I returned to my apartnt, the familiar creak of the door a stark contrast to Ruby’s warm chaos. The place had been a wreck—shattered mugs from my last rage-fuelled outburst, splintered chair legs, broken vases, a half-broken table, and papers strewn like fallen leaves from half-finished stories.
But now, everything glead replaced: new ceramic mugs stacked neatly—black, no handles, just like old ones—a sturdy teak chair in the corner, fresh notebooks aligned on shelves bought with my writing earnings. My writing empire—had padded my bank account enough for this modest rebirth-slash-rebirth. No more cracks mirroring my fractured self.
After my talk with Ruby—her hard "yes" still echoing, sealing our pact against The Bureau—I needed to integrate the plan properly. Phase One demanded precision, which I am going to achieve—but I need so ti, and so more materials for research.
Sitting on the new chair—its cushion firm, unyielding—I opened my laptop. The screen blood blue, cursor blinking like a heartbeat.
As I ntioned before, in my novel, I had never established a backstory for Sharon. Well, let’s be honest—no one cares about a character’s backstory unless it’s the protagonist’s backstory.
How ironic, isn’t it?
I, myself, have no backstory, right?
It’s so funny!
Fucking funny!
Readers crave the sa tired formula: the protagonist crushes every foe, climbs to unchallenged supremacy, and beds a harem of won. Most audiences are wired that way, and they always will be. Fanservice reigns supre—perky breasts, voluptuous hips, flawless faces, sculpted figures, and total submission to the hero. That’s the thrill that hooks them; the shallow rush they chase Chapter after Chapter.
I opened the comnts section and let their words wash over , a toxic flood from my writing days.
|@daoist124nin67: Finally! The protagonist conquered the villainess.
@Risha-s89lurt: He really showed her the place she belonged to.
@Waerlktooth: Hahaha!! She is now a cream bun. I bet she likes it.
@Oleeeab2123: A cream bun is really tasty.
@Skl-rat12: The protagonist finally breaks the egoistic villainess. I am waiting for the day when he finally beds all of his won together. I want him to subrge himself in their boobs.
@Ilikefuckwom: Sharon will be an extrely good fuck.
@Chocoylp23: Damn she is really thirsty for him!
@Samdigbick: Kelshin’s cock must have broken her.
@daoistu624nin67lov: Finally! The protagonist conquered the villainess. About ti he owned her ass.
@Tryesha-s89lurt: He really showed her the place she belonged—on her knees.
@Feterlkyioth: Hahaha!! She’s now a cream bun. Bet she’s begging for seconds. If I was in his place, I would have definitely fulfilled her wish.
@Olivefr2w1y3: A cream bun is really tasty. More filling next Chapter!
@Jae-uat1y2: Protagonist finally breaks the egoistic villainess. Waiting for the harem orgy scene already.
@Bigdicfuckwom: Sharon will be an extrely good fuck. Tight and desperate.
@Jioeocoylpy23: Damn, she’s really thirsty for him! Slutty villainess arc is peak.
@Ihaveadigbick: Kelshin’s cock must have broken her. She’s ruined for anyone else.
@HaremKing99: Love how he tas them one by one. Sharon’s tits bouncing in defeat? Chef’s kiss.
@BigD420x: Submit harder, bitch! Protagonist owns all holes now.
@LustLord88: Her ass was made for this. Harem endga when?
@Fuckfuckwoman124: I am really jealous of the protagonist!
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When I was in that world—imrsed in those pixelated realms of conquest and submission—I shuddered just rembering their comnts. The crude glee, the objectification stripped bare: Sharon reduced to a "cream bun," a trophy for Kelshin’s dominance, her identity erased in emoji-laced cheers. It haunted now, a ghost of validation turned venom.
These comnts had made happy once, a rush like cheap wine. Views and comnts are the essential ingredients any social dia influencer craves—the trics that inflate egos, dictate trends, spark all-nighters tweaking hooks for likes.
It goes the sa for online authors; those notifications were oxygen, propelling serialized smut from obscurity to cult hits on a writing platform. I’d refresh obsessively, highs from rising kudos masking the orphan’s void, fans’ thirst fuelling my grind through different power fantasies. I found myself connecting with them, enjoying with them.
But now? They did nothing. Zilch. No spark, no fuel for the fire Phase One demanded. Scrolling through the bile—"perky boobs conquered," "harem endga when?"—evoked no pride, only pity. I felt sorry for them, truly: grown minds enslaved to base urges, chasing proxy thrills through my words.
’Cream Bun.’
How quaint, their taphor for breakage—Sharon filled, spent, owned.
They don’t know anything. In a way, they’re owned by The Bureau—puppets dancing on invisible strings. Those motherfuckers like to toy with their minds, hijack their lives, feeding them fantasies of power while stripping away true agency. These idiots are their cream buns: filled with propaganda, spent on illusions, utterly owned, begging for more without a clue.
So, yes. I am a Cream Bun.
Yes, I am a cream bun.
I like being fucked now—craving that raw, consuming rush, the surrender that once shad . Ruby’s touch lingers in mory, her fierce "yes" a promise of deeper unions amid our chaos. I like getting fucked by Kaerin’s dick. I love it when Maria’s dick entered into my pussy.
But does that make lesser than these people? No. I am better than them. Infinitely superior. They chase pixels of dominance, which reeks of their fantasises. These people are branded as aningless people since the mont they are given birth by their mothers.
I am a woman now—fully embodied, scars and curves woven into Sharon’s fire. A bunch of fools who fancy themselves above the won around them, lords of their screens, stroking egos to harem conquests. This makes it funnier, doesn’t it? They devour stories of protagonists owning won—breaking villainesses, claiming perky assets and submissive moans—while in reality, The Bureau owns them. Their minds marinated in control matrices, lives scripted by unseen enforcers. Hypocrites jerking to power fantasies, blind to their own collars.
I don’t know who Sharon is. I an, I don’t know who the real Sharon is, and maybe I never will.
But I am sorry. Even though, I am not the cause of your misery—I am sorry. I can understand why you killed . I can sense your helplessness. But I am not your culprit.
The Bureau is.
I don’t know how I was able to write a story that matched your life. But I am sorry—no matter how many tis, I repeat it... it won’t be enough, and I know that.
And I promise you that I will take revenge for you. I will decimate them completely.
Suddenly, my phone shattered the apartnt’s hum, screen lighting up like a rift in the dark. It was Alex, my ’brother’—not by blood, but by Bureau-forged chains.
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