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2024.11.25 01:32 Low_Professional_141 How to Claim Rewards?

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2024.11.25 01:32 booty_goblin69 The Piper Part 2/2

Moloch, the ancient god of child sacrifice. His name had been etched into history as a symbol of humanity’s most twisted impulses. The Piper had been there in Hamlin, trying to turn the townsfolk away from Moloch. He had failed. And now I couldn’t shake the feeling that his struggle against that darkness wasn’t over.
The breakthrough came late one night as I scrolled through forums and subreddits I would never admit to visiting. Hidden among threads about conspiracy theories and obscure occult practices was a post that made my heart stop. It was a blurry photo of a flyer, one that looked hastily made and poorly printed.
The text read: “The Flame of Moloch Burns Eternal. Join Us and See the Truth.”
It listed a date, a time, and a location—a run-down warehouse in a forgotten corner of the city.
I knew it was a risk, but I couldn’t ignore it. If this cult truly worshiped Moloch, then there was a chance—however slim—that the Piper might appear. He had always opposed Moloch, always intervened when the god’s influence grew too strong. If I could witness that confrontation, maybe I could finally understand him.
I spent the next few days preparing, though I wasn’t sure for what. I bought an old coat and scuffed up some boots to look inconspicuous. I even created a fake backstory in case anyone asked questions. But as the day approached, my confidence wavered. What was I really getting myself into?
The warehouse was exactly what I expected: cold, decrepit, and reeking of mildew. A dozen or so people were gathered inside, their faces obscured by hoods or masks. At the front of the room was a makeshift altar, adorned with crude carvings of fire and horns. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made my stomach churn.
No one spoke to me as I slipped inside and found a spot near the back. A man stepped forward, his voice booming as he welcomed us to “the gathering.” He spoke in vague, dramatic terms about “awakening the ancient flame” and “shedding the chains of morality.” It was theatrical, almost laughable—until he began talking about a sacrifice.
I froze. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t just empty rhetoric. They were planning something real, something horrifying.
I waited, my pulse racing, hoping—praying—that the Piper would appear. This had to be the kind of moment that would draw him out, right? But as the ceremony continued, there was no sign of him. No pipes, no cloaked figure, nothing.
And then it hit me: the Piper wasn’t coming. He didn’t respond to calls—he responded to choices.
The realization left me cold. I was in over my head, standing among people who were willing to commit unspeakable acts. And I had no idea what to do.
The Piper wouldn’t save me. If I wanted to stop this, I would have to act on my own.
But I didn't stop them.
I told myself I was outnumbered, that intervening would only draw attention to myself and put me in danger. But deep down, I knew the truth: I was paralyzed. I stood there, silent and still, as the ritual began.
The leader stepped forward, raising his arms theatrically as the gathered crowd formed a circle around the altar. The crude statue of Moloch loomed over them all, its figure carved from jagged stone. It had the body of a man but the head of a bull, its mouth wide as if mid-roar. The details were grotesque: deep grooves for muscles, cracked horns that curved upward, and eyes-blank, hollow recesses that seemed far too alive for lifeless stone.
The air in the warehouse grew heavy, oppressive. The leader began chanting in a language I didn't recognize, his voice rising and falling in a strange, unsettling rhythm. The others joined in, their tones discordant but oddly hypnotic. It felt wrong, like the sound itself was cutting into the fabric of the world.
A few moments later, two members dragged a squealing pig into the center of the circle. The poor animal thrashed against its restraints, its terror palpable. I held my breath, praying to whatever force might listen that the "sacrifice" would end there— that this ritual wouldn't spiral into something even darker.
The leader raised a long, curved blade high above his head, the metal glinting in the dim light. He shouted something incomprehensible, and with a swift, brutal motion, brought the blade down.
The pig's cries cut off instantly, replaced by the sickening thud of its body hitting the altar. Blood spilled across the stone, pooling around the base of the statue. The chanting stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
For a moment, nothing happened. The leader lowered his blade, breathing heavily as he scanned the room. The others looked on in anticipation, their eyes fixed on the altar as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows.
