#*qot

[trendingdrama]

" All I wanted was to go home with you. "

QUEEN OF TEARS 눈물의 여왕 (2024)

[wolha]

QUEEN OF TEARS 눈물의 여왕 2024, dir. Kim Hee-Won, Jang Young-Woo

[huagiaduan]

Cuộc sống không như ý cậu, mình khiến cậu vừa ý; vận may không ở gần cậu, mình ở cạnh cậu.

生活不如你意，我如你意；好运不在你身边，我在你身边。

[lovenonymously]

1527

I didn’t care about either of them. Until now.

This is one of those stories where the more you think about it, the worse it gets. The more you read, the more details surface, the more you realize how much was hidden in plain sight.

And now, a month after her death, the weight of it is finally settling in.

For years, this man was untouchable. His image, pristine. A career so carefully crafted that even now, even after the internet exploded with these allegations, Korean media is barely touching it.

Silence. Hesitation. The kind that only comes when you’re dealing with someone so high up, so protected, that no one dares to challenge him.

And the worst part? A lot of people still don’t care. They think it’s another scandal, another tabloid story. They don’t see the pattern. He can't be blamed alone for her death, they say.

But this isn’t just about him.

The playbook never changes.

A young girl, a powerful man. More then a relationship between a minor and a grown adult, he was also her boss.

The imbalance of it all. The way these stories always follow the same trajectory—an older man picks a teenage girl, keeps her close, isolates her, makes her dependent, and then discards her the moment she becomes an adult, the moment she starts to have her own thoughts, her own independence.

She drinks to cope. Crashes. The world turns on her.

Now she’s the villain. She’s the cautionary tale.

He? He moves on. The industry protects him. The public defends him. People say, "Well, she was an adult when they broke up." Ignoring the fact that he got to shape her entire adolescence. Ignoring the fact that by the time she was "an adult," she had already been broken down in ways most people don’t recover from.

Why didn't she expose him?

That’s the question everyone keeps circling back to.

But that’s not the real question. The real question is: Why did she have to fight this battle alone?

She had the proof. The texts, the photos, the letters, the witnesses. If she really wanted revenge, she could’ve posted everything. But she didn’t. And that tells you everything you need to know.

She could have still had hope. That she will pick up her pieces. That one day, she would look at his photo and wonder "who was that again?" People without hope don't change their names or try to make a comeback in a play or have plans to open a café.

It also means she still thought, on some level, that keeping his secrets was worth something. That her silence would be repaid in kindness.

And maybe, deep down, it means she knew the truth: Even with all the evidence in the world, we, the people, still wouldn’t believe her.

We never had anyway.

The silence is the loudest part.

This is what gets me. Not just the details of their relationship, not just the fact that his agency sent debt collecting letters to her while making sure exactly why she couldn’t pay.

What gets me is the silence.

Her death on his birthday and the pictures of them together speak LOT LOUDER than her words ever could have.

Maybe she knew this. It break my heart...

Yet, will this change anything?

Korean media is barely touching it.

His agency is scrambling but saying nothing of substance.

People are defending him out of reflex because "he was so young too" (he was 27) or because "she should have said no, she consented" (gee, I wonder why children need guardians) or "her family should have stopped the relationship" (y'all have never dealt with lovebombing narcissists and it shows.)

And even now, the people with power are waiting. Waiting to see if they can let this pass.

And if they can, they will.

They’ll bury it. They’ll rewrite the narrative. They’ll let time do its thing, because they know the public has the attention span of a goldfish, and in a few months, some other scandal will come along, someone else will die, and people will forget.

That’s what always happens.

So why do I care so much?

I keep wondering this. I don’t follow celebrity gossip. I don’t usually get invested in these stories.

But this one got under my skin.

Maybe because I remember seeing that photo last year and brushing it off. Maybe because I know exactly how easy it is for a powerful man to get away with this. Maybe because deep down, I feel caught off-guard to realise that this is the best example of how celebrities are humans too. Good and bad.

I didn’t care about either of them.

And now, I can’t look away.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 9

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or: A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

Happy New Year!

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

Two hours.

It was barely any time at all.

And that was assuming the High Lord didn't cut his meeting short out of sheer impatience.

