My Wives are Beautiful Demons

Personally, Vergil was beginning to feel, for the first time, the weight of something that no one had ever taught him to control: involuntary strength.

It wasn't something simple or even normal. His body was... changing. Growing beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond the limits that most existences knew.

The cause? Something that Sapphire... in her chaotic creativity and newly awakened curiosity for human culture named the "Perfect Body of the Celestial Demon."

It was, to be fair, an absurd name. But that's what stuck. Sapphire had created the term after sinking into some random manhwa called 'The Chronicles of the Celestial Demon' or something like that.

A comical coincidence... or maybe not. Ever since she had started living with "social beings," Sapphire, the chaotic and impulsive Primordial, had started consuming what she called "dumb media," even though her main motivation was pure jealousy.

This jealousy was born after seeing Vergil and Katharina laughing together, commenting on things like anime, characters, and current memes. For Sapphire, who avoided bonds and banalities, that was an existential stab. And like every hurt primordial entity, her reaction was to create… knowledge. A theory. A name.

And then, it was named. Vergil's body was not normal. It was the inevitable consequence of a unique, indivisible soul, perfect in its anomaly.

Vergil was not just strong. He was a divine aberration. Most demons needed to consume souls to evolve, to reach new levels of power. But not him. Vergil was the catalyst for evolution itself.

And he was surrounded by extremely rare cases — almost mythological — that only fueled this growth.

Katharina, Ada, and Roxanne were born as absolute beings. They did not need to devour souls. Power flowed naturally within them, like a gift sculpted from birth.

Sapphire and Sepphirothy, on the other hand, were even older. Primordial. The first of the 72 Demonic Keys. Creatures as old as the concepts that named the world. They did not make contracts. They were the contracts.

Raphaeline and Stella, on the other hand, inherited this greatness. Daughters of the originals, born from the fusion of the old and the present. And then there was Viviane — the legendary Divine Blacksmith. A brute force of creation, whose talent defied the heavens.

But even with all these powerful presences around, none could help him.

Vergil was different.

All of them — even the most powerful — existed in two: body and soul. Separate. Independent. Harmonized.

Vergil was one. Body and soul fused. An indivisible entity.

This singularity was his gift... and his curse.

When he trained his body, his soul evolved.

When he reflected, felt, or understood something about himself, his body adapted.

When he learned, he grew. When he was moved, he transcended.

Everything was training. Everything was progress. Everything was too much.

Vergil lived in double. He felt in double. He evolved in double.

And now… he was approaching a limit that no one had ever touched.

A point beyond which there were no maps. No guides. No way back.

It was a difficult situation that could only be resolved in the future... or rather...

"Sorry for the delay." Sepphirothy's soft, drawn-out voice cut through the silence, echoing lightly through the room like a warm breeze.

Vergil, who was sunk in the armchair, barely had time to turn around before he felt her presence approaching.

She came from the back, wrapped only in a pearly silk robe, her long, silver hair still damp, dripping droplets that traced delicate paths down her neck and collarbone.

The light from the room, soft and warm, passed through the thin fabric and revealed just enough to disturb the heart of any mortal — or immortal. Her pink breasts were clearly visible.

She walked with the calm of someone who masters time, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cold floor. Her expression was serene, but her gaze carried a veiled intention — as if she had come out of a distant dream and decided, right then and there, not to wake up.

Vergil said nothing. He just watched her with heavy but attentive eyes. His mother's presence really seemed like she wanted to fight him for what happened. Something that had diminished a lot—was he strong? Yes, of course. But if there's one thing that scares him, it's this woman. His mother.

She walked past him with silent ease, her robe fluttering with the gentle movement of her body. The smell of a hot bath, mixed with something ancient and slightly metallic—like the scent of rain on a battlefield—invaded the air between them. When she reached the chair in front of her, she sat down with a lazy elegance, crossing her bare legs naturally.

"You look… tired." She said first, her voice almost a whisper. But then her gaze, sharp as burning ice, landed straight on Vergil's eyes. "Or guilty."

Without waiting for an answer, she reached out and pulled a bottle of old whiskey from the small table. She poured herself a glass in silence, the ice cubes clinking lightly against the crystal. Then she put her feet on the edge of the table, in an attitude almost too mundane for someone like her, and took a slow sip—as if she savored the silence more than the drink.

"AH... I didn't think it would happen so quickly," she added, her eyes half-closed, studying every feature of his face. "So... have you reached your limit?"

Her tone wasn't accusatory—it was curious. Dangerously curious. Like someone who already knows the answer but wants to see if he'll have the courage to say it out loud.

