Here’s the promised part 2 of the jofoes during Christmas!!! (and yes, I made these purposefully cheesy, deal with it 🌝)
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!!
Tags: Gender neutral reader, SFW and fluff
Dio Brando P1
- Dio insists on celebrating Christmas in pure sophistication. The fire burns steadily in the grand hearth, carols play softly on violin, and he ensures every candle flickers at just the right angle - perfection, like everything he touches.
- He presents your gift with a theatrical bow: a delicate piece of jewelry, imported wine, or a rare book you once admired. He enjoys the way your eyes light up when unwrapping it - part of him feels triumphant at making you want something only he can give.
- He’s not interested in frivolous “holiday cheer.” Rather, he likes watching how you react - your laughter, your warmth - contrasting beautifully with his own cold precision. It reassures him that he can command even emotions through presence alone.
- When the mansion grows quiet and snow gently falls outside, Dio’s confident mask slips for a moment. He might confess that Christmas never meant much to him as a child - that warmth was something he had to steal, not receive. Your gentle response unsettles him more than any confrontation ever could.
- If you end up beneath mistletoe, he’ll smirk faintly, tilting his head just so, waiting for you to make the first move… because he loves testing your willpower. When you finally give in, he whispers something like, “Now, that’s a proper display of devotion.”
- As the fire dims, he runs a gloved hand through your hair and murmurs how fortunate you are to share the night with him - and though it sounds like another proud declaration, there’s a hint of real sincerity hidden deep beneath the pride.
Kars
- Kars initially finds Christmas… perplexing. The concept of humans celebrating in the cold, exchanging trinkets, and decorating trees seems frivolous - until you explain the meaning behind it - warmth, memory, and connection. Something in him softens, though he’d never admit it.
- He decorates a tree with breathtaking symmetry, arranging ornaments by color gradient and scientifically optimizing the light reflection. When you tease him that it looks too perfect, he pauses, then mischievously adds one slightly crooked ornament - “For authenticity,” he says.
- His gift is something impossibly rare - a gemstone sculpted by his own hand or a piece of ancient art he recovered long ago. He doesn’t say “Merry Christmas”; instead, he murmurs something like, “This holds no meaning to me… but it suits you.” (Translation: it means a lot.)
- If you’re in a snowy area, you’ll catch him standing silently outside, watching snowflakes land on his skin. He studies each flake’s form as though decoding a cosmic secret but then turns to you, letting one melt on your cheek with a small, almost-human smile.
- Later in the evening, he sits beside you by the hearth, fascinated by the way the firelight dances across your face. For a moment, his expression loses its godlike arrogance - his gaze gentles, as he says, “Perhaps humans’ fragile warmth isn’t so foolish after all.”
- Kars doesn’t believe in human superstition, but the idea of cause and effect amuses him. So when you both find yourselves beneath mistletoe, he feigns dismissal, “Such customs mean nothing to me.” - then kisses you anyway, muttering, “But some experiments are worth repeating.”
- He’s not sentimental, but later, you find he’s recreated a crystalline snowflake out of hardened light - a perfect, unmelting reminder of that night. “A record,” he says casually. “Of a human tradition… and of you.”
Dio Brando P3
- Christmas in Dio’s mansion in Cairo is a spectacle - ruby-red velvet décor, golden ornaments, and roses scattered across marble floors. The snow outside means nothing to him - the warmth comes from the flickering glow of dozens of candles and your presence, sitting across from him at an extravagant midnight feast.
- His presents are unbelievably lavish - a diamond necklace, a rare antique, perhaps even a painting commissioned in your likeness. To Dio, giving gifts isn’t about generosity; it’s about possession. He murmurs, “Everything beautiful in this world belongs to me… and now, that includes you.”
- At midnight, as the clock strikes twelve, he might stop time with The World - not for battle, but simply to observe you - frozen mid-laughter under the flicker of candlelight. It’s his twisted version of affection: wanting to preserve the moment, to keep you perfect and eternal.
- Dio’s affection feels both intoxicating and dangerous. He traces his fingers along your throat like he’s memorizing it, and yet his tone softens when he speaks. He offers you wine - perhaps a deep crimson that looks too much like blood - and promises, “Eternity is a gift I could share, if you prove worthy.”
- He conjures a gentle snowfall outside using his vampiric power, solely to impress you. It’s unnatural and faintly eerie, but beautiful - flakes melting the second they touch the desert sand. He watches your awe with quiet satisfaction - he made beauty itself obey him, all to please you.
- Dio doesn’t wait beneath the mistletoe - he commands you to. When you hesitantly do, he approaches with unnerving slowness, smirking before kissing you in a way that feels like both a claim and a promise.