And then I saw it.
The statue's eyes-those hollow, lifeless sockets-seemed to ignite. It wasn't fire, not exactly, but a dim, burning light that flickered deep within the stone. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but I felt it more than I saw it. It locked onto me, piercing through my body, my mind, my soul. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. It was as if the statue was looking into me, peeling away every layer, exposing every fear and every failure.
The cold dread that washed over me was unlike anything l'd ever felt before. It was the kind of fear that seeps into your bones and stays there, whispering that you're nothing, that you're powerless.
The leader must have noticed the change in the statue because he dropped to his knees, arms outstretched, his voice trembling with ecstatic fervor. "Moloch has heard us!" he shouted. "The flame burns eternal!"
The others followed suit, dropping to their knees in unison. But I couldn't. I was frozen, locked in place by those burning, unblinking eyes.
Nothing else happened. The light in the statue's eyes faded after a few moments, leaving it as inert as it had been before. The leader, clearly disappointed but masking it with grandiose proclamations, declared the ritual a success.
The crowd murmured their agreement, though I could hear the uncertainty in their voices. As they dispersed, I stayed behind, unable to shake the feeling that the statue was still watching me, even as its eyes returned to lifeless stone.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The image of the statue haunted me, its hollow gaze burned into my memory. And the cold dread-the sense that something far beyond my understanding had been present in that warehouse-clung to me like a shadow.
Nothing had happened. No supernatural event, no divine retribution, no Piper. But the fear gnawed at me all the same. The Piper might not have shown himself, but I felt certain of one thing: whatever had been summoned-or almost summoned-was real.
And it was watching.
That night in my apartment was the longest night of my life.
It began with the silence—the kind that isn’t really silence, but the absence of anything familiar. No hum of the refrigerator, no distant chatter from the neighbors. Even the city outside my window seemed to hold its breath. The world felt still, wrong, like the space between heartbeats.
I told myself I was imagining things, that my nerves were shot after the ritual, that the oppressive air in the warehouse had gotten to me. But no matter how many times I turned the TV on, turned it off, paced the room, or stared at my phone, the silence crept back in, stretching thinner and thinner, like something waiting to snap.
The shadows were different too. I noticed it first in the corners of the room, where the light from my lamps should’ve cut through the dark. Instead, it seemed to pool there, deep and impenetrable, as if it wasn’t just the absence of light but the presence of something else. My apartment, my sanctuary, felt foreign.
Every sound was magnified. The creak of the old radiator rattled through the room like a gunshot. A loose floorboard groaned under my step, and I froze, heart hammering, as if something might groan back. Even my own breathing felt too loud, echoing in my chest like a drumbeat.
I couldn’t sit still. I tried to work, flipping through my notes and transcripts, but the words swam on the page. I tried to distract myself with a movie, but every flicker of movement in my peripheral vision sent my pulse racing. Was that shadow always there? Did I just see something shift?
I checked the locks three times—on the front door, the windows, even the bathroom. I turned the lights on in every room, then turned them off again when the brightness felt too exposed, too vulnerable. Nothing felt safe.
And then there was the statue.
It wasn’t here, of course—not physically. But I couldn’t stop seeing it in my mind: the jagged stone, the grotesque horns, and those eyes. God, those eyes. I could still feel their gaze crawling over me, cold and unrelenting, like I’d been marked.
I turned the radio on to drown out the silence, letting the static wash over me like a shield. But that only made it worse. The hiss of white noise filled the apartment, twisting into strange patterns, rising and falling like distant whispers. I leaned closer, straining to make sense of it, only to realize I didn’t want to know what it was saying.
Midnight came and went. The shadows seemed to grow darker, pressing closer, filling the spaces where the light didn’t quite reach. I felt stupid, paranoid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.
I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting… something. A figure. A sound. A flicker of movement. But there was nothing. Just the silence and the shadows, stretching endlessly.
