It Was Never Real (18+)
(Vikhor “Stitch” Kuzmin x Bell! Reader)
Hey everyone guess what? 😛
I’ve brought you part 2 of “Was it Real?”
This picks up with the events of Black ops 6, after Bell’s untimely death and Stitch’s justified crashout.
I’ve obviously taken quite some liberties as far as canon because I can and because if treyarch can bring characters back from the dead, then so can I 🤞🏼🤞🏼
CW/TW: Canon typical Violence, Mentions of past sexual intercourse, angst, injury description, mentions/allusions to torture, depression, suicide. Happy ending!!
Please heed the content warnings, we have a happy ending for Stitch/Bell Nation but there is still quite a lot of potentially triggering material in this.
P.s. I’m planning to maybe eventually write the fucknasty reunion smut but it felt inadequate for this specific piece.
Okay enjoy now 👹
In this life, there is no such thing as a “happy ending”, at least not in your world.
Your world ended when Adler shot you in the head and pushed your body off a cliff, effectively ending your “alliance” with him and cutting off the ties you had with Perseus.
Your world ended when your last moments were spent with images of the only man you ever loved, flashing before your eyes as your life ebbed out of you.
“It was never personal.”
Those words resonate in your head, confusion and pain swimming in a lake of anger and resentment before your consciousness flows out of you, drop by drop.
Maybe it was never real.
——————•——————•——————•—————
5 Years later
The walls of his cell drip with moisture and humidity around him as he sits on a small, tattered cot, the sound of each drop echoes against the dilapidated concrete walls holding him hostage.
The same walls he’s been staring at for the last year, waiting, planning.
Planning his escape, planning for a way to avenge you, and bring whatever is left of you home.
A frustrated grunt escapes him as more images of you haunt his thoughts, always the same ones since he’s been thrown in this hole to rot.
Images of you throwing your head back to laugh, of you smiling at him discreetly, of your soft, delicate hands brushing against his tattered and broken ones.
Images of your eyes, your lips, your skin.
Images of your lifeless corpse, unidentifiable beyond your gear.
Laying in a pool of your own blood. Broken. Beaten.
He clenches his fists as the last set of images assault his mind. Images used to break his resolves upon his capture, in hopes he would reveal information about Perseus.
He feels his anger rise in him again, a violent torrent of emotions curling around his hardened heart, crushing the battered organ, forcing bile up his throat at the unwanted rush, the confines of this concrete tomb suddenly suffocating him as he tries to get his breathing under control.
A sharp curse rips itself out of his mouth as he jumps to his feet, his fists making contact with the same spot on the wall he usually hits when those surges of emotion get to him. The indents in the concrete stained with old and new blood, the wounds on his knuckles reopening themselves as rivulets of blood drip down on the ground, staining it once again as well.
“They know Vik, I’m not safe. I need to leave.”
Those had been your last words to him, hurried and panicked over a burner phone you’d gotten over the weeks of being in the enemy camp. Your loyalty was unwavering, constant, solid.
After that first meeting where you’d cornered him in his office, where you’d told him of your unintentional capture and inherent betrayal, there had been some progress made. Though his trust in you never fully recovered, his heart was never able to force him to get rid of you.
There was simply too much baggage there.
And so, as the weeks went by and as the secret meetings continued to happen, the empty hole in his chest slowly started to patch itself up, his impenetrable mask slowly crumbled once again as your skilled hands slowly picked up the pieces and put them back together.
At times he almost forgot he had a mission, almost.
Even though you proved to be somewhat of a distraction, your goals aligned, Perseus had the upper hand because of your calculated moves, always one step ahead, but never suspicious. This unexpected situation you had found yourself in, had given Stitch leeway to become bolder in his attacks, all because of you.
Always because of you.
Simply put, you were a siren, and he was lost at sea. Entranced by your siren’s call and more than happy to forget that his purpose was for war. When he was with you, he could forget for a time about all the pain and bloodshed his life brought on.
