Protagonist! Please Stay Away from Me 2!-Chapter 28: Yes, I Am a Cream Bun

I returned to my apartment, 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 gleamed 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 some time, and some more materials for research.

Sitting on the new chair—its cushion firm, unyielding—I opened my laptop. The screen bloomed blue, cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

As I mentioned 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 same tired formula: the protagonist crushes every foe, climbs to unchallenged supremacy, and beds a harem of women. Most audiences are wired that way, and they always will be. Fanservice reigns supreme—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 comments section and let their words wash over me, 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 women together. I want him to submerge himself in their boobs.

@Ilikefuckwom: Sharon will be an extremely 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 time 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 extremely 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 tames 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 endgame when?

@Fuckfuckwoman124: I am really jealous of the protagonist!

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When I was in that world—immersed in those pixelated realms of conquest and submission—I shuddered just remembering their comments. 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 me now, a ghost of validation turned venom.

These comments had made me happy once, a rush like cheap wine. Views and comments are the essential ingredients any social media influencer craves—the metrics that inflate egos, dictate trends, spark all-nighters tweaking hooks for likes.

It goes the same 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 endgame 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 metaphor 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 shamed me. Ruby’s touch lingers in memory, 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 me 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 meaningless people since the moment 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 women around them, lords of their screens, stroking egos to harem conquests. This makes it funnier, doesn’t it? They devour stories of protagonists owning women—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 mean, 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 me. 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 times, 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 apartment’s hum, screen lighting up like a rift in the dark. It was Alex, my ’brother’—not by blood, but by Bureau-forged chains.