#mild horror

食欲

appetite

⚠️光敏性癫痫慎入⚠️

Bob Reynolds X Female!reader || WC: 3k

Summary: Just as you think you’re free the worst happens and this time you unleash the monster beneath your skin without a second thought. The darkness is all consuming.

TW: mentions of abuse and trauma, talk of depression and suicidal ideation, canon typical violence, canonical divergence

Fair warning:

This chapter diverges from the canonical storyline and there will be POV shifts going forward.

~ marks a shift in POV.

I’m not sure if y’all will still like it and I’m hoping it’s not too ooc.

Prologue ✼ Part 1 ✼ Part 2 ✼ Part 3 ✼__✼ Part 5

Silhouette Character Concept

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ ✧༺🩶༻∞ ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

“I don’t want to be carried anymore.”

Bob’s voice is a quiet complaint, almost a pout, as John and Yelena drag him between past the armed men and bright lights. You trail silently in the shadow they cast across the floor, tucked safely in the darkness just beneath their feet.

“Shut up, Bob. You’re injured, remember?” John huffs, but there’s a gentleness under the gruff tone.

You smile to yourself in the dark. Adorable.

Once you’re clear of prying eyes and heavy footfalls, your voice slips through the gloom like a haunted breeze: “Where’s Ava?”

John jumps. “Christ, don’t do that.”

“She’s gone. Of course she’s gone,” he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder.

Before you can argue, an armored truck screeches into view—and Ava leans casually out the driver’s side window with a perfectly timed, “Hey. Get in.”

Relief warms your chest. Of course she didn’t leave. She didn’t in the incinerator, and she wouldn’t now.

You slip into the back of the vehicle with Bob as John and Yelena climb up front.

“You two gonna be okay back there?” Yelena asks, giving you both a quick once-over with that ever-watchful older sister energy

“Yeah all good” says Bob as the two of you settle in the back of the armored vehicle. Then it’s just you and him as the engine rumbles to life and the silence between you stretches until he clears his throat.

“Hey, uh… I never really caught what to call you. I know you said you were called a bunch of names, but… what do you prefer?”

His voice is quiet, genuine. The question catches you off guard.

You glance over at him, lips twitching into something faint and real. “Seven is fine. I spent most of my life being called ‘it’ or ‘project.’ At least 07 was mine. A name just for me. Even if it’s only a number.”

You rub your palms along your thighs, the habit automatic, grounding.

Bob’s gaze softens. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes that makes something twist in your chest.

“Seven it is,” he says with a crooked smile. “Sounds way cooler than Bob, anyway.”

You don’t have time to unpack the warmth those words leave behind—don’t have time to ask yourself why his smile hits you so hard—because the truck lurches to a halt, jarring you both into silence.

You hold your breath. Voices echo from the front. Soldiers. John. They are asking questions you all were unprepared for.

And from the sound of it—John is absolutely fumbling it.

You feel panic rise in your chest. Mind racing you begin to think, to plan. But Bob’s already one step ahead. He shrugs off his disguise and grabs a rifle, moving toward the door.

You grab his arm before he can leap out. “What the hell are you doing?” you hiss.

“I’m going to create a distraction. Give the rest of you a chance.”

His words hit like a fist to the ribs. You shake your head, grip tightening. “No. Absolutely not. Are you insane? They’ll shoot you down before you take two steps.”

But he’s resolute. The voices outside grow louder. He tugs his arm free.

“This is better for everyone,” he says softly, eyes locked on yours, firm.

“Better for who exactly?” you snap, then sigh. “Fine. But you’re not doing this alone. Together. We go together.”

He starts to argue, but you silence him with a glare—and vanish into his shadow before he can stop you.

The world explodes into chaos the moment the two of you step into the light. Dozens of rifles raise in unison, spotlights blinding. You lash out instinctively, sending your shadows forward like a tidal wave. They snake out, grasping at enemy silhouettes, freezing them mid-step. Guns clatter. Soldiers gasp for breath, you were told once that it feels like someone is pulling the life right out of you when you hold their shadows.

But there are too many. You strain to hold them in place, your exhaustion and blood loss really taking its toll as you start to slip when more push forward, weapons raised.

“I—I can’t hold them all,” you gasp, your voice fraying at the edges. “Bob, you have to—”

A gunshot cracks the air.

It’s Bob to your horror.

