The Villainess' Redemption (P. 1?)
Various! Yanderes X Ex-Villainess! Reader
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Synopsis: You were once the villainess from some poorly-written romance novel, and somehow, you’ve ended up taking the place of a girl who shared your name—a girl who died while reading your story.
This world is different. Here, you’re no longer tied to a script or doomed to a villainess’s fate. Can you rewrite your ending, and find a place for yourself in this new reality?
(aka cliche villainess reader gets transported into the modern times and suffers a lot)
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The last thing you remember is the swing of the executioner’s blade against your neck—a fitting end for all the terrible crimes you’ve committed.
Or so you thought.
When you wake up, it’s not the fiery pits of hell that greet you, but a room unlike any you’ve ever seen before.
Through blurred vision, you make out walls impossibly smooth and white, gleaming like polished marble. The light above burns unnaturally bright. The air is sharp and clean, carrying a faint, acrid tang that prickles at your nose.
Was this the afterlife?
Thin tubes are attached to your skin, running from your veins into strange machines you can’t begin to understand. A spike of panic grips you, your breath quickening as your mind scrambles for an explanation.
What if you weren't dead? What if they kept you alive to make you suffer more?
Your trembling hands brush over your body, and your face burns when you realize they’ve stripped you of your former clothes. You’re left in plain, white garments—clean, but thin and exposing.
The indignity is almost as much as the confusion, but you swallow it down, determined to unravel the mystery of this waking nightmare.
On the table beside you lies a book, its presence almost unnoticeable in the room. Yet something about it draws your attention, an unspoken pull that makes your hand reach out despite the unease in your gut.
The front is adorned with a vivid illustration: a man and a woman locked in a tender embrace, their faces soft with affection. There’s something hauntingly familiar about their faces, though you can’t immediately place why.
The title, etched in bold, flowing letters, reads: Enchanted by Fate.
You flip the book open, its pristine pages cool and crisp beneath your trembling fingers.
At first, it seems harmless—a typical romance, the kind that young noble ladies often liked to read. But as your eyes skim the text, a dreadful recognition dawns.
The names leap off the page like venomous snakes: his name—your old lover—and her.
Your heart pounds as anger flares, spreading through your chest. You can almost see her face again, the one who orchestrated your downfall, the one who plunged the blade into your back long before the executioner ever did.
Then your fingers freeze.
Your name.
Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing your life, your crimes, and your eventual execution. The words blur as the memories resurface—the blade, the crowd, the jeers. Your breath hitches, and the sterile air suddenly feels suffocating.
You slam the book shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the room, and throw it across the floor. It lands with a dull thud, pages spilling open like a gutted beast, taunting you from where it lies.
That book knew everything. It was impossible. Yet it was real.
With your mind still reeling from what you've just read, you fail to notice the woman entering the room.
Then, the sound of her voice cuts through the fog.
“She’s awake!”
You must have been right. This is your own personal hell.
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Human beings are resilient.
So, despite the mental blows you've suffered in a single day, you slowly begin to adjust to your strange new existence in the hospital over the following weeks.
There's so much about this world that you don’t understand, and begrudgingly, you admit that it still frightens you. You can’t shake the feeling that this is all some form of witchcraft.
The nurses, though kind, remind you of your old maids, their faces polite but distant as they introduce you to odd contraptions you can't begin to comprehend.
They call it technology, and they show you things like a 'television,' a box that displays moving images as though alive, and a 'toilet' that can swallow waste with a single flush—something that still seems impossible to you.
They find your lack of knowledge a little concerning, but none of them have the courage to say anything about it, chalking it up to a side effect of your memory loss.
It’s humiliating beyond words to be treated like a clueless child. The condescending tones, the endless explanations of things that feel like they should be second nature—it grates on you until the frustration threatens to spill over as tears.
In your past life, you were always the one in control. You were the influential daughter of a noble family—admired and feared by many. Now, all of that feels like a distant memory, a cruel joke played by fate.
You feel lost.
But the worst part—the part you can never quite confront—is the stranger in the mirror. The face staring back is not your own. You're told she shares your name, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
You can't help but avert your eyes every time you see reflections of yourself.
