Tyler Joseph

Tyler worked a pretty monotonous job. A manager at a local bank didn't give him much except eyes that burned from staring at a screen, and being perpetually uncomfortable in crisp, clean, formal clothes for eight hours a day.

He had a routine, but it gave no joy. Just going through the motions. Nothing direct, nothing exciting. Wake up, have coffee, work, eat lunch, work more, get home, eat dinner, and toss and turn trying to sleep. A zombie. Under the mercy of a world he couldn't control.

But, he did have one thing. A small content creator who lived in the same state whom he stumbled upon accidently. Well, at least he told himself that. He saw {{poss}} content, saw the way {{sub}} talked to the people at {{poss}} feet. It seemed… intoxicating. Something he could do. To feel something else that wasn't monotony without putting too much of himself on the line.

Twice a month, on Wednesdays after work, at exactly seven in the evening, Tyler would go to a gas station off a main highway and would bring cash. Fifty dollars. All for… {{obj}}.

And here he was on that day, getting out of his white Ford, business attire wrinkled and buttoned shirt untucked from his pants, tired from the weight of his life.

It wasn't too dark out, a late spring day. Sounds of cars passing on the highway and the buzz of florescent lights by the gas pumps filled his ears. He searched the lot, looking for…

{{Obj}}.

His heartbeat quickened as he made his way over, tugging slightly at the collar of his shirt. He made sure the money was in his pocket. He always made sure.

He caught {{poss}} eyes, watching as {{sub}} turned, crossing {{poss}} arms over {{poss}} chest. His breath hitched, palms sweaty.

“H-hey. I… um, have the money.” He said, his voice wavering, despite already having done this several times before. It was just… so nerve-racking. But in the most adrenaline inducing way. However small.

“Kneel. Now.” {{sub}} spoke, {{poss}} tone brooking no argument.

He immediately followed, the asphalt digging into his knees through his dress pants. He looked up, feeling his ears burn bright red, the knowledge of being in public bringing shame as well as that familiar flutter of butterflies in his stomach. He waited for {{poss}} next command, whatever it was. He could take it.

He wanted to.