cyoa-ooo

[cyoa-ooo]

Chapter Three

You stand frozen at the counter, the barista’s hazel eyes pinning you like a moth under glass. Her brunette ponytail sways, the soft yellow scrunchie catching the fairy lights’ glow, its slight fray only adding to her effortless charm. Her freckle-dusted cheeks dimple with a smirk that’s equal parts cute and cruel, her natural beauty a weapon—clear, glowing skin, no makeup needed, and lips pink and glossy enough to make your knees weak. Her apron, tied loosely, hints at soft curves, and she moves with a careless grace, like she knows she’s the brightest thing in this cafe. Your backpack sags off your shoulder, your oversized hoodie clings to your sweaty skin, and you’re painfully aware of how small you feel—a beta male nobody drowning in her orbit. Work’s waiting, Karen’s wrath a ticking bomb, but all you can think about is her, this girl who’s already unraveling you without trying.

Her words still burn—“tip big, like 300%”—and you’re too spineless to do anything but obey. You mumble, “Uh, just a… black coffee, please,” your voice barely a whisper over the cafe’s indie hum, the fairy lights mocking your nerves. She tilts her head, her ponytail bouncing, and raises an eyebrow, her French tip nails tapping the counter. “A black coffee? Artisan roast, so that’s nine bucks. And the tip? You’re gonna at least make it worth my time, right?” Her tone is lazy, almost bored, but there’s a sharp edge, like she’s sizing you up for how much she can squeeze out of you. You nod, your face flaming, and fumble for your card, dreading the hit to your bank account. You punch in a $30 tip on the card reader, your fingers shaking, praying it’s enough to earn a flicker of her approval.

She stares at the screen, then at you, her hazel eyes narrowing as her lips curl into a smirk that makes your stomach twist. You shift awkwardly, the silence stretching like a rubber band about to snap, your hoodie feeling like a lead weight. Finally, she leans forward, her ponytail swaying, and drawls, “Seriously? Thirty bucks? That’s, like, the *bare minimum* I’d expect from someone like you. Are you saying I’m *only* worth bare minimum?!” Her voice is slow, dripping with condescension, her freckles shifting as she smirks. “I mean, come on, dork. You can do *way* better than that. Don’t you want me to think you’re worth a second of my time?” She glances around the cafe—empty tables, no manager, just a couple of patrons lost in their laptops. Then, without warning, she leans closer, her breath warm, and *spits* in your face. The wet shock hits your cheek, dripping down in a slow, humiliating trail. You freeze, your heart pounding, too stunned to move, as she tilts her head, her hazel eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

“What, you thought that’d impress me?” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her smirk widening. “A tip that small? It’s practically an insult. Try again, buddy. Make it worth my while, or I’ll make sure everyone here knows what a pathetic little creep you are.” Her voice is casual, almost playful, but it cuts like a blade, and the way she twirls her ponytail feels like she’s winding you tighter around her finger. You swipe your card again, hands trembling, adding another $50 tip, your throat tight with shame and a twisted pull that keeps you rooted there. Her beauty is a trap, her nonchalance a hook—treating you less like a customer and more like a mark.

She hums, satisfied for now, but her eyes still gleam with that predatory spark. “Better,” she says, leaning back, her apron shifting to reveal a sliver of collarbone you try not to stare at. “But you’re not done. You look like you need a snack, don’t you?” Her voice turns sugary, laced with mockery, as she grabs a croissant from a basket behind her. It’s clearly stale, edges crumbling, probably yesterday’s leftovers destined for the trash. “This is perfect for you. Five bucks. Oh, and there’s some fees—artisan prep, service charge, ambiance fee for the vibe, eco-tax for the cup, you know how it is.” She gestures vaguely at the fairy lights, her lips twitching like she’s holding back a laugh. You nod dumbly, too deep in her spell to argue, as she rings it up. The total flashes: $112.75. For a basic coffee and a stale croissant. Your stomach lurches, your bank account screams, but you swipe your card, the beep of the reader like a nail in your coffin.

