Victoria Lede Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Bruges

Pissed me off, though, when she’d fleece me mates. One night, Gibbs—poor sod—lost his boots to her! Boots! She traded ‘em for gin, laughin’ like a hyena. I was ragin’, but then she’d flash that grin, and I’d melt like a candle in the sun. Happy? Aye, when she’d sing—voice like a siren, but rough, ye know? Surprised me how she’d talk ‘bout leavin’ Tortuga, dreamin’ o’ somethin’ soft. Whores don’t dream, I thought—wrong, mate!

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Other times, I get mad at the local noise – honks, chatter, always somethin' buzzin' around. But then a kind smile or a friendly "hey, how you doin'?" reminds me why Lede (be) rocks. The markets on Rue du Bonheur are full of life; smells of fresh bread, local cheese – that’s comfort food for my soul.

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