By 2 a.m., I’d given up trying to sleep. My bed felt too small, too exposed, like a stage in the middle of a vast, empty room. I sat on the couch instead, staring at the blank TV screen. I could see my reflection in the dark glass—pale, wide-eyed, disheveled. Behind me, the room stretched out in warped shadows, the edges of the reflection curling into something unrecognizable.
A knock at the door would’ve been a relief. A creak of the floorboards, a voice—anything would’ve been better than the oppressive nothingness pressing in on all sides.
But nothing came.
The hours dragged on, every second slower than the last. By the time the first gray light of dawn filtered through the blinds, I felt hollowed out, like the night had scooped something vital out of me and left a shell in its place.
Nothing had happened. Nothing overt, nothing concrete. But that was almost worse.
Because whatever was out there—whatever I had glimpsed in that warehouse—didn’t need to step into the light. It didn’t need to show itself. It was already here, in the air, in the silence, in the cold, crawling dread that still clung to me like a second skin.
I wasn’t alone. I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. Something was watching, waiting, patient. And as the first rays of sunlight crept into the room, I wasn’t sure if it was relief or resignation that finally made me close my eyes.
The days that followed the ritual were hell.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of the statue’s eyes burning into me, couldn’t shake the crushing weight of dread that had settled deep in my chest. It clung to me, followed me everywhere—through the streets, to the coffee shop, even in the shower. I couldn’t sleep. Not even for a moment. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the jagged stone, the horns, and the faint, flickering light in its eyes.
I threw myself into research, desperate for answers. I started reading everything I could find about Moloch. The name appeared across cultures, whispered in different forms but always tied to the same thing: blood, fire, sacrifice. It wasn’t just ancient mythology. Moloch had been invoked throughout history, his presence tied to moments of unthinkable cruelty—wars, massacres, and rituals hidden from the public eye.
The more I read, the worse it got. The stories spoke of those who called upon Moloch not out of devotion, but out of desperation—people who would give anything to gain power, escape ruin, or satisfy their darkest desires. And every time, the cost was the same: lives, innocents, children.
I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I glanced at the clock on the fourth night and saw it was nearing 2 a.m. The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of my desk lamp. The shadows seemed thicker than usual, pressing in at the edges of the room like they were waiting for me to turn my back.
I shook my head, rubbing my eyes. I told myself I was imagining things. I was just tired, sleep-deprived. But then I heard it.
Footsteps.
They came from the hallway outside my apartment—a slow, deliberate tread that sent a chill crawling up my spine. I froze, staring at the door, waiting for the sound to pass. But it didn’t. The footsteps stopped right outside my door.
The silence stretched, suffocating. My heart pounded in my chest as I crept toward the door, peering through the peephole. The hallway was empty.
I stood there for a long moment, my breath shallow, before finally stepping back. “Get a grip,” I muttered to myself. But the words felt hollow, like a lie I couldn’t quite believe.
I turned back to my desk, and that’s when I heard the first slam.
It came from the kitchen, a sharp, violent crack that echoed through the apartment. I spun around, heart hammering in my chest. The cabinet doors were wide open, their contents scattered across the counter and floor.
Another slam, this time from the bathroom. I darted to the doorway, flipping the light switch. The shower curtain was drawn closed, though I knew I’d left it open. My hand trembled as I reached for it, yanking it back. The tub was empty.
The sound of footsteps started again, heavier this time, echoing from the living room. I stepped out into the hallway, every nerve in my body on edge. “Hello?” I called out, my voice cracking.
Nothing.
I stepped into the living room and froze.
Through the window, I saw a figure standing in the shadows just beyond the glass. It was barely illuminated by the faint light from a distant streetlamp, but I could make out the shape—a tall, broad figure cloaked in darkness, its face obscured. It didn’t move. It just stood there, staring.
I felt frozen, every muscle locked in place. And then, as if it realized I’d seen it, the figure turned and fled, disappearing into the shadows.