Feyre sprinted back to the apartment, gritting her teeth against the protests of her aching body. She was sore everywhere, and each slapping step against the cobblestone seemed to lodge a new pain forward—a kink in her neck, a stab in her abdomen, a sharp twinge between her legs. The stone was smooth beneath her feet, but in her mind she pictured she was running over fractured glass, where every stride revealed a new reflection of the ways the High Lord had touched her. Claimed her.

As fast as she pushed her legs, she couldn't outrun the memories. Her mind was fixed on Rhysand's expression in that final, scorching look he'd given before he'd left. Rest. You'll need it when I'm back.

She'd been starving enough times in her life to recognize that kind of hunger. Unfulfilled, it was dangerous. Unpredictable. Her stomach swooped at the thought of what he might do when he returned to see she was gone. Would he check to see if she'd taken anything? Had she remembered to shut his bedside drawer?

Around her, High Fae meandered the pale stone streets, dressed in long coats to ward off the crisp air. During this time of year, when Velaris straddled autumn and winter, it was always the wind that had the final say in the weather. Today, it blew in from the east, carrying the cold of the Illyrian Steppes with it.

Nights were warmer when the wind blew in from the west. Feyre had spent many winter mornings praying that the winds would carry warmer weather, but on this night she was grateful. Even as the air gnawed at her nose and fingertips, she considered it a good omen.

Feyre ran faster. Until her throat was bloodied and her muscles screamed. City-goers scrambled out of her way, some shooting her filthy looks that became blurs of color as she darted past.

Her sisters were already waiting outside the confectionery, their bags packed, eyes scanning the streets. Nesta visibly relaxed when she saw Feyre coming.

"You're late."

Nesta's tone, accompanied by her withering stare, was sharp enough to cut a grown male to their knees. Feyre had seen it happen enough times during their years in the tavern. Even when they were swaying on their feet, the drunken males knew almost instinctively to give Nesta, and Elain by proximity, a wide berth.

The death stare had long lost its luster on Feyre, however. She knew her sister, and though Nesta fought to keep her body rigid, her eyes still darted warily over Feyre's shoulder—checking to see if anyone was following.

"I know." Feyre winced. "I had to add extra time to our bargain."

"Why?" Nesta demanded, extending Feyre's bag as she skidded to a halt in front of them. "Did he suspect something?"

Before Feyre could say anything, Nesta's eyes narrowed on her throat. Feyre didn't have to look down to confirm what her sister noticed. Though she'd stolen one of the High Lord's coats to cover the love-bites on her exposed shoulders and stomach, there wasn't much she could do to hide the marks on her neck.

Rhysand was nothing if not thorough.

"No," Feyre said, feigning indifference as she took the bag from Nesta and slung it over her shoulder.

"You're certain?" Nesta pressed.

As clearly as if she was standing before his portrait, Feyre could picture the High Lord the way the rumors painted him. The way her sisters imagined him. Some dark, imposing figure with stern features and a power honed to near-omnipotence. Outwitting an opponent like that felt impossible.

But she felt that she could smear her thumb over that image to find a second, softer portrait beneath. One that offered a hesitant smile and sounded sincere when he told her, I'd like for you to stay. He'd left her in that bedroom expecting—or perhaps, simply hoping—she would be there when he returned. That wasn't the kind of vulnerability a person would show to a suspected thief.

She felt a pang of guilt pinching her chest, which worsened as she reflected on the moments she swore she'd caught him looking at her with genuine fondness. But fondness didn't equate to much, in the scheme of things. Feyre had seen the Tavernkeeper affectionately pat the hides of pigs before he butchered them in the kitchen and served them for dinner.

It was better this way. There wasn't room for someone like Feyre in a High Lord's life. Not for anything larger than being his novel plaything—a diversion to soothe his unchecked boredom and dust off a treasury too large to fathom.

It was painful to share those thoughts out loud, though. More painful, still, to examine why.

Feyre only nodded.

"Good." Nesta fastened her own pack across her shoulder, tight enough to stay secure if they needed to run. "Then let's get out of the city before he realizes."

Feyre glanced at Elain, who clutched her small satchel close and offered a determined nod of agreement. It was almost pathetic how easy it was to pack up their lives. Anything they had of value fit into one bag each, and it wasn't much. A few new sets of clothes, which would come in handy for the journey, and a handful of sentimental trinkets. What few of them they hadn't pawned off for coin.

"You're certain you don't want to bring your cards?" Elain asked, glancing towards the window above, where Feyre had left them when she'd packed her things the day before.