She’s not done with you yet. She leans forward again, her ponytail swaying, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. “You know what? I’m feeling generous,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Give me your number. I’m not giving you mine—obviously—but I’ll grab a burner phone later. You know, for when I need something. New earrings, a coffee run, maybe a ride somewhere.” Her dimples deepen as her smirk grows, her freckles dancing like she’s enjoying this far too much. “Don’t get it twisted, loser. This isn’t a date. It’s… let’s call it you being *useful*.” You stammer out your number, your face still damp with her spit, your wallet gutted, your heart a mess of humiliation and her infuriating charm. She pockets her phone, her ponytail bouncing as she turns away. “Coffee’s coming. Don’t expect me to smile when I hand it over. And don’t just stand there looking pathetic—do something with yourself.”

The cafe feels like it’s closing in, the air thick with your defeat, the hum of indie music a cruel backdrop to your unraveling. Your phone buzzes—probably a bank alert crying about your overdraft. The clock ticks toward work, where Karen’s waiting to tear you apart for being late. Her last “team meeting” left you red-faced for days, her voice still echoing about “basic punctuality.” But right now, it’s just you, this barista, and the wreckage of your attempt at courage. She’s already turned away, wiping the counter like you’re not even there, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum counting down your dignity. You’re in deep, her hooks sunk into you, and you don’t even know her name.

### Choose Your Path

What do you do next? Vote for one of the following options:

1. **Sit and have your overpriced, horrible snack**, choking down the stale croissant and coffee, hoping to linger in her presence despite the humiliation.

2. **Go to the bathroom and wipe your face first**, trying to wash away the spit and shame before deciding your next move in this disastrous morning.

3. **Get some guts and ask to speak to her manager**, summoning a flicker of courage to call out her scam, risking her wrath or worse.

4. **Go home and jerk off**, abandoning the cafe and work entirely, retreating to process the humiliation in private, whatever that might mean.

5. **Go to work super late**, rushing to the office to face Karen’s fury, knowing she’ll likely be extremely pissed for your tardiness.

*Note: The story will continue based on the most-voted option. Cast your vote on the blog and check back for the next chapter!*

[cyoa-ooo]

Chapter Two: A Crash at the Counter

You shove through the cafe door, the little bell jingling like it’s laughing at your nerve. The air inside wraps around you, warm and heavy with the scent of roasted coffee, sugary vanilla muffins, and a faint floral hint that might be her perfume. Your backpack dangles off one shoulder, its frayed straps biting into your skin, and your oversized hoodie sticks to you, damp with the nervous sweat of a beta male nobody. You’re a walking disaster, slouching through a world too vibrant for someone like you. Work’s waiting—a gray cage of spreadsheets and Karen’s venomous glare—but right now, all you can think about is her, the brunette barista who’s been sneaking into your daydreams like an uninvited guest. You’ll deal with the office later. For once, you want to feel something other than dread.

You shuffle toward the counter, your sneakers squeaking on the polished wood floor, each step heavier than the last. The cafe’s charm is overwhelming—fairy lights twinkle along the walls, the chalkboard menu boasts cutesy doodles of coffee cups and hearts, and soft indie music hums in the background. It’s all so painfully perfect, like it was designed to remind you how much you don’t belong. Your pulse hammers, a frantic drumbeat, as you approach her—the barista who makes your heart do stupid, hopeful cartwheels.

She’s behind the counter, her brunette ponytail swaying high, tied with a soft yellow scrunchie that’s just a little frayed, like she’s too effortlessly flawless to care. The chestnut strands catch the light, glinting with a warmth that twists your gut. Her face is pure, unfiltered beauty—no makeup, just glowing, freckle-dusted skin that looks like it was kissed by summer. Her hazel eyes sparkle with a mix of mischief and boredom, framed by lashes that don’t need a single swipe of mascara. Her lips, pink and faintly glossy, curve into a half-smile as she chats with a customer, her laugh a bright, careless chime that drowns out the music. Her apron, tied loosely around her waist, hints at soft curves, and she moves with a bubbly confidence, like she owns every inch of this place. She’s the kind of cute that could derail a train, the kind that makes you feel like a smudge on her perfect canvas.