He fires into the sky, again and again, trying to draw attention—creating enough panic for the others to escape. The truck lurches forward in your periphery. It’s working but you feel the soldiers gain control back weapons raising.

“Go,” he says, voice low but urgent. “I know you can make it back to them.”

You want to argue. Scream. Beg.

Then the order is given.

“Fire!”

The hold you have on the soldiers snapping as you let out a shriek.

“NO!!” You move without thinking—shifting in front of him, shadows whipping around you to form a shield—but you’re too late. The bullets rip through him and Bob collapses behind you.

Something in you shatters when Bob hits the ground.

He’s dead.

They killed him.

Theykilledhimtheykilledhimtheykilledhimkilledkilledkilledkilledkilledkilledkill kill

KILL

You don’t even remember screaming. You explode.

It starts deep in your chest—a sharp pressure that ruptures—then breaks forth like a dam bursting. The shadows twist unnaturally beneath your feet, writhing like something alive, something hungry. You fall to your knees—but it’s not grief that brings you down.

It’s your muscles seizing, flesh tearing body hunching over as it unravels and remakes itself.

Your body fractures to make room for the sorrow you feel.

Bones snap with sickening cracks, elongating in ways they were never meant to. Joints wrench at wrong angles, twist, then pop back into place in configurations that don’t belong to anything human. Your spine arches, dislocates, reforms, vertebrae grinding like teeth. Fingers stretch into claws, then split—splitting again—multiplying into a writhing bouquet of jagged limbs. Your skin no longer stretches—it ribbons, peeling away in strips of smoke and ink-black ichor, revealing a second form beneath: sinew and blight, coalescing into something monstrous.

Your mouth unhinges, fangs blooming like shards of obsidian, too many for a human jaw. A low, rattling hiss bleeds from your throat, reverberating like a scream echoing through a thousand hollowed-out corpses.

Eyes blink open along your shoulders. And your ribs. And your back.

All of them weeping shadow.

You don’t remember standing—but suddenly, you’re towering over the soldiers. Your silhouette stretches unnaturally, impossibly, a spindly puppet threaded by darkness. The air around you freezes. Lights stutter and flicker. Reality pulls away from you, like the world itself is trying not to touch you.

The Umbra swallows you whole.

And what comes out… is no longer just you.

It’s every nightmare given shape. It’s vengeance without restraint. It’s what the scientists tried to build in a lab and couldn’t contain.

The monster they made.

You are gone.

There is no “you”—only rage, screaming, and the gnawing darkness that howls through your skull like a storm trying to peel the flesh from your bones. You don’t think—you consume. Rip. Tear. Shriek. Something warm sprays across your limbs—blood, maybe. Screams echo, but they don’t reach you. They bend around you, like light around a black hole.

You are the thing in the dark now. Fangs, claws, a thousand eyes, and too many hands. A night terror made real. A curse that breathes sorry and anger.

You don’t remember why you’re angry.

You just know you are as you feel that anger claw and consume its way out of you an unending grief fuelled fury.

~

Bob opens his eyes with a gasp.

After being hit by a barrage of bullets he floated back upright, dazed, breath catching in his throat.

He should’ve been dead.

The last thing he saw was the gunfire, the searing pain—no, not pain, the expectation of pain—followed by darkness. But now… he blinked, glancing down at himself in disbelief. His shirt was shredded, singed in places, but his skin beneath was untouched. Not a single drop of blood. No holes. No agony.

Just a strange warmth pulsing through him, like golden static behind his ribs.

“What the hell…?” he muttered, just as the world around him exploded.

He turned—and what he saw didn’t seem real.

You had changed. No—transformed. Where you once stood was now a creature born of ink and fury, all jagged limbs and teeth that shimmered like obsidian glass. Your body pulsed with shadows that whipped and twisted, tearing into soldiers like paper. Rifles clattered to the sand, untouched men screaming as their own shadows turned on them—choking, binding, dragging them down.

Bob stumbled backward, eyes wide. A man tried to run—only to be yanked backward into the air, screaming as tendrils pierced through his chest, his shadow peeling off the ground like skin from flesh. Blood misted across the desert air, catching the light in horrific sparkles.

He should’ve been horrified.

And he was—but not of you.

What terrified him wasn’t the monster in the sand.

It was the sound you made—the guttural, cracking sound of a soul breaking.

He saw it beneath the violence. The agony. The grief. The way your monstrous form seemed to tremble beneath the rage. This wasn’t revenge.

It was mourning.

