God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 838

Chapter 838: A Loud But Beautiful Family

Hey everyone!

Sorry for the late uploads! Things got a little messy these past few days—I had to change the ending of the series because the one I originally planned didn’t fit within the web novel guidelines.

After talking it through with my editor, it looks like I can’t go through with my original idea since it’s a bit too taboo (I think most of you probably know what I mean 😅).

And if I went through with it, this novel will get banned just like what happened with ‘Village Head’s Debauchery’.

But don’t worry, even though the ending’s been changed, it’ll still be satisfying! It’s just missing one particular scene that you would’ve been looking forward too.

Thanks a ton for being patient and for sticking with me through this!

—

The morning light filtered through the curtains in long golden slants, striping across the silken sheets of the enormous bed that looked fit for a king, and yet—the man buried in it looked anything but regal.

Kafka twisted and rolled restlessly, his face scrunched in distress, his breath coming out in choked murmurs. His legs kicked at the sheets tangled around him as he groaned in half-sleep, his voice rasping, pleading, trembling.

“No…Mom…No—please…Please don’t come near me…Please—I beg of you…Don’t—Don’t do something you’ll regret—no…no, don’t pounce on me! That’s my dick, noo! Don’t lick it! Ahhhh!”

His tone pitched higher toward the end, a whimper of desperation escaping him as sweat rolled down his temples.

Then, with a sharp gasp—he jolted upright, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild as he scanned the room. His hand pressed to his chest; he could feel his heart hammering furiously against his ribs.

For several seconds he sat there in silence, panting, staring at the empty space around him, the dim light of dawn softening the edges of his panic.

Sweat dampened his hair, sticking to his forehead, and the sheets clung to his skin like the remnants of the nightmare.

Slowly, his breathing steadied, and when he finally realized where he was he exhaled long and deep.

It was just a dream.

A horrible dream.

He rubbed his face, half laughing at himself, half miserable.

Normally, even if he woke from something strange, he would shrug it off, smile faintly, and move on.

But this one had rattled him. There had been something so vivid, so grotesquely real about it—the way his mother’s eyes had gleamed with that feverish light, how she’d chased him down corridors and across endless fields, her laughter ringing through the air, that terrifying, hungry smile carved into her face as she whispered his name again and again and started to strip his clothes like she wanted to ravage him.

He groaned, dragging his palms down over his eyes.

And it wasn’t even the first time.

For two months now—ever since his mother had returned, these dreams came back to torment him every now and then.

He never told anyone. How could he? What was he supposed to say?

“I keep dreaming that my own mother’s trying to devour me and forcefully make me give my seed to her?”

It sounded insane. Still, it haunted him. The mix of guilt, confusion, and that lingering fear of what she might do, or what she wanted, clung to his subconscious like a shadow.

But Kafka wasn’t one to wallow. He slapped his cheeks hard, the sound echoing in the stillness of the morning.

“Alright.” He muttered to himself, shaking his head like he could rattle loose the nightmare. “That’s enough of that.”

He inhaled, exhaled, and forced a smirk onto his lips. His eyes then wandered around the room and mainly onto the bed.

The bed was huge, his latest indulgence. A custom-made, silk-sheeted monstrosity he’d bought just for his ever-expanding family.

But now it was empty. The other side of the mattress was cool to the touch, faintly smelling of jasmine, lavender, and vanilla—a cocktail of the perfumes and natural scents of the women who’d shared it with him night after night.

But this morning, it was empty.

Just him.

He leaned back on his elbows and let out a small, crooked laugh. “Well…not a bad problem to have.” He muttered.

Because despite the nightmares, despite everything—the past two months had been the most lively, beautiful months of his life.

For the first time in forever, the house wasn’t silent. It breathed, with laughter, teasing, arguments, and warmth.

There were mornings when Bella would wake everyone by jumping on the bed, wings fluttering madly as she shouted, “Breakfast time! Daddy’s cooking!” only for Kafka to groan and bury his head under a pillow while Camila tried to drag her back by the ankles.

There were afternoons spent in the courtyard, where Nina would challenge him to sparring matches that always ended with her flat on her back, pretending she wasn’t impressed, while Abigaille and Olivia cheered like excitable children.

He remembered lazy afternoons sprawled across the living room with all of them, Bella perched on his shoulders trying to braid his hair while Nina told exaggerated battle stories of when Vanitas took her to the Heavens—that always ended with her defeating a dragon barehanded, only for Camilla to interrupt and call her a liar.

Abigaille would laugh so hard she’d fall over, clutching her sides, and Olivia would bring tea with trembling hands, trying not to spill any while giggling herself.

Dinner was also a riot—Evangeline inevitably fussing over everyone’s posture while Bella tried to sneak bites from Kafka’s plate, only for Camilla to steal the last of the dessert. Olivia, of course, was usually perched somewhere on the table itself, while silently giggling at everyone’s antics.

And the evenings…the evenings were the best.