"You know you have." Vergil replied, his voice hoarse, filled with something deeper than simple frustration. His eyes remained fixed on the glass of whiskey in his hand, the ice slowly spinning under the amber reflection of the liquid. Each turn of the glass seemed like a circle of thought repeating itself in his mind—a cycle of guilt that wouldn't break.

Inside, he was drowning in a silent confession. He thought about how easy it had been—frighteningly easy—to unleash that murderous pressure on Viviane, Ada, and Katharina. There were no screams, there were no blows, and there was not even a direct intention. Just the raw manifestation of his will... and they fell. Like leaves in the midst of an invisible storm.

They just fainted. He knew that.

But what hurt was precisely this: "That's it."

They just fainted… because they were near him. They just fell… because he lost control. They just fell asleep… because he forced calm back into them with a gesture of regret.

"If this is all… then what comes next?" That thought gnawed at him. Because if the people he loves are hurt just by being around when he's angry… What kind of future can he offer them?

He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling the burn go down his throat like a deserved punishment. His gaze was lost for a moment, not in the glass, but inside himself.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this…" he murmured, almost silently, but Sepphirothy heard it. She always heard it. Because she'd been there before—on that same threshold between being necessary… and being too dangerous.

Sepphirothy watched Vergil in silence for a few moments, her expression bland but her eyes carrying the gravity of someone who had once carried the same kind of weight. She placed the glass carefully on the table, leaned forward, and interlaced her fingers in her lap, as if about to say something that could not be unsaid.

"Vergil," she began calmly, her voice soft and steady, "these things… happen."

He looked up, his gaze still dark with guilt. But she continued, without hesitation:

"You are growing. Your body, your soul, everything is evolving in a way that no one but you can understand. And precisely because of that… you will fail, sometimes. You will miss the mark. You will go beyond your limit." She took a deep breath, and her tone softened even more. "That doesn't make you a monster. It makes you someone who needs to train. Who needs to master this strength, not repress it?"

Sepphirothy approached, slowly, without threats or pity—just presence. She sat on the edge of his chair and rested her hand on Vergil's chest, feeling the dense flow of energy that pulsed there, compressed, suffocating.

"You're overwhelmed. Your soul and body are like a furnace with no ventilation… I can ease that, just a little. Take away the excess. So you can breathe again."

Vergil stared at the woman in front of him. Her white hair still dripped lightly over her shoulders. Her robe clinging to her body left little to the imagination—but at that moment, he didn't see Sepphirothy as a sensual figure. He saw her as what she had always been: a guardian of chaos. And now, of his balance as well.

She smiled, a small, gentle smile, as if offering help without imposing. "It's not weakness to accept this. It's survival."

Vergil hesitated for only a moment before closing his eyes and nodding, almost imperceptibly.

"Okay then," she whispered. "Relax… and let me just pull out what's overflowing."

Sepphirothy moved slowly, sliding to the floor with the elegance of someone who didn't need to prove anything to anyone. Her knees hit the carpet with a soft whisper, right in front of Vergil.

"Sepphirothy was in a very... sexual position. Her breasts were almost entirely visible through the sheerness. Her huge breasts in a plunging neckline and the pink of her nipples. Everything was apparent.

"You don't—"

The movement was direct... too intimate to ignore. Her eyes lowered, and for a brief moment—very brief—her mind thought the worst. Or the best, depending on how you looked at it.

Well... she was his mother, wouldn't she... do this right?

But she just looked at him with absolute calm. A smile curved her lips, as if reading every stray thought on his forehead.

"You misunderstood," she said, her voice low and sharp as sharp silk. "That's not the kind of relief I'm going to give you."

She slowly reached up, took Vergil's right hand—large, firm, and calloused—and gently pulled it until the tip of her middle finger was between them. Without breaking eye contact, she brought her finger to her lips.

Vergil didn't flinch. But heat rose to the base of his neck.

With a subtle snap, Sepphirothy bit the tip of his finger. A clean, precise bite—and, strangely, painless. Instead of blood, a thin, dense, black-and-red smoke oozed out, as if the very essence were being torn from the flesh.

Sepphirothy took her time. With her gaze still fixed on his, she brought her lips to the tip of his finger and gently wrapped it around it, sealing the extraction of the energy. The suction was slow and steady, as if she were savoring something rare, a nectar too precious to waste.

The tension in Vergil's shoulders eased. The dense, suffocating energy began to disperse like mist in the wind. The heat between them, however, only grew—not from the power, but from the closeness, from the gesture filled with a meaning that neither of them pretended not to fully understand.

Sepphirothy released her finger slowly, as if parting with something precious. There was a different gleam in her eyes now—not malice, but a quiet respect for the power she had just touched.

"You store energy like a bottomless well," she said, her voice low and a little hoarse. "You must learn to release it… before it consumes everything around you."