Yuri Comic Novels & Stories

"Do you Mrs Chantel McCarty take Mr Dominic Winfrey as your lawfully wedded husband till death do you apart?" The priest ask the average woman glaring at the man on a retro suit. If look could kill, then Dominic would be unconscious right now. "No, I don't" her replied shocked everyone especially her parents. "As the matter fact, I know nothing about this " she added. The priest eyes was widened like that of a watermelon. "But who cares, I don't have damn right to make my own decision. I'm sure Mr Demonic, oh sorry, I meant to say Dominic, would say Yes, so you should proceed Mr Priest, there's no need for you to ask since you know you can't stop this wedding. Gawd! my foot is killing me" She reach down and took off her heels. When she was done she took a deep breath and smiled to everyone in the hall not noticing Dominic cold glare on her. "Mr Dominic Winf..." "Yes I do" Dominic glared at the Priest who shuddered in fear. Poor him. "I now pro..noun you both a..as Hus..band a..and wife" The priest stammer. The wife was crazy and the husband was scary. ___ Being the most feared and ruthless Billionaire, Dominic Winfrey had a lot of rivals. Due to the pressure from his family to settle down and in order to protect his company from hostile take over, he have no choice but to proposed a marriage to the McCarthy family first daughter. The two families decided to merge for business collaboration. Unfortunately for him, Chantel McCarthy wasn't that type of a submissive woman. In fact she is the opposite of a perfect wife. Soon, series of comic events escalates in between them.

Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | 18+ | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Pace It started with a kiss I don’t remember giving. A rooftop. A moan. Someone’s fingers buried in my hair like they belonged there. A mouth on my throat that said I tasted like something they lost in another life. I wasn’t dreaming. The city was already cracking beneath me. Power grids flickering like dying stars. Tech failing. Screens static. The sky bruising in strange new colors. Everyone said it was coincidence. Collapse. Noise. But I knew better. The moment I felt her breath on my skin — even if I couldn’t see her — I knew the end had already arrived. And I had something to do with it. Ten butterflies followed me after that. Not literal ones. Not always. They shimmered in my periphery. Each the wrong color. Each too vivid. Each drawn to me like heat to blood. They touched me in dreams. They watched me when I undressed. They whispered without words. I could taste their want. Some called me cursed. Broken. Unstable. But the truth is simpler. I’m blooming again — and they all feel it. They don’t love me. They remember me. They remember what I used to be — what I still am, underneath the silence. One of them burned me with just a kiss. One broke my spine with kindness. One slid her hand under my shirt like it was always hers. One cries when she touches me. One never speaks, but her eyes dig. One wants to keep me. One wants to ruin me. And one just wants to finish what we started. They think I’m choosing. I’m not. My body already did. And now the bloom inside me is turning darker.

Crimson Bloomed: Ascend Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | Coming - of - Age | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Burn The city looked like it had been devoured — chewed up by fire, time, and whatever came after — then spit back out in jagged pieces. Dead drones dangled from power lines like rusted ornaments. Neon signs flickered above fractured pavement, their broken scripts glitching into gibberish. Down the block, a half - melted smartcar burned slow, casting warped shadows across the skeletal remains of a coffee bar. Behind a crumpled tram car, someone crouched low, breath tight in her lungs. The shrieking hadn’t stopped. It came again — sharp, bone-deep, the kind of sound that latched onto your spine and refused to let go. She checked the signal jammer at her hip. Still blinking. Still active. Not for long. They were tracking her. She moved fast — boots silent over broken glass, slipping through the breach in an old laundromat’s wall. Her body moved from muscle memory now: slide through, duck left, over the washer, don’t look at the corpse slumped by the dryer. Out the back. Up the fire escape. On the rooftop, she halted. Not alone. Someone was already there — silhouetted against the bleeding sunset. Combat jacket. Short - cropped hair. Pulse rifle slung casually over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like this was just another rooftop, just another war. “Don’t move,” the voice snapped. She lifted her hands slowly. “I’m clean.” “Everyone says that.” “Scan me.” beat. Then the girl stepped forward, rifle still raised but gaze locked in. Dark eyes, sharp, searching — not just for weapons, but tells. Fear. Lies. She lowered the rifle half an inch. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” That wasn’t the line she expected.