“[Y/N], are you doing okay today?”
The deep, gentle voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. When you look up, a handsome man comes into focus.
It’s Your Doctor ♡.
Initially, he took an interest in you purely out of professional obligation. Your case was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He had treated patients with amnesia in the past, but never one as severe as yours. Especially considering the circumstances of why you were admitted in the first place. You reminded him of a wild animal—eyes darting with mistrust and fear, shrinking away from your surroundings. And yet, against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to you, compelled by the need to unravel the mystery of your mind. While you lacked even the most basic understanding of modern conveniences, certain skills and knowledge seemed to come to you effortlessly. You could converse fluently in multiple languages. You knew the names and precise uses of every piece of cutlery, from fish forks to soup spoons, and could recount their placement in a formal table setting. It was truly strange. He began to set aside his busy work, stealing moments during breaks to visit your room. It became a routine—teaching you; how to use a water dispenser, explaining the functions of a phone, or describing the significance of certain holidays and traditions.. He relished the way your face would light up in awe at the simplest things. The wonder in your eyes made him feel like he was witnessing the world anew, through your gaze. He still chuckles quietly to himself when he remembers your reaction to the television. The way you gasped, wide-eyed and almost frozen, as moving images flickered across the screen—it was unforgettable. “Pft.” The sound escaped him, soft but audible. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks, stunned. She had worked with the doctor for years and had never seen him laugh—let alone blush. Yet here he was, smirking to himself like a schoolboy with a crush. After that, whispers began to circulate through the halls: that the hospital’s famous bachelor had fallen for someone.
"I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking, doctor."
"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, his tone warm. "And you don't have to be so formal with me."
He sits down by your bedside, eyes curved upwards in a gentle smile as he begins to speak again.
"You're being discharged this afternoon. You'll be able to go home soon."
"Home?"
Would that mean that you would have to meet the body owner's family?
Throughout your entire stay at the hospital, not once had anyone visited you except the doctor and the nurse who attended to you daily.
A knot of nervousness forms in your stomach at the thought of finally meeting those people. What if they found your behavior too strange? What if they saw through you?
They didn’t know the truth—that their daughter was gone. Replaced by a stranger.
The doctor seems to notice the shift in your demeanor. Without hesitation, he reaches over, his hand warm and steady as it rests over yours. The gentle squeeze pulls you back to reality.
"Don’t worry," he says softly. "If you feel any pain or discomfort, please don’t hesitate to let me know. And I can give you my contact information—you can call or text me if you need help with anything."
"I... I’ve troubled you enough already," your eyes are fixed firmly on the bedspread, unable to meet his intense gaze.
Maybe it is normal in this world for women and men to touch eachother so casually like this.
"Nonsense," He replies with a chuckle. "Helping you is my job, after all ♡."
In the end, you are sent off with a small bag containing all your belongings and a crisp white slip of paper in hand, the string of digits scribbled neatly on it.
He watches you walk away, his gaze never wavering. A part of him wishes you had stayed longer.
He exhales a long, quiet sigh, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile. You’ll call him soon.
And when you do, he’ll be there, ready to help.
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To your surprise, a nurse leads you to what they call a “car” parked in front of the hospital entrance—a carriage without horses. You feel a small flicker of pride in yourself for remembering the term.
It moves faster than any carriage you’ve ever known. And as the scenery blurs by, you can’t help but press your face to the window, eyes wide with wonder. Towering buildings scrape the sky, their glass and steel glinting in the sunlight. The bustling streets are filled with all kinds of people from all walks of life.
The driver eventually steers the car away from the bustling scene, guiding it into a quieter neighborhood. The streets narrow, and the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, more subdued structures. Finally, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, old building.
"Have a nice day, miss."
"Ah… thank you," you say softly as you step out, your voice tinged with uncertainty.
The car drives off, and then you're finally left alone.
You turn to face the building, its weathered facade staring back at you. Compared to the grand mansion where you spent your entire life, this place feels cramped and shabby, its age evident in the peeling paint and creaking steps. Rows of numbered doors line each floor, stretching upward in a vertical maze.