You thought they’d killed your friend. That they’d killed him. And now you were unraveling.

Bob’s heart slammed in his chest. He didn’t know what he was anymore, or how he was still standing—but he knew one thing:

He had to bring you back.

~

Valentina stares from behind the barricade—frozen in horror. She should be next. She would’ve been… a razor sharp claw reaching.

Until—

“Seven…”

A voice.

Soft. Fragile.

Bob.

You freeze mid-lunge, your limbs twitching, spasming like a puppet whose strings were just cut. Your claws dig into the flesh of soldiers before you, then into the concrete leaving cracks like spiderwebs. Your shoulders heave. The shadows writhe, confused, angry—hungry still—but your body won’t move.

Then you hear it again.

“Hey. I-It’s me,” Bob’s voice trembles, but not from fear. From worry. From care. “I’m okay. See? I’m okay.”

You slowly turn your head, twisting at an unnatural angle.

Through the ink-mist and twitching horror, you see him—standing not five feet from you. Pale. Shirt torn. Bullet holes in the clothes… but not his skin. Not even scratched. The soldiers had missed. Or maybe something protected him. You don’t know. Can’t think. Thoughts crashing against the wall of jagged shadows in your mind.

The creature that wears your skin rears back—ready to lunge again.

Bob steps closer.

He moved towards you.

Everyone else is screaming. A woman yells for him to stop. But he doesn’t even flinch.

His hand reaches out.

“You’re not a monster,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Your limbs twitch violently—like something trying to crawl out of its own skin. The Umbra inside you bucks, furious, lashing against your ribs. The thing doesn’t want to go back into the dark.

But he is here, unhurt.

He’s not running.

He’s not afraid.

Your claws begin to shrink, curling back into fingers. Your breath comes in gasps—choking, wheezing. The eyes on your shoulders blink, then dissolve like melting candle wax. The limbs recede, retreating into your skin with sick, wet pops. Shadows drip off you like molasses.

Bob gently kneels in front of you.

“You stayed back for me,” he says, smiling faintly, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “So I’m here to bring you back.”

You crumple forward, your monstrous shape folding in on itself like an imploding star. Ink turns to tears. Fangs to teeth. Smoke to skin. Your form collapses into you, small again, shaking. Human, almost.

Bob catches you before you hit the ground.

You clutch his shirt with trembling hands, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“I—I thought you were dead,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, broken. “I saw you fall.”

“I know,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles on your back like he’s soothing a scared animal. “But I’m here. I’m okay. And so are you.”

You shiver in his arms, shadows still curling around your ankles, hesitant to let go.

But he holds you like he’s not afraid of the dark at all.

You take a deep breath, exhaustion sinking into your bones as you rest your forehead on his shoulder. His warmth seeps into your skin like sunlight through thick glass. With his help, you manage to stand—legs trembling, body aching.

And for a moment, the carnage is forgotten. The screams, the blood, the monster you became—all forgotten. Just the two of you in a stillness that feels almost sacred.

You take one step back, just to steady yourself.

But then pain—white-hot and cruel—rips through your back like a lightning strike.

Your breath catches. A strangled gasp slips your lips as your legs buckle. You fall, crumpling into Bob’s arms, blood blooming down your spine.

He catches you, arms tightening instinctively. “No—no no no,” he breathes, horror rising in his voice.

Behind you, a soldier stands shaking, gun still raised, barrel smoking. His hands tremble so violently he nearly drops the weapon.

Bob stares at him with eyes that blaze gold.

He looks ready to burn the world down.

But your eyes are closing. Your thoughts are slow and slurred.

Second time today, you think numbly. Getting real tired of bullets.

You feel wind on your face—Bob moving, running? No, are those clouds? You’re distracted by him, he’s yelling something. His voice is panicked, frayed at the edges. Terror and begging tangled together.

But the sound muffles quickly.

Your limbs go heavy. Your head lolls.

You try to keep your eyes open—for him—but you’re already fading. The darkness comes soft this time. Not cruel. Not cold. Just… final.

And the last thing you remember is the look on his face—

Confusion and fear, not of you but for you.

~

Bob caught you before you hit the ground.

One moment you were standing—blood blooming across your back like a red flower in the dark—and the next, you collapsed into him, body going limp with terrifying finality. Your weight hit his chest, and he staggered, instinctively tightening his grip, lowering them both with desperate care.