Music, stories, laughter that rolled through the halls like the echo of something holy.

They’d dance sometimes, Abigaille spinning in her gown, Olivia shyly following along, Camilla laughing as Nina tried to twirl her but ended up tripping over her feet.

Even Vanitas, ever so dignified, couldn’t resist smiling as she watched them, a faint, wistful glow softening her sharp beauty.

Those were the moments that filled Kafka’s heart.

He’d been an orphan once, a boy who knew nothing of warmth or belonging. But now, surrounded by this beautiful chaos, he had something far beyond what he’d ever dreamed of—a family. A real one. Loud, imperfect, but his.

And if the days were filled with laughter, the nights were their own kind of warmth.

Kafka couldn’t help but grin as his thoughts drifted to that.

The massive bed wasn’t just for show; it had seen its share of…activity.

The kind of nights that stretched on until dawn, filled with breathless whispers, tangled limbs, and muffled laughter. He’d long since lost count of the sleepless hours he’d spent with them all—how one would curl against him, another press kisses to his neck, and yet another trace her fingers over his chest until his head swam.

Those nights had become something sacred. Not just carnal—but intimate. It was the comfort of knowing he was surrounded by love, messy, unconventional, complicated love, but love nonetheless.

He chuckled softly at the memory, running a hand through his tousled hair.

“Yeah…” He murmured to himself. “…those nights were worth every bit of exhaustion.”

Still, there were two notable absence among them.

One was Vanitas.

No matter how much she wanted to join them—no matter how often she stood at the door, half-tempted, half-pleading—Kafka never allowed it.

He’d gently but firmly told her to sleep elsewhere, away from them.

He could still picture her face that night, hurt, wistful, but understanding. She’d nodded quietly, said she respected his wish, and retreated to her own room without another word.

And though she slept apart, he’d often hear faint footsteps pacing in the hallway outside late at night…as if she couldn’t sleep either.

Kafka exhaled deeply, dragging a hand down his face again. “What a mess.”

Evangeline, however, was the exact opposite of everything else around him.

He’d invited her countless times to stay with him at night, to join the great tangle of limbs, laughter, and warmth that defined his bed—but she always refused. Calmly, politely, and with that same slight, knowing gaze that made him grind his teeth in both irritation and admiration.

She had told him once that she was his retainer, of sorts—his guardian, protector, and servant all in one. A divine presence bound by duty, not by blood or lust.

And though she had the power to ascend and leave the mortal plane whenever she wished, she’d decided otherwise.

She became part of the household, part of his strange, ever-growing family. She helped when tempers flared, mediated when affection got too tangled, and stood watch when everyone else slept.

But she always, always, kept her distance.

She’d seen enough of Kafka’s antics—the way he ever so easily stole the hearts of women to know that if she let her guard down even once, if she let him get too close—she might never recover.

There was something about him, his voice, his presence, the easy charm that lingered in his every movement, that could unravel her discipline if she wasn’t careful. So she stayed one step ahead, dodging him with an almost divine precision every time he tried to pull her closer.

Kafka could only shake his head, smiling ruefully.

“One day, Evangeline.” He’d mutter to himself. “You can run for now, but one day, I’ll catch you fair and square.”

Still, despite the warmth of that thought, something else was tugging at his attention this morning.

He frowned slightly, then glanced down, only to see the unmistakable shape pressing against his pants.

“Ah…fantastic.” He sighed, half amused, half annoyed.

It was one of those mornings. His body awake before his mind, throbbing with heat and memory.

Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. Usually, someone, Nina, Camilla, Abigail, Bella, or even Olivia, would still be snuggled up beside him, and by now, that “problem” would’ve been handled quite enthusiastically.

But today…the bed was empty.

The sheets were cold on all sides.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he pushed back the covers. “Figures. The one morning I wake up early, and everyone decides to vanish.”

“But I really have gotten spoiled.” He fixed the creases on his bed, still grinning faintly as he muttered. “Normally, I would’ve handle this kind of situation on my own—but now I can’t think of any other way then someone else helping me out.”

But that was a long time ago. He wasn’t about to start now.

No, he’d been spoiled by their warmth, their devotion, their lips, their hands. The idea of taking care of things alone felt almost…sad now.

So with a decisive stretch and a quiet sigh, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. The morning light poured over his bare torso, his hair catching a golden hue as he stretched his arms wide and rolled his shoulders, the faint crack of joints echoing softly through the silent room.

“Well…” He said with teasing solemnity. “If there is no one around to help me out, then I’ll just find someone to help me deal with the tent in my pants.”

He smirked to himself, buttoning his loose nightshirt halfway and stepping out of the room.

He had no idea where they’d gone—maybe the kitchen, maybe the garden, maybe one of the many new rooms in their ever-expanding house. But he was determined to find someone willing to help him with his morning ‘issue.’

And as he padded down the hallway, a wolfish grin crept across his lips.

After all, what kind of man would he be if he let the day begin without a little pleasure?

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