and finally when she’s satisfied Anise speaks again. “Did I do good?”

“So good,” Maru kisses her brow, “the perfect subject.”

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Do you have recommendations for a sampler quilt pattern? i've always wanted to make one but I've never seen a pattern that really stood out to me

(asking from main blog bc i cant seem to switch to my quilting side blog)

Journey to Paducah is a free option and big. I plan on making this at some point.

Seasonal Sampler is a very simple quilt, also free, and I intend to make this as well. In my case, I will be using Steelers prints and make this for my husband.

Gnome Angel has several samplers, not free, and again I'll make one of these. I had started one a few years ago, but started to hate the fabrics I chose, so I gave the blocks to someone else. 100 Blocks in 100 Days is what she's most known for.

The Farmers Wife 1920s Sampler Quilt and 1930s Sampler Quilt are excellent options as well. Not free, but 100% worth every dollar. I have the 1930s pattern; it's 100% FPP.

Then there's the ultimate sampler: Dear Jane. This is a free version of the pattern. Look into the history of the Dear Jane quilt and story behind the idea. This is something that has me seriously intimidated, and you'll see why when you hit the link. Fat Quarter Shop has a kit available, but it's nearly $400. It's paper piecing, both foundation and English. I know a quilter who's been working on hers for the last 10 or so years, 100% handsewn.

[bevanne46]

Double Aster Quilt Block also called the Double Star Block

Double Aster is a classic design credited to Nancy Cabot. Nancy is said to have presented this block, which she called Double Windmill, in her Chicago Tribune column of October 26, 1936, and attributed it to an old Pennsylvania Dutch pattern pieced in Philadelphia as early as 1800.

Nancy Cabot was on a roll -- 2 weeks later, she added 2 triangles to each quarter-block and the new block became Double Aster. She "fertilized" Double Aster with 8 more triangles and a dozen squares and created a new block called Peony and Forget Me Nots, very close to block #76 Peony.

Find a Tutorial Here: https://www.generations-quilt-patterns.com/double-star-quilt-block.html

[sim-ply-lilacs]

Josef Moody was a favorite neighbor of Beatrice's. Young Mr. Moody, a farmer of Prussian origin, had taken up a claim nearby as soon as he got off the boat from Windenburg and quickly settled into farm life.

Before her father's passing, Beatrice and Josef knew each other from church socials and barn dances. They'd even gone walking a few times.

Had life been kinder to the young couple, their courting would have been allowed to ramble on as amiably as two friends down a woodland path on a sunny day. They would have had summer drives, fall haylofts, winter skating parties. A proposal mediated by Beatrice's father would have precipitated a meandering engagement full of quilting with Beatrice's female friends and relations, preparing her household goods, and the sewing of a fine wedding gown and going-away outfit to merrily usher her into her new role as a wife.

Those plans were forced to die with her father.

"My dearest Bea, how can I possibly express my sympathies?" Josef asked. One trembling hand reached for her face. He feared the reception such an improper gesture would receive, but let out a breath when Beatrice leaned into his touch.

"Oh Josef," Beatrice choked out, "everything seems so hopeless. We have nothing left to pay our debts and nowhere to go. I can't even find a school that will have me to teach." With that, she devolved into sobs.

Josef said nothing for some time, merely held Beatrice as she cried. "She deserves so much more than this," he thought, "So much better than the hand she's been dealt. So much better than I can offer her."

He only hoped what he had to offer would someday prove enough.

Josef held her closer, guilt gnawing at his stomach. He gloried in holding her so close—and yet, would she be seeking his arms in any other circumstance? They had started growing close before her father's death, yes, but that wasn't a guarantee that she would want to plight her troth to him. Beatrice had been destined for so much more than life as a farmer's wife. Was he a horrible cad for what he was about to offer? Josef did not know. All he could do was cut open his heart and lay his soul bare before her.

Gently, he disentangled himself from her and spoke his piece.

"My–ahem, dear Beatrice. I wish for your sake that things were not the way they are, but Providence has seen fit to challenge you terribly. Were it in my power, I'd give everything I have to bring back your father. But this is not to be. Cannot be. This, I cannot change. But I do have the power to do something, and so I offer you the one thing I might give freely—myself." Josef swallowed. He hazarded to spy a look at Beatrice. Finding her solemn but steady, he continued.

"I am not a rich man. If I were, I would pay all your debts and leave you to find what will make you happiest. As it stands, I have not much to offer. But what I do have are two willing hands: hands to work, and–and..." he trailed off. Josef could not continue. He hung his head.

