#violet evergarden

[briarry]

In another world, I am, once again, a 14 year old girl lying on my bed, eating chips, and watching one-season romance and comedy animes divided into 87 parts on YouTube at 480p with crazy large borders and shit noise quality on a beautiful summer's day with the windows open, the birds chirping, and not a care in the whole world. (+ a pizza in the oven)

Back then, life was simple. Now, I have to file taxes.

[its-ya-boi-cade]

I'm sure theres more I forgot

[gelatincup]

💌 [2022]

[shanks]

AoinHatsu

[forbidden-sunlight]

My Deer-est One 🦌 - an Alastor with Violet Evergarden! reader series - prologue

warnings: canon divergence, drug and alcohol usage, murder, possessive behavior, season two spoilers, fem!reader, cannibalism, racism, wife!reader, references to the 1920s-1930s.

author notes: hello~! Although I had initially mentioned in another post that the tentative deadline for the outline of this new series would be the week of Thanksgiving, I was able to finish it and this segment last weekend, so here is an early holiday treat from me to all of all my dear readers~! :3

If you would like to be tagged for this series, comment with a 🏨 and you will be notified when a chapter is up~! Monthly updates will continue until the spring, so please bear with me as I do have a full-time job in a very demanding field~! That's all I have for now, take care and be safe this holiday season~!

Special thanks to @ghostdoodlen and @anielly-2010 for helping polish this draft until it sparkled~!

divider by @hazbinwithquantum

You had a feeling more sinners would flock again to the lobby of the Hazbin Hotel today.

The purpose of the facility - Charlie’s vision - was rehabilitation. The guests would stay for free, including food, board, and other amenities such as valet parking and Wi-Fi. In exchange, however, they would have to attend classes designed for self-improvement, reflection, and addressing behavior issues such as substance or alcohol misuse. If they completed these sessions, they should become more empowered to make their own decisions and prevent further decline in their afterlife made by their previous choices. By doing so, redemption should be possible and earn their place in Heaven. The public is still under the misguided belief that the Hazbin Hotel is where sinners could come to kill angels or get their hands on angelic steel to protect themselves when the next Extermination arrived.

You hoped Charlie could clear up this misunderstanding soon and not get swept up in the excitement of new guests crowded around your desk, ready to check into the hotel for the wrong reasons. As the hotel receptionist, you represented the princess’s establishment and had to provide information to guests if they had questions, concerns, or complaints. It was a shame that your job could not allow you to piece together the fragmented memories that continued to haunt your dreams for nearly a century.

The smell of sizzling, sauteed onions and chicken from a pan cooking in a small kitchen, being prepared by a well-dressed man who never turns around to face you when you call out to him.

The sound of jazz came from the brightly lit street corners of Louisiana; the humid air that vibrated alongside laughter, and clinking glasses from speakeasies.

The satisfying crunch of fried green tomatoes with shrimp remoulade, Mama Ophelia’s specialty.

A man who lured in his captive audience with that sweet, Southern accent of his after he had his morning coffee and always appreciated the whiskey you poured for him after he had a hard day of recording at the studio. Then you wake up feeling tears trickling down your cheeks, and you do not know why.

You had thought - had hoped - that you would remember the rest of your mortal life if you became a guest of the hotel. You had been a dishonorably discharged soldier, sent to America after the war between Leidenschaftlich and Gardarik reached a tentative peace agreement as punishment for failing to protect Major Gilbert as per the request of his elder brother, the man who had taught you to hunt and kill on command, like a dog. Those are the memories you could remember clearly. The dreams, how you died and descended into Hell? A puzzle you have yet to solve.

You glanced down at the silver band coiled around your ring finger, the ruby-red light pouring in from the window bouncing off of it and your prosthetics. You had lost your original ones in the battle against Adam and his Exterminators. These were brand-new, crafted from angelic steel.

This ring was your only clue to the life you had lived before, and always invoked a feeling of recognition, something deep and painful, that went away when you pressed a kiss against it every morning without fail.