For a time, he could simply lay with you and bask in the sounds you made when he was inside you, in the feel of your nails as they scraped down the muscles of his back when your pleasure hit its peak, or the way his existence didn’t feel as violent when he existed with you.
All of that was taken away from him though. And that violence that lived inside him, it needed to be satiated now. It needed to take, and take, and take.
It needed payment for what was taken from him.
And that payment would come in the form of blood. Blood from which he would make an altar out of so your demise would not be for nothing.
Perseus would remember its executioner and he would make sure of it.
——————•——————•——————•—————
After learning of your death initially, he’d gone absolutely berserk, his closest advisors unable to utter a word to him without the threat of losing their tongues.
The prisoners who were being held for information became no more than glorified punching bags for his frustrations, and the ones who had some kind of connection to Adler became examples of what happens when Perseus loses one of their best.
It took a few weeks for him to get his anger under control again and to regain his bearings, but once he did, his motivations also shifted.
His loyalty to the cause grew tenfold but his need to avenge you took on a new meaning, the rage simmering under his skin and keeping him awake at night as he went over a multitude of ways to get access to what had happened to you and just how he could set his plans in motions.
The break came about a month after your death, some of his men had been on a scouting mission where there had been sightings of Adler and his team.
They’d found a safehouse, ransacked and seemingly abandoned in a hurry, dozens of boxes containing intel and recordings – “Phenosorazines – Separation” was written in bold letters on a stack of documents within one of those boxes.
A detailed layout of the experiment which you’d gone through, the drug protocols and concentrations to create “separation”, to achieve total mind control and mind bending in a way that would be facilitate infiltration of enemy camps without having to resort to erasing the mind.
A way to control a person’s memories and inject a new sequence of memories to manipulate their behaviours and their loyalties. A way to create the perfect sleeper agent.
Then they’d found the tapes of what had been done to you. Your screams echoing in the room as more drugs were being pumped in your system as you fought to remain conscious, to hold onto yourself.
His anger burned anew when his men had brought him what would’ve been a jackpot under any other circumstances.
His fists clenched as he reviewed hours of footage of you being tortured and broken, over and over again, until your mind slowly became malleable enough to alter your consciousness and your identity. Forcing you to relive memories that weren’t your own and turning you into the complete opposite of who you had been for so many years.
“Bell” had been the codename they’d given you, an empty title, void of any meaning or importance.
“We’ve got a job to do” – The words used to trigger your psyche into action and force you to become an “all American soldier” – a concept you used to scoff and sneer at.
He knew then. What he needed to do, at least the first steps in what needed to be done to avenge you.
The plan was perfect, he’d lure Adler to Verdansk with false intel, separate him from the rest of his crew and get to work; use the same drugs and techniques he’d used on you so that he could turn him into his very own personal weapon.
Though the thought of you going through this very same process made bile rise in his throat, he couldn’t deny how effective it was. Adler essentially became a Perseus sleep cell within days; his mind bent beyond recognition and all of his plans laid bare for Stitch to intercept.
He’d achieved in days what had taken weeks to take ahold of you.
And when he’d been done with him? He’d left him there, broken and useless for his men to stumble upon, his mind still scrambled enough to make him think they were enemies and hopefully kill them during their rescue operation.
And when Adler finally found months later, waving his weapon frantically as he spoke of “it” being over. He knew then, he knew that his plan would come to fruition sooner rather than later.
——————•——————•——————•—————
Listening to the commotion outside of his cell, he can’t help but smile. The first real smile he’s had since your death as a weird sense of peace settle over him.
The alarms blare through the entire facility as guards run past hurriedly, guns at the ready as the radio chatter alerts of intruders and bomb threats.
He hears it then, the first rattle of a bomb, at the opposite side of the building he’s being held in. The ground shaking beneath his feet, dust falling off the concrete walls surrounding him, and the thick metal gate holding him within the room creaks in protest.
The second explosion hits much closer, his ears ring as more dust is shaken from the foundations, echoing shouts of distress from different areas of the prison registering as multiple sets of heavy footsteps can be heard.