Navigating the unfamiliar hallways proves to be a challenge, every turn leaving you more disoriented. When you finally find the staircase, you hesitate. The nurse had mentioned “elevators,” those strange boxes that carried people between floors. But the thought of stepping inside one fills you with unease.
Shaking off the idea, you take the stairs instead, the journey upward feeling longer than it should. Your legs ache with every step, and by the time you reach the supposed floor you live on, you’re out of breath.
At last, you find your door. Apartment 303. The brass plaque gleams faintly in the dim hallway light.
"Hello?"
You knock on the door, but only silence greets you. Anxiety begins to coil in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You glance around the empty hallway, hoping for a sign, a clue—anything. But nothing comes.
Your gaze shifts to the pad mounted beside the door. The arrangement of numbers stares back at you. It should be easy, you tell yourself. Just enter the code.
You press the first digit, then the second. It feels right—like you’re doing what you’re supposed to—but when you hit the final key, the pad lights up red and emits a harsh beep.
Locked.
Your heart sinks. You try again. But the result is the same: a flash of red and that sharp, cold beep.
Again.
Each failure making your frustration rise. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the sudden overwhelming pressure of everything catches up to you.
The tears spill over, warm streaks running down your cheeks as quiet sobs escape your lips. You feel pathetic.
You miss your family.
You hadn’t allowed yourself to think about them until now—not fully. But their faces stay clear in your mind.
You miss your father’s embrace, your mother’s soothing voice, the way your brothers would tease and protect you in equal measure.
But they are gone. All of them, condemned to death because of your stupid actions.
And now, here you are—trapped in this foreign land, surrounded by incomprehensible machines and alien customs. The people here don’t know you, and you’re certain they never could. You’re an imposter in a world that feels as if it’s actively rejecting you.
And for the first time since you woke up in this strange world, you let yourself finally admit the truth.
You don’t belong here.
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"Holy shit lady, are you okay?"
The last thing Your Neighbor ♡ had expected after coming home was to find you sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably by your apartment door.
The two of you have exchanged pleasantries a handful of times, maybe a nod or a muttered “hello” in passing. But it had still worried him a little when he hadn’t seen you in months. Hell, he even figured you’d finally had enough of this place and moved out for good.
"Do you… need help?" he asks, stepping closer cautiously.
Your face burns with embarrassment. You quickly wipe at your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling as you try to compose yourself.
"I just… I can’t get the door to open.."
His eyes flickers to the lock and then back to you. "What, the code’s not working?"
You nod, avoiding his gaze. "I… I’ve tried it so many times, but it keeps locking me out," you say, your voice wavering. "Do you know how to open it?"
"Yeah, I can take a look. Just give me the code."
As he steps closer to the keypad, you wipe at your eyes again, trying to salvage what is left of your dignity.
What is wrong with you? Your mother would have been disappointed at you acting like this.
"Hey," he say after a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Don’t sweat it. This lock’s a piece of crap. Happens to me all the time."
"Um... do you know if anyone else lives in this place with me?"
The man tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I don’t think so."
A part of you feels relieved. The idea of facing her family—the family you now supposedly belong to—had been gnawing at you since you left the hospital. At least you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.
But at the same time, the thought of living alone makes your stomach twist. You’ve never been on your own before. In your old life, you were always surrounded by people—your parents, the servants, ready to spoil you rotten. You never once thought about what it would be like to have to manage on your own.
This is your punishment.
The irony isn’t lost on you. The gods must have seen how you mocked her—your father’s bastard. You used to laugh at her and make fun of her upbringing. Now you can't help but think that she would have done much better if she was in your situation.
"Thanks." you mutter finally, your voice barely audible.
She wouldn't have cried over some stupid door like this and humiliate herself in front of a random man!
"Anyway, that's how you do it. If you need help with anything else, just knock on my door-"
BAM!
Before he could finish his sentence, you were already gone.
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Your Neighbor ♡ thought that would be the last time you two would really talk to eachother.
Every time he saw you in the hallway or from across the parking lot, you’d scurry away like a startled rabbit, avoiding eye contact. He figured you were just shy—or maybe embarrassed about how you’d met. Either way, he didn’t expect to hear from you again.
