#not make where hes alone and has easy to content aware fill photo edges

[elipheleh]

some rwrb phone lockscreens/wallpapers. (part 2 part 3 part 4)

if you like/use them please reblog, i’d really appreciate it. the best way for others to see this is if people reblog the post rather than just liking it.

[slothgiirl]

forever isn’t for everyone (is forever for you?) part 5

London is gray and dull after Australia and the festivals we'd been at. And like it's welcoming us all back, it's raining. 

Foggy, a complete 180. It doesn't help that it's night, and I haven't seen day since two days ago, having spent another day traveling. Cramped up in my seat, squished between other passengers. 

This time I had slept fine on board, exhausted from touring. We're all dead on our feet and unlike the last few days, we don't puke into a cab, we just sort of wave and leave and it's sad. I think after all we've done, all the time spent together, we leave like it's nothing. I know even I need some alone time. 

But it's still sad to me. 

The second leg of the tour isn't for months and I have a week off before having to go into work. A week I spend sleeping and doing laundry and becoming a couch potato. 

Another week of catching up with friends and getting lunch before I have to go back to work. It's the day before I go back to work that Alex texts me, my heart lurching, an unconscious desire that had sunk into my mind. 

In Australia, it had seemed easy to believe that a man like Alex might like an ordinary girl like me. Perhaps I was selling myself short, but my confidence was a fickle thing that still needed propping up after my acne ridden teenage years. 

More eloquent than in person, his preference for written word is obvious.

I was hoping we might have a listen to the record I told you about. A drink or two, a small offering in comparison to the pleasure of your company once more, in the city we both inhabit, where everything will seem solid and less ephemeral than abroad. -Alexander

It was long and flowery for a text and made me dizzy with anticipation, I threw out everything I'd been told to do when a boy texts you and replied instantly, walking home from tescos trying to make food instead of getting takeout for a change, eagerly asking for a time and address. 

It was nice to be able to come home and do nothing. A privilege I couldn't imagine coming back from while my roommates came home from their jobs dead on their feet. 

Grueling weeks on the road seemed a small price to pay.

I take the tube over to his, a beautiful georgian house among many in Chelsea, save for some dying plants outside, a clear victim of his recent travels, thick dark curtains obscuring all the windows.The street is littered with nice cars, millionaires the only people who can afford the nice neighborhood. London's market on the uptick. 

At least I feel at ease in the dying light, the sun spilling in the sky like egg yolk as it sets, turning the clouds blood red, casting long dark shadows. I guess Alex is not a struggling musician, or maybe he's just from a well off family. 

It's then I know that I start to feel anxious, no longer buoyed by our shared work, just me and him and would that be enough? It was stupid when I already knew how easy it was to be with him. 

But this felt more concrete then wondering around a foreign city had. The thought of kissing him no longer a far off wish but a possibility so close it had my fingertips tingling. 

Alex opens the door with a boyish smile on his lips, clad in loose blue jeans, frayed at the hem, and a grey t shirt emblazoned with give a damn, hair hopelessly disheveled as if he'd just woken up. "El, love" he says fondly, after a second, "I'm delighted you're here." 

Waving me inside. I'm expecting the inside to look like a Tatler photo shoot, more burberry than marks and spenser sales rack, with the uninviting feeling carefully decorated homes had. 

Instead, the rugs are rich, intricate designs, the edges frayed with time and use. There's a thin layer of dust in the paintings hanging on the wall, one signed manet, another of a slender woman with doe like eyes and hair the colour of milk tea, in vivid realism, only the clothes betraying the age, paint cracked with time by the frame.  

Following along, I spy the stacks of books piled high on every table, some new others yellowed with age. 

There's a silver tray on the coffee table littered with pens and paper and a beautiful piano in the room he leads me too, room lit by stained glass lamps in the shape of flowers, the shades tightly drawn with a beautiful japanese inspired screen for good measure. 

A guitar rests in one settee. It's closer to an antique shop than any catalogue. "Please," Alex says, "sit, make yourself comfortable," as he goes to place the needle on a record, a small library of records covering a bookshelf nearby. 

As an after though he adds, "don't mind the mess."

"It's fine," I smile, watching him, at ease in his home, wanting to run my fingers through his hair and find out if his hair was as soft as it looked, "it's kind of the vintage shop of my dreams. I don't know where to look because everything is catching my eye." 