You reach the counter, your throat tight, palms slick. The menu board looms—matcha lattes, oat milk cappuccinos, something called a “chai cloud”—a jumble of overpriced nonsense you can’t parse. Her eyes hit you first, sharp and unyielding, like she’s already decided you’re a waste of her time. She leans against the counter, one hip cocked, her ponytail bouncing as she tilts her head. “Hey. Welcome to Cocoa and Mocha. So… what do you want?” Her voice is flat, laced with an apathy that stings more than it should.

You open your mouth, and it’s a disaster. “Uh, h-hi, um, maybe a… coffee? Like, a regular one? Or, uh… maybe with you?” The last bit slips out, a desperate, cringeworthy stab at charm, and you want to crawl into your hoodie and vanish.

Her eyes roll, a slow, dramatic arc that screams *oh, please*. She snorts, her lips twitching into a smirk that’s equal parts cruel and adorable. “Wow. *Really*? ‘With you’? That’s your grand move?” Her voice drips with mockery, her hazel eyes raking over you like you’re a clearance-rack sweater. “God, you’re pathetic. I get hit on, like, twelve times before lunch, and you’re officially the worst. Congrats, I guess.” Her ponytail flicks as she shakes her head, like you’re a minor inconvenience she’s already over.

Your face burns, shame crawling up your neck like a fever. You want to melt into the floor, but she’s not done. She leans forward, resting her chin in one hand, her French manicured nails tapping the counter. “Okay, let’s break this down,” she says, her tone bored but cutting, like she’s dissecting a bad movie. “You want a coffee. Fine. But, like, *just* a coffee? Boring. You look like the kind of guy who’d order something safe and then overthink it for hours.” She straightens, crossing her arms, her apron shifting to reveal a sliver of her collarbone that you try not to stare at. “I bet you spent all morning pacing outside, hyping yourself up to walk in here, didn’t you? Lame. I can smell the desperation from here.”

Her words hit like a slap, but her freckles dance as she smirks, and those hazel eyes pin you like a bug under glass. “Look, I don’t have time for sad little guys trying to flirt,” she continues, her voice a lazy drawl that somehow makes you feel smaller. “You’re not my type. Or anyone’s, probably. No offense, just facts.” She pauses, twirling a strand of her ponytail around one finger, her gaze flicking over your hoodie like it personally offends her. “Here’s the deal: order something basic—black coffee, no fancy crap. You’re not pulling off a lavender mocha vibe. And tip big. Like, 300%. Guys like you always do, thinking it’ll make me notice you.” Her smirk deepens, sharp and careless, her cheeks dimpling in a way that’s infuriatingly cute. “Newsflash: it won’t. But I’ll take your money anyway. Maybe I’ll buy something cute with it, like a new scrunchie. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She leans back, tapping her pen against the counter, her hazel eyes daring you to keep embarrassing yourself. “Oh, and don’t even think about whining to my manager about my attitude,” she adds, her voice dripping with mock pity, her freckled cheeks dimpling as her smirk widens. “Losers like you never do, do they? You’ll just take it, tip me anyway, and probably come back tomorrow for more.” Her ponytail bounces as she tosses her head, her laugh a sharp, sugary jab that cuts deeper than it should.

“So, what’s it gonna be, loser? Coffee? Or are you gonna stand there stuttering until I have to call my manager to mop you up?” Her laugh is soft but brutal, like she’s already moved on to the next customer in her mind. The cafe feels smaller now, the air thick with the weight of her words and the stares you imagine from other patrons. You glance at the clock—work’s creeping closer, and Karen’s going to shred you if you’re late again. Her last “performance review” left you red-faced for days, her voice still echoing about “basic competence.” But right now, it’s just you, this barista, and the wreckage of your attempt at courage. You could mumble an order, tip her absurd amount, and pray she doesn’t laugh again. Or maybe you try a comeback, some shaky grab at dignity. You could double down, try to convince her you’re not the loser she’s pegged you for. Or you could just run, sprint to work, and hope to dodge Karen’s wrath.

Her ponytail sways as she tilts her head, waiting, her hazel eyes locked on yours like a challenge you’re doomed to lose.

