LavenderNoir
On hiatus (1x1 closed)
Hello, hello -- I'm LavenderNoir 
Writer, romantic, worldbuilder. I write for the aching, the intimate, the strange.
Call me Lav, Lavender, Noir--whatever suits you.
Writer, romantic, worldbuilder. I write for the aching, the intimate, the strange.
Call me Lav, Lavender, Noir--whatever suits you.
ABOUT ME
Been writing since my early teens, roleplaying on and off ever since. I’m back now, looking for kindred spirits—partners who love soft angst, atmospheric tension, and characters that feel lived in.
Been writing since my early teens, roleplaying on and off ever since. I’m back now, looking for kindred spirits—partners who love soft angst, atmospheric tension, and characters that feel lived in.
I prefer slow burns with soul. Tension, attraction, tenderness, devastation. Sometimes all at once. I’m queer and so are my stories sometimes. Sapphic pairings are my current highlight, but I also enjoy writing all genders and expressions.
I’m not here to spend weeks building a story that never takes off. I love plotting, but I’m really here to write. Let’s have a quick, rich setup-- then dive in and let the rest unfold through the narrative. We can continue worldbuilding as we go. I want to build something organic with momentum.
I don't give out my Discord anymore due to past experiences with inappropriate users. If we write, it'll be through public threads or PMs here on-site. Once we've been writing together for a while and there's trust, I may be open to sharing it.
WRITING RHYTHM
I don’t expect daily replies--I just ask that you’re able to respond about once a week or every two weeks. I get that life fluctuates (mine does too). If a story moves faster or slower depending on length or vibe, that’s totally okay. I try to be flexible and low-pressure. I'm depressed ( aren't we all ) and I struggle with a mental disorder that leaves me with no energy sometimes. Kind vibes only, let’s slay and play, babes.
GUIDELINES
- 21+ only
- I write mature themes with nuance and care
- I like stories with emotional teeth, not just fluff
PERSONAL STYLE
– 3rd person, past or present
– 200–600 words; sometimes less, sometimes more
– Quality over quantity, always
– Realism in tone and character reactions
– Realistic FCs, anime/art or written descriptions
- 21+ only
- I write mature themes with nuance and care
- I like stories with emotional teeth, not just fluff
PERSONAL STYLE
– 3rd person, past or present
– 200–600 words; sometimes less, sometimes more
– Quality over quantity, always
– Realism in tone and character reactions
– Realistic FCs, anime/art or written descriptions
IV. Current Cravings
Lately, I've been watching a ton of post apoc and now I’m aching to write something post-apocalyptic of our own. Zombies, strange plagues, collapsed societies, ruined cities, monsters of all kinds (human or otherwise). I also love post-apoc in general: natural disasters, abandoned places, survival themes with heart. Slow trust. Ugly hope.
V. Cravingssssss
they were meant to die. instead, they bloomed.
The virus wasn’t supposed to take root--certainly not in them. It was a weapon: engineered, unleashed, left to spiral. But Muse A and Muse B survived the infection in a way no one else did. It didn’t rot them: it changed them. Strengthened them. Gave them senses too sharp, bodies too fast, something floral and fungal and wrong taking hold beneath the skin.
Muse A escaped first. She’s been out for over a year: feral, fractured, living off instinct and scraps, haunted by flashes of who she was before. She knows how to move through ruin. Knows when to run, when to hide, how to kill. She doesn't remember softness.
Muse B wakes in a half-destroyed lab beneath a collapsing city. There’s no one left but the monsters, blooming from the walls like mold. She’s still weak, still dazed, memories swimming in and out like shadows. And when she finally stumbles into the open, she almost dies--right into the claws of something not-quite-human.
Muse A hears the screech. Sees her. Saves her.
It's not kindness. Not at first. It's instinct--some part of her that recognizes Muse B. And in that moment, amid burning ash and the stench of blood, they are bound together.
They’re being hunted by the ones who made them. The world is collapsing. And something inside them is still blooming.
Themes: transformation, survival horror, connection through monstrosity, corruption
hiding in overgrown cities, discovering new abilities, flashback glimpses of “before,” memory-laced violence
Role I want in order from greatest to least: Either or!
The virus wasn’t supposed to take root--certainly not in them. It was a weapon: engineered, unleashed, left to spiral. But Muse A and Muse B survived the infection in a way no one else did. It didn’t rot them: it changed them. Strengthened them. Gave them senses too sharp, bodies too fast, something floral and fungal and wrong taking hold beneath the skin.
