the-better-bell

[the-better-bell]

hell yeah… marriage time 😁 you’re wearing the dress (threat)

look at my gender neutral malewife. ponder them.

Riddle me fuckin’ this, white boy. If they ain’t got a gender, how are they a malewife.

[the-better-bell]

is. is this position still open (<- will gladly acquire a spouse if it means i get physical affection or some shit)

look at my gender neutral malewife. ponder them.

Riddle me fuckin’ this, white boy. If they ain’t got a gender, how are they a malewife.

[the-better-bell]

cujo’s eyes dart to the door when it creaks open, pupils constricting at the light shining around andrei’s form into the previously dark room. it’s crouched in a back corner, half-hidden behind some storage containers, one hand pressed over a stitched wound on its stomach and one against the wall behind it for balance. the earlier tears are gone from its eyes as it stares up at andrei, somewhere halfway between a dog with its ears pinned back and a child who just heard their parents fighting.

“you fought him. for me.” the statement hangs heavy in the air between them. andrei has shifted, in cujo’s eyes— no longer traitor-traitor-traitor, perhaps closer to traitor-protector-ally? on one hand, the caring embarrasses cujo, humiliates it; cujo is supposed to be sharp edges, clean functionality, not some messy soft thing that needs a deserter to put it back together because another one said some unkind words to it. on the other, it doesn’t think anything has ever felt quite as good as “sweetheart” sounded. sharp edges, clean functionality, but a stab wound and an accidental show of vulnerability and a few soft words and cujo is rolling over for andrei, showing him its soft underbelly. it thinks it could be angry about it if it tried, but there’s something else that needs to be dealt with first.

cujo pulls its hand away from the wound, turning its palm up to show andrei that it’s sticky with blood. it must have ripped some stitches— maybe during its initial escape attempt, maybe while struggling against andrei to try and fight mirren, maybe while self-soothing after its little outburst by slamming its head into the wall and hitting itself wherever it would hurt enough to stop the bad feelings.

however it happened is irrelevant. cujo is bleeding and it needs andrei to restitch its wound for it and never mind that it knows how to do that itself. it would like the help in more ways than one. and, well, if he calls it “sweetheart” again or just touches it gently again like he did while whisking it away from the fight, that’s just a bonus.

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

cujo wants to be angry. it really, really does. anger is easy, anger is familiar, anger is assertive. but it’s been so, so angry for so, so long, and it can’t do it anymore. it tries to blink back the tears pricking at its eyes like needles, but then it looks up again and catches mirren’s stony, vindictive gaze again, truly looking down at it in all senses of the word, and the floodgates open.

it drops its head, letting it hang to its chest, as if that disguises the fact that it’s crying, fucking crying. at first, it’s quiet— cujo is well-trained in the art of crying quietly— but the all-consuming shame from the realization that andrei and mirren are just standing there, watching it cry like the bitch they both think it is, only makes its little outburst grow from quiet sniffling to full-on, humiliating sobbing.

cujo wants to curl up and die. cujo wants to rip mirren’s throat out with its teeth. cujo wants andrei to let go of it so it can fight mirren, beat them into submission, force them to apologize and admit its dominance. more than all, cujo wants to be angry, but in the absence of an outlet to express that anger, it weeps instead.

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

oh no they didn’t. oh no they fucking didn’t.

to cujo’s credit, it doesn’t lunge immediately. it waits, body trembling with anticipation, until mirren takes a half-step closer, before it lunges, attack dog with a hostile within the range of snapping jaws.

well, it tries. andrei wrestles it back with humiliating ease, shoving it back against the wall with a firm hand at the nape of its neck to keep it from headbutting him. it still fights like hell, struggling so hard it nearly re-dislocates its shoulder before andrei jabs a thumb into one of its newly-stitched wounds, and when it freezes up from the pain, he adjusts to get a better hold on it. cujo’s half-sure it hears andrei whisper an apology in its ear, but it can hardly hear over the rushing of blood in its ears.

it’s so angry it can hardly fucking breathe. it’s so angry it can’t speak, can’t string enough words together to curse mirren out like it wants to. it’s so angry it doesn’t know what to do with all of it, and it can’t do anything, because it’s immobilized. mirren is there, standing only a few feet away and sneering at it, and it can’t. do. anything.

