Kafka already had a sinking feeling the moment she hesitated like that.
He'd seen that look before, the coy smile, the pink in her cheeks, the way she fidgeted like someone keeping a secret too sweet to contain.
Still, she was his mother, and her anticipation was genuine, so he couldn't bring himself to ruin it.
He took the photo carefully, his fingers brushing against hers, and slowly turned it over.
And the moment his eyes landed on it, he froze. Then sighed.
Exactly what he thought.
There she was—Vanitas, in lingerie so perfectly tailored it might as well have been poured over her on a beach
Midnight-black lace clung to her plump, indulgent body like it was made to kneel for her.
The corset hugged her soft belly, cinched just enough to emphasize the fullness beneath, while her tits—heavy, overflowing—swelled against the cups like they were aching to be free.
Garter straps framed her thick thighs, digging in just enough to highlight the give of her flesh, while her ass curved out in a perfect, obscene arc behind her, barely contained by the thong's thin strap.
Every inch of her was soft, plush, made to be grabbed, squeezed, worshipped—and the lingerie didn't hide it.
It flaunted her. Flaunted every jiggle, every bounce, every mouth-watering curve.
And of course, it bore that unmistakable craftsmanship, June's touch.
Which meant, horrifyingly enough, that the rest of the family had probably been involved in this.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "...Of course."
Meanwhile, Vanitas was sitting beside him, clasping her hands and looking at him with an expression halfway between nervousness and excitement.
She was watching every tiny flicker on his face, as if waiting for him to blush, or stammer, or anything...hoping he would react someway.
But all she got was a small, weary smile.
"Nice photo, Mom." Kafka said finally, calm as ever. "You look great. That beach you were at must've been beautiful, too."
"Forget the beach, Kafka!" She huffed, leaning in, her cheeks puffing slightly. "Look at the photo! What do you think of it?"
But he just blinked innocently.
"I just told you. It's really nice. The...outfit suits you. You look beautiful."
"No, no, no." Vanitas squinted, unconvinced. "That's not what I mean and you know it! I'm asking about how it makes you feel!"
Kafka raised a brow. "Feel?"
"Yes! You know, when you see a woman like this, the warmth in your cheeks, your heart beating a little faster, your breath catching just a bit, those sorts of things! That!" She gestured dramatically, her voice full of expectation. "Well? Don't you feel that?"
Kafka just stared at her, utterly unmoved, then chuckled under his breath. "Not really, Mom."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes widened, her shoulders slumped, and her voice turned small and pitiful.
"A-Am I ugly then, Kafka? Is that it? You can't look at me because I'm ugly?"
He sighed, setting the photo down.
"Mom...no. You're not ugly. You're the last person anyone could ever call that."
"Then why—?"
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, searching for the right words.
"It's like this...You remember when I told Abigaille that I saw her body as art when I was first trying to seduce her? A painting, something beautiful—but not something to lust after? Back then, it was a lie I used to sound poetic and as if I had no ill-intentions."
"But with you...it's the truth. You're beautiful. Painfully beautiful. But when I look at you, it's like I'm looking at a masterpiece hanging in a gallery. I admire it. I appreciate it. But I can't..." He gestured helplessly. "...I can't feel that way about it."
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Vanitas's lip trembled.
"So I'm not beautiful after all?"
He let out a deep sigh. "That's not what I said."
"Then what is it?" She whimpered. "Why won't you look at me that way?! Am I not special enough? Do you, do you hate me?!"
Kafka looked up at her, his voice calm and firm.
"No, Mom. You're the most beautiful woman in the world. But you're my mother. That's the difference."
That was the final blow.
Tears welled in her eyes, her lips quivered, and before he could react—she suddenly buried her face in his chest, sobbing softly as she thumped her fists against him.
"Kafka, you bully! You mean—mean boy! You bad son! Bad...Bad son!"
Kafka sighed, gently wrapping his arms around her.
"Alright, alright. I'm sorry. You're right. I'm the worst son ever."
"You are!"
She sniffled, still pouting as she hid her face in his shirt to which he smiled faintly, rubbing her back in a soothing manner.
