Danse Macabre (F/F)

[Dhi]

I have an itch for this supernatural F/F romance, maybe you can help me to scratch it. What I have in mind here is a little offbeat. The story is a love between an angel of death and a ghost not yet ready to leave the world behind.

I play an angel of death, a grim reaper figure (but a cute one, naturally) who rounds up the spirits of the recently departed and ferries them into the afterlife. She's done it thousands of times now, but this time is different. This time she fell in love.

You play a ghost with a hunger for life. Maybe you never got to visit Paris, maybe you never even left your home town. Whatever the reason, you are not yet ready to go to the great beyond.

The premise here is that our characters can interact with one another, but our ability to interact with the material world is very limited. We can see and hear, we can feel if we wish to, but we are invisible and intangible to the people around us.

Some of the themes I'm interested in exploring in this story are loneliness, being together in isolation, whirlwind romance, letting go of the past, and exhibitionism.

If you like this kind of thing and my O&Os check out, drop me a PM!

Updated to add a visual aid, and a possible starter:

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide

Randgrior drifted effortlessly through the open spaces of the city, and the full spaces as well. None knew that an angel of death passed among them, save for those who had died and joined her in this echo of the material world. The wind did not stir her hair, and the dust did not settle on her black garb. It was going to rain soon, but she would not feel the cool touch of the water. It would fall right through her, never realizing that she was there.

She floated to the solid obstacle of the hospital's metal and glass facade, and passed through it as easily as sunlight through a window. Her feet alighted softly on the tile floor, because she imagined it to be so. The tiles would never feel the weight of her landing. Here, she followed the instinctive knowledge of her quarry, a woman who had passed on and become a ghost in the land of the dead. The ghost would need a firm but caring hand to guide her into the next life, and by chance this task had fallen to Randgrior.

Many a time, a ghost would see Randgrior coming. It was a natural consequence of the black-feathered wings and scythe, which she did her best to soften with a compassionate smile. Sometimes the ghosts would run. Randgrior had seen ferocious tenacity, she had seen great sorrow, she had wrestled in contests of willpower with the titans of the earth. But now, as she came upon her quarry- this ghost of a woman claimed well before her time- she experienced something new. Something that made her hesitate.

"Give me your hand, you beautiful and tender form," Randgrior said calmly, in quotation of Matthias Claudius' Death and the Maiden. "A friend am I, and come not to punish. Be of good cheer, I am not fierce. Softly shall you sleep in my arms." She offered forward her hand, white as snow, fingers slender and feminine. It had been an eternity since she so craved this touch.