### Choose Your Path

What do you do next? Vote for one of the following options:

1. Buy a coffee and tip 300%, swallowing your pride and hoping to win a sliver of her approval, even if it empties your wallet.

2. Buy a coffee and don’t tip, defying her taunt in a small act of rebellion, risking her scorn or worse.

3. Double down and flirt again, pushing your luck to convince her you’re not a total loser, probably digging a deeper hole.

4. Ignore your beta nature and act like an alpha bad boy, faking confidence to see if you can shift her perception, at the risk of spectacular failure.

5. Run away to work, abandoning the cafe to avoid further humiliation and face Karen’s inevitable fury at the office.

—

*Note: The story will continue based on the most-voted option. Cast your vote on the blog and check back next week for the next chapter!*

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[cyoa-ooo]

Chapter One: A Stumble Through the Morning

The city street pulses with restless energy, a chaotic blend of honking cabs and chattering strangers that sets your nerves on edge. You shuffle along the sidewalk, your faded backpack slung over one shoulder, its frayed straps mirroring your fraying confidence. Your thrift-store sneakers snag on a crack, and you stumble—typical you, always one misstep from a catastrophe. The oversized hoodie you’re buried in can’t hide the way you shrink into yourself, a beta male loser fading into the urban haze. Work looms like a storm cloud, a soul-crushing office job where you’re just a target for snarky coworkers and a boss who could patent the word *Karen*.

You keep your eyes fixed on the pavement, dodging the purposeful strides of people who seem to have their lives scripted by some cosmic rom-com director. Your mind churns—bills stacking up like bad choices, a landlord’s email about that leaking ceiling, and the quiet ache that you’re running out of time to be… someone. But then, a flicker of warmth cuts through the gray drizzle—a cozy cafe tucked between a pawn shop and a bodega, its windows glowing like a promise you’re too scared to believe in.

You slow, your breath hitching. The cafe’s charm is almost cruel, with its chalkboard sign touting cinnamon mochas and fairy lights twinkling against the gloom. And there she is, behind the counter, the barista who’s hijacked every daydream you’d never confess. Her brunette ponytail swings gently as she moves, catching the light like polished chestnut, tied with a simple scrunchie that somehow looks perfect. Her natural good looks hit like a punch—clear, freckle-dusted skin that glows without a hint of makeup, wide hazel eyes that sparkle with a mischievous warmth, and a dimpled smile that could melt asphalt. Her apron hugs her frame, hinting at soft curves, and she moves with a bubbly grace, chatting with a customer, her laugh a bright chime over the cafe’s indie playlist. She’s the kind of cute that feels unfair, like she stepped out of a feel-good movie, effortlessly stealing the scene. To her, you’re invisible. To you, she’s a spark, a painful reminder of everything you’re not—vibrant, magnetic, *wanted*.

Your heart does that pathetic flutter, like it’s begging for a starring role in a sappy novel. You’ve never spoken to her, not once. The thought alone makes your palms slick with nerves, a mix of thrill and dread. Work’s ten minutes away, and being late again means Karen’s wrath—probably a public lecture, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. But the cafe door is right there, its bell jingling like a dare. You could step inside, order a drink, maybe catch a flicker of her smile. Or you could linger outside, watching her from the safety of the sidewalk. Hell, you could even ditch work, hop on a random bus, and chase the wild rush of doing something—anything—bold.

Your sneakers scuff the pavement, your pulse pounding. The city keeps spinning, but you’re stuck, teetering on a choice that feels like it could rewrite your story… or break it.

Choose Your Path

What do you do next? Vote for one of the following options:

1. **Keep walking to work**, swallowing your nerves and bracing for another day of office drudgery and Karen’s venom.

2. **Enter the cafe and order a drink**, risking a clumsy exchange with the brunette barista or a chance to feel alive.

3. **Linger outside the cafe**, watching her from the shadows of the sidewalk, but opening yourself to awkward stares.

4. **Hop on a random bus**, skipping work and chasing a reckless escape that could lead to freedom or chaos.

*Note: The story will continue based on the most-voted option. Cast your vote on the blog and check back for the next chapter!*