Feyre shook her head. "I'm certain."

Rhysand would find them when he undoubtedly came looking. They were worthless, and would probably be trivial to him, but she couldn't resist that final way of saying goodbye. To the High Lord, and to a life she'd never truly asked for.

Wherever she ended up after this, Feyre didn't want to be known as a witch or a thief. She wanted a fresh start, and had two diamond cuffs around her wrists that would help her get there.

"Let's go," she said, guiding them back into the crowd.

They didn't run. It wasn't worth the attention it would draw. But their pace was quick, sufficient in roughening their breathing by the time they reached the boathouse.

It was run-down, like many buildings along the docks. The green-stained, mossy overgrowth on the stones caused most onlooker attention to glaze right over the entrance, despite its attractive spires and archways. Though big enough to house one of the cargo ships docked outside the harbor, at present the structure was filled with small utility boats, flipped upside down with oars strapped to their sides. One such boat was floating in the small bay of water in the center of the boathouse, tied up beside a ladder.

Feyre frowned, searching through the dark, dripping space for its owner.

Behind her, Elain yelped.

Before Feyre could react, a gloved hand reached out through the shadows, snapping Feyre around the wrist.

"Did you bring it?"

The quiet cold of that voice licked down her spine.

She shook his grip away, whirling to glare at the sliver of High Fae features visible through the mask and hood. He kept to the darkness, which swelled over him like a cresting wave. Through it, she spied narrowed hazel eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes. Black hair curled against his forehead under the hood, though he quickly lowered his face when he saw her looking, preventing Feyre from studying him any closer.

Still, he was familiar. In a way that made her stomach churn.

"Here," she said, retrieving the velvet box from her pocket to extend it towards him. "It deserves to be buried with your wife."

It was like blinking, how quickly he moved. One second, the box was in her palm, and the next it was gone, swallowed by shadow.

"Thank you."

He didn't sound moved. Not in the way she would expect from the sob story she was given. And he didn't check the ring, either, to make sure she'd found the right one.

An oily feeling settled over her. She'd suspected it was a lie from the moment he'd told her the story. But what did she care why he needed the ring? What mattered was that he held up his end of the promise—and that was part of an unbreakable bargain.

She looked at him expectantly. "And the ship?"

The male nodded towards the front of the boathouse, where it opened to the sea. Docked beyond the harbor, she could see the mast of a great ship, nearly as large the merchant vessels her father used to sail. Its mainsail was furled tightly in the mast, waiting to be loosed and filled with the Illyrian winds that would send it westward.

"That one's set to embark in the hour. The captain promised discretion for a steep fee. You three get to stay in the hold for any inspections."

"Great," Nesta said dryly.

Feyre ignored her. It was going to be a long journey, even with the winds at their advantage.

"Thank you," she told the masked male.

He only shrugged, gesturing toward the small tied up boat. "Better get rowing."

They'd made it all of three steps before he called out to her.

"I'm curious. How did you manage to take this from him?"

Feyre paused. She turned back to the male, studying what limited features she could see through the thicket of shadow. "How did you know it would be in his bedside drawer?"

"Lucky guess."

"Feyre," Nesta warned, pulling at her elbow. "Let's go."

But she couldn't. The compulsion for knowing was too strong, and before she could check herself, she was already drawing the bowstring of her mental arrow and spearing it towards the stranger, one after the other.

Tell me who you are.

Tell me what you know.

Tell me if you're going to hurt him.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Like firing shots into a metal post, each pulse of her magic repelled off the surface of his mind, unable to find a hold.

All fae had an innate mental shield. Some possessed stronger shields than others, depending on a person's power and species and, she suspected, intelligence. But she'd never encountered a shield she couldn't penetrate with a little bit of force.

Until she'd met Rhysand.

The masked fae held her stare, his eyes brighter than they'd been moments ago, as if amused. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine."

She had a feeling if she yanked down the mask, she'd find the makings of a dangerous smile.

They needed to leave. Now. Rhys would be finished with his meeting soon, and she didn't want to risk being halfway between the shore and the ship when he came looking. She also had a curdling suspicion the male in front of her would be selling them out the second they left the shore.

Feyre angled her head in feigned innocence. "Would you believe he gave it to me out of the kindness of his heart?"

"Maybe if you'd asked for it nicely, Feyre."

