My Wives are Beautiful Demons

Sapphire arrived home, slipping quietly through the side entrance, still looking slightly grim after her conversation with Sepphirothy in the garden of Cabernet's mansion. She entered through the kitchen, smelling a faint scent of fermented barley in the air.

Beer?

She turned her head slowly and incredulously toward the living room... and froze at the door.

There was Morrigan.

The Celtic goddess of chaos, death, war, and fertility—dressed in a baggy soccer jersey that wasn't even hers, her bare feet thrown over the back of the immaculate white leather sofa, opening another bottle with a snap of her magical fingers. Next to her was an empty crate. The television was showing a random European game with two teams Sapphire didn't even recognize — but Morrigan was cheering intensely as if she had bet the souls of three Celtic monks on the outcome.

"GOOOOOAL, YOU SON OF A BITCH! PLAY THAT BALL LIKE YOU HAVE AN AXE IN YOUR BACK!"

Vergil was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, dark shirt open to the chest, a vein in his forehead pulsing discreetly. When he saw Sapphire, his eyes met hers as if she were his only hope of salvation.

He pointed his chin at the scene.

"Get rid of that. I'm getting nervous already."

It took Sapphire three whole seconds, and a blink slower than usual, to process what she was seeing. Then she ran her hand through her hair, tied it into a quick bun, and took two firm steps until she stopped behind the sofa.

"Morrigan," she said, her voice calm and sharp as a sheathed blade. "You came to my house. You invaded my living room. You drank my beer. Are you... watching football?"

Morrigan didn't even turn around. She just responded with a dismissive wave of her hand and a smile:

"It's not just football, dear. This is art in motion. Germany is slaughtering Scotland. And this wheat beer you bought? Delicious. You have good taste, I admit."

Sapphire crossed her arms.

"You know this isn't a hotel."

"No? Really? It has comfortable beds, a full refrigerator, and even entertainment." Morrigan finally turned around, her golden eyes dancing like embers. "But I came here on business, before that handsome guy over there dies of a nervous ulcer."

Vergil made a gesture with his hand that meant "leave me out of this."

Sapphire snorted and walked over to the remote control. She turned off the TV unceremoniously.

Morrigan blinked in surprise.

"That was rude."

"Are you looking for a fight?"

"I think so..." Morrigan replied without hesitation, tilting her head to one side like a wolf taunting another beast. "It would be fun. It's been a few ages since anyone gave me a real physical challenge."

Vergil sighed, already knowing both sides of that equation well — and neither of them was known for backing down.

But Morrigan didn't stop there.

She spun the beer bottle one last time and then pointed directly at him with her drink-wet finger. The long, black nail glinted like a short blade.

"That jerk," she said, her voice laden with contempt and sarcasm, "could have easily grabbed his phone and called you, you know? But no. He left me waiting for four hours. Four. Hours. For you. As if I were some 12th-century whore."

The sentence had barely finished echoing through the room.

Sapphire's gaze narrowed, a subtle twitch at the corner of her eye betraying the trigger.

Vergil didn't even have time to open his mouth.

Sapphire's fist crossed the space between them with the speed and force of encapsulated thunder. The impact struck Morrigan in the center of her face, enough to throw her like a cursed doll through the wall of the room, shattering glass, wood, and concrete until her body passed through the window and flew into the backyard, landing amid lavender flowers and rose thorns.

The sound was brutal.

The shattered glass fell in slow motion.

Silence returned, but now it was the silence of a battlefield.

Vergil closed his eyes and muttered to himself, "Okay. It's started."

Outside, Morrigan slowly rose from the newly formed crater in the grass. Blood trickled from a small cut on her lip—and she wiped it away with her thumb, tasting it.

"Well, well..." she said, smiling with a ferocity that was now genuine. "I like women like that."

Sapphire leapt through the window like a dark blue comet, landing in front of the goddess with a crash.

"Hey, you bitch. I'm going to kill you."

Morrigan wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, then licked it with relish — as if the taste of her own pain were an appetizer for the real main course.

Then she smiled.

Wide.

Fierce.

Predatory.

"This is the woman I came for..." she said, her golden eyes shining, each syllable imbued with an ancient hunger. "Finally, someone who bites back."

Sapphire didn't respond.

She didn't need to.

The air between them exploded with a collision of auras. The garden floor cracked beneath their feet. The grass dried up around them, the scent of lavender replaced by electricity and blood in the air. When the first punch was thrown—a straight cross from Sapphire, followed by a knee strike from Morrigan—the impact created a shockwave that shattered the garden lights and rattled the windows of the neighborhood.

The confrontation turned into a ballet of brutality.

Sapphire moved with the lethal precision of a trained hunter, her fists wrapped in dark blue energy like orbs of fury. Morrigan fought back with savage ferocity, each blow coming with the force of an ancient battlefield—her fingers leaving trails of black magic in the air.

Kicks, dodges, headbutts. Neither hesitated. Neither yielded.

Inside the house, Vergil watched the partial destruction of the garden with an expression of someone who had seen this kind of disaster before — and was calculating how much it would cost to repair.

He sighed heavily, his hand running through his messy hair.

Then he felt it.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

Warm. Familiar. Too sophisticated to be mundane.

Vergil turned his face and found Sepphirothy beside him, a cup of tea in one hand and a controlled smile on her lips, red as dark wine. Her eyes were half-closed, as if watching a particularly chaotic — but entertaining — play.

"Difficult day?" she asked, with subtle irony in her voice.

Vergil exhaled slowly, as if accepting the absurdity of the universe out of sheer existential exhaustion.

"Is it natural to dislike gods?" he replied.

Sepphirothy took an elegant sip of tea. "We are demons, so this hatred comes naturally. But it's good to know that my son is well."