God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem

Kafka froze, staring at the woman across from him, his mother, the one who smiled so serenely even as her demand slithered into his heart like poison.

For a heartbeat, he clung to the fragile hope that perhaps there was a misunderstanding. Perhaps the tenderness in her eyes, the tremor in her hands, the sigh in her voice when she called him her son, they had to mean something.

Perhaps, despite the years of hate he carried, she really had longed for him.

That she had regretted.

That she did love him.

That maybe, just maybe, the gulf between them could be crossed.

But her message shattered that hope into shards sharper than glass.

To threaten them—Abigaille, Olivia, his mothers, the women who loved him, sheltered him, the ones who showed what a mother's love was like...that was unforgivable.

The fire of betrayal burned in his throat, the sting of rage made his vision blur red, and yet beneath it all was fear. The kind of fear he despised, because he knew she meant every word.

He surged to his feet, fists trembling, eyes wild with fury. He looked ready to strike, to scream, to tear the room apart if he had to, but Vanitas merely lifted her hand with languid grace, as though silencing a child.

"My dear son..." She purred, her tone soft as velvet yet sharp as steel. "Do not be foolish. You've seen the request. You know what it demands. Even a single word from you now, and your darling mothers here will vanish, snuffed out as if they never were."

"...Do you truly wish to test me?"

The softness of her tone was at odds with the threat in her meaning.

It made his blood boil. He could feel his body trembling with the desire to leap at her, to claw that smile off her face.

Yet he knew, he knew, she was not bluffing. A woman as ruthless as her, who threw him away when he was just a baby never bluffed.

So he forced his hand back, pulling it away from the edge of violence. He sank back into the sofa like a storm bottled into flesh, his glare a silent tempest fixed upon her.

Seeing this, Vanitas smiled as if amused by his restraint. "Good boy." She purred, her tone dripping with approval that only deepened his fury. "My sweet little Kafka...always listening when it matters most."

The words made him feel sick.

Across from them, Abigaille and Olivia exchanged bewildered glances. They had no knowledge of the messages flashing before his eyes, no understanding of the invisible blades hanging over their necks.

All they could see was the suffocating tension between Kafka and this strange, impossibly beautiful woman who called herself his mother.

Unable to hold it in, Abigaille stepped forward, her voice trembling with hesitation.

"Kafi...w-what's going on? Why do you look like that? Why does it feel like you're about to fight her?"

Olivia joined her, her own voice tight with unease.

"And why is she calling you her son? Do you...do you know her, Kafi? Please, tell us what's happening. We don't understand!"

Vanitas turned toward them then, her calm eyes shining with cruel tenderness.

"Oh, darlings...do you still not understand? Or perhaps you see the truth but refuse to accept it?" She tilted her head, her smile soft yet cutting. "Look at me. Look at him...Don't you see the similarities and what is the obvious conclusion from that?"

Abigaille and Olivia glanced from her face to Kafka's, their breaths caught in their throats. The resemblance was undeniable, the dark hair, the calm eyes, the magnetic presence.

Their hearts skipped with the realization they had tried so hard to ignore.

Abigail swallowed hard, her lips parting. "…Yes." She whispered, hesitant. "Yes, I see it. You...you do look alike. Far too much to be coincidence."

Olivia nodded slowly, the color draining from her cheeks. "The resemblance is uncanny...but what does that mean?"

A low chuckle slipped from Vanitas's throat, rich and knowing.

"It means exactly what you fear it does. Deep down, you both already know. You've known since the first moment your eyes met me, but you cannot bear to accept it."

"...And that is natural. How could you ever expect me to walk back into your lives like this, after so long?"

Her words hung heavy, thick with inevitability. She let the silence draw out before she continued, her tone like silk wrapping around their ears.

"My name..." She said, almost in a whisper. "...is Vanitas. Lady Vanitas. The very same name that was carved into fate the day you found little Kafka abandoned in that café. The name you discovered etched in the basket you found him in."

Both Abigail and Olivia froze, their eyes going wide in horror.

"You mean…" Olivia's voice cracked, disbelief twisting her expression. "…you mean to tell us—"

Vanitas inclined her head gracefully, her smile luminous and terrifying all at once.

"Yes, my dears...I am Kafka's birth mother."

" ...The one who brought him into this world."

"...The woman who bore him, the goddess who shaped him."

"...He is my, the God of Forbidden Love, the ruler of of eternity and beyond's, one and only son."

"...Now, do you understand what's so obvious or should I make it more clear?"