- The night ends with you resting against his chest as the clock resets to morning. Even if his heart doesn’t beat, his cool, steady touch feels hypnotically safe. As you drift to sleep, he whispers, “Sleep, my dear. The world and time itself will wait for us.”
Kira Yoshikage
- Kira’s apartment looks like a department store display - minimalist, spotless, not a single pine needle out of place. His tree is decorated in cool colors: silver and white, maybe a touch of violet. It’s elegant, almost sterile, but undeniably beautiful - just like everything he allows into his life.
- He wakes you gently, offering hot coffee and a perfectly wrapped gift box. His voice is low and calm, his smile (as always) polite and unreadable. “I don’t particularly care for noisy holidays,” he murmurs, “but… I enjoy sharing peaceful mornings like this.”
- Kira gives you something practical yet surprisingly personal - a high-quality pair of gloves, a silk scarf in your favorite color, or a rare perfume that suits your scent perfectly. He always notices the smallest details about you, though his gaze lingers a bit longer than normal today.
- At some point, the cheerful sounds of people laughing outside or a neighbor’s loud party irritate him. His jaw tenses, and you can almost feel Killer Queen’s presence humming faintly in the air before he sighs it away. You distract him with a soft touch, and his expression steadies as he thanks you for “restoring the peace.”
- You bake cookies together - meticulously shaped, all identical, of course. When you suggest cutting one into a heart, he hesitates but eventually nods with a quiet chuckle. The moment is tender in its mundanity - exactly the kind of life Kira craves.
- Later, while you admire the Christmas lights, he traces circles on the back of your hand and whispers, “You make this season tolerable. Predictable. Peaceful. I’d rather not imagine it without you.” It sounds romantic - but carries that subtle chill of obsession only Kira can produce.
- Before bed, you both exchange another quiet “Merry Christmas.” As he turns the lights off, he adds softly, “I don’t celebrate for tradition’s sake… only because it gives me another excuse to keep you near.”
Diavolo
- Diavolo doesn’t “celebrate” Christmas in the traditional sense. He considers it a distraction - another human façade - but when you bring it up, his eyes narrow thoughtfully. If you wish for a celebration, he allows it… on his terms.
- Everything is chosen with meticulous care: the tree has black and crimson ornaments, gold threading through the branches, and soft European carols echoing in the background. It’s hauntingly beautiful - elegant yet just a little unnerving, much like him.
- The gift he gives you isn’t sentimental; it’s a symbol. Maybe it’s a handcrafted charm from Italy, something with historical meaning (and possibly a hidden secret). He explains it in a low voice: “A reminder that even time bends when I will it - but for you, I prefer it to stay still.”
- At some point, the lights flicker. You blink, and suddenly the fire burns differently, the tree ornaments have shifted - time itself feels… edited. Diavolo merely smiles faintly. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he says quietly. “I thought I’d skip past the chaos for us.”
- Beneath his composed exterior, he’s oddly protective. When you step outside to admire the stars, he follows - always a step behind, always watching. The night breeze tugs at his hair, and for a moment, his tone softens. “You shouldn’t trust me so easily,” he murmurs, not letting go of your hand.
- He dislikes crowds and festivities, so your evening is private - dimly lit, champagne in crystal glasses, soft piano music. It’s eerily romantic. He listens as you talk about childhood Christmases, though his gaze stays distant, as if he’s remembering a time before guilt, before he became a ghost in his own life.
- As the clock strikes twelve, he draws you close, his breath brushing against your ear. “Let the world celebrate chaos,” he whispers, “but tonight, time belongs to us alone.” When he kisses you, it feels like surrender - the only gift he truly allows himself to give.
Enrico Pucci
- Pucci approaches Christmas as a sacred reflection rather than a celebration. The chapel is filled with candlelight, soft Latin hymns echoing through the vaulted ceiling. He moves gracefully between pews, every motion deliberate, his eyes distant yet calm. If you’re there with him, he invites you to sit beside him in the quiet - not to speak, but to feel.
- He reads aloud passages about faith, forgiveness, and destiny… and though his tone is peaceful, his interpretation carries that subtle Pucci duality - beauty intertwined with unsettling conviction. When you question him gently, he smiles faintly and says, “Even divinity has its logic, my dear. Don’t you feel it in moments like this?”
- Pucci doesn’t care for material things. His gift to you might be a thin silver cross necklace or a handwritten letter, its elegant script detailing his genuine affection and his hope that you find “meaning” in your shared time - whether or not you share his beliefs.