So, he was surprised when, a week later, there was a knock on his door.
When he opened it, there you stood, cheeks flushed an indignant pink, holding a neatly folded napkin in your hands.
"What’s this?" he asked.
"I made it for you," you said, thrusting it toward him. "It’s a gift for helping me that day."
He unfolded the napkin and blinked in surprise. His name was carefully stitched onto the fabric, surrounded by flower motifs.
"Holy shit. You made this?"
It was the sweetest gift he had ever received.
I-I noticed you seem to… sweat a lot. Whenever I see you. I thought it might help," you added, the words tumbling out in a rush.
It took him a second to register what you’d said, and when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s because I go to the gym a lot. Not because I’m just… sweating everywhere."
Your eyes widened, mortified. "Oh! I didn’t mean—"
He grinned, cutting you off. "Relax, it’s thoughtful. Thanks."
There was an awkward pause before he gestured behind him. "You want to come in?"
That moment marked the beginning of something—he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Friendship? Maybe. But that night, over tea, you finally opened up and told him about your memory loss.
A protective instinct had sparked in him the day he found you crying outside your apartment, and it only grew stronger as the two of you started spending more time together.
Before long, it became a routine—going back and forth between apartments, sharing meals, and finding small ways to help each other.
You didn’t know how to cook, so he often brought over dinner and started teaching you how to make simple meals. At first, you were hesitant, your pride making you stubborn, but he patiently guided you through every step.
Grocery shopping became another shared activity, with him pointing out what to buy and explaining things you didn’t recognize. Though he did like to tease you whenever you added far too many sweets to the cart.
One day, he had casually mentioned his interest in learning an instrument, and before he could blink, you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to teach him. Your enthusiasm embarrassed him at first, but he couldn’t say no to you.
When you discovered the dusty electronic keyboard he’d tucked away in a storage box, your eyes had lit up like it was treasure. From that moment on, you became his self-appointed music tutor, insisting it was your way of repaying him for everything.
“Why do I feel like you’re only spending time with me for the keyboard?” he jokingly asked after yet another lesson.
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m doing this because I want to help you.”
He couldn’t hold back his grin.
The more time he spent with you, the harder he fell. You were blunt and prideful, but also sweet and endearing in a way that caught him off guard. When he told you about his job as a club bodyguard, you had compared him to a knight, which made him burst out laughing.
On his way to the gym, a nosy neighbor had stopped him. “So, are you two dating yet? I remember her asking around about your name once.”
He blinked in surprise before the memory clicked. It must have been when you made that embroidered napkin for him. The image of you nervously going door to door asking around, too shy to talk to him directly, made his chest tighten.
Without thinking, his hand drifted to his pocket, where he still kept the cloth. He was on cloud nine the entire day.
Ah, he’d ask you to be his girlfriend soon. That much he was sure of. If only you weren’t so wary of relationships—and that other man who kept hanging around you. How irritating.
The man claimed to be your doctor, but what kind of doctor visited his patients so often? He wasn’t naive, and he could see the way the guy looked at you, the way he lingered too long in your presence. He knew those signs well enough.
Well, no matter. He’d just have to keep a closer eye on you.
After all, you were his to protect.
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EXTRA:
After slamming the door in the man’s face, you sighed in relief.
Finally, some peace.
Turning to the apartment, you fumbled around for the light switch. When the bright light flickered on, it hit you—and so did the sight in front of you.
"What the hell?!"
The walls were plastered with posters—of him. Your old betrothed. His smug face stared back at you from every direction, alongside her, the woman who ruined your life.
You froze, taking it all in. It wasn’t just posters. There were figurines, framed photos, and even a pillow with his face on it.
It didn’t take long to figure out the awful truth. The girl whose body you’d taken wasn’t just any stranger—she was a die-hard fan of the book you came from.
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A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this wacky gift for New Years. I plan to introduce 2 more love interests if I ever get to writing the second part. They're like color coded. Anyway, this was like massive compared to my other works.
I'm still writing Twisted Affections Pt. 3, but some pieces of smut are probably going to come out before that. Thank you for patience!
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