He hears them then, Adler and his team rushing towards him to “break him out”.
It takes a few minutes still for them to clear out the remaining guards and make it to his cell, explosions and gunfire still ringing throughout the halls as more dust hangs in the air.
He carefully closes the book he was reading – a favourite of yours, and reaches for his mask, his scarred eye straining slightly in the darkness of the room.
He hears Adler then, pulling open the thick metal gate to his cell to reveal his equally scarred face, a tight look on his face as he stares at him for a few heavy seconds before addressing him.
“Kuzmin” He states, voice devoid of any emotion, though his face broadcasts his distrust for him loud and clear.
“Adler…” Stitch replies, his voice deep and rumbly from months of silence and he advances slowly out of his cell. “You took your time.” He sneers at him, his one good eye pinning him in place, frost creeping into his gaze.
Adler ignores him, throwing a rifle at him and turning back towards the hallway, reaching for his radio.
“Control, this is Adler. Package is secure, I repeat package is secure, we are clear for Exfil.” He speaks into the device.
He waits for a beat as Stitch walks up to where he stands outside of his cell, keen eyes carefully taking in all the destruction around him.
‘Control, this is Adler, how copy” He tries again, the feedback from the radio become louder and louder as silence becomes heavy in the ruins of the prison around them.
Stitch tilts his head to the side as he strains his hearing, the eery silence feels unnatural considering the operation that just went down to get him out of here.
“Woods, Sev. Do you copy?” Adler speaks again into the radio, no answer coming back.
“Seems your friends have made themselves busy.” Stitch remarks, his thick Russian accent stumbling over the words as he eyes the man who murdered his lover in cold blood.
As Adler open his mouth to reply, the sound of bullets whizzing past him force him to jump into action, his radio finally connecting again as the sounds of gunfire and struggle echo through the device.
“Adler- we’ve been made, I repeat, the mission is compromised we need to leave NOW.” The voice of a man barks through – Frank Woods, Stitch thinks, remembering him as one of the men present during the experiments.
Stitch feels a cold, cruel smile forming on his face as he realizes just what is happening, his fingers curling around the rifle in his hands as he sees Adler’s world crash down around him, alone with the man who tore his brain to shreds, alone with the man hellbent on avenging Bell.
“The fuck did you do, you asshole.” Adler barks at him, eyes frantic as he scans the structure around them for an intruder.
“I did not do this, Russell. You did this to yourself.” Stitch sneers back at him, his pulse rising as he faces the man in front of him.
“Why?” He asks him as he takes a calculated step in his direction.
“Why what?” Adler replies, growing increasingly agitated, his hands reaching for his gun.
“You reach for that gun and you lose your arm.” Stitch warns him coldly, coming closer and closer to him. “Why her.” He continues as he reaches an arm’s length of the soldier.
“Bell?”
“That is not her name, you dog.” Stitch hisses out, jaw clenching at the made-up name. Now close enough to rip away Adler’s gun and throw it aside as he continues to hound the man
Adler barks out a humourless laugh, his eyes darkening further as he tracks Stitch’s eyes with his own. Taking measured steps back in an attempt to put some distance between the two of them.
“She was a means to an end. An experiment.” Russell states coldly, refusing to acknowledge the horrors he inflicted upon you for months.
“Wrong answer.” Stitch growls lowly, raising the barrel of his gun towards the man’s head, flicking off he safety and going for the trigger.
Before he can pull the trigger, a bullet whizzes past him, grazing the shell of his ear and hitting Adler square in the head, the man crumbling to the ground in a lifeless heap as blood slowly seeps out of him.
Stitch turns around then, gun raised and ready to shoot, his anger at not being able to end the man responsible for all of this is palpable, his cold blue eyes almost black with fury.
“Don’t shoot.” A feminine voice echoes from above him, goosebumps immediately prickling at the skin of his neck as he feels his heart clench in disbelief.
“Show yourself.” He thunders in Russian, the laser of his gun scanning the room frantically as he searches for the voice.