Beatrice's whispered shyly, "And to what? Hands to what?" She offered an encouraging look. Slowly, she continued, "Dear Josef, don't let me frighten you."

Josef shook his head. "You could never frighten me, and yet I do fear, yes. I fear you will hate me for what I want to say. That, I fear indeed."

"Oh Josef," Beatrice cried, "I never could. Not after what you've offered me—and me a poor little thing with so little to offer myself." She sobered. "But I must hear your response. Please."

He looked with clear, shining eyes into hers. "Don't you know? Hands to love, Bea. Hands to love."

Prev ~ Next ~ Beginning

[mcalhenwrites]

Ehhh, I am thinking about Ferdinand's family now. How his mother collects terrifying bric-a-brac that she thinks is charming. She makes her own horrifying wool creatures from the angoras who have taken over the large enclosed back porch of their home and tries to sell them at local craft fairs and farmer's markets, when she could just... spin and sell the wool and make more money that way. But damn if it doesn't make Tillie happy anyway, and she's okay with that? If there's a cat or dog that needs a home, she takes it in. (Usually with cats, but there have been dogs every now and again.) There's not really any space for the dogs in their tiny house. Rudolph doesn't mind that he's buried in these things that he's absolutely indifferent to, but he has his bookcase in the cluttered living room that's full of secondhand books and subscriptions, and sometimes he switches them out. I wonder if he's ever really found himself, or if he's still looking, and reading helps him make little discoveries about himself and the world around him. Yes, he worked as their small town mayor's secretary for a long time, and now he's on the city council because he does have some passion for politics, and honestly, if you ask him, he's not unhappy with his life. He's got a wife who has friends and family and brings home arms full of strange thrift store finds that they don't have room for, and sometimes he can hardly find a place to put his feet. He has a son he cares a lot about, but it's hard to connect with him. Rudolph's mother passed away when Ferdinand was a teenager, and he has a disabled younger brother who was luckily spared the same bad childhood memories Rudolph has of his father. Rudolph likes his potential son-in-law. He likes the cats and dogs, and the rabbits make his life a little too exciting with their constant antics and mischief. Ferdinand grew up around all of this and felt the warmth of his family, but sometimes in the oddest ways. He accepts strange bric-a-brac gifts from his mother and puts them in a box in the basement, waiting until Tillie passes away to see if he can send them elsewhere for someone else to haunt. He has learned to enjoy his father's quiet silence as they occupy a room together, with Rudolph's off-hand comments now and again. He's fond of animals but never wants to collect too many like Tillie, but if you hand him a jar of dark homemade jam or he sees a country quilt, he's filled with a great deal of nostalgic fondness.

[domesticfashionista]

Oh, women in homes, love them. Think of those who are daily torn from homes to stay all day inside closed walls, surrounded with office fixtures-no pretty curtains, no gay cushions, no little piano to drop down to in a stolen moment, no radio to tune in one, no books or magazines to read and sketch from, no real relaxation until night.

Oh, yes there are duties in a home, little children to soothe, dress and feed, and work aplenty. But after all, they are your very own and it's your home. When the suds foam high in the washtub and you hang garments under a blue sky, think just a moment of office workers who long for homes with curtains at the windows, clothes waving in the sunshine, and beets in a jar."

Iowa-October 1933

The Farmer's Wife 1930's Sampler Quilt

[ecoslo]

Farmer’s Wife quilt: A project that I’ve been working on for a while is the Farmer’s Wife quilt, from the book by Laurie Aaron Hird - which I started back in April 2017 at a workshop with Johanna Masko hosted by the Ottawa Modern Quilt Guild. I just finished my 25th block last week, which was a milestone. But, the book has 110 blocks so I still have a long way to go! I hadn’t laid the blocks out in a while, I’m liking how the colours are coming together. I’m just using Kona cotton and Carolyn Friedlander prints for this one.

[housefreak]

while im quilt posting. the shenandoah valley botanical quilt <3 shes so beautiful id love to make her one day

[maryellencarter]

I can't speak to military or diplomatic spouse, but it strikes me that Farmer's Spouse and Pastor's Spouse are both the kind of role that I (having that permanent military-fandom brainrot) tend to think of as the Executive Officer role.

Within their specific contexts, the farmer and the pastor are the leadership roles. The farmer decides, I'm planting alfalfa here and soybeans there, I'm plowing this field now and that one later, I'm arranging for the threshing to be done at this time. This is a role that more than one *person* might contribute to, discussing which field might be best for the alfalfa, but the *role* is Farmer.

