Work Text:
When you first met Carmilla Carmine, you were terrified. She radiated a presence so commanding, so undeniably powerful, that it was