Vanitas ended with a knowing smile on her face, as she revealed the truth of her relationship, that they were refusing to acknowledge.

And the moment she did, the air itself seemed to shatter with the weight of her words.

Abigaille's hand clutched Olivia's shoulder so tightly her fingers whitened. Her voice shook, half-choked by disbelief.

"This...this can't be. Olive, it just can't. After all these years, no, it's been too long. There's no way…"

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she shook her head, trying to deny what stood plain before them.

Olivia was no better. She stood frozen where she was, her lips parted as if she might speak but no sound came. Her gaze flicked between Kafka and the towering woman who mirrored him so perfectly.

"…His mother. His actual mother." She whispered hoarsely, trembling as though the floor might give way beneath her. "The one who gave birth to him...she's really here…"

Vanitas tilted her head with that luminous smile, her tone carrying both grace and weight as she said,

"I know it's difficult, my dears. I do not fault you for your disbelief. You never expected the woman who abandoned him long ago to return, to step into your lives so suddenly."

Abandoned...At those words Kafka's brow twitched, his teeth clenching as fury rolled through him, though he kept himself silent, trapped by her earlier threat.

"But the truth remains..." Vanitas continued softly, her eyes never leaving him. "I am his mother. His blood runs with mine. Whatever science you mortals devise to prove it, DNA, blood tests, strands of hair, you need none of it."

"...Look at us. One glance is enough. He is my son, the heir to my authority, the bearer of my bloodline."

Her gaze then locked on Kafka then, sharp and teasing.

"Tell my, my dear son...isn't it true? Don't we look so alike?"

Kafka's teeth ground together. His glare was colder than steel, but he refused her words, giving her nothing.

"So stubborn...But even that angry look on your face is so cute." She chuckled at his silence, unbothered.

Meanwhile, Abigaille's lips trembled, eyes wide and unfocused, her whole body shivering as if the ground itself had just given way beneath her.

'His mother...his real mother...'

The words echoed like thunder, tearing through the fragile walls she had built around the life they had created together.

For years, she had feared this day without ever admitting it, feared that one day the woman who had abandoned him would return and rip everything away from them.

And now here she was—radiant, divine, undeniable.

Olivia wasn't faring any better.

She stood frozen, pale as glass, her breath caught high in her throat, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow tremors. Her mind reeled, crashing between disbelief and terror.

'If she's here...if she claims him...then what are we? What am I?'

A suffocating dread pressed down on her, whispering that all their years, their love, their bond meant nothing in the face of blood. That they were about to lose him, not to death, but to the crueler fate of irrelevance.

Her heart cracked with the thought of being reduced to a stranger in the eyes of the boy, no, the man, they had raised.

It was like drowning. Every breath a struggle. Every heartbeat pounding with the certainty of loss.

The weight of inevitability crushed them both, until they thought their legs might give out beneath them.

...But all of those despairful thoughts and the urge to throw up on the spot stopped the moment they noticed Kafka's gaze.

Abigaille saw it first: the sharp, merciless glare he leveled at Vanitas, his birth mother, colder than any hatred she had ever witnessed, seething with defiance.

But when his eyes flicked toward her, just for a heartbeat, the storm melted. His anger dissolved into something raw, fragile, and achingly human.

A plea. A silent confession of where his heart truly lay.

Olivia saw it next: The way his fingers tightened, the way his eyes softened only for them, carrying a sorrow so deep it begged to be understood.

He wasn't theirs by blood, no...But he chose them.

His gaze screamed it, more than any words could.

He didn't want Vanitas. He wanted them, Abigaille and Olivia.

The realization struck them both at once, like lightning cleaving through the storm.

Their fear, their despair, their trembling uncertainty, it all broke apart beneath that look. They understood, finally and completely.

He didn't care about the women before him.

He didn't care about the woman who had birthed him.

He cared about them.

And in that instant, everything inside them shifted.

The despair twisted into defiance.

The grief hardened into resolve.

Where moments before they had felt like fragile porcelain about to be shattered, now they stood like tempered steel, backs straight, eyes blazing.

Abigaille's tears still clung to her lashes, but her voice, when it came, was no longer broken, it was fierce. Olivia's chest still trembled, but the words gathering there carried fire.

They weren't about to let him be stolen.

They weren't about to be erased.

Not by blood.

Not by this divine woman in front of them.

Not by anyone.

Together, they turned to face Vanitas—shaken, yes, but standing firm, mothers by choice, not by chance, ready to fight for the son who had already chosen them...