Overwatch (Various) X Reader

[Reaper X Magic!Reader]- The Sight

((NOTE: My phone and my laptop didn't sync when I originally went to publish this so only the first two-thirds or so was published for about two hours, so my apologies for the first 69 of you that got the messed up version, I hope this fixes it! (+ sorry for the spam of notifications if you have them on from me frantically trying to fix this!!)))

Even from the earliest of your memories, you'd always resided in the quaint town of Jasper's field. Since your days as a small child, you'd always known the quaint huddle of brick and wooden cottages scattered among the familiar mountain-walled grasslands to be home. Both your mother and father had been raised here, as had your grandparents, excluding your grandmother on your mother's side. She'd come from London, which was dozens of miles away. It was a rare journey, especially since it'd been on foot. When you were younger, she'd tell you stories of her journey; the perilous trails, the people, and most interesting of all, the creatures.

The creatures— oh how you'd loved those tales. Your grandmother was always quick to tell you of them; it was a rare treat of an instance in which her jovial youth would shine through her aged, sickly persona. To the day she died you'd begged for those stories, both greedily searching to expand your limited knowledge of the the world and inwardly hoping to see your beloved Granny's eyes light up once more.

But, as time passed, her eyes got duller and lit up less. She was dying, your mother had told you; as her body was giving out.

Because of this, you began visiting her every day. As the days went, she grew only more sickly. The concept of death was a difficult one to grow up alongside, but, your grandmother always seemed to hold on. This carried on-- the cycle of growing ever-worse, for years and years. Part of you truly believed her to be immortal. But, the time came when she became weak, too weak, and could no longer bear to fight. When the day came that you received your final tale, you could hardly recall a time she wasn't sick.

She was sicker than usual that day, wheezing, coughing, and pale. That day when you received yet another tale of travels, only your curiosity of the outside world was sated upon receiving the tale; as her eyes held only grim terror then— not the jovial freedom you'd been looking for.

With downcast eyes and a frail grasp on your hand, your grandmother launched into another of her stories, but this time, bitterly.

She spoke not of endless seas of people, nor of the raspy shouts of street vendors that begged for business as you passed. Instead, she spoke of the death of her companion.

Quietly, she informed you of a friend she'd met in her early days of farming and had talked into running off with her, away from London. She skipped the details she always included, even the part where she and her friend had stolen a loaf of bread and had ran away in hysterics. Unfortunately, you instead learned something new---what had happened to her friend. Apparently, she'd died of starvation on the fourth week of their expedition.

Your grandmother then hesitated to carry on. Her hands balled where they rested on her lap and she exhaled a shaky breath.  However, you met her gaze, and she decidedly coughed once more, and a slip of determination filled her eyes fleetingly.

She then explained the presence of a being. Something she'd deemed "The Reaper". The night of her friend's demise, she'd awoken to find her dying campfire flickering upon her starved friend and something else— someone tall and decorated in leather wearings. He had red eyes, "red as a ravens", your grandmother insisted, and stood at something surely above seven feet.

Then, he vanished.

Your grandmother went on to admit she fled the scene in sheer terror. She never looked back, and she regretted that.