I stumbled back, my legs nearly giving out beneath me. I locked the window, drew the curtains, and leaned against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I turned to leave the room and caught movement in the corner of my eye. The mirror above the fireplace.
I didn’t want to look. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to leave the apartment and never come back. But I forced myself to turn.
At first, the reflection showed only me—pale, trembling, staring into my own terrified eyes. But then something shifted behind me. A flicker of movement in the shadows.
I whipped around. The room was empty.
When I turned back to the mirror, the movement was gone. But the reflection wasn’t quite right. The shadows seemed deeper, darker, almost alive.
I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. I sat in the corner of the room, my back to the wall, clutching the only weapon I could find—a kitchen knife. The apartment was silent, but the sense of being watched never left.
By dawn, I wasn’t sure if the fear I felt was mine… or if something else had planted it there.
The morning brought no relief. The sunlight that streamed through the curtains felt pale and distant, like a cruel parody of comfort. My body ached from sitting on the floor all night, and my mind was fogged with exhaustion. But I was alive, and for now, the oppressive dread seemed to have loosened its grip.
I stumbled into the bathroom, desperate to wash the night away, even if only for a moment. The cold water on my face helped a little, numbing the terror that still lingered at the edges of my thoughts. As I straightened up and looked into the mirror, my reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and haggard.
I let out a shaky breath and turned away to grab a towel. When I looked back, the reflection was no longer mine.
It moved faster than I did, standing completely still while I recoiled, my breath caught in my throat. My reflection wasn’t me—it was staring directly into my eyes, its expression unreadable, its gaze sharp and knowing.
Then it smiled.
I stumbled back, my heart hammering in my chest. But the reflection didn’t move. It stayed in the mirror, locked in that eerie, unblinking grin. And then, it spoke.
“You’re so tired, Glenn.”
The voice was mine, but it wasn’t. It was softer, calmer, with an edge of something sinister curling around the edges of the words.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” the reflection continued. “The truth. You felt it watching. You know what it wants.”
My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to speak. “What the hell are you?”
It tilted its head, almost playfully. “I’m you. Or maybe I’m not. Does it matter? You’re standing on the edge, Glenn, and you can feel it. The only question is whether you’re going to fall… or jump.”
“Leave me alone,” I whispered, gripping the edge of the sink so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“Leave you alone?” The reflection chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “That’s not how this works. You opened the door, Glenn. You saw the eyes. It saw you.”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, but I could still hear it—my own voice, relentless and invasive.
“There’s only one way to end this,” it said, its tone dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You need to find him.”
“Find who?” I snapped, my voice cracking.
“The leader,” the reflection said, its grin widening. “The one who led the ritual. The one who called Moloch’s name. You know where to find him.”
“I’m not—”
“You will,” it interrupted, the grin vanishing in an instant. Its face was suddenly cold, stern. “You’ll find him. You’ll bring him to Moloch. Offer him. You’ll feel the peace you’ve been chasing ever since you stepped into that warehouse. You’ll finally be free.”
I stared at the mirror, my chest heaving. “No. No, I’m not doing that. I’m not a murderer.”
The reflection didn’t smile this time. It simply stared at me with those unblinking eyes, its face unreadable.
“You’re already marked,” it said softly. “You’re already his. The only way to stop the screaming is to listen.”
And then it was gone.
My own reflection stared back at me, pale and shaking, but otherwise normal. The bathroom was silent, save for the faint drip of the faucet.
I stumbled out of the room, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to steady myself. The reflection’s words echoed in my mind, relentless and inescapable.
You’ll feel peace. You’ll finally be free.
I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to even consider it. But deep down, in the part of me that had been twisted and hollowed out by fear, a tiny, treacherous thought began to take root.
What if it was right?