You examined yourself in the mirror one more time and walked out of your room, ready to begin another day at the Hazbin Hotel. Or as Charlie would optimistically proclaim, another fucking happy day in Hell.

taglist: @yunaemiya @quill-for-glory @kameyo-kumo @average-yandere-enjoyer @pa1nrema1ns @space-panqueque @noctisiss @ladydoe8 @witch-of-the-writing-desk @dissociativewriter @bones4thecats

[candlecoo-sideb-art]

Nine more art style challenges

Part 1 | Part 2 |

[slef06]

Violet

[acaffeinated-constellation]

The Persistence of Memory 📻 - an Alastor with Violet Evergarden! Reader scenario

warnings: marriage of convenience, racism, prohibition, drug and alcohol usage, canon divergence, murder, gore, character death, season two spoilers, fem!reader.

Synopsis: The Radio Demon is a patient gentleman, but even someone of his social standing and power has its limits. How much longer must Orpheus wait to reclaim his Eurydice, even if she still cannot remember him?

author notes: hello~! I hope everyone is doing well and thank you for being patient with me on the development of this piece after it went through a poll and honestly, I was astonished that everyone wanted me to write for Alastor, so here he is~! At the moment it is difficult to maintain this blog a weekly basis with the holidays quite literally around the corner, so please do not panic if I do not upload content on here for odd periods of time. I do hope, however, that you will continue to support this blog with likes, reblogs, and comments~!

Special thanks to @ghostdoodlen for proofreading this draft until it sparkled like a diamond~!

divider by @hazbinwithquantum

Alastor glared down at the festering wound on his chest, stitched poorly together with bright-green thread, then at his reflection in the fractured mirror. The familiar symphony of cicadas and croaking frogs in the bayou grounded him, helping him think as he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dresser. He grabbed one, shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter while his shadow poured a whiskey on the rocks from the decanter. He lit the cigarette, allowing the woody taste of tobacco to coat his tongue before he averted his gaze to the lighter in his hand. Alastor rarely formed attachments to anything or anyone if it didn’t serve his own purposes, let alone for entertainment. And why should he, when there are no friends in Hell? Yet even when he had no reason at all to keep this damned thing, he still had it in his possession because it was the last thing he ever received from you.

A reminder of the life he led as a human, and the guilt that has continued to follow him even in death.

You were supposed to be a partner in a marriage of convenience. He needed a wife so that he could keep having fun in New Orleans and not get caught by the authorities, and you needed a husband so that the family name would carry on; quid pro quo, tit for tat. The engagement? A mere three months, because why wait? Alastor had hoped that after a few years of no romantic nights beyond dinner and an evening stroll in the French Quarter, you would leave him. Serve him divorce papers, claim alimony, and then find someone else who would live up to your expectations in a husband. You would have had it a bit more difficult to remarry of course, because no man wished to tie himself to a ‘broken’ woman - a soldier who had fought in the battlefields across Europe, and came to America in search of a new life with nothing to show your sacrifice except for shiny, skeletal prosthetic arms.

But you weren’t broken. You were just emotionally stunted. Moreso than he had initially thought when he swept you off of your feet at Lafayette Square Post Office. You were a telegraphist, an Automemory Doll who typed letters for those who cannot do it themselves due to the low literary rate. Automemory Dolls were quite popular back then, though you were initially not very good at it because you took the customer’s words too literally, appearing as insensitive and rude. He might have to work twice as hard at the radio station to bring home any semblance of income if the other Dolls hadn’t taken you under their wing and helped you understand the complexity of human emotions.

It was thanks to their guidance that you learned empathy, how to interact with your clients, crafting letters that conveyed the feelings that the senders wished to put on paper, and became so popular that you would occasionally leave New Orleans to do an out-of-state job. He was proud of you, and he hoped that your rise in popularity would provide a stable income for you to live on even after leaving him. Yet he nor you walked out of the home you shared in those five years.

He grew fond of you, more than he should have. The quiet evenings spent in the living room reading by the fireplace, him rehearsing the scripts he wrote earlier that day in front of you as his temporary audience and providing invaluable feedback that would dazzle the listeners on the next broadcast. When a recording was successful, he would sneak the two of you into the speakeasy, dancing the night away with whiskey. You preferred alcohol on the lighter side. Mimzy tolerated you. Why she didn’t like you, he couldn’t fathom the reason. Maybe you didn’t hold your liquor as well as he or her.

Then there were the cooking lessons; goodness, those were the nights he really needed to keep an eye on you~! Who would have thought you struggled so much to crack an egg over a hot pan, slice the chicken with a knife, or even boil water~! Those nights in the kitchen were chaotic and stressful, yet they were also the nights when his cooking skills shone; the whole neighborhood would line up outside once they knew he cooked his mother’s famous jambalaya, and you would always be a gracious hostess, helping bring out bowels, top of their drinks, even keep the kitchen clean.

They all thought Alastor had done well, and often commented how lucky he was to have you.

That was around the time he realized that it might be a good time to step away from being the Bayou Butcher for a while, take a break from his fun and treat you like the precious jewel you were, as a proper husband should, you were taken from him in the blink of an eye. Alastor still remembered it clearly, as if it had all happened yesterday.

November had just arrived in New Orleans, chilling the evening air even when the days were still sweltering. The popularity of Automemory Dolls had skyrocketed, and so did the number of clients who wanted your services, leading to longer hours at the office. At first glance, you seemed all right, healthy as a horse and ready to start the day, but Alastor knew better. You were on fire, and he feared you would burn yourself out before you even realized what had happened. Ms. Cattelaya Baudelaire was more than happy to allow you to take the rest of the afternoon off. He had everything planned: a lunch date at Antoine’s, a stroll around the French Quarter afterwards, and he would surprise you with two train tickets to Chicago. Yet just as he walked out of the post office with you, smiling as he placed your arm resting in the crook of his elbow, insisting that your work would be there when you returned from lunch with him, Christopher LaSalle appeared. A broad-shouldered man in his forties, balding and red-eyed, accused New Orleans’ beloved radio host of killing his son as he aimed his pistol with shaky hands and tears spilling down his oily face. The safety went off with a click, but in that split second you pushed him out of the line of fire.

A loud bang. Screeching, a thump, and blood, your blood staining the cobblestoned streets and his hands, turning an outing into a crime scene, a new headline for The Times-Picayune to run. It took three officers to pull him away from your stiffening cadaver because Alastor refused to believe you, the soldier, the poet, his wife, was gone. The silver lighter had been a late anniversary gift from you to him, initialed with an A and two tiny antlers sprouting from the letter. Ms. Baudelaire had held onto it on the office, sobbing that you were going to surprise him with it when you got home from work as she handed it to him two days after he had picked out a casket to bury you in. Mahogany, a good plot, the best he could find for you.

If he had stopped killing sooner, if he had been more careful of with his identity, switched dump sites, would you be alive? Could he have actually been happy?

He never found the answers to those questions as he followed you in death six months later, shot by a hunter who had mistaken him for a deer when he was trying to hide another body in the bayou. Yet when he arrived in Hell, he never saw you. That’s what made him believe you had gone to Heaven. For seventy years he allowed himself to get lost in the carnage, forget about his grief and become the demon pet Rosie believed him to be until he saw you walk out of the tailor shop just as he walked in to get his coat fixed after Sir Pentious had kindly put some holes in it.

He called out to you, the word Cher slipping off of his tongue instead of your name. But you stared at him blankly, asking him who he was as you clutched a briefcase in your hands, a light-blue parasol strapped to the top. You had forgotten him, even when you still wore his ring around your finger. Loyal to a fault, even in death. That’s enough to make a man like him fall in love and stay in love after almost a century of believed separation. But how much long must he wait, must he suffer, until all of your memories returned? Hadn’t his continued interactions with you, after he had subtly lured you to the hotel almost a year ago, promising redemption is within reach when all he wanted was to keep you close?

Alastor growled. He lifted the whiskey to his lips and drained in seconds, slamming it down on the dresser with a clunk. This past year in the hotel was less than ideal, and being humiliated by Adam in the battle had not been part of his long-term plans. But he will survive, he will remind Rosie of their deal, and you will remember him.

He exhaled one last wisp of gray smoke and snuffed the cigarette in the ash tray, pocketed the lighter, straightened himself up in the mirror and put a smile on before he left the sanctuary of the bayou, the grip on his broken staff tightening with each step towards the lobby, where he hopes to start his day off right.

It doesn’t, and he quitted the hotel after enduring two minutes of Lucifer’s bullshit.

taglist: @jinwoosbabyboo @pa1nrema1ns @anielly-2010