It wasn't the masked male who spoke. This voice was richer, smoother. Like a cup of melted chocolate. The sound of it turned her blood to ice.

"Though, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that stealing from a High Lord is a capital offense."

Her heart was a tempest, thundering against her chest. Part of her was too petrified to look over her shoulder to confirm who she already knew was standing there. Instead, Ferye looked to her sisters, validating the worst of her fears in their expressions alone. Elain was staring toward the front of the boathouse in unmasked horror. And Nesta—fierce, unruly Nesta—stared with an expression of unflinching stone, hard enough to endure the sharpest blade.

It was her eldest sister's courage that gave Feyre the strength to look.

Her eyes met cold, blackened violet. Just like the day she'd met him, the day she'd witnessed the type of punishment he doled to those who dared steal from him, she could feel his anger radiating, plummeting the temperature of the boathouse. She could see her next breath peel from her lips. It was potentially her last.

Pinned by that gaze, Feyre's mind went spinning at breakneck speeds, mentally sorting through every fraction of knowledge that could help her recalculate their plan:

She knew the Archerons were fighters. Even Elain. Especially Elain. If Feyre took a stand, they would fight beside her to their own detriment, clawing and thrashing until the bitter end;

Rhysand was a proud male, and she'd wounded his ego twice over by stealing from him and snubbing the chance to warm his bed;

And if they tried to run, there was no chance that all three of them were escaping.

So she made a snap decision, the same kind that brought her into this mess in the first place.

She stepped closer to Rhysand, placing herself deliberately between him and her sisters.

Unlike the masked male—who had vanished at the High Lord's arrival—Rhysand didn't shy from the light. He stepped into the sun shaft pouring in from the front of the boathouse, basking in it. Demanding she look upon him to answer for what she'd done. Feyre couldn't help but marvel how someone could be flooded in sunlight and seem colder for it. Like the warmth and brightness emphasized all of his darker elements, his hair and clothes a black contrast against the glowing sky.

"Stealing?" Feyre echoed. "I'm not sure what you mean, High Lord. How can it be stealing if it never belonged to you in the first place?"

"Is that what you were told?"

Rhysand's gaze shifted toward the wall where the masked man had been standing. The fact that Rhys wasn't chasing after him lent merit to her suspicion that this had all been an elaborate trap.

Feyre crossed her arms. "I was told," she said, subtly maneuvering her fingers towards the clasp of her bracelets. "That the High Lord once stole a female from her home. That the ring in that box was once her wedding ring. And you kept it when she died."

"All true, I suppose."

The amusement in his voice sickened her.

"So that really was her husband?" She demanded. "You truly refused to give it back to him?"

Rhys barked a laugh. "Now that, Feyre, is where I feared you've been lied to."

It didn't matter what the truth was. The diamond bracelets were loosened around her wrist. She quickly shoved them behind her back, directing one to Elain and the other to Nesta.

Take them, she urged in their minds. And run. Don't stay together, you'll be easier to catch.

Feyre's hope was that Rhys would focus solely on her, and that by the time he remembered they existed, they'd already be gone.

On my signal, she told them.

"Was this all something you orchestrated?" She asked him. "Some sort of test of loyalty?"

"I suspected there was a reason behind your sudden change in heart. But no, Feyre, I didn't plan for you to steal from me and—what was your plan, exactly? Get on that little row boat and go where?"

Feyre shrugged. "Anywhere but here."

Rhysand's lips pulled back at that answer, flashing his teeth. The blatant display of anger shocked her—even with the sailors, he'd kept his expression neutral. Indifferent. He had to be in a truly terrific mood to let his emotions show this much.

Feyre would ponder at it later, how her dislike of Velaris had coaxed such a strong reaction from him. Did he really think his precious city was so perfect that no one would ever want to leave? Or was it simply one insult too many for a High Lord's supreme, immortal patience?

Either way, she saw her opening.

Go, she urged her sisters.

That was the only prompting needed. Each of them took off in separate directions. Feyre cut the path closest Rhys, hoping he would take the bait and dismiss Nesta and Elain entirely.

As she darted past, a talon scraped her mind, trying to find a hook.

Don't run from me, Rhys cautioned. It will only make me excited for the chase.

Feyre scoffed. Don't you have better things to do?

I did. Imagine my surprise when I came home and found those 'better things' had run off with one of my precious belongings.