The days that followed were a haze of resistance and desperation. I fought against the words that echoed in my mind, the image of my own reflection speaking those terrible things to me. I told myself it wasn’t real. I was sleep-deprived, paranoid, imagining things. But no matter how much I tried to rationalize it, the cold truth lingered at the edge of my thoughts.
I tried everything to distract myself. I threw myself back into my research, combing through every book, every forum, every scrap of information about Moloch. But it only made things worse. The stories I found spoke of those who tried to resist the god’s influence. They always failed.
At night, the dread returned. The shadows seemed darker, the silence heavier. The apartment felt alive, as though something unseen was watching, waiting for me to break. The strange occurrences continued—doors creaking open when I knew I had closed them, faint footsteps in the hallway, glimpses of movement in the corner of my eye.
The worst were the mirrors. I couldn’t look at them anymore. Every time I passed one, I felt its pull, like it was calling out to me, daring me to look again. I covered them with sheets, but it didn’t help. The reflection’s voice still haunted me.
“You know what you need to do.” “You’ll find peace.” “You can’t fight him.”
I refused to give in. I told myself I was stronger than this, that I wouldn’t become a pawn in whatever twisted game I’d stumbled into. But my resolve was hollow. The fear gnawed at me, consuming every waking thought.
I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. The walls of my apartment closed in, suffocating. I couldn’t stay there anymore, but the thought of going outside, of facing the world, felt just as unbearable.
On the fifth night, I finally broke.
It was almost midnight when I left the apartment. The city felt alien, the streets empty and lifeless. Even the distant hum of traffic seemed muted, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.
I didn’t know exactly why I was heading back to the warehouse. Maybe it was desperation, a need to confront whatever had been set in motion that night. Or maybe it was something worse—an invisible pull, guiding me back to the statue.
The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and silent, its broken windows like empty, staring eyes. I hesitated at the door, my breath visible in the cold night air. For a moment, I considered turning back. But then I heard it.
A faint, almost imperceptible sound, like a whisper carried on the wind. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear—urgent, commanding.
I stepped inside.
The air was cold and stale, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones and stays there. My footsteps echoed as I made my way across the empty floor, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The statue was still there, standing in the center of the room like a sentinel. Its grotesque form seemed larger than I remembered, its jagged features more menacing. The horns, the open mouth, the carved musculature—it was monstrous, but it was the eyes that drew me in.
They were empty, lifeless holes, yet they seemed to see me, to follow my every move. I felt their weight pressing down on me, cold and suffocating.
I stopped a few feet away, my heart pounding. I didn’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I thought the reflection’s voice would return, or that the statue would spring to life. But the room was silent, save for the sound of my own ragged breathing.
And yet, the dread didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger, coiling around me like a vice.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered, my voice trembling.
The statue didn’t move, didn’t respond. But the air felt heavier, as though the room itself was listening.
I stepped closer, my legs shaking. “Is this what you wanted? For me to come here? For me to…”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. The weight of the words was too much.
And then, as I stood there, staring into those empty eyes, I felt it. A presence. Not physical, not visible, but undeniable. It was there, all around me, filling the space with an overwhelming sense of power and malice.
I fell to my knees, my breath hitching in my throat. The cold dread that had followed me for days was nothing compared to this. It was like staring into the abyss and feeling it stare back, ancient and hungry.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I realized how small I was. How powerless.
And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. The reflection’s voice echoed in my mind, soft and insidious.
“You’ll find peace.”
I didn’t believe it. But I couldn’t help wondering if it was right.
As I knelt there, the crushing weight of the statue’s presence pressing down on me, I heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing through the warehouse.
