#suspenseful

[phoenixqueenwrites]

Oh my god.

I have spent the last few years complaining and bemoaning the fact that no one makes anything anymore. That no one tries. That no one takes a risk or a chance on telling a story. No one.

Mark Fischbach. Markiplier. Thank you, for proving me so very, very wrong.

[chickenuggetsaremything]

In The Silence Of My Yearning

mafia! sukuna x nurse!reader

Series:

Chapter 1 -> HERE

Summary:

He’s a secret. A threat. A storm waiting to break.

And now, he’s in her bed.

In a city that never sleeps, she’s about to discover that saving him might be the most dangerous decision she’s ever made.

==================================================

Chapter 2

I called Cara over, hoping she could help me assess him properly.

She sat beside his bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. The room was dim except for the soft yellow glow of the bedside lamp, casting shadows across his face. She pressed the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against his chest, her expression focused, brows slightly drawn together as she listened.

“I know you love helping people,” she said quietly, her eyes still fixed ahead as she listened to the steady rise and fall of his breathing, “but I did not expect you to help him.”

Her tone wasn’t judgmental — just… surprised.

She shifted the stethoscope lower, listening carefully. The faint sound of his breaths filled the silence between us. Then, after a few seconds, she glanced up at me, one corner of her mouth lifting.

“Although,” she added under her breath, a teasing glint in her eyes, “he is rather handsome, my girl.”

I shot her a look, but she only suppressed a small laugh.

She removed the stethoscope and gently checked the stitching along his side, peeling back the edge of the dressing just enough to inspect it.

“The sutures are holding well,” she murmured. “No active bleeding. Just observe for any signs of infection — redness spreading, swelling, fever. Watch for sepsis symptoms too. Confusion, rapid heart rate, low blood pressure. You know the drill.”

I nodded automatically.

“The medications I’ve written down,” she continued, scribbling on a small notepad, “you can order them first thing in the morning. He’ll need proper antibiotics and pain management.”

She stood, smoothing out her shirt, and gave him one last glance before heading toward the door. I followed her out of the room and gently pulled the door closed behind us, the latch clicking softly in the quiet house.

The kitchen light felt harsh after the dim bedroom. I leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly.

Suddenly, Cara spun around and flicked my forehead.

“Ow!” I hissed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped, running a frustrated hand through her hair. “Why would you bring a complete stranger into your home?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried urgency — sharp and protective.

“Have you gone insane?” she continued, pacing slightly now. “This guy could be from a syndicate or something. I literally read about crime groups operating around here — it’s a big problem at the moment. You don’t know who he is.”

She gestured vaguely toward the hallway.

“And with those tattoos? He looks like he could be involved in something.”

I just stood there, arms loosely at my sides, staring at her. No expression. No defence.

“I didn’t want to leave him there,” I said quietly after a moment. “He looked awful.”

There was a beat of silence.

Her shoulders dropped slightly, the anger softening into concern.

She shook her head. “You are unbelievable,” she muttered, but her tone had lost its edge. She grabbed her bag from the chair near the door. “It’s midnight. I need sleep. But listen to me.”

She stepped closer, her expression serious now.

“Call me if anything happens. I don’t care what time it is. Don’t hesitate. I’m your best friend — it’s my job to look out for you.” She sighed. “You are way too innocent for this world.”

I smiled faintly.

“Bye, Cara. I love you.”

I wrapped my arms around her tightly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. She hugged me back just as firmly.

“Love you too,” she replied softly.

She stepped out into the cool night air. I closed the door behind her and locked it, the click echoing louder than it should have.

Drawn by instinct, I walked to the living room window and gently pulled the curtain aside.

The street outside was quiet — eerily still. The orange glow of the streetlights bathed the pavement in a dull haze. I watched as Cara hurried to her car, glancing back once before unlocking it. She hesitated for a second, as if debating whether to come back inside.

Then she got in.

Her headlights flicked on, briefly illuminating the front of my house. The engine started, breaking the silence, and she slowly drove off down the empty street. I stood there until her car disappeared around the corner, until the sound of it faded completely.

The house felt different now.

Quieter.

Heavier.