Muse A escaped first. She’s been out for over a year: feral, fractured, living off instinct and scraps, haunted by flashes of who she was before. She knows how to move through ruin. Knows when to run, when to hide, how to kill. She doesn't remember softness.
Muse B wakes in a half-destroyed lab beneath a collapsing city. There’s no one left but the monsters, blooming from the walls like mold. She’s still weak, still dazed, memories swimming in and out like shadows. And when she finally stumbles into the open, she almost dies--right into the claws of something not-quite-human.
Muse A hears the screech. Sees her. Saves her.
It's not kindness. Not at first. It's instinct--some part of her that recognizes Muse B. And in that moment, amid burning ash and the stench of blood, they are bound together.
They’re being hunted by the ones who made them. The world is collapsing. And something inside them is still blooming.
Themes: transformation, survival horror, connection through monstrosity, corruption
hiding in overgrown cities, discovering new abilities, flashback glimpses of “before,” memory-laced violence
Role I want in order from greatest to least: Either or!
- Muse A finds Muse B collapsed outside the wreckage of a lab just before a monstrous creature bursts free from the tunnels. They flee together through fire, smoke, and a city overrun.
- Muse B wakes in a ruined testing chamber--pipes hissing, sirens screaming and the only thing guiding her out is a strange, static-laced voice over a long-abandoned intercom. (Muse A?)
- The two meet in a grocery store overgrown with moss and roots. Muse B is barely holding herself together, Muse A aiming a gun at her until they both realize: they aren’t normal.
- Muse A rescues Muse B, and after barely escaping a biohazard monstrosity, they hole up in an abandoned subway station. Cue tense silence, shaking hands, half-remembered names.
monsters. neon shadows. a city rotting under the weight of its own secrets.
Muse A is a sw / "rougher job" from a rough part of the city--clever, jaded, and harder to kill than she looks. She’s got a reputation, a couple of strange tricks up her sleeve, and a knack for survival in a world where survival is no longer guaranteed.
Muse B is the missing child of a powerful corporate dynasty--kidnapped under mysterious circumstances and hidden in the city’s underbelly. She doesn’t remember everything. She’s bruised but not broken. And she’s about to escape.
When monsters start to spill into the city after dark--blind, bone-thin things that echo like glass breaking--Muse A and Muse B crash into one another. Literally. Wrong place, wrong time, or maybe the only right moment left.
Muse A makes the split-second decision to help. Now, the two of them are fugitives--wanted by the government, hunted by monsters, and tangled in a conspiracy bigger than either of them can grasp. They don’t trust each other. Not yet. But they’ll need each other to survive.
Themes: gritty urban fantasy, survival, conspiracy, found family, slow-burn
Tone: neon noir, violent tenderness, enemies-to-trust
monster attacks, corporate espionage, body horror, underground havens
Role I want in order from greatest to least: A then B
Muse A is a sw / "rougher job" from a rough part of the city--clever, jaded, and harder to kill than she looks. She’s got a reputation, a couple of strange tricks up her sleeve, and a knack for survival in a world where survival is no longer guaranteed.
Muse B is the missing child of a powerful corporate dynasty--kidnapped under mysterious circumstances and hidden in the city’s underbelly. She doesn’t remember everything. She’s bruised but not broken. And she’s about to escape.
When monsters start to spill into the city after dark--blind, bone-thin things that echo like glass breaking--Muse A and Muse B crash into one another. Literally. Wrong place, wrong time, or maybe the only right moment left.
Muse A makes the split-second decision to help. Now, the two of them are fugitives--wanted by the government, hunted by monsters, and tangled in a conspiracy bigger than either of them can grasp. They don’t trust each other. Not yet. But they’ll need each other to survive.
Themes: gritty urban fantasy, survival, conspiracy, found family, slow-burn
Tone: neon noir, violent tenderness, enemies-to-trust
monster attacks, corporate espionage, body horror, underground havens
Role I want in order from greatest to least: A then B
- Muse B escapes a government transport van during a monster outbreak in the warehouse district. Injured, terrified, and barefoot, she runs into the only person nearby—Muse A--who’s halfway through a smoke break behind a strip club.
- Muse A nearly kills Muse B, mistaking her for one of the bone-thin creatures that prowl the streets. Only after knocking her down does she realize Muse B bleeds red, not black.
- Muse B asks the wrong person for help--and that person sells her out. Muse A is watching from across the bar when the corporate retrieval squad shows up.
two survivors. one secret. and a countdown to something worse than death.
Muse A is infected--but not like the others. She’s been hiding it. The change is slow, strange. Her blood reacts differently. She's still herself… for now. She doesn’t know what’s coming, only that she’s being hunted for it.