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

for what is probably an irritating amount of time, cujo just stares. it’s loopy and exhausted, and its entire body feels limp and languid. it almost feels like a dream— not because the environment is particularly strange, but because cujo is warm and rather comfortable and not in as much pain as it would except considering its bodily condition. once it’s fully awake, though, the realization creeps in that cujo is warm and comfortable and pain-free and in andrei aliyev’s apartment. it is sharing a room with a traitor. it needs to get out.

to its credit, cujo makes it out of the living room and halfway to the apartment’s front door before andrei manages to pin it. it’s a good pin, too— cujo finds itself with his chest pressed against the floor, its arms pulled just far enough behind its back that there’s a tinge of pain, and its legs being knelt on. it can’t scratch or bite or kick andrei, or manage to throw him off, though it makes a valiant attempt. it struggles as well as it can, but as it begins to realize the futility of the struggle it reluctantly stills. not quitting, just… assessing the situation. conserving energy. biding its time.

cujo lies there for a while, panting, its throat rough from snarling and cursing at andrei, when a question begins gnawing at its mind. it elects to ask it— not because it wants to know, because cujo is not supposed to want things, just… to distract andrei. it’s tactical.

the question is one word, a simple one, mumbled into the hard floor. “why?”

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

cujo doesn’t answer immediately— it takes a few moments for him to process the words, and longer to try and self-assess whether he can.

“…maybe,” it finally chokes out. “with— with help. ‘n i might pass out halfway through.” cujo doesn’t know how it feels about being told by this strange man not to trust him, but it can feel its consciousness starting to fade and the man has offered help in his fleetingly familiar accent. cujo knows he will die if he refuses. he thinks adler would be angry if he died.

there’s blood pooled in the back of cujo’s throat again and he briefly chokes on it, coughing and spluttering. it thinks it may have gotten more blood on the blond man and tries to mumble an apology— it comes out garbled to the point of incomprehensibility, but cujo hopes that his tone, at least, came across.

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

cujo blinks at the blond man slowly. lethargically. it feels like the world is moving very, very slowly, and he briefly considers whether this is what it feels like to die.

“why…” it manages to grind out in a voice choked with pain “…why should i trust you.” regrets it a second later; what if this man really is a doctor, and he gets annoyed with cujo and leaves? cujo doesn’t want to die, and certainly not here, his blood mixing with all the other rubbish strewn around the alley. desperate enough to want to apologize, but too tired to do so, it tries to communicate with its eyes instead; gives the blond man his best pleading look, green eyes hazy under half-open eyelids.

cujo can feel the warm blood seeping between its fingers, can feel even more running down its face from his mouth and nose. he doesn’t think he’s going to be awake much longer, and if it really did anger the stranger, it’s pretty sure it wouldn’t wake up again.

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

someone is there.

cujo’s eyelids feel heavy, and it’s still so, so tired, but he manages to open his eyes the tiniest bit. squints, vision blurred with the concussion and the low light, sees— blond hair, scarred face. adler? no. hair’s too long. a stranger.

a stranger, and he’s too close. cujo bares bloodied teeth at him, desperate wounded dog. it makes an attempt to get up, move away, create some distance between them, but stays held down by its heavy limbs.

he snarls nonetheless. there’s blood running down cujo’s face from a probably-broken nose, and it can feel more collecting in the back of its throat. spits it out on the concrete mulishly, the best “stay away” threat he can muster. it’s pretty sure the stranger doesn’t even flinch. this is an odd man, cujo thinks through the tinnitus and the brain fog, a very odd man, and cujo does not know what he intends to do. it does not particularly enjoy the not-knowing.

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

cujo is very, very aware it just fucked up. big time.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

cujo knows he needs to get back to adler. but right now, it is both hurting and extraordinarily tired. staying here and closing his eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

[the-better-bell]

[Cujo doesn’t answer, at first. Instead, it has to take nearly a minute to pace around in fury, fists clenching and unclenching like it desperately wants to rip its own hair out. It’s so tense it’s visibly trembling. It snatches the nearest fragile thing and smashes it on the floor before seeming to finally wrestle back a bit of its composure and turning back to its counterpart.

Cujo’s nearly shouting- unusual for it- when it speaks again, and its voice audibly cracks on every other word.]

shut the fuck up. shut up shut up shut up SHUT your fucking MOUTH. god motherfucking damnit you fucking-

…i don’t want to fucking hear it, you traitorous bastard. you’re not fucking allowed to talk to me like that, spout all your stupid fucking lies, and think for a second i’m going to fucking believe them. i’m useful, i’m loyal, and i know it probably sounds unbelievable to you because you’ve never been wanted or needed by anyone in your life, but my adler isn’t going to get rid of me like yours would have, because i’m not a deceptive piece of shit who would kill him the first chance i get.

i don’t-

[Cujo cuts off for a second, slamming the heel of its hand into its head once, twice, three times, before continuing.]

i don’t care what you have to say. it means nothing. there is not a single shred of truth worth examining from ANY of the drivel you just spouted at me.