As I'd hoped, he laughs. "That's certainly a way of looking at it innit?"

The first notes of the record filling the room. Alex takes a seat next to me on the plush sofa. I kick off my shoes, surprised at how quickly I take a liking to the jazz music, curling up on the couch, dim lighting adding to the cozy atmosphere, before I catch him looking at me with the same fondness from earlier. With an easy smile on his lips.

For a moment, we just gaze at each other with a certain schoolyard shyness that settles when neither of us looks away. 

His expressive eyes on mine. 

A gaze so intense I can't hold it for long before I have too look away. "It's funny," I note, "the music has me picturing the concert clearly. Like I'd been there. Fuck that must have been a night."

"It was." Alex nods, his gaze still heavy on me. "They all lived for their music, bodies a vessel for playing the notes swirling around their souls."It was a beautiful thought, and I wasn't sure how to reply to the sheer earnestness. 

"You said there was wine," I ask all faux innocence, wanting something to take the edge off. 

Hyper aware of every movement I make. I want to sink back into the ease we'd had in Auckland and not this. The thought of him wanting me as much as I wanted him was driving me crazy. 

"Oh so that's why you came," he grins so alight with amusement, eyes twinkling. 

"The musics good too." 

"And the company?"I shrug, teasing, "I've had worse."

"Oi!"

I snort.

He doesn't move to go for wine. "I'm starting to feel superfluous El," Alex say in his thick yorkshire accent, a drawl to his words, each one carefully considered as he takes his time to form a reply, uncaring about the time he takes. "It's not a very nice feeling."

I roll my eyes. "Don't tell me you need as much ego stroking as Miles?"

"Miles does all the ego stroking for himself."

"That doesn't surprise me," I laugh, "I think you need a lot of ego to get up on stage every night. I don't have stage fright but it's all very weird to have that many people looking up at you."

He nods in agreement, "it's a good thing that's not part of my job. All I wanted to do was 'ave people listen to my little songs."

"Well I'd say job well done." 

The album had debuted top of the UK charts. And he'd written the lions share with Miles. Alex ducks his head, red rising to his cheekbones, a stark contrast against his pale skin. 

Even a few weeks down under had done nothing to rid him of the lack of colour that came with living in such a gloomy city. 

"You've got the whole country singing along."

"Well. . .Miles and the boys do. I just helped Miles a little or well we just jammed together. Can't help myself around that man. . .rarely has anyone understood me so well."

"Have you always written songs?" None of my childhood hobbies had stayed with me, consumed with studying. 

"Can't help myself," he admits. "A tune or some words. . .coming to me mind. There till I write them down."

"That's loads more creative than me. I always think it would be fun to draw but I'm imagining some renaissance masterpiece and it always comes out a derpy stick figure or worse. So I just give up and read or go for a walk." Even in the winter, Greenwich park was beautiful, and bundled up it was bareable. 

"What do you like to read," Alex asks, tilting his head towards me, curiousity brimming in his soft eyes. The space between us closing in as we lean towards each other, disarmed by our conversation.  

His hand resting on his knee, pulled out on the sofa, making me feel shameless about having my legs pulled up as well. 

"Articles. Very depressing boring world news. Free essays on the paris review. It's a shame prints dead or else I'd try to justify buying copies. But I think I'd rather have a cuppa tea. With those fruit bits or boba."

"Is print dead?" 

Alex says it with a layer of incredulity, baffled. 

"Yeah. This thing called the internet came along."

"Bloody hell," he jokes, "I'm still waiting for the windows explorer to. . .do it's thing."

"You mean load? Not surprised. The selfies you tried to take in Sydney were awful. Thankfully those people were there to take our picture."

"Be easy with me El," Alex laughs, shaking his head at me, eyes crinkling in amusement. 

"I'll have to think about it," I tease, leaning against the softness of the sofa, resting my head as I take the sight of him in, warmth spreading in my chest, thrilled to know that I can make him laugh, that he'd meant it when he said he wanted me over. 

It's a funny little skip of my heart as hope takes root, the idea that he might like me as much as I like him, making me smile, happy for the first time since I got back. Really happy, not just content to be home, to lazy around and get time to myself.  

He pours us both a cuppa wine in ceramic cups, "no wine snobs here," he grins and the music plays and his knee taps to the beat against my leg. 

