Twisted wonderland first years x kuromi!Reader?
Twisted wonderland first years x Kuromi!Reader
Warnings: Talks of violence and some slight gore.
Deuce Spade
Deuce doesn’t know how to handle you at first. You walk into class on your first day with your head held high, wearing black platform shoes that echo through the hallway like you own the place. Your skirt’s a little too short, your makeup a little too bold, and your attitude? Unapologetically fierce.
You remind him of who he used to be.
At first, he avoids you. You seem like the type to get in fights and call it self-expression. But one day, he catches you behind the school handing out extra bread to a bunch of stray cats. You glare at him like you’re daring him to make fun of you.
"Say anything and you’re next," you snap.
"Next for what?"
"I dunno. Just… next."
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sits down beside you. Quietly. Doesn’t judge. Just watches as you break a meat bun in half and toss a piece to a limping gray kitten.
After that, he starts noticing things: how you always sit in the back of class but take the most thorough notes. How you roll your eyes when teachers praise you. How you wear your blazer wrong but still iron it every night.
Eventually, he starts defending you before anyone says a word. He doesn’t let people talk bad about you. He doesn’t explain it, he just does.
When you find out, you slap his arm. "Don’t make me owe you a favor. I hate favors."
But the next morning, there’s a neatly wrapped onigiri in your hand when he walks into class.
You don’t say anything. Neither does he.
You’re both okay with that.
Ace Trappola
You and Ace are like two sides of the same coin—except your side is spiked and probably illegal.
He’s intrigued the second he sees you. You’ve got that cocky smile, that "what are you gonna do about it?" energy. You don’t follow rules unless they benefit you. You don’t start trouble, but you never walk away from it either.
He likes that. A little too much.
You prank him on day three. Harmless stuff. Purple glitter in his shoes, a skull sticker on the back of his collar. He laughs like he doesn’t care, but then he gets you back. Water bucket on the door. Classic.
"Child’s play," you scoff. "Try harder next time."
So begins the war.
But the rivalry is weird. It's not mean. It's playful. Like flirting with teeth. You talk trash, he talks back, but when someone else makes a joke about your look or your voice, he gets quiet. He doesn’t joke like that.
He doesn’t let anyone else joke like that.
You catch him staring sometimes. Not in a gross way. Just… watching. Studying. Like he’s trying to figure you out.
One night, he finds you in the lounge working on a little embroidery project. Skull patches for your backpack. He teases you for being "weirdly domestic for a punk."
You raise an eyebrow. "You keep talking like you don’t want one."
He doesn’t respond. But the next morning, you toss him a small patch. A red card with a bite taken out of it.
He sews it to the inside of his uniform sleeve. Doesn’t show anyone.
But you notice. Of course you do.
And when you smirk at him from across the hallway, he smirks right back.
Jack Howl
Jack didn’t dislike you, he just didn’t get you.
The first time he saw you was during PE. You wore combat boots instead of athletic shoes and didn’t even pretend to follow the uniform code. There was a bat-shaped clip in your hair, and you rolled your sleeves up like you were ready to throw someone instead of a ball. He figured you were all bark and no bite.
Then you outran everyone in sprint trials.
Still, he avoided you for a while. You talked too much, acted too bold. You were chaos wrapped in black lace and sarcasm. He didn’t know how to handle people like you. He preferred things straightforward, clean-cut. You were a puzzle with sharp edges.
But one day, he caught you behind the dorms with your head down, quietly bandaging a bruised knee on a freshman who’d tripped during flying class. You didn’t even look up when Jack approached.
"Don’t stare. This stays between us. Got it, wolf boy?"
Jack blinked. "Yeah. Sure."
You didn’t wait for thanks. You just shoved the kit back into your bag and disappeared. But Jack stayed there a moment longer, puzzled.
That’s when he started paying attention.
He noticed the way you didn’t start fights, you ended them. The way you always rolled your eyes in class, but somehow turned in the most thorough assignments. The way you always sat near the window, like you didn’t belong inside.
When you got paired together for a wilderness survival assignment, he expected disaster. He thought you'd complain, slack off, maybe even ditch. Instead, you showed up early with a practical backpack, a half-charged lantern, and snacks. You hiked ahead of him through the woods, cursing at brambles and grumbling about mosquito bites.
He chuckled when you tripped over a root. You glared. “You laugh, I push you into the stream.”
You didn’t. Instead, you handed him a granola bar. “Catch. I brought extra.”
You didn’t share much about yourself. But as the fire crackled between you that night, Jack realized you didn’t have to. There was something comfortable in your silence. In the way you kicked at pebbles and swatted at bugs and eventually leaned back against your backpack with your arms behind your head.
“You’re quiet,” you said suddenly.
“Used to it,” he replied.
You hummed. “Not a bad thing.”
And when he got cold that night, you tossed your spiked hoodie over his head with a scowl.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.”
He didn’t say anything.
But he still wears that hoodie during late-night runs.
You never asked for it back.
Epel Felmier
Epel saw you and immediately thought: finally. Someone who didn’t care what anyone thought.
You were all spiked chokers and stompy boots, strutting through campus like you ruled the place. You had stickers all over your textbooks, cursed like a sailor, and called the teachers by their first names when you were annoyed.
He was obsessed.
Back home, people told him how to behave. How to sit. How to talk. But you? You flipped the world off with a smile and glitter eyeliner.
You reminded him of home in the strangest way. Of the girls back in Harveston who didn’t take crap from anyone and weren’t afraid to get their boots dirty.
He started copying your attitude, standing straighter, ditching some of the delicate phrases Vil forced on him. He wanted to learn how to be bold like you. Unapologetic.