Muse B is a medic/etc. She knows people. She knows symptoms. She knows Muse A is lying. But she doesn’t turn her in. Not when Muse A saves her life during a raid. Not when she sees the desperation in her eyes. Not when she starts to care.
They end up traveling together. Sleeping back to back. Holding each other during cold nights. Becoming something like lovers, something like soulmates. But Muse B knows the truth can’t stay buried. And Muse A knows she’s running out of time.
Themes: slow corruption, found love, emotional survival, sacrifice
intimate apocalypse, morally complex, poetic dread
Role I want in order from greatest to least: B then A
Muse A is infected--but not like the others. She’s been hiding it. The change is slow, strange. Her blood reacts differently. She's still herself… for now. She doesn’t know what’s coming, only that she’s being hunted for it.
Muse B is a medic/etc. She knows people. She knows symptoms. She knows Muse A is lying. But she doesn’t turn her in. Not when Muse A saves her life during a raid. Not when she sees the desperation in her eyes. Not when she starts to care.
They end up traveling together. Sleeping back to back. Holding each other during cold nights. Becoming something like lovers, something like soulmates. But Muse B knows the truth can’t stay buried. And Muse A knows she’s running out of time.
Themes: slow corruption, found love, emotional survival, sacrifice
intimate apocalypse, morally complex, poetic dread
Role I want in order from greatest to least: B then A
they had nothing but each other. then one day… not even that.
Muse A and Muse B met after the world fell apart--bonded by blood, fire, and a hundred quiet moments in between. They became each other’s home. Not lovers, not at first. But close enough to know it would happen eventually.
And then the ambush.
And then the screaming.
And then...nothing.
Months pass. Muse A has been on the road, surviving off scraps, haunted by the belief that Muse B is dead. Meanwhile, Muse B found a camp: safety, food, community. Maybe even… someone new. Someone who helped her keep going.
When Muse A finally stumbles into that same camp--dirty, wild-eyed, feral from solitude--the reunion is instant and electric. But it’s not joyful. Not for both of them. One of them has spent months grieving. The other has spent months moving on.
Themes: reunion angst, misunderstandings, complicated love, grief, jealousy, blahh
emotional slow-burn, tender and jagged, full of aching silences
Role I want in order from greatest to least: Either or!
I know this one only has one option and that's on purpose. As I was writing this, I realized THIS was the dynamic I want to start with.
Muse A and Muse B met after the world fell apart--bonded by blood, fire, and a hundred quiet moments in between. They became each other’s home. Not lovers, not at first. But close enough to know it would happen eventually.
And then the ambush.
And then the screaming.
And then...nothing.
Months pass. Muse A has been on the road, surviving off scraps, haunted by the belief that Muse B is dead. Meanwhile, Muse B found a camp: safety, food, community. Maybe even… someone new. Someone who helped her keep going.
When Muse A finally stumbles into that same camp--dirty, wild-eyed, feral from solitude--the reunion is instant and electric. But it’s not joyful. Not for both of them. One of them has spent months grieving. The other has spent months moving on.
Themes: reunion angst, misunderstandings, complicated love, grief, jealousy, blahh
emotional slow-burn, tender and jagged, full of aching silences
Role I want in order from greatest to least: Either or!
- Muse A stumbles into camp, sunburned and silent--found half-dead in the wasteland, armed and feral. Just another stray, they said. No one knew her. No one but Muse B.
I know this one only has one option and that's on purpose. As I was writing this, I realized THIS was the dynamic I want to start with.
VI. Please, messages only!
If you do want to message me, please send what you go by, age, and what idea(s) and role(s) you're interested in. You don't need to send the worlds most perfectly written introduction but I do appreciate effort and you all know what that means. If you send me something short ( ie. " hey, are you still looking for a partner? " boi, obviously!) and unhelpful, I won't reply.
Writing Samples & Expectations
Below are a couple of writing samples to give you a taste of my current style, pacing, and length preferences. I’d describe myself as a flexible writer--I can go longer or shorter depending on the energy and vibe of the scene, but I lean toward character-focused writing with introspection, mood, and movement.
The silence between them was a living thing. It stretched across the cracked road like a shadow at high noon: long, tense, and not to be stepped on. Reve walked five paces behind, boots scuffing through the dust, eyes pinned to the sway of Ro’s shoulders as they moved with that sharp, wounded rhythm: not quite a stomp, but not far from it either. The kind of gait that said don’t talk to me and please don’t stop following me all at once. She shouldn’t have snapped. She knew that. But knowing and stopping were separate animals. The things she’d said had left her mouth like sparks from flint--quick, cruel, and uninvited. All because Ro had done something reckless. Dumb, yes. Terrifying, more so. It’d split Reve clean down the center: fear and fury spilling out, equal parts. And maybe somewhere in that explosion, she’d felt something bloom that had no name yet. Something raw and too close to the bone. Maybe it had teeth.