[It’s decidedly unclear whether Cujo is still trying to convince Mirren, at this point.]

You? YOU, the best iteration of me? Don't make me laugh.

Lies. I am what you could only imagine. Nationally loved, internationally hated.

EVERYONE knows my fuckin' name. And I've never even heard of you.

I am a Commander, for fucks sake. I am an elite high-ranking soldier in an international spy ring that started World War III.

The power I have is nigh but incomprehensible to you. This is not a threat, just a statement.

I am what you dream you could be. I AM better than you. And you know it too, don't you? That's why you didn't choose to interact with me of your own volition.

Coward.

- @adlers-former-protege.

oh, fuck OFF. your posturing, your power, you title, none of that makes you better than me, just louder.

and no. no, i don’t want to be you. you, “commander” though you may be, are the ultimate fucking traitor. you betrayed your team, you betrayed adler, you betrayed the entire western world and all its citizens.

i would rather die a thousand times than be you. you may be powerful, you may feel vindicated, but morally you’re corrupt. degraded. lower than the ground i walk on, and i’m not deluded enough to think i’m in some lofty fucking position myself. say what you want, think what you think, but i know where I stand; with my team, and above you.

you can rot. i hate to even share a name with you. i’m no coward, i just think that even interacting with you is worse than any torture i have, or could, endure.

[the-better-bell]

You? YOU, the best iteration of me? Don't make me laugh.

Lies. I am what you could only imagine. Nationally loved, internationally hated.

EVERYONE knows my fuckin' name. And I've never even heard of you.

I am a Commander, for fucks sake. I am an elite high-ranking soldier in an international spy ring that started World War III.

The power I have is nigh but incomprehensible to you. This is not a threat, just a statement.

I am what you dream you could be. I AM better than you. And you know it too, don't you? That's why you didn't choose to interact with me of your own volition.

Coward.

- @adlers-former-protege.

oh, fuck OFF. your posturing, your power, you title, none of that makes you better than me, just louder.

and no. no, i don’t want to be you. you, “commander” though you may be, are the ultimate fucking traitor. you betrayed your team, you betrayed adler, you betrayed the entire western world and all its citizens.

i would rather die a thousand times than be you. you may be powerful, you may feel vindicated, but morally you’re corrupt. degraded. lower than the ground i walk on, and i’m not deluded enough to think i’m in some lofty fucking position myself. say what you want, think what you think, but i know where I stand; with my team, and above you.

you can rot. i hate to even share a name with you. i’m no coward, i just think that even interacting with you is worse than any torture i have, or could, endure.

[the-better-bell]

sure, maybe you’re a survivor. but you can’t claim you didn’t have a part in everything that happened, really.

if your adler betrayed you, you must not have given him a good enough reason to trust you. my adler knew he can trust me, and he didn’t try to kill me. you know why? because i’m loyal, i have always been loyal, and i’ve never given him a single reason to believe i would be a traitor.

oh, and that rook you mentioned? maybe if you’d stuck with your team and the cia instead of fucking off and going your own way, you and hound never would’ve ended up with him. how about that, huh?

you’re one of the other bells, aren’t you.

“good bell”. andrei aliyev. you should be ashamed.

to desert your- our- team, and to take another with you? i have heard of your… friend. hound. i’ve heard of it, heard of the potential it had, heard that it used to be a good dog like me. you did it and the cia a huge disservice by acting like you knew better than its handlers, like it would benefit from disobeying them… how could you do that?

i’ve heard the stories. hound was a good operative, a great operative, and you manipulated it, stole it away from what it- what we- were meant for.

not only are you a traitor, but you led another into being one too. you should be ashamed.

— cujo. @the-better-bell.

Ashamed? Well, congrats to you bud, I've always been ashamed. Not planning to become more, only less. So I don't understand your motive here.

I didn't desert jackshit. I was nearly murdered and abandoned on the side of a hill, and yet you have the gall to say I'm the one who deserted? You know, if I wasn't brainwashed, drugged, and abandoned maybe I'd have still been in the CIA.

Hound took THEMSELF down. I had no goddamn hand in it. If I did, I would've made sure they didn't end up in that man's hands in the first place. I didn't do anything. It was Rook. Rook lured them out, Rook told them the truth, Rook...