- That night, he watches you light a candle. The glow reflects in his eyes, and you catch something tender beneath his composure - nostalgia, maybe guilt. He murmurs, “I wonder if Heaven watches over those who don’t deserve its grace… or those who love in ways it cannot forgive.”
- You spend the evening walking outside under starlight. His voice is low, his pace slow. He admires how your breath curls into the cold air, as if time itself pauses for the quiet between you. Pucci doesn’t crave chaos like Dio - he yearns for stillness in purpose, and you represent a fragment of that serene order.
- Later, he admits softly, “I once thought my path allowed for no attachments… but your spirit makes me question whether loneliness is truly divine.” His expression shifts, caught between faith and affection - and for a moment, he looks achingly human.
- At midnight, he traces a cross lightly against your forehead - half blessing, half intimate touch. “May this night bring you peace,” he whispers. “And if destiny decrees otherwise… may you remember me kindly.”
Funny Valentine
- Christmas with Valentine feels more like a diplomatic event than a holiday. The room is tastefully adorned - deep reds, gold trim, flickering candles - and an old phonograph plays soft classical music. Everything is balanced and refined, exuding that old-world American dignity he so fiercely embodies.
- Though he masks it well, Valentine genuinely enjoys your company. He watches you unwrap your present - something practical yet luxurious, like a handcrafted fountain pen or a silk handkerchief embroidered with your initials - and says with a measured smile, “A symbol of class and reliability. Much like you, my dear.”
- When you ask him what Christmas means to him, he pauses for a long time. “Peace,” he says finally, voice quieter than usual. “A temporary illusion, perhaps - but one worth protecting.” He’ll take your hand afterward, his thumb brushing across your knuckles with careful tenderness. It’s his way of saying thank you for grounding him in humanity.
- He notices a mistletoe hanging above you almost immediately (of course he does). But instead of acting impulsively, he tilts your chin up and says, “Customs are powerful things - they bind us, guide us, and remind us of our shared purpose.” Then he leans in slowly, almost reverently, as if the kiss itself were a pledge of loyalty.
- Later in the evening, you find him gazing at an American flag folded neatly beside the mantle. His fingers trace the fabric absently. He confides softly, “People celebrate peace so easily, and yet bleed so quickly to maintain it… I envy their simplicity.” You answer by taking his hand, reminding him that peace can start small - even here, by the fire.
- Despite his stoicism, there’s undeniable warmth when he rests his hand atop yours, murmuring, “You remind me that devotion need not be to nation or fate alone.” His affection carries weight - every touch feels like both a privilege and a vow.
- As the clock strikes twelve, he raises his glass and toasts: “To new days, new dreams, and a world worthy of the love we give it.” Under his composure, you sense sincerity - the kind that only surfaces when he forgets to guard his heart.
Toru
- Toru acts like he doesn’t care about Christmas - “It’s all commercial nonsense,” he says with an easy grin while scrolling his phone. Yet, that evening, he shows up at your door wearing a reindeer-print scarf and holding takeout hot cocoa, muttering, “Don’t read too much into this, alright?”
- His apartment smells faintly of cedar and coffee, with fairy lights hung haphazardly around shelves of records. A soft city-pop tune spins on his turntable as he lounges lazily across the couch, patting the cushion beside him. It’s effortlessly atmospheric - a Christmas aesthetic without trying.
- Toru gives you a small, simple gift - maybe an old photograph, a pressed flower, or a charm on a string. He shrugs it off, “Just something I found lying around.” But there’s history in it, tied to one of your shared memories. He hides sentiment beneath casual detachment, never letting you see how much thought went into it.
- He teases you constantly - gently bumping his shoulder against yours, pretending to steal your blanket - but between the sarcasm, you catch soft glances that linger too long. He enjoys watching your reactions more than the presents or the drink - your amusement fuels him more than any holiday cheer.
- When snow starts to fall, he goes, “Guess we’re under a White Album.” You try not to laugh, and he smirks triumphantly when you do. Then he leans close enough for his breath to fog against your cheek and murmurs, “See? I told you I could make you smile.”
- He notices the mistletoe before you do. He toys with the stem above your head, his eyes half-lidded. “Now this,” he says slyly, “isn’t scientifically proven to work… but I’m willing to test it.” The kiss that follows is slow and teasing - more a game than a confession, though there’s real warmth hidden underneath.
- Later, as you doze against his shoulder, he runs a hand through your hair and hums quietly. The mask slips. “I don’t really get into holidays,” he whispers, “but this one… I’ll remember.” It’s understated, but you can tell he means it - his version of I love you.