But even as he did so, murmuring small reassurances, he couldn't help but sigh inwardly.
'This again.' He thought. 'I wonder if she will ever give up.'
For the past two months, things had been just like this, his mother scheming, plotting, or trying some new wild plan to win him over in the most inappropriate ways imaginable.
Why?...Well, it was because she knew, better than anyone, how her son saw her.
To him, she wasn't just his mother, she was sacred, untouchable, someone whose love was meant to be pure.
But Vanitas didn't want that kind of love.
She wanted something deeper, something forbidden, something she believed fate itself demanded.
And since Kafka would never make a move—she'd made it her mission to change his mind.
And she had tried everything.
From 'innocent' things like joining him in baths, slipping into his bed at night 'to cuddle' and constantly walking around in nothing but a towel after showers—
To more direct attempts, like whispering suggestive things in his ear, showing off her figure in daring dresses, or, like today, posing for lingerie photos that she insisted were 'gifts of love.'
And she wasn't alone in her campaign, either.
The entire family, those mischievous, nosey women, had somehow decided to help her.
They would set up 'romantic' dinners, arrange 'accidental' moments of physical closeness, even send them on little 'dates' under the pretense of family bonding.
It was relentless.
Yet despite everything, Kafka never wavered. Not once.
It was as if he had achieved spiritual enlightenment, like a monk sitting on a mountaintop, untouched by temptation.
While any other man would have folded within micro-seconds and be barking at her feet—Kafka stayed calm, composed, treating Vanitas with the same gentle affection one might show a child.
It drove them crazy.
They just couldn't understand how the same man who had been a notorious flirt, who'd once been the center of countless women's attention—could suddenly turn into a saint when it came to his own mother.
Vanitas, especially, found it unbearable.
Every attempt she made bounced off him like arrows off armor.
And yet...she refused to stop which was clear with her current attempt that had failed like every other one.
Kafka then sighed again, glancing down at the photo still in her lap.
"Who came up with this idea?" He asked, already knowing the answer.
Vanitas sniffled, dabbing her eyes before muttering softly.
"I-It was dear June. She made the outfit and took the picture. She thought it was a sure plan, but..."
She looked down at the floor, pouting.
"It didn't work."
Kafka chuckled softly, taking the photo from her and setting it aside.
"A good plan, sure. For anyone else, it probably would've worked. But not for me."
He looked at her seriously now.
"And any future attempts? They'll be useless too. You should probably give up."
But Vanitas only pouted, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, her lower lip trembling slightly.
"Even if you say that..." She said softly. "...we still have a request to fulfill. What are you planning to do about that? Not to mention what happened last month."
Kafka blinked, his expression tightening a little.
"You remember, don't you?" She sighed dramatically, brushing her hair back as she spoke. "Just last month, the world was shaking because my mind was...corroding. I-I can't keep holding these desires in, Kafka. My emotions, my love for you—if I keep it buried, it'll destroy everything. What are we going to do about that?"
Kafka froze, his voice caught in his throat.
"Uh...about that..."
Vanitas stared at him expectantly.
He scratched his cheek awkwardly, smiling in defeat.
"I...don't know. Not yet. But we'll figure something out. Eventually."
He was trying to sound confident, but even he knew how hopeless that sounded.
Because the truth was, she wasn't exaggerating.
The entire universe had trembled.
One month ago, when her divine restraint began to crack under the weight of her longing and desires...the skies shook.
The stars flickered, reality rippled, and whole dimensions shuddered as though existence itself were holding its breath.
All because Vanitas, the ruler of all, couldn't control her emotions.
The incident had lasted only a few seconds, but it had been enough to terrify him. And though everything stabilized afterward, both of them knew it was only temporary.
If it happened again, and it would...the consequences could be catastrophic.
The fate of the world depended on him fulfilling her wish.
But how could he?...She was his mother.
Now, sitting there with her clinging to his chest, he felt the same helplessness he'd felt every day since she came back.
He couldn't love her that way.
But if he didn't...the universe might not survive.
And for once, even Kafka, the man who always had a plan, had no idea what to do.