She dragged a hand through her hair--longer than she liked it lately, curling against her neck with sweat--and blinked hard against the late sun. Ro’s silhouette blurred for a second before sharpening again. That mop of curls, pulled back in a high, defiant knot, still couldn’t be tamed fully--wild strands bouncing with every angry step. The worst part? She was still wearing the gloves. The gloves Reve made. Stitched together with canvas and bike tire rubber and that soft lining from the hoodie she’d sacrificed without saying so. She’d told her it was “just stuff lying around.” And Ro had smiled like she knew it wasn’t. Now she wore them even while stomping away from her. Even after the fight. As if some part of her was still holding on.
The road ahead glimmered with heat and bad memories. Ro didn’t turn around. Reve watched the space between them like a fault line. Kept her eyes on every twitch of Ro’s shoulders, every shifting step. Made sure they didn’t drift too far apart. Just in case something came slithering out of the trees. Just in case this silence turned permanent. And god, she wanted to say she was sorry. She just didn’t know how to reach across that strange, sharp thing that pride becomes when love is quietly starting to live underneath it.
Still--after a while, her voice came anyway. Not loud. Not even sure Ro would hear it.
“…You’re walking too fast,” she said, softer than usual.
She dragged a hand through her hair--longer than she liked it lately, curling against her neck with sweat--and blinked hard against the late sun. Ro’s silhouette blurred for a second before sharpening again. That mop of curls, pulled back in a high, defiant knot, still couldn’t be tamed fully--wild strands bouncing with every angry step. The worst part? She was still wearing the gloves. The gloves Reve made. Stitched together with canvas and bike tire rubber and that soft lining from the hoodie she’d sacrificed without saying so. She’d told her it was “just stuff lying around.” And Ro had smiled like she knew it wasn’t. Now she wore them even while stomping away from her. Even after the fight. As if some part of her was still holding on.
The road ahead glimmered with heat and bad memories. Ro didn’t turn around. Reve watched the space between them like a fault line. Kept her eyes on every twitch of Ro’s shoulders, every shifting step. Made sure they didn’t drift too far apart. Just in case something came slithering out of the trees. Just in case this silence turned permanent. And god, she wanted to say she was sorry. She just didn’t know how to reach across that strange, sharp thing that pride becomes when love is quietly starting to live underneath it.
Still--after a while, her voice came anyway. Not loud. Not even sure Ro would hear it.
“…You’re walking too fast,” she said, softer than usual.
He held his breath like it was sacred. Not in the way a swimmer might, but as though the very act could tether him to life for just a moment longer. His back pressed to crumbling brick, ichor tacky along his collarbone where the last corpse had bled out beneath his blade. Eyes shut at first—then one cracked open, warily—he watched the figures stagger past the threshold in shuffling procession, their bodies slack with rot, movements disturbingly meditative. The susurrus of dead limbs dragging across asphalt was all he could hear; even the wind had stilled, like it, too, was holding its breath. Cloaked in their scent—rust and mold, marrow and bile—they passed him without pause. A crude camouflage, but effective. For now.
Valentine counted them. Eleven. Maybe twelve. The smell of them turned the morning thin and copper-sour. Somewhere above, pale matutine light seeped through the collapsed beams of the ceiling, illuminating dust in soft spirals. His pulse stuttered. Still, he waited—five seconds more, then another three, just in case the silence was lying. He’d learned not to trust the quiet. It had a way of breaking. His fingers curled around the knife at his thigh, its handle slick with dried blood and rain. He didn’t move yet. Didn’t breathe deeply. Relief, he’d found, was often the first mistake.
Valentine counted them. Eleven. Maybe twelve. The smell of them turned the morning thin and copper-sour. Somewhere above, pale matutine light seeped through the collapsed beams of the ceiling, illuminating dust in soft spirals. His pulse stuttered. Still, he waited—five seconds more, then another three, just in case the silence was lying. He’d learned not to trust the quiet. It had a way of breaking. His fingers curled around the knife at his thigh, its handle slick with dried blood and rain. He didn’t move yet. Didn’t breathe deeply. Relief, he’d found, was often the first mistake.
I want a partner who’s in love with the actual writing, not just the idea of it. Someone who’s eager to build something together and hit the ground running. Remember when writing didn't feel like a chore? Let’s bring back the joy—the kind of writing that feels like play, not pressure.
- Lav
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