Behind me, down the hallway, the faint sound of his breathing reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

And suddenly, for the first time that night, the weight of what I had done settled into my chest.

The silence stretched after Cara left.

I let the curtain fall back into place and stood there for a long moment, my fingers brushing against the soft fabric. Outside, the street lay empty, quiet except for the distant hum of a passing car. The orange glow of the streetlights painted everything in a muted haze, softening the edges of the world but also making it feel unreal, like I was watching a scene I didn’t belong in.

When Cara’s car disappeared around the corner, the quiet deepened, settling over the house like a weight.

I had brought him here.

Into my house.

And into my bedroom.

I turned slowly and walked down the hallway, each step careful, almost hesitant. The soft carpet muffled my movements, yet the silence made every shift of my weight feel loud. My bedroom door was slightly ajar. Warm light spilled out, brushing the dark hallway with a thin slice of familiarity.

But as I approached, it didn’t feel like my room anymore.

It felt like someone else’s territory.

Someone dangerous was resting in the space I had always claimed as mine.

I pushed the door open gently, trying not to disturb the quiet.

He was lying in my bed.

His frame was large, stretching across the mattress, the blankets pulled low around his waist so they wouldn’t press against the stitching on his side. My pillows were tucked carefully behind his head, propping him up just enough. The faint scent of my shampoo and clean laundry mingled oddly with antiseptic and the metallic tang of dried blood lingering in the air.

It smelled like him, and my room, and danger all at once.

It felt… personal.

I hesitated at the threshold, my eyes sweeping over him. Without the immediate panic of the alley, without the adrenaline of a gun pressed to my forehead, he looked almost peaceful.

His chest rose and fell steadily. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead. The hard lines of his jaw softened in sleep, though his tattoos — dark, intricate, deliberate — stood out starkly under the bedside light.

I checked for any signs of change again — subtle shifts in his breathing, twitching fingers, any hint that he might wake — before I finally stepped back.

Tonight, I couldn’t sleep in my own bed.

I would sleep on the couch instead. Quietly. Carefully. Hopefully, without stirring him.

Tomorrow, I would sort out his medications. Arrange everything properly. Figure out what to do next.

Before I left the room, I took one last look over my shoulder. His chest rose and fell in the dim light, steady and unbroken. The blankets barely moved over the stitching beneath them.

I silently hoped that my presence wouldn’t provoke him.

That I wouldn’t wake to any sudden movement.

Or any threat.

My heart beat faster at the thought.

But nothing stirred.

Not yet.

I exhaled slowly and whispered to myself, almost like a prayer.

“Please… let him stay asleep.”

A nervous laugh nearly escaped me, but it caught in my throat.

“I really hope I don’t die tonight.”

And with that, I tiptoed out, closing the door softly behind me and leaving him in the shadows of my room.

The Next Day…

Sukuna POV

I woke to a deep throbbing in my abdomen and a dull ache splitting through my head.

My eyes twitched before I could fully open them. The room swam into focus slowly — unfamiliar walls, an unfamiliar ceiling.

Then it hit me.

The girl.

She had tried to help me.

I had threatened her.

And then… I passed out.

She must have brought me here.

Her house.

The air still felt like her somehow — faint traces of perfume, laundry detergent, and something warm, sweet, and clean. My gaze drifted around the room. Photographs lined a shelf near the window. She stood in each of them with family, with friends, smiling wide, eyes bright.

She looked… reserved and happy.

Normal.

A life untouched by whatever darkness was chasing me.

A sharp pulse of panic shot through my chest.

I needed to leave.

Now.

I forced my body to move, pushing myself up on my elbows. Pain tore through me like something ripping open from the inside. A strained breath escaped my throat. My muscles trembled, weak and uncooperative.

I couldn’t stand.

Not yet.

But I didn’t have time.

They’d be looking for me.

If they weren’t already.

Grinding my teeth, I scanned the room. My vision blurred for a second before steadying. There had to be a phone somewhere.

I needed to call Uraume.

He had to know where I was.

Before it was too late.

Suddenly, something warm and sweet drifted in from outside the room.

It wrapped around me before I could place it — buttery, faintly smoky, touched with vanilla. Beneath it, soft and steady, a humming floated through the air.

It had to be her.

