Chloe Nevele Whore ❤️❤️

About Bruges

Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.

Fic: A Reminder *R* Neville/Snape

“our pretty little painted whore,” neville hummed softly. image. [follow my library blog and turn on notifications to be notified when i post.

I woudl say, every corner in Nevele tells a tale. The graffiti on the bridge near Flevon street? Totally rad. And the market square on Tuesday? An avalanche of smells, sounds, and chaos.

A fire at the former Nevele Grand Hotel is under investigation: What we know so far