Every touch too much and yet not enough, desire welling up in the pit of my stomach. It's easy to drink, pour another glass out."

I don't think anyone has the time or concentration to listen to a fourty minute song anymore," I note, sipping lazyily at the wine, my palette too unrefined to know if it's cheap or expensive. 

"It's a jam session!"

I drink, trying to hide my smile at his expression, affronted on behalf of music everywhere, the seriousness to his mouth, frowning, a directness to his gaze. 

Failing, I giggle, slumping against the sofa, looking up at Alex through my lashes. "I thought it was just a very long song."

"El." His voice, that thick accent, his unique drawl, my face burning, as he leans over, empty bottle of wine forgotten on the coffee table. His hand cups my cheek, the tips of his fingers calloused in a delightful way, toes curling on the sofa cushion, thumb running over my bottom lip. 

Heart beat lodged in my throat, I can't speak, the desire bubbling over, wanting to spill over and kiss him already. Alex pressing lightly over my body, trapping me against the sofa. 

I swallow thickly, my fingers going to neck, threading my hands through his caramel hair, soft and silken, and pull him down to kiss me hard. 

I can feel his satisfied smile against my skin as he kisses me back passionately, without any hesitation, all of his fumbling for words gone. All confidence and want. 

Alex's other hand going down to my hip, rubbing cicrcles over my cotton shirt. My head spins with want and desire and Alex all tangled together, finally, kissing him eagerly as he shifts, shoving a cushion thoughtlessly off the sofa. I lay down, skin burning hot. Too many layers between us. 

His lips against mine. Tasting of wine and bitter chocolate, a tanginess I can't get enough of. 

My mouth opening up to his, tongue exploring my mouth, my hands running through his hair. Alex pressed against me as I lay with my back on the couch, solid and too many layers between us. 

He pulls back, pulling up at the hem of my shirt with a naughty schoolboy grin, endearing all the same. 

"I hate winter," I whisper against his cool skin, colder than the room, barely emanating any heat at all in the frigid english winter, "it makes getting undressed such a pain." 

Alex laughs, pulling his own shirt over his head. "I'll be sure to make it worth your time."

"Cocky bastard," I utter as he hooks his fingers through the loops of my jeans, pulling me closer to him, the feeling of his own cock, already half hard, sends me reeling. 

In leiu of a response, Alex trails kisses down my neck, sucking at the skin, sure to leave marks tomorrow. 

My fingers dig into his hair, breathily moaning his name. Shamelessly, he undoes the button on my jeans. 

It's never sexy to take off jeans, kicking them off rapidly, as I reach for him, kissing him again fiercely. The feel of his cool skin sending sending shivers down my spine. Lithe but toned. 

Alex cups one of my breasts, nipple hardening through the delicate lace. "Fuck El," he groans, hips grinding down against mine.I want him. I want him so much, feeling feverish with desire.  

All my thoughts of him. 

Of Alex. 

He slides his jeans off easily enough, cock hard through the fabric of his boxers. I look up at him, as I unclip my bralete, adding it to the pile of things on the coffee table. 

There's always an initial nervousness, when sleeping with someone new. And yet, I know Alex wouldn't hurt me. I trust him. 

"El-,"

"Come here," I reach for him, a whine to my voice, "come here and fuck me Alex."

He does. 

[greenishbucket]

holding you again

TIna and Quinn at a wedding.

 2.9k, ao3

Tina is trying really, really hard not to be bitter. Like, so hard.

It’s a beautiful wedding. The ceremony is a little heavy on the religion for her taste but it’s what Sam and Mercedes both want and they’re glowing with happiness in the colourful light from the stain glass windows as the priest talks on and on. If Tina’s honest she zones out a little until it gets to the ‘I do’ bit -- at which point she finds herself suddenly needing to swallow back a sob, gratefully accepting a tissue from Brittany, because some of her best friends are in love and just got married. Brittany pats her on the arm, as vaguely comforting as someone can be when they’re mostly preoccupied with delightedly wolf-whistling as Sam and Mercedes kiss with a lot more passion than Tina expected in a church.