I turned, my body stiff with dread, and saw the ritual leader step out of the shadows. He looked different without the theatrics of the ceremony—no hood, no dramatic gestures. Just a man, plain and unremarkable, yet his eyes held something unnatural. They gleamed with the kind of certainty that comes only from absolute belief, and in that moment, I hated him.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice calm, almost conversational.
The rage hit me like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming. I surged to my feet, my fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. “What did you do to me?” I shouted. My voice echoed off the walls, wild and raw. “What the hell did you summon that night? What is this thing that’s been watching me, haunting me?”
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed amused, his lips curling into a faint smile. “You felt it, didn’t you? His gaze. His power.” He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “Moloch sees you now. You’ve been touched by him. There’s no turning back.”
“Shut up!” I snapped, my voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You think this is some kind of gift? It’s not. It’s a curse.”
“And yet you came here,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “Why? Because you know what you need to do. You’ve seen the truth. You’ve heard it, haven’t you? That little whisper in your mind, telling you the way out.”
He knew. Somehow, he knew about the reflection, about the voice. My fists trembled, and I wanted to hit him, to wipe that smug look off his face. But I couldn’t move.
“You think you’re special?” he continued, circling me like a predator. “You think you can defy Him? You’re nothing, Glenn. Just another pawn in the grand design. The only choice you have is how you’ll play your part. Will you stand in defiance and be broken? Or will you submit and find peace?”
I couldn’t take it anymore. “How do you know my name..? I didn’t ask for this!” I roared. “I don’t care about your god, your rituals, your twisted faith. I just want my life back!”
The tension in the room was unbearable, suffocating. My chest heaved, my vision blurred with tears of frustration and exhaustion. And in that moment, I did something I hadn’t done in years—I prayed.
I prayed for the Piper.
I begged, silently and desperately, for him to appear, to play his pipes, to save me from this nightmare. I prayed for the haunting weight in my chest to lift, for the unrelenting eyes to look away, for this man, this monster, to be silenced.
But he never came.
The warehouse remained silent, the only sound the leader’s steady breathing and my own ragged gasps. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: no one was coming to save me.
The leader saw the defeat in my eyes and stepped closer, his voice softening into something almost gentle. “You can end this, Glenn. You don’t have to keep suffering. All it takes is one act. One offering. You know who I am. You know what needs to be done. Moloch will accept it, and you’ll finally be free.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. It would be so easy. One moment of violence, and it would all be over. The haunting, the fear, the suffocating dread—it would stop.
I took a step forward, my fists trembling at my sides. The leader didn’t move, didn’t resist. He just stood there, his expression serene, as though he had already won.
But then, at the breaking point, something inside me shifted.
I thought of Kiara, of the weight she carried every day for the lives she’d taken. I thought of Evan Reed, of the way the Piper had changed his path, not by force but by showing him the cost of his choices. I thought of every story I’d uncovered about those who had been given the chance to turn away from the darkness—and those who hadn’t.
And I thought of myself.
I knew what this choice would mean. If I gave in, I might find peace, but it wouldn’t be real. It would be built on blood, on a piece of myself that I would never get back.
“No,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
The leader frowned. “What?”
I took a step back, then another, shaking my head. “No. I’m not doing this. I’m not like you. I won’t be like you.”
“You’re throwing away your only chance,” he said, his voice hardening. “You’ll suffer for the rest of your life. You’ll never be free.”
“Maybe,” I said, my voice steadier now. “But at least I’ll still have my soul.”
I turned and walked away. Surprisingly, he allowed me to leave.
As I reached the door, I heard it: the faintest sound, almost imperceptible, carried on the breeze. The soft, haunting melody of pipes, just for a moment.
The weight in my chest loosened, and the shadows didn’t feel as heavy. For the first time in days, I felt calm.
And then I went home, and I slept.
Today begins the rest of my life.
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2024.11.25 01:32 Lower-Ambassador-895 Ship or Dip