I stilled, every muscle going rigid. The hum wasn’t random. It carried rhythm — a tune I half-recognised, brushing against memory but never quite settling.

It grew closer.

Clearer.

Footsteps.

My pulse quickened.

The doorknob turned.

The door opened slowly, and she stepped inside — the girl from last night. Morning light followed her in, catching in her hair. She carried a small tray, steam curling gently from a bowl.

Soup.

She looked… calm.

Like I hadn’t threatened her.

Like I wasn’t someone dangerous lying in her bed.

She offered a small, careful smile.

“You must be hungry,” she said softly. “And probably parched.”

Her voice was softer than I remembered.

I stared at her, confusion tightening my chest.

Why wasn’t she afraid?

Why was she helping me?

I didn’t trust it.

“I—” My throat felt raw, like I’d swallowed sand. “Why are you doing this?”

My eyes flicked to the door behind her. Was it locked? Had she called someone? Was this a trap?

She stepped further into the room, nudging the door shut with her foot, still humming faintly under her breath as if nothing about this was strange.

As if I hadn’t woken up in the house of a girl I had threatened.

As if she wasn’t taking care of me.

She placed the tray on the bedside table, her movements unhurried, almost deliberately gentle. The humming faded as she settled into the chair beside the bed.

“I figured you’d wake up disoriented,” she said quietly. “You were burning up last night. Dehydrated. And… well, bleeding.”

My jaw tightened.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here.”

Her brows lifted, not in fear — in mild annoyance.

“Right. I should’ve left you unconscious in an alley with a stab wound. That would’ve been the smart choice.”

I blinked at her.

The sarcasm was unexpected.

Sharp. Warm. Human.

She sighed, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

“Look… you were scared. Hurt. People say stupid things when they’re scared.” Her gaze flicked to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not holding it against you.”

I didn’t know what to do with that.

Forgiveness wasn’t something I encountered often.

Not without a price.

My fingers curled into the blanket.

“You don’t know who I am.”

“True.” She leaned back slightly, studying me. “But I know what I saw. Someone in pain. Someone who didn’t want to be alone.”

A muscle in my throat jumped.

I looked away.

She reached for the bowl, lifting it carefully.

“It’s just broth. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

My stomach twisted — hunger and suspicion tangled together.

“Why are you being kind to me?”

She hesitated, then shrugged lightly.

“Because someone should be.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than any threat.

I swallowed, my voice rough.

“You don’t understand. I can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

“For you?” she asked.

“For you.”

Her expression softened, but not with fear — with something like quiet resolve.

“Then we’ll be careful.”

“We?” The word scraped out of me before I could stop it.

She didn’t flinch.

“You’re hurt. You can barely sit up. Whoever you’re running from — you won’t get far like this.”

I stiffened.

“I’m not dragging you into this.”

“You already did,” she said gently. “Last night.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and fragile.

She set the bowl back down and stood, moving toward the window. Morning light spilled across her shoulders as she pulled the curtain slightly aside, scanning the street below with surprising caution.

Not naïve, then.

Not oblivious.

She turned back to me.

“No one’s out there. No one followed you.”

My pulse thudded unevenly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re safe for the moment,” she said. “And I know you need rest. After that… we’ll figure out what comes next.”

We.

The word lodged in my chest again, unfamiliar and dangerous.

I should’ve pushed back. I should’ve warned her again. I should’ve told her to run, to forget she ever saw me.

But instead, I watched her — the way she stood in her own space, steady and unafraid, offering warmth to someone who didn’t deserve it.

And for the first time in a long time, the panic in my chest loosened.

Just a little.

She stepped closer, her voice softer now.

“Let me help you.”

I exhaled slowly.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But I’m asking anyway.”

Her eyes held mine, unwavering.

And I realised leaving might not be as simple as I thought.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said, my voice rough. “I stay here for one more day. That’s it.”

She looked at me, her expression clouded with disbelief, then tilted her head slightly.

“No,” she replied. “I don’t accept that.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Then what do you want?”

“How about until you’re well enough to walk?” she asked. “Until you’re rested enough to leave without collapsing in the hallway.”

I stared at her.

At this point, there was no use arguing. My body was weak, my head was pounding, and every breath pulled at the stitches in my side.