“Ya think this is cute?” he asked once, showing you his new skull-engraved ring.
You examined it, then nodded. “Not bad. A little wannabe, but you’re getting there.”
He didn’t take offense. He grinned.
When he got caught cursing in alchemy class, he didn’t even try to blame you. He just bit his lip and held back a laugh.
You taught him how to glare properly. How to lean back in his chair without looking like he was trying too hard. How to make a threat sound like a compliment.
In exchange, he showed you how to make your own hair tonic. One that wouldn’t stain your pillows purple.
The two of you didn’t exchange gifts. You exchanged bad habits, sass, and silent respect.
During the annual VDC performance, Epel showed up in your color scheme, black and fuchsia. You stared at him from the wings.
“You tryin’ to match me now?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I just like your colors better.”
You rolled your eyes.
But your smirk didn’t leave until long after the music ended.
Ortho Shroud
Ortho liked observing people. You, though? You confused his entire database.
You weren’t like Idia or the students who wanted attention. You didn’t ask for people to like you. You dressed how you wanted, acted how you wanted, and made no apologies for it.
He once asked, “Do you think your behavior increases or decreases your chances of friendship?”
You squinted at him. “What does that even mean?”
“I mean, people are scared of you. But you do nice things when no one’s looking.”
You shrugged. “Maybe I don’t want the attention. Maybe I just like doing stuff.”
After that, Ortho made it his mission to understand you. He followed your patterns. When you disappeared from class, he found you behind the greenhouse with a stray cat on your lap. When other students avoided you, Ortho sat next to you, chatting casually about magic tech and anime.
He made you a custom security chip for your bag that played a spooky jingle every time it opened. You glared at it at first but didn’t take it off.
“I synced it to your walking rhythm,” he said proudly. “It’s goth-coded.”
You grumbled. “Nerd.” But you wore it anyway.
One night, Ortho caught you sneaking into the restricted library. Instead of reporting you, he asked, “Want backup?”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
He beamed. “You look like a boss-level character. I figured I’d help with the side quest.”
It became a thing. The two of you teamed up often, hacking doors, finding secret passageways, stealing ghost stories from banned books. Ortho even programmed a hologram bat companion that floated beside you during lectures.
You named it Morbid. He pretended to be shocked.
“Morbid? Not Spookums?”
“You can name your next robot Spookums.”
Eventually, you started tutoring him in creative writing, helping him craft better character dialogue for his story mods. In return, he installed a glow feature in your boots that activated during fights.
The first time you used them, you blasted through a training dummy and laughed.
“This is sick.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s peak villain energy.”
You didn’t need to say anything after that.
He got you. No decoding necessary.
Sebek Zigvolt
Sebek couldn’t stand you at first. The audacity. The aesthetic. The constant teasing.
“You must learn discipline!” he yelled.
“Maybe you should learn how to relax,” you replied, laying upside down on a bench, blowing a bubble with your gum.
The sight of you made his blood pressure spike. You walked around like rules didn’t apply, wore skirts too short for the dorm code, and painted your nails black in defiance of uniform regulations.
He reported you. Twice. You got detention. Both times, you left detention laughing.
But the turning point was a group project in magical history. He wanted to do all the research. You said you’d do the visuals.
“You’re not seriously going to draw our entire timeline in comic panels,” he scoffed.
“Yes, I am. With chibi versions of Malleus, too.”
He nearly combusted.
But you finished it. Every detail accurate. Every event in order. And the entire class loved it. Even Professor Trein.
Sebek stared at you with a mixture of betrayal and awe.
“You’re not just chaos incarnate… You’re competent chaos incarnate.”
You winked. “Told you. I bite and I sparkle.”
From that day forward, your arguments became banter. He started walking with you to class, only to lecture you. You let him. Only to interrupt with sass.
You both denied enjoying the company.
Then came the fencing match. You weren’t even competing, but someone insulted Malleus in the stands near you. Sebek drew his sword.
You jumped down, grabbed a broomstick, and challenged the heckler to a duel.
“BACK OFF,” you growled. “Or I’ll hex your eyelashes off.”
The whole room froze.
Sebek stared at you like you’d just proposed marriage.
Later, he found a Malleus-themed phone charm in his locker. Handmade. With your signature skull on the back.
He didn’t say anything about it, but it never left his phone.
Grim
Grim knew you were his kind of human from the start.
You were dramatic. You were stylish. You didn’t take orders, and neither did he.
You walked into Ramshackle with a box of skull-themed stationery and a neon pink kettle. He declared you his second-in-command immediately. You told him he was lucky you didn’t throw him off the balcony.
You were both all bark and bite and flair.
He stole shiny things for your room. You painted his claws with glow-in-the-dark polish. You taught him how to pose dramatically in a mirror.
He curled up next to you when you watched horror movies, tail flicking against your thigh.
You shared snacks. He shared your bed.
“You’re loud,” you mumbled once, brushing his fur.
“You love it,” he grinned.
When someone teased him in class, calling him a talking pet, you slammed your books on the desk.
“Say that again. I dare you.”
The guy backed off. Grim puffed up.
Afterward, he hopped on your shoulder and declared, “We’re takin’ over this dump together. Just you and me.”
You grinned. “Yeah, but I get naming rights when we turn the cafeteria into a nightclub.”
He purred in approval.
Weeks later, someone wrote “Grim & Kuromi 4EVER” in claw marks across the dorm’s front gate.
Neither of you admitted it.
But your matching sunglasses said enough.
Partners in crime. Legends in training.
Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷
