So You've Become a Villainess: an (Otome) Isekai Raising Project

Let's see how we can choose violence here, shall we?


You decided to paint this week, it seemed like a good idea to do something that wouldn't start a fight...probably. Your maid had been hiding it well, but you know Chiaki's tics when she's upset and being Autumn hasn't changed them at all. When you said you were going to paint and try to stay out of trouble, she damn near wept when she hugged you.

You keep your promise to be Bridgette's any time sparring buddy to yourself, just for a little bit. Chiaki knows you well enough to know you would set up that kind of arrangement, and she hasn't been passive-aggressive about it, so you think you're in the clear.


You show up to art class on time in a light blue dress, lighter on the underwiring this time. Your petticoats are treated with anti-dirt and stain enchantments, which will hopefully also do the job against paint. You're getting used to enormous trains, but you go for something smaller so you don't have to worry about smushing your dress or not reaching the canvas.

Your art teacher is a real kabukimono type, all guyliner and bright colors. You think he's actually wearing a happi over a bare chest with leather leggings. It's the first bit of something Japanese you've seen in weeks; you tear up unbidden.

"Oh you sweet summer child...the creative process is moving, isn't it?" He pulls a gold lamé monogrammed silk kerchief from his happi's sleeves, which is impressive given happi have short sleeves.

You take the kerchief and keep your mouth shut, not wanting to say anything too isekai-ish. You notice the kerchief is in romaji, much like everything else in this world. It sucks you still needed the Standard Isekai Translator (loaded in your brain when you died) to understand what was essentially English script and speech.

<Flashy> "HANAVI? Wasn't that the famous visual kei artist who died in Saigon, dahling?"

<Sporty> "Iunno, that's either you or Sense's wheelhouse and Sense has been sad-drinking since the other voices keep bullying her."

You sneak a glance at your art teacher, he does look a lot like a Japanese visual kei artist, but you don't wanna be racist. Or other-world-ist? Is that a thing?

"Now, miss petit mademoiselle, cry not, for we shall dye this canvas," your art teacher slaps a canvas almost as big as you, "in the color of your soul!"

<Emo> "Bleed for your art..."

<Sporty> "Whoa, you're all translucent and stuff...some protein shakes will fix that right up!"

<Brainy> "Your sheer illogic will drive me to drink, Sporty."

<Sporty> "Whatever works."

"Uh, is there some magical, soul-baring paint we're going to use?" you ask.

Your teacher laughs long and loud. "No. We're going to use normal paints." He makes a great sweeping gesture with his hand outstretched. "But with your hand and your heart, those paints will bare your soul all the same!"

You scratch your head, your enchanted hair curls around your finger. "I don't get it..."

Your art teacher gives an exaggerated sigh. "It's a figure of speech, miss petit mademoiselle. You can paint whatever you desire, and what you desire is within your soul."

You nod the nod of the understanding. "Yep, I don't get it at all."

Your art teacher runs a hand through their pink-tipped bleach blonde hair. "I've heard you're more of a physical learner so..." He heads to the front of the atelier, past chiseled nudes and vibrant still life paintings, and rummages around for an easel and tubes of paint.

He's right about you being a hands-on kind of girl, so that's something. "So...?" You rock back and forth on your toes, feeling left hanging.

He returns with the materials balanced on his hand like a serving tray. "Sooooo I have oil paints and a canvas prepared for you, miss petit mademoiselle." With a bow and a flourish, he presents the paint, brushes, trowel and palette to you.

"Do you want me to paint fruit and stuff?" You ask.

"Paint whatever you wish," your art teacher responds. "Your white, gray, neutral green, red, and brown can be used to block out basic shapes. Once you've made your shapes, paint over them with solid colors, then finish with the glazes."

"...Kay!" Your hair snatches up one of the brushes to put behind your ear while you grab the palette. Once you have the palette, your hair drops the brush in your free hand. Holding the brush aloft, you squint at the canvas and stick out your tongue.

"Gauging distance, petit mademoiselle?"

You look to your art teacher. "That's what it's for? I thought it was a ritual thing, like bowing to your instructor or sprinkling salt?"

That gets a snicker out of him. "This isn't sumo..."


All that out of the way, you manage to make a decent go of things. A lot less oil paint ends up on you than you expected, but you do end up flicking a bit back on your face with overly vigorous strokes. You wouldn't say you're a natural, but you're not a disaster either.

Honestly, the repetitive motion and creative stimulation of the thing is relaxing. You feel yourself slipping into a Zen flow as you start adding the base colors to your underpainting. On your canvas now are vaguely animal blobs, but when you finish, they'll (hopefully) be your favorite stuffed animals in this new world: a monkey princess and a fox maid.

Just like you and Chiaki.

While you paint, you notice another child enter the atelier. He (you're pretty sure they're a he) looks to be around your age, with messy strawberry blonde hair hiding a cherubic face. They look pretty scrawny and soft, the classic artistic type.

You notice them take furtive glances to the door and the windows as they prepare their station. Grunting with exertion, they bring over an easel and canvas to a marble statue of Sophia, prepare their oil paints, and begin their work.


[What do you do?]
[ ] Strike up a conversation
[ ] Watch him(?) paint
[ ] Go paint what they're painting, maybe make a competition out of it
[ ] Focus on your own work