He was trying to distract her, but he could try all he liked. Feyre knew these streets. She could trace them in the dark because she had, more nights than she could count. When the attic was too cramped and the tavern was too raucous, she'd walk along the docks and listen to the ocean slap against the harbor.

Rhysand might have been High Lord, this might have been his city. But he wasn't raised by it.

Wooden boards creaked and groaned under her feet as she sped to the other end of the boathouse, hoping he would follow her out and give chase through the harbor. With the sun settling behind the horizon, the fishermen would be coming in to peddle the day's catch. It would be crowded enough to lose him.

There were no thunderous footsteps at her back, causing her to wonder if he was even following, or if she looked half-mad dodging barrels and leaping over fishing nets for the fun of it.

She didn't slow until she'd elbowed her way into the center of the fish market. A glance over her shoulder didn't show any sign of him, only errant market goers balancing baskets on their arms and fishermen carting barrels of their latest catch, some of the fish still twitching.

If would be a fitting end for Rhys to catch her here. When he was done, he could toss her atop one of the barrels and she would blend right in among those hollow eyes and gaping mouths.

That was, if he even bothered chasing her. If he didn't choose to pursue her sisters instead, thinking they were the easier prey and knowing Feyre would trade anything for their well-being.

Because she needed to know that they were safe, she cast her magic in a wide net, hoping he would hear her taunt.

Won't your people think it's strange to see you chasing someone through the street?

Only if they notice, came his immediate response. Try not to make a scene, will you? Bad press for the both of us.

It was impossible to gauge his distance. In their minds, he sounded close, like he was whispering in Feyre's ear, but she was being vigilant in keeping her head on a swivel. She knew he wasn't anywhere in eyesight.

Feyre edged her way to the end of the dock. She could veer off here, take one of the alleyways back into the city center, but that was where Rhys would be expecting her to go. It would be a quieter place for a confrontation, less likely to end up in the papers.

But it was either that, or double back the direction she'd come.

Or… she could swim.

If he wasted enough time scouting the docks and alleyways, she could probably get decently far. Make camp on a quiet shore, then regroup with her sisters and catch a ship out in the morning.

Feyre took one last cursory glance around the marketplace, searching for violet eyes or a general whiff of self-inflated arrogance. When she was certain he wasn't here, she took a deep breath and dived into the ocean.

All at once, the chatter of the market went silent.

She always appreciated that about the ocean. The calm. All she could hear were the air bubbles whooshing from her nose and the rhythmic strike of the waves lapping at the harbor. Everything moved slower underwater, floating so delicately, so compliant to the will of the current.

Feyre had never been very good at letting something else take control. She wondered if it would be peaceful, the way the seaweed rippled to and fro at the ocean bed. Or like the buoy, oscillating slowly with the tide, content in its role of directing mariners in and out of the harbor.

There was something in her, and it was no small part, that longed to stop. To float. To see where the current would take her, so that the weight of survival could rest on something else for a change. But then she thought of those dead-eyed fish in the marketplace. And she started swimming against the current.

She stayed under water as long as she could, until her lungs began to squeeze, demanding she surface for air. She fought that, too, until her throat was on fire and black spots plagued her vision.

Only then, did she swim to the surface, gasping for air and praying she was far enough not to be spotted from the docks. The chatter of the market was dulled to a distant hum, replaced by the squawking gulls overhead. Their shadows swooped past as they scouted for food.

Having a nice swim, darling?

She gasped, whipping her head back towards the docks. It was too far away to make out any person in detail. Could he really see her at that distance?

Do be careful. You can never be too certain what's lurking below the surface.

A dark shape swooped down overhead. One of the gulls, she thought at first, diving for a fish.

She didn't remember that the High Lord Had wings, and that those wings could fly, until she realized the shadow was becoming much too large for a bird. And when she looked up, she saw large, membranous wings and the face of an avenging angel, come to deliver the wrath of the gods.

Panicked, Feyre was about to duck her head back under the surface when a cold, icy touch slithered around her ankle and yanked, dragging her under with an abrupt shriek. Water flooded her mouth and nose, gagging her as she went down, down, down.

Let go of me! She thought, clawing above her head to resist the pull, thrashing her feet to try to break loose.

Me? Rhysand's croon held an air of derision. I'm not touching you, Feyre.

Magic counts.

You should be more careful with your words then. How else am I meant to take them at their true value?