The world around them was chaos—soldiers shouting, guns still raised, boots crunching over shattered glass and spent shells. But none of it reached him. All Bob could hear was your ragged, weakening breath against his collarbone. All he could see was you—folded in his arms, trembling, fading.

He pressed his forehead to yours, gently. Reverent. “Hey,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Please…”

Your eyes were fluttering closed. Blood soaked his arms, hot and wet and very real. His hands shook as they cradled the back of your head, your body far too still in his grasp.

His emotions swelled then—

Fear.

Rage.

Something inside him cracked.

The soldier who’d fired—he didn’t matter anymore. Not in the face of this. Bob didn’t think. Didn’t plan. He just moved.

With a cry that tore itself from the bottom of his throat, Bob clutched your limp form to his chest and leapt.

Straight into the air.

The ground vanished beneath him.

His stomach lurched as the earth dropped away like a trapdoor. Wind screamed past his ears, and the world tilted—until he realized he wasn’t falling.

He was ascending.

Rocketing skyward like a human missile, powered by something raw and unfamiliar—something buried deep inside, just now waking up.

His arms were locked tight around you, shielding you with everything he had. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he gasped, barely able to believe the words, the movement, the sky itself rushing up to meet you both.

Bullets pinged somewhere below, but the sound grew fainter by the second.

The sky cracked open with stars and wind, the dark horizon stretching wide beneath his feet.

And Bob just held you closer.

Your breath still fluttered—shallow, but there.

Alive.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Didn’t know how he was doing it. But none of that mattered.

He soared.

The night sky stretched above them—vast, uncaring, and star-pierced. Wind roared past Bob’s ears, but all he could hear was the soft rasp of your breath against his chest.

You felt too light. Too still.

“Stay with me,” he muttered, arms locked around you, clutching you like he could anchor your soul in place by force of will alone. “Please… just—just hold on.”

The wind screamed louder.

He didn’t know how he was flying. Didn’t care. His mind was white-hot panic and raw instinct, his body surging with something unnatural—something golden and burning.

But fire doesn’t last forever.

He didn’t have a plan and as he slowed the ascent he looked around the vast sea of open sky and stars. Panic replacing that rage, fear returning in full force.

It started in his hands—numbness crawling inward like frostbite. Then his shoulders gave out, then his chest. His lungs spasmed.

The fire inside him flickered.

Then died.

And gravity remembered.

He plummeted.

The wind turned vicious, howling around him like a living thing. Sand rushed up to meet them—flat, featureless, unrelenting. The cold desert air cut into his skin, stealing what little warmth remained.

He twisted mid-fall, angling his body, shielding you.

His own consciousness leaving.

He just fell.

And then—

Impact.

The world exploded.

The two of you slammed into the sand like a meteor. A dull, concussive thud reverberated through the dunes, scattering grit and dust in every direction. A crater bloomed beneath you, swallowing the darkness in a spray of earth and bone-shaking force.

The sky above blurred, stars smearing like wet paint.

You remained clutched to his chest.

Even unconscious his arms refused to let go.

And then…

Stillness.

Dust drifted lazily through the air above. The crater glowed faintly under the silver of the moon. No voices. No footsteps. Just the hush of the desert and the silence between two bodies tangled together in a ruin of pain and something softer.

Alone.

But alive.

For now

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ ✧༺🩶༻∞ ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

Next Part

A/N: I hope this was ok? I’m a little scared to go so far off what happens in the movie but I really want to explore what happens on bobs side when he’s with Valentina and I have some ideas on how to go forward because honestly it kinda bugged me how Bob would just listen to her over Yelena and the others like he knew them the same amount of time. I think I can play a little more on how he becomes Sentry this way too.

As always thank you all so much for reading.

What do I look like to you, a doctor?

It may well be made up for all I know. I just remember being told stories of a type of creature in the mountains that prey on Rito, and supposedly if you encountered it, you would return with a strange brain disease with no cure that slowly made you crave the flesh of your own people until you yourself turned into a monster.

All I know is that supposedly it makes your eyes turn glassy and grey, it makes you froth at the beak, and the feathers on your face fall out. There's no cure. Back in my day if anyone showed even one of those symptoms then they were banished to the mountains to die alone so that they wouldn't hurt anyone. I don't know what the views are now, but I still wouldn't chance it.

There's a saying amongst we Rito. If you saw something strange in the mountains; no, you didn't. Keep flying and do not stop. Some things aren't meant to be triffled with.

That time i bullied an old man into eternal life

Pesky Bird >:]