The reception party is far more Tina’s speed, despite some lingering frustration with her carefully applied, and now ruined, supposedly-waterproof eye makeup: they relocate to a tall marquee, decked out in a classic colour scheme of lush pinkish reds and cream that Tina had helped Mercedes pick out over Skype months ago, with the marquee sides kept open to allow in the light and breeze of the clear summer evening and a DJ friend of theirs that Tina doesn’t know already in place between two stacks of speakers.

The music stays light and lowkey while they eat lest any ex-Glee Club, or any of Sam and Mercedes’ other friends for that matter, feel the unstoppable urge to sing mid-meal and it makes for a pleasant, slightly sleepy atmosphere at the evening draws in and the lights turn on. Some of the sleepiness may be relief, Tina thinks, following Santana’s delivery of the maid of honour speech all the girls had worked together on with no end of arguing; Santana’s near balance of cutting sarcasm and warm affection is met with laughter and applause and a kiss blown from Mercedes.

When Sam and Mercedes have their first dance Tina has to pull out Brittany’s crumpled tissue from her purse again because they’re radiant under the dancefloor lights, their hands gentle but sure on each other, and then she has to laugh around her tears when Sam pulls out the old body roll move and Mercedes acts like she’s embarrassed. Before long the dancefloor fills up with other guests and Tina hangs back a little when Mike is one of the first to join, held in place by the sting of their last unplanned fling that’s not quite passed despite the months and distance as well as the fact that technically Artie’s her date. It doesn’t last for long, however, with Blaine noticing her alone at the edge of the dancefloor and reeling her in to clasp her hand and spin her round like they’re still in high school.

But that was some hours ago now. Tina’s a little tipsier now and Blaine a lot judging from the way he’s dancing with Kurt, who’d pulled him away from her with the insistence that he had the right to enjoy his husband fully with a babysitter at home taking care of things. Artie vanished on her into the darkness some time ago with Kitty and she can’t begrudge him that since she's listened to the ins and outs of their on-off thing so often she's almost invested herself at this point. She knows if she checks her phone he’ll have texted to let her know, reassure her that he’s using protection this time – lesson learnt in college! – and tell her to get some herself, probably followed by six or so suggestive emojis.

Instead of anything like that, and in particular to avoid another messy night with Mike, Tina’s been dancing with all the children still awake enough for it, letting them stand on her feet and hold her hand in their cake-sticky ones as they chatter away alongside the music. Their interest in her dress or her carefully styled hair is uncomplicated and refreshing and their excitement at goings-on’s infectious but as the darkness really settles outside most become overtired and have to rest. Now from her table a few rows back from the dancefloor she looks over to the pile of sacked-out children in their miniature formal wear and feels a mixture of sadness that that chapter of life is still so far off for her and intense relief that it’s not a responsibility she has yet.

Tonight can be her own, whatever direction she chooses for it to take, and so can all the others after it. She has no one to stop her.

Tina is trying really, really hard not to be bitter about all the incandescent happiness around her and feel content with her own steady satisfaction where it sits deep in her chest. It’s a battle she’s been fighting for years as all her friends seem to find success with ease and true, deep love so swiftly and surely while she feels like every achievement is a thousand hours spent sewing sequins or learning lines, every love she feels too much or misdirected or inconvenient. Usually it’s not so hard but sitting here alone at Sam and Mercedes’ wedding, the jealousy rears its head with a ferocity she hasn’t felt in some time.

Tina’s horrified to feel herself getting tearful again and she’s about to try her luck finding the bathroom in the dark in high heels just to give herself a moment when someone sits in the seat beside her.

“Not dancing?” Quinn asks, body turned towards Tina in her chair like a welcome but the smile on her face almost cautious.

Tina really hopes she doesn’t look like she was about to start crying.

“Taking a break,” she says, “Dancing with the children means there’s a pretty early cut-off point.”

Quinn’s smile widens, “You know you could always dance with one of the grown-ups.”

Tina laughs, short and probably too bitter. “Yeah, right,” she says and that sounds bitter too so she changes the subject quickly: “How are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you yet today, or for ages actually. Since the fall, right? Time passes so quickly these days!”

Quinn looks stuck for a moment, eyes searching Tina’s face like she’s confused, and her arm draws back from where it was resting on the table behind Tina’s chair. “Fall sounds about right,” she says.

Tina’s just tipsy enough that she’s acutely aware it’s not appropriate to look at the way Quinn’s dress does amazing things for her boobs and also tipsy enough that instead it’s hard to look away from the assured way she’s crossed one leg over the over, the way the gloss of the matching varnish on her fingers and toes matches her lipstick and the way all three are distracting. Her hair is shorter than it was last time Tina saw her and it makes her wonder what has changed in herself that Quinn might notice.

“I guess you must have moved on from that one production in Chicago,” Tina continues when Quinn doesn’t. “I heard really great reviews, it sucks my schedule with Artie meant I was stuck in LA the whole run. I’d have loved to see it.”

Quinn takes a long sip from the glass she has with her but looked pleased.

“It would’ve been wonderful to see you there,” she says, “but what you were working on with Artie looks innovative. I won't lie, mostly I find the things everyone gets up to kind of irritating, but I’ve had the premier date in my diary for months.”

“You’d come to the premier?” Tina asks, voice squeaking upwards.

Since Yale Quinn had been into theatre that Tina associated with words like deconstructed, organic, independent, minimalist. Facebook photos to be trusted, Quinn’s stuff usually takes place on stage that's level with the audience with little in the way of props or set. It explores abstract concepts and political ideology. Tina loves to watch it and admires it and it’s clear Quinn enjoys it but it isn’t what she can, or even wants to, create. It’s forceful in a muted way where Tina likes to really pack a punch with lots of colour and noise. It certainly isn’t the kind of mashup extravaganza her and Artie had got the green light on and have been pouring their souls into since.

“Well, I haven’t been actually invited to the premier,” Quinn says, coy.

“Oh my God, consider yourself invited!” Tina says, reaching out to hold Quinn’s arm with delight. “I’ll tell Artie to tell someone to put you down. Please come, unless you really meant you were just looking forward to the release and, oh God, do you hate red carpets? Is it really inconvenient?”

“No, no, I’ll be in Portland instead of the East coast and I love getting ready for red carpets,” Quinn reassures her, though Tina notes the avoidance of the carpet experience itself, “Just send me the details and I’ll be there.”

Tina squeezes Quinn’s arm rather than try and relay in words how much it means that someone she knows will be there, Artie notwithstanding, since everyone else including her own parents has replied they are regretfully busy. That’s what they get for a premier so near Christmas Eve, she supposes, and puts aside the wondering why Quinn won't be with her family for the holiday. Instead Tina focuses on how much she hopes Quinn likes it, her anxiety over the reception ratcheting up a few notches.

“Save me a ticket in Portland, I could come up and see you?” she suggests, unsure where Quinn’s boundaries lie but wanting to return the kindness and, if she’s honest, get to see Quinn act again. The last time was transformative and far too long ago, falling out of touch as is so easy when your group of friends is an entire high school glee club and theatre so often means travel and long hours.

“Tell me a date and the ticket’s yours,” Quinn agrees easily, cheeks going pink and her hands fiddling with her glass in a way that makes Tina think she’s maybe embarrassed her or made her embarrassed by herself. It’s a good feeling.

There’s a loud whoop and a cackle from the dancefloor and they both look over, Tina’s hand falling away from Quinn, to see Rachel laughing as both Mike and Jake try some of their dirtiest moves with her; the whoop comes from Jesse who is very red in the face and looks like he’s having the time of his life watching.

The jealousy rears its head again in Tina’s chest where it had been forgotten, distracted by Quinn and the amazement that her and Artie’s project has passed Quinn's unknown but high standards to be seen as not only passable but innovative. For a bit Tina had forgotten about loneliness and dissatisfaction, lost in the rush of validation mixed with the flustering remnants of whatever thing she thought her and Quinn had used to have at McKinley. It wasn't as if Quinn was Tina’s bi awakening or anything but she was the first girl whose touch Tina thought maybe lingered longer when they danced, whose smile always seemed brighter for her and always made her feel brighter.

It’s a weird place for the friendship to rest, even all these years down the line. Neither of them have ever said anything about it, though Tina’s sure Quinn must be aware of it at least.

“You and Mike?” asks Quinn after a pause wherein they both watch Jesse get in on the action, Tina feeling some kind of sick fascination.

“No,” says Tina and she makes herself look back to Quinn, who’s watching her with a carefully distant kind of concern. “No, definitely not. Not today at least.”

Quinn laughs. “Good, wedding hook ups are never a good idea even if with Mike I can see the appeal. Last time I did it was with Santana and God knows how we made it out of that intact. Unbreakable friendships, I suppose.”

Tina feels simultaneously validated because she’d told Sam that Quinn and Santana had hooked up then and he hadn’t believed her, and like she’s about to swallow her tongue because the thought of Quinn and Santana getting it on is quite a thought.

“Ghugh,” she eloquently manages in reply.

“Not that she’s an option this time around,” Quinn continues, mouth twisting into something a little wry and with a hint of just as much bitterness as Tina feels, “married and happy as she is, happy as I am that she is.”

“Her and Brittany are great together,” Tina agrees because that’s just common sense.

Quinn nods. “They are. But would you look at that, nearly everyone here married or dating, on track with their lives. Except you and me.”

Tina realises Quinn’s arm is resting along the table behind her again and this time it doesn’t feel as innocent or coincidental as before.

“I don’t feel like my life is off track,” Tina says honestly because, sure, bitter she might be but she doesn’t think her life is off track. Tina’s only in her twenties, she knows it doesn’t all need to be sorted even if she’d like it to be. It’s just lacking in some areas, like the uphill battle in the industry or things with Mike or the truth that the woman next to her has drifted into her mind in the gaps between every iteration of her relationships – a what if, always nagging. What if me and Quinn just–

Tina looks over at her and Quinn is searching her expression again. Tina doesn’t know if she wants to let her train of thought show or not.

“I don’t feel like my life is either,” says Quinn eventually. “I never thought I’d say that, but I don’t.” Her smile is wide and open and a little wondrous, like the realisation has only just really hit her, and Tina doesn't know how to look away or if she wants to. She doesn't want to. If anything, she wants to move closer and do whatever it takes to keep the smile in place, to keep the simple joy of it.  

“Exactly where we need to be,” says Tina, a moment too late but pleased by the idea for both of them. Maybe she’s somewhere a little beyond tipsy.

Quinn stands abruptly and holds out a hand to Tina.

“You look beautiful, Tina,” she says with a familiar bluntness and surety that still startles Tina all the same, “Dance with me.”

Tina takes her hand.

The dancefloor feels darker than out by the tables, the light blocked out by other bodies. Tina hadn’t realised she was cold until she felt the warmth of people dancing and the warmth of Quinn’s hand in hers, her body against hers. The wedding party is winding down, the music slow and romantic and giving them time for just one dance before it all wraps up.

The mood feels too strong for what is really her and Quinn’s first move towards each other but Tina thinks they manager to carve out their own smaller, untried but willing space within that. Both in heels, her face can still tuck into Quinn’s shoulder. She still smells like the same perfume she’s used since high school and it’s comfortable for Tina to rest her head there as they sway, wondering if she’s imagining Quinn pressing a kiss into her hair or if it really happens. She feels it again and knows she didn’t imagine it.

“I thought you said no wedding hook ups,” Tina says because this is great, this is wonderful, but she wants to know what to expect. She wants to know where the line is.

Quinn’s voice is huskier than usual and quiet enough, soft enough, that it’s just for them when she says, “Maybe it could be something more than a wedding hook up.”

Oh, Tina thinks, and she nods her agreement into Quinn’s shoulder like she’s suddenly a shy, stutter-faking kid again because she hadn’t realised she had this kind of depth of feeling bubbling away in some forgotten corner of her heart for all these years. Judging by the surprised edge to Quinn’s happy laugh in return, she hadn’t either.

Tina knows they’ll probably have sex tonight, isn’t blind to the chemistry between them or the way Quinn’s breath changes when they press close together or to her own desire for it to happen. She knows neither of them are particularly gentle with sex (although the idea of drawing it out slow over the night makes her stomach clench with heat and that’s one she saves for later), knows this gentle moment on the dancefloor won’t last forever. They have jobs and responsibilities, have whatever’s unresolved with Mike and whatever baggage Quinn no doubt carries with her, have occasionally abrasive personalities and bouts of bitterness that are sure to clash at some point.

Both of them are planners and Tina knows that if they do this, if they really do this, the uncertainties will weigh on both of them until they can be sorted. But for now it feels steady as anything. Tina lets Quinn sway with her, close and warm and both of them finally on the way to something, at the beginning of resolution, while the music plays and the lights twinkle overhead and the wedding comes to a close around them.