With tired, unfocused eyes, I gave her a small nod.

Her smile lifted gently, and she nodded back.

“Thank you,” she said calmly.

I looked away, jaw tight.

“You’re too trusting.”

“And you’re too stubborn.”

A faint breath escaped me. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it came close.

She reached for the bowl again and held it carefully between her hands.

“You’ll be walking in no time,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

I only watched her, the girl who should have been afraid of me, standing in the morning light with soup in her hands and no sense of self-preservation.

And for some reason, that scared me more than anything outside.

[rosalyn51]

DCI Carl Morck [Matthew GoodE] is a brilliant cop but terrible colleague. His razor-sharp sarcasm has made him no friends in Edinburgh police. After a shooting leaves a young pc dead, and his partner paralysed, he finds himself exiled to the basement & sole member of Department Q; a newly formed cold case unit. The department is a PR stunt, there to distract the public from the failures of an under-resourced, failing police force that is glad to see the back of him. But more by accident than design, Carl starts to build a gang of waifs & strays who have everything to prove. So, when the stone-cold trail of a prominent civil servant who disappeared several years ago starts to heat up, Carl is back doing what he does best - rattling cages and refusing to take no for an answer. Dept. Q is a series created and written and directed by American writer / filmmaker Scott Frank, screenwriter of Out of Sight, Minority Report, The Interpreter, The Lookout, Marley & Me, The Wolverine, Logan; and creator of "The Queen's Gambit" & "Monsieur Spade" series. Written by Stephen Greenhorn, Colette Kane, & Chandni Lakhani. Adapted from the novels written by Jussi Adler-Olsen. With episodes directed by Scott Frank. Made by Flitcraft and Left Bank Pictures. Exec produced by Rob Bullock, Scott Frank, & Andy Harries. Netflix debuts Frank's Dept. Q streaming on Netflix starting May 29th, 2025.*

*Just in time to qualify for Emmy nominations : )

Photo: Netflix

[evilhorse]

He’ll keep ‘em all in suspense till the last second

(Justice League America #47)

[pinkaasbandss]

Bobs Burgers Pilot But Black

Imagine a book or movie where a black man is working at a restaurant and he has to use a meat grinder. The restaurant is ran by white people and he does everything in his power to stay in the bosses good graces. He tells on the other black employees and covers up for the white ones. Eventually, the boss notices him and he starts talking about promoting him. But first he confesses a secret about the meat. It's black people. This is a shock to the man. He thinks it's a joke... Until the boss starts telling him that if he brings in meat for the business he can live as lavishly as the boss. Designer, jewelry, anything the man wants as long as he does this one thing. The man is a vegetarian. Hating pork chops, fried chicken, and ribs. He thinks that the things his family eats are disgusting. He only works at this restaurant to save money. Suddenly it hits him, he too is black. Now he's scared. This is obviously a crazy ask. He doesn't even like meat. Why would he even think of doing this? What if he gets killed and turned into meat too? The boss assures him. He's been watching. He has noticed how the man acts towards his fellow employees. Like he's better. Like he's not connected to them in anyway. The boss tells the man he's different and that he sees himself in him, and that he could never be used as meat. But, his peers can. He recruits the man to get meat for him. At first the man is unnerved. He can't kill anyone. However, the promises of riches does pique his interests. The next day, a new employee comes in. They are new to the town and have no family. They try to make friends with the man and asks him out to dinner. The man is still in a haze from what his boss told him so he accidentally agrees. Upset with his accidental plans he remembers what his boss told him. He decides to go. While at dinner with the new employee he starts to rethink his decision...

10 likes for a part two

[andreai04]

It was a reminder of the fact, which no scientist should ever forget, that human senses perceived only a tiny, distorted picture of the Universe. Tom Lawson had never heard of Plato's analogy of the chained prisoners in the cave, watching shadows cast upon a wall and trying to deduce from them the realities of the external world. But here was a demonstration that Plato would have appreciated; for which Earth was 'real'—the perfect crescent visible to the eye, the tattered mushroom glowing in the far infra-red—or neither?

[eampro-blog]

Elegant Superior Private Eye 2 (AI Art)