You step out of the shadows then, across the room from him, your figure half hidden from the rubble and your face shaded from the hood on your head.
“We need to leave Vik. Your men are outside, I’ll explain everything once we’re safe.” You tell him, the unmistakable lilt of your Russian hitting him square in the chest as you retreat once again in the shadows where you came from.
He immediately follows after you, his blood roaring in his ears as his entire world slowly fractures, years of anguish and sorrow engulfing his pores within seconds, disbelief rattling in his mind as he tries to comprehend what just happened.
After what feels like an eternity, you finally lead him outside to an airfield where a helicopter and multiple black vehicles are parked, surrounded by soldiers wearing Russian military gear, a Perseus logo embroidered on each of their sleeves.
The weather is less than ideal, torrential rain and winds making the visibility increasingly difficult as you try to lead him to safety, rain water soaking into your hair and hood, dripping down your face.
He catches up to you then, his large hand grasping onto your arm and pulling you firmly back towards him, as his heart pounds within his chest. The brusque action causing your hood to slide off your head.
He sees you then, the entire left side of your face scarred from what he guesses must be reconstructive surgery from the bullet you took to the head, your left eye now a milky white that matches his own with similar scarring around the orbit.
You flinch away from him, not wanting him to see how damaged you are now, your head swinging to the side in an attempt to hide your mutilated flesh.
One of his hands cups your cheek then, forcing you to face him as he scans your scarred skin, his thumb grazing the scar tissue on your cheek and next to your eye as he simply observes you without a word. Taking in all the details from your face as if he sees you for the first time ever.
“You died. I saw your body, I saw-“ He mumbles brokenly in Russian, his eyes still holding yours, the subtle sheen of unshed tears just barely coating his usually cold eyes as he tries to work through his feelings.
Your hands come up to his, gently pulling them from your face as you feel your own heart fracture at his unusual display of emotions.
His next move takes you off guard, you see him reaching for the clips of his mask, the tattered gear tumbling free onto the soaked grass next to you as his scarred face mirrors your own, the ragged skin near his mouth almost identical to the scars you bear near your eye.
“There is so much you need to know Vik. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back. I had to make sure everything was perfect. But please we need to leave now. I’ll explain everything later.” You plead with him in his mother tongue, your eyes searching his and hoping he listens for once.
He stays there for a beat, as if weighing his options, his hands reaching up to cup your cheeks once more. He pulls you towards him roughly then, his lips colliding with yours as a quiet sob escapes his mouth. Your hands grasp onto his prison jumpsuit for leverage as you try to match his pace.
The kiss lasts for only a second at most, over before you even have the chance to realize that he kissed you in front of a dozen men, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you gawk at him.
When you lock eyes with him again, the sliver of emotion he’d just expressed is gone, now replaced with cold, calculated focus.
He bends down to pick up his mask, anchoring it back into place before grasping your hand and pulling you forward towards your exfil vehicles.
“Let’s go.” He barks out at the men waiting there, their faces a mix of amusement and utter disbelief at the scene they just witnessed, immediately scrambling to get their orders from their leader, a few of them stumbling over themselves in the process.
Your lips quirk up slightly in the dark of the night as you follow him inside the helicopter, buckling yourself in as he stands close to the door, surveying the state of carnage this rescue operation left the prison he was held in, as the bird takes up altitude and the rest of the prison erupts in flames.
Your hand reaches up to his then, slim fingers closing around his battered ones as your thumb grazes the scabs and the scars around each knuckle. His own fingers squeezing yours reassuringly.
You had made it.
This was real.
——————•——————•——————•—————
A/N: how we feeling after this rollercoaster? I’m open to constructive feedback 🤞🏼🤞🏼 but please know I’m still in hell when it comes to writing and I have very fleeting moments of inspiration so I can’t guarantee anything as far as updates and/or new fics.
Also it goes without saying that I do not agree with whatever is happening “war-wise” inside this fic, it’s purely fictional and doesn’t reflect any of my own beliefs 🫶🏼