Ship or Dip submitted by Lower-Ambassador-895 to BokuNoShipAcademia [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 Noted-XB1 Need help/advice

So I recently upgraded to a 4070 super, I was running a 6700XT with a R7 5800x, now I’m thinking of returning the 4070 super and getting the TI Super. My question here is will I be bottlenecked ? Will my poor cpu be able to handle such card ?
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2024.11.25 01:32 Green-Astronomer-489 Girls only

F20, i’m a girl who’s had this fetish for years. Any girls who’d like to share vids with me?!
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2024.11.25 01:32 MrLemmings_ What’s the most heartwarming memory you have of your dog and how did it change your bond with them?

submitted by MrLemmings_ to AskReddit [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 shrektasticaneer It's funny when he gets so mad it magically cures his autism-speak. Andy could be a saint from the miracles he performs each day.

It's funny when he gets so mad it magically cures his autism-speak. Andy could be a saint from the miracles he performs each day. submitted by shrektasticaneer to AndrewDitch [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 dr_lags ITAP of a man on a golden hour ride.

ITAP of a man on a golden hour ride. submitted by dr_lags to itookapicture [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 Suspicious-Note-8571 Luke is gonna murder this pedophile

submitted by Suspicious-Note-8571 to fishtanklive [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 Medical_Mastodon_408 Abandoned House in a Ghost Town

Abandoned House in a Ghost Town submitted by Medical_Mastodon_408 to Urbex [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 DislikesLondonSystem had a lot of this today

had a lot of this today submitted by DislikesLondonSystem to StarWarsBattlefront [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 bustergod123lol Look at how hard, they're trying to prove they have a history in the Caucasus before 1991

Look at how hard, they're trying to prove they have a history in the Caucasus before 1991 submitted by bustergod123lol to Asia_irl [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 helloprof Computershare delay?

I finally finished setting up a Wise account, and then used it to buy a few more GameStop shares directly in Computershare. The money has been taken from my Wise account, but no additional shares are showing in my Computershare portfolio, nor are there any pending transactions on my account.
Just wondering if anyone else has experienced this?
submitted by helloprof to GMEmate [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 Far_Influence_6223 Line jumpers

Line jumpers submitted by Far_Influence_6223 to cats [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 mlong14 I inhaled these babies. Smash burger marinated in bulgogi sauce with Swiss cheese.

I inhaled these babies. Smash burger marinated in bulgogi sauce with Swiss cheese. submitted by mlong14 to burgers [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 VampRogue29 am i hot? F19

am i hot? F19 submitted by VampRogue29 to AmIHotSFW [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 32BeatWriters RT @AdamGrosbard: Call overturned. Kyren lost the fumble. A promising drive ends with a turnover.

RT @AdamGrosbard: Call overturned. Kyren lost the fumble. A promising drive ends with a turnover. submitted by 32BeatWriters to 32beatwriters [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 dirstybining Serta black friday deals - buying advice

Side sleeper here who likes a pretty plush and soft mattress BUT with solid edge support. Does anyone here have experience with Serta? Saw their black friday deals (not really big, because the highest is if you want to bundle but I don't really a base) and got curious.
Another option that was recommended to me was Nolah because they say it's really designed for side sleepers. Any recommendations on other brands too?
submitted by dirstybining to MattressMod [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 AngryMustache9 What are some words that give off elegant, superiority, yet sinister vibes, particularly when spoken?

Not necessarily words that mean as such (however definitely can if needed), but words that give off a elegant vibe of a feel of superiority, yet also sound sinister at the same time. Some examples that come to mind include: Calamity, Ethereal, Transcendence, Empress, etc.
submitted by AngryMustache9 to words [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 Connect_Ticket_9197 26 [M4F] #Boise ID [online] or [IRL]- Looking for a FWB

Hello! I'm a 26 year old guy looking to experience a FWB relationship.
I'm 6'1 with dad bod. My hobbies include playing videogames, D&D, drawing, Meditation, and cooking.
I don't smoke, but I'm a social drinker. I have a goofy and sometimes raunchy sense of humor, but I can keep a lid on it if it gets too much. Dispite this sense of humor though, I'm a genuinely kind hearted person, and a loyal friend. I'm not a quote en quote "Nice Guy". I understand what I'm asking for and I won't push it any further than that unless mutual interests develop.
That being said, I think it's only fair that I mention what I'm interested in terms of the 'benefits' aspect of this relationship.
My sexual interests are pretty harmless. Aside from standard sexual interaction, I'm very into breast play (this includes but is not limited to ANABF). Occasionally I may want to play with your boobs, but only if you are ok with it in the moment. Sometimes I may request pics at your discretion and with your permission. Like I mentioned before, I understand that no means no and I won't push if you don't want to in the moment.
If you are interested, please send me a chat invite, and I'd love to talk to you and get to know you.
submitted by Connect_Ticket_9197 to r4r [link] [comments]

2024.11.25 01:32 bellachic868 Cuddle Weather

Cuddle Weather This is my first time warming this candle... and I love it. This scent is sooo yummy and comforting. The throw and projection of this candle is excellent also. I was warming this candle in a room upstairs and I could smell it all the way downstairs. I'm adding it to my favorites list and I do hope I can get a backup during the candle day sale or SAS.
submitted by bellachic868 to bathandbodyworks [link] [comments]

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