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Miraculous Ladybag Happy Life

Rain dripped from the Paris rooftops like the city itself was crying. Emo Marinette Dupain-Cheng walked with her hood pulled low, black sleeves hiding hands that shook from exhaustion. The streets were nearly empty—too late for tourists, too early for morning. This was the hour she preferred. No smiles to fake. No expectations to meet. Saving Paris was supposed to feel heroic. Tonight, it just felt heavy. Her earrings rested cold against her skin, a reminder of the mask she wore every day. Shadybug. The symbol of hope. The lie she kept alive while everything inside her slowly broke apart. She turned down a narrow alley, hoping the darkness would swallow her thoughts. A boy slumped against the brick wall, knees pulled to his chest, soaked through. His hair hung messily over his eyes, clothes torn and dirty like he’d been dragged through the night itself. A small duffel bag lay open beside him, empty—as if whatever life he had left was already gone. He looked… abandoned. Emo Marinette froze. She should have walked away. Paris wasn’t kind to heroes who lingered too long. But something in her chest twisted painfully. Because she knew that posture. The way his shoulders curved inward, like he was trying to disappear. She stepped closer. “Hey,” she said quietly, her voice almost swallowed by the rain. “Are you… alive?” The boy lifted his head slowly. His eyes were dull—not frightened, not angry—just empty. Like someone who’d already accepted that nothing good was coming. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Unfortunately.” That answer hit harder than it should have. Emo Marinette crouched a few feet away, careful not to scare him. “You shouldn’t sleep here. It’s dangerous.” He let out a weak laugh. “So is everywhere else.” Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. The city hummed in the distance, uncaring. “What’s your name?” she asked. “…Jaden.” She nodded. “I’m Marinette.” He didn’t look impressed. Didn’t look relieved either. Just nodded like names didn’t matter anymore. “Did someone hurt you?” Jaden glanced away. “Dropped me off. Said I’d ‘figure it out.’” His fingers clenched around nothing. “Guess this is me figuring it out.” I tagged this book, come and support me with a thumbs up! https://youtube.com/@nekovyn?si=PH_n2FC-fL5s6R9B
Nihilistzone · 494k Views

Prince Aelor Targaryen Legacy

It was difficult being the son of the most hated man in Westeros. Aelor Targaryen had seen his fair share of death. He'd watched the executions of the Houses Darklyn and Hollard after the Defiance, a fifteen year old squire to Ser Barristan Selmy who'd been forced to stay behind while his mentor scaled the wall of Duskendale and rescued Aelor's father. He'd killed his first man, some hulking brute who smelled like a pig sty and fought like a boar, two years later during the waning hours of the Kingswood Brotherhood, and sent seven more men to their graves before the conflict was finished, earning his knighthood. And he'd seen men burned alive by his father for years now, more men and more situations than Aelor wished to recall. His father's nickname of the Mad King was well earned. But the deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark were… haunting. The smell of the Lord of the North's burning flesh still swirled in his nostrils, just as the sound of the man's son strangling himself as he tried to save his father still rang in his ears. Aelor was no stranger to nightmares, but he knew those deaths would haunt him until the day he died. If they ever find Rhaegar, I'll kill him myself. There are worse things in life than being labeled a kinslayer...... Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please consider supporting me on Patreon. Patrons get access to advance chapters and help make it possible for me to keep writing. You can find me at: patreon.com/ScarletQuillWrites
ScarletQuillWrites · 9.6k Views

I, Voldemort (Self-Insert)

I had a peculiar dream where I found myself in a room, dressed in a robe, holding a wooden stick and directing it towards a lifeless body. My entire body was itching, as if my skin was melting like wax. Internally, it felt like icebergs colliding with each other. The absurdity of the situation overwhelmed me, causing me to burst into laughter. However, the sound that escaped my mouth was so powerful that it almost caused me to faint; it was the kind of laugh any supervillain would trade their soul for. Suddenly, I realized that the voice I heard was not my own, which prompted me to rush to the mirror. To my surprise, the reflection staring back at me did not resemble myself either. Gradually, my body began to transform, becoming less human-like and more unrecognizable. It felt like various pieces were merging together within me. Then, the pain struck. I collapsed to my knees, screaming in agony. But abruptly, the pain vanished after a short while, leaving only a lingering headache. It was in that moment that I understood this was not merely a dream... I am Lord Voldemort! Well, not exactly. My mind was flooded with foreign memories of Tom Riddle, also known as Voldemort, who attempted various methods to achieve immortality and alter his body. Some of these methods did not work well together, such as creating horcruxes and implanting fragments of the Veil of Death into the body. It's possible that a sliver of his soul was ejected and replaced with a random soul, or that my soul merged with the remaining fragment in this body. The outcome was clear: his memories, reflexes, and abilities, combined with my consciousness. This proved to be advantageous as I had full control over the body.
MythosMixer · 1.5k Views