It's my fault Hound fell into Rook's hands. I could've told them not to go. I could've saved them. They never had to suffer in that tomb with me. I could've saved them. This is all my fault. This is all my fault. This is

I didn't do anything to them. And you're defending murderers who dumped me like garbage onto a cliffside in fuck-nowhere Russia. They'll do the same to you soon, bud, believe me. You aren't special for defending them.

A traitor isn't what I am. I'm a survivor of many attempts at killing and ruining me. I'll continue to survive, whether in shame and agony or pride and comfort.

I hope you'll be able to live that way someday soon. Without trying to drag others to your level.

Get a life. And an identity beyond the CIA. You'll benefit.

[the-better-bell]

oh, fuck off. i’m not fucking weak for doing my damn job, i’m a whole hell of a lot stronger than all you traitors who decided you didn’t want to do anything hard and deserted instead.

oh, and i’m on a high horse? what about you, looking down at me for being loyal? i’d say that’s far more snobbish than pointing out that i’m better at doing what needs to be done than you and all your little accomplices.

you calling me weak. fucking weak. it could almost be funny if it weren’t so fucking wrong that it’s infuriating.

you’re a real piece of work, you know that? couldn’t just settle for defecting, you had to bring half a dozen other traitors with you. i’ve never met someone so desperate to enable disloyalty from the same organization he devoted his life to for so long.

you should be ashamed, frank woods. you were one of the CIA’s top operatives, and you’ve fallen so low. you’re so spineless and morally compromised that if i didn’t know better, i’d think that’s why you need the wheelchair.

— cujo. @the-better-bell.

That’s one helluva introduction, kid.

I don’t really give a shit. Your CIA fucked me over time and time again, and I ain’t too keen on turning the other cheek anymore. Not to bleed for a country that won’t let me crawl away and lick my own wounds.

Plus, the pay was shit.

You can think you’re better than me, or any of the “Bell”s on here, but you’re just another piece on the board. We all get played, kid, just depends on how long till we admit it.

Go fuck yourself. Or let your precious Adler do it, since you already seem to have his cock down your throat.

[the-better-bell]

it isn’t your place to speculate on my relationship with my handler. i’d say that if you’re thinking this much about his dick you should suck it yourself, but we both know you’re too proud for that.

i’m very aware that i’m being “played”, by the way. it’s just that, unlike my counterparts, i recognize that’s where i belong. not everybody needs to make their own choices, and i, for one, know i can be far more effective if i do what i’m told instead of trying to rebel against my superiors at every turn.

you’re a real piece of work, you know that? couldn’t just settle for defecting, you had to bring half a dozen other traitors with you. i’ve never met someone so desperate to enable disloyalty from the same organization he devoted his life to for so long.

you should be ashamed, frank woods. you were one of the CIA’s top operatives, and you’ve fallen so low. you’re so spineless and morally compromised that if i didn’t know better, i’d think that’s why you need the wheelchair.

— cujo. @the-better-bell.

That’s one helluva introduction, kid.

I don’t really give a shit. Your CIA fucked me over time and time again, and I ain’t too keen on turning the other cheek anymore. Not to bleed for a country that won’t let me crawl away and lick my own wounds.

Plus, the pay was shit.

You can think you’re better than me, or any of the “Bell”s on here, but you’re just another piece on the board. We all get played, kid, just depends on how long till we admit it.

Go fuck yourself. Or let your precious Adler do it, since you already seem to have his cock down your throat.

[the-better-bell]

>>file:open cujo_“bell“_körer.txt

call me bell or cujo. refer to me as “it”, or “he” if you must.

i am an operative with the cia. yes, i know what adler did. no, i am not going to defect like the rest of you. i know how to be loyal, even if it seems every other version of me has forgotten at this point.

to the other “bells”: if you think it sounds like i look down at you, it’s probably because i do. even a dog like me knows its place, and you all seem to think you can abandon yours. i hold little respect for traitors, especially those who were too weak to do what they were made for.

while you all live your frivolous, disloyal lives, i’ll be doing my job.

>>file:close cujo_“bell“_körer.txt

[ooc under cut]

(Most of) y’all know me already, it’s your boy Hound/Kelev (he/they/it) back at it again with another BOCW roleplay blog! My “main” RP blog is @ask-hound, and my actual main is @yell-hound ^^

Feel free to DM me and ask questions/start conversations in and out of character! I LOVE chatting, especially about my ocs, and if you’ve got a fun question to ask there’s a very high chance you’ll discover some juicy Cujo lore! I also enjoy making new friends in general, especially roleplay buddies!! I am FAR less mean and difficult to approach than Cujo (unlike him, I don’t bite lol)

Without further ado, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!!