Feyre curled back her lips, baring her teeth into the vast darkness. So this is how you intend to punish me then? Drowning?

There were worse ways to die, she supposed. Better ways, too.

Her lungs were starting to burn, seizing as if constricted by a flaming fist. Black spots dotted her vision, blending with the dark water so seamlessly that at first she didn't notice the rippling darkness.

Not until the High Lord formed from the shadows, violet eyes glowing in the dim light. His smile was cruel as he watched her helpless writhing.

Punishment? Rhys thumbed her chin, drifting closer until their lips were inches apart. Not necessarily. How this goes is up to you.

Feyre would blame her disoriented mind on the lack of breath. It was making her dizzy and vulnerable to absurd thinking, like how warm his body would be if she pressed closer. If these were her last, precious seconds, they might as well be pleasant.

She arched into him, thoughtless, impulsive. A procession of bubbles escaped Rhysand's lips in what she imagined to be mocking laughter as he pulled away. Denying her in her final moments.

Not until you make your choice, he said.

Her eyelids were becoming so heavy. She shut them, reveling in the brief reprieve from the sting of saltwater.

Rhys's fingers tightened on her chin, squeezing until she opened her eyes again. Focus.

What? She snapped.

I'm offering a trade. You can drown and join the other thieves at the bottom of the Mother's Cauldron. Or, I'll provide my help and winnow you to the surface.

Help? At least her mind was sound enough to recognize what a ridiculous notion that was. You're the one drowning me.

You're facing the consequences of your own poor judgment. He corrected. But I'll pardon your crime, in exchange for your service.

Feyre focused on the stone grip he held at her chin, channeling the dregs of her fading energy to keep her eyes open, fixed on the unyielding violet before her. Darkness danced in the corners of her vision, but she couldn't be certain if that was Rhysand's magic or her waning senses.

A life debt. That's what he was asking for.

Would he truly kill her if she denied him?

Her lungs were panicking now, thudding against their cage for the sweet release of air. She clenched her teeth, fighting against ancient instinct that begged her to breathe. To ease the sharp, excruciating burn coiling through her throat.

Rhys stroked her cheek. Softly. The way he'd touched her in the early hours of the morning, when the lust and hunger were finally sated and all that was left was the sweet, aching sensation of warmth. Skin against skin. A pulse beneath her lips, a beating chest beneath her fingertips.

Did he remember those gentle moments as he looked into her eyes?

What will it be, Feyre darling? He asked, in that same voice he'd used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

Go to Hell.

Pity, Rhys mused, brushing his thumb along her lower lip. You could be destined for so much more. And you'll trade it all away for your pride.

Feyre knew better. There was no escaping a life debt. With such ill-defined terms, she'd be agreeing to be little more than his slave. Her will, her life, her desires, no longer relevant. She would feel the restraint of that bond for the rest of her life.

At least in Death, she would still belong to herself.

Her resignation must have been obvious, because Rhysand's mask of arrogance faltered. As her vision blurred, she felt those intense eyes studying her, weighing if this was a bluff.

I never expected to see defeat in your eyes, Feyre Archeron.

Giving in to you would be the defeat, she countered.

There was something pensive in the way he lowered his mouth to hers, murmuring, Are you certain?

This was not how Feyre imagined Death.

There were plenty of moments where she'd been hungry enough and cold enough and defeated enough to think it would finally win, but she always managed to evade its covetous touch. She thought it would be cold. The bitter frost of winter, ensnaring her the moment her guard was down, grinning as she wilted and rotted beneath its inescapable grasp.

But this—this was a sweet, soft surrender.

The burning in her lungs wasn't pleasant, but the pain ebbed when Rhysand's lips met hers, parting slowly. She opened for him, knowing it was her last breath and using it in spite of herself.

Her fingers slid into his hair, their soft waves floating and merging with the water. Easy to slip her fingers into and hold onto something for the last time.

She wasn't aware her magic reached for his until his mind parted, and it was like diving into the ocean anew. Somewhere deeper, darker, quieter.

Peaceful.

Feyre shut her eyes, floating in the warm darkness, letting it caress and soothe every fear, every pain.

A voice asked, strained, Is this really what you choose?

Just hold me until it's over, she said.

There was no response, save for the darkness that curled around her, letting her drift in the cradle of its warmth until that, too, slipped away into nothingness.