The Farmer's Spouse role is keeping the background shit running. The Farmer is going to plow the north forty today? The Farmer's Spouse provides a good filling breakfast that's ready early in the morning so the Farmer can get to it. There are farmhands staying over this week for the harvest? The Farmer's Spouse makes sure there's bunkroom and food for everyone. It's butchering time? The Farmer's Spouse makes sure everyone has their clean protective gear so their clothes don't get ruined.

I grew up Catholic, so Pastor's Spouse isn't a role I have as much hands-on awareness of, but I know it's often a similar balance: the pastor is in charge of preaching and dealing with people's religious breakdowns and so forth, the Pastor's Spouse deals with stuff like organizing church potlucks and whether the Bible study or the quilting group gets the church basement on Thursday nights.

And yeah, it's usually broken down on pretty gendered lines, but it's crucially stuff that one person can't manage all of by their lonesome. The Farmer can't cook their own breakfast and still have the energy to plow the north forty and come home and make their own dinner. The pastor can't negotiate every little dispute about scheduling for the church basement and also be available to help with theological questions and church services, especially if they're also trying to wash their own vestments and cook something for the Easter potluck.

(Catholic priests have housekeepers and secretaries hired by the parish to juggle the work that a Pastor's Spouse role would cover in churches with married clergy. Which is also a good example of how the role doesn't have to be handled by a single person or have to be tied to being married to the pastor.)

So -- what I'm saying, I think, is that it might be helpful to think of these roles as being handled by a team. The point person and the support player. Some people are better at one role or the other. Heterosexual marriage has traditionally been how the roles were divvied up, but it doesn't have to be, and it might even be helpful to look at other gendered roles as less "a female farmer and a farmer's wife are the same role", more as "this role traditionally has a support role associated to it. why? does it need one? would it go better with one? what factors contribute to making a good support officer for a [university professor, auto mechanic, etc]?"

Hell, then you could even wander into "Caring for children / elderly / disabled people is a fulltime job, what does a support role for *that* look like? What about a support role for a fulltime housekeeper? Are there supports that a Pastor's Spouse needs that the role of Pastor isn't suited to providing?"

Our society is so bottled down into romosexual pairings as the only necessary and sufficient relationship that we're all dying for lack of support. I think this post is a great starting point for reenvisioning what support structures could look like.

[kknits]

6 quilts-in-progress for Ravelry UFO Spring challenge group

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Fun fact! I have patterns for sampler quilts!

Make the Cut byGnome Angel is a foundation paper pieced quilt with a hidden layout for the scissors, but I won't use that layout be a use the background blocks will be faded. That's boring, and I don't do boring. The pattern also has different size options, from 57x67 inches to 96x96 inches. Oh, and 100 blocks. Fewer blocks for the smaller sizes, but all of them for the king size.

Small note: king size quilts start at $10k. They will take about a year to make, start to finish. I don't want to make a king size quilt, but that much money will be very big incentive!

This sampler is smaller, with I think 36 8x8 inch blocks. I think it's a lap size, but I could be wrong. Anyone feel like doing the math for me? Thank you, @tj-crochets for doing the math!!! 48x48 inches without borders (I nearly always add borders).

This is another big sampler by Gnome Angel, with traditional piecing and multiple size options. Oh, and 100 blocks. The largest is I think king size.

Last of my printed samplers is this book. The Farmer's Wife 1930s sampler quilt, all foundation paper pieced because soooo many of the pieces are tiny. There are multiple sizes, from lap to king.

Now as for what a sampler quilt is, it's a quilt with many different types of blocks, giving you a sample of each. Some patterns repeat a few blocks, others do not. They're a fantastic way to practice different blocks and use up scraps. You don't actually need a sampler pattern either. Just make a bunch of different blocks, ideally the same size for ease of arranging them. Look up "Dear Jane quilt" and you'll see the ultimate sampler. I might make a Dear Jane quilt someday, but not anytime soon. Commissions are always prioritized.

If a sampler is something you want, say so in the commission info when you purchase one. If a king size is what you want, I'm not joking when I say $10k. It will be $5k upfront and monthly payments thereafter. The amount of fabric and batting will easily be $1k, and the amount of tike it will take to make it, from start to finish, will likely be over 1000 hours, if not more. I've spoken to quilters who have made king size quilts, and each said $10k for handquilting, $7k for machine quilting. I will be doing the quilting by hand unless you request otherwise. With the 50% payment, I'll purchase the Cutie Breeze quilting frame I have on my Throne wishlist, and practice machine quilting on that.

If a sampler quilt is the type you want, commission me. It's gonna be a long time before I make one without it being a commission. Why? I have patterns chose and fabric pulled for quilts I really want to make.