[minimalistdrama]

QUEEN OF TEARS (2024) Posters

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PINTEREST

[ephemic]

⠀⠀♥︎ ≀ queen of tears (kdrama) icons gifs !!

[gizkasparadise]

today's unpopular opinion is that perfect marriage revenge is a hell of a lot more of an enjoyable watch than either marry my husband or queen of tears i said what i said

[joanyio]

my favorite scene in today’s episode has to be when hyunwoo was going to return the new engagement ring but haein had to reveal she was trying it on, then made an excuse that it’s only to “analyze trends” so he mustn’t misunderstand her intentions. yes, it’s funny and cute. but we see that hyunwoo is getting better at reading haein beyond what she tells him, an improvement from always being an oblivious fool taking every word she says at face value. he understood the subtle i rejected your proposal not because i don’t love you and don’t wanna be with you. and the teasing at the end that he’s not gonna return it so she can always analyze trends whenever she wants? oh im proud of my parents

[dalfurawa]

whenever i hear the line "i wish i could have told you that i was born to love you with all my heart" my heart instantly clenches

because i think of baekhong's intertwined fates, i think of hyunwoo not even knowing he saved the person who's going to be the love of his life from drowning, i think of how haein is his first love and him being hers, i think of him always thinking about haein's comfort because she mentioned to him in passing how her heels were uncomfy, i think of how she told only him about her illness because he's the only person she trusts, i think of hyunwoo bringing haein and her family to his hometown without hesitation to keep them safe despite what he's gone through with them, i think of her agreeing to the divorce even though she felt so hurt and betrayed by it because she doesn't want to see him suffer any longer, i think of how he kept protecting the company because he knew how much she loved it, i think of hyunwoo reaching out to every single hospital he could to find a possible cure for her amidst all that he's doing for the company, i think of haein so willing to die just to not lose her memory of loving hyunwoo and being loved by him, i think of how he's the only person that she doesn't want to forget, i think of how hyunwoo is willing to become a stranger to her just so she could live, i think of him destroying his hand just so he could get to haein and save her, i think of her agreeing to do the surgery despite being so terrified because she saw how miserable he would be if she dies, i think of him taking a bullet for her, and i think about how even without her memories of him, haein still and will always inevitably fall in love with hyunwoo.

i think of how they really were born to love each other will all their might, no matter what happens.

[trendingdrama]

Apparently, I'm cute when I'm drunk. She said that was my special move.

QUEEN OF TEARS 눈물의 여왕 (2024)

[wolha]

KIM JI-WON as HONG HAE-IN QUEEN OF TEARS 눈물의 여왕 — 2024, dir. Kim Hee-Won, Jang Young-Woo

[huagiaduan]

想家时就会去抱抱那个人，也算到家了。

Khi tôi nhớ nhà sẽ đi ôm người đó, cũng xem như là về đến nhà.

[megatraven]

happy pride

[the-lonelybarricade]

Staying in a hotel, thinking I'm finally going to get a chance to get this QOT chapter finished on my lunch break.

Sit down with the doc open and think 'Oh, I'll just quickly grab some water from the refill station right across from my room'.

Briefly wonder if I should put on my boots. Decide that it's not really worth the effort because the water station is literatlly right outside my room. In the same vein, decide not to bring my phone or my wallet. It will take 5 seconds.

Fill up my water. Turn around. Put my key to the door. Red light. LOCKED.

Go down to reception and bashfully explain - WHILE NOT WEARING SHOES - that my key isn't working.

Get a new key, go back to my room, try it again. Red light. LOCKED.

Go back down to reception. They come with me this time with their master key, and again. LOCKED.

Forced to awkwardly sit at the bar in the lobby, no shoes, no wallet, no phone, while they get maintence to unlock the door for me. Come back just in time for the end of my lunch break.

[destructionfang]

maitsu may day 3: dumb little headcanons :D

wears qolden stud earrinqs. takes them out for debate because he thinks nobody would take him seriously if he wears them

qot called "emo" back in middle school for havinq black hair, it's still a sore spot today

doesn't know how a fridqe works, and does not care

is the tarqet for ALL the mosquitoes, like seriously you do not need a repellent just keep damon around

reqularly checks him email and keeps ALL of the emails. even those sent by companies. he doesn't like deletinq them for whatever reason

his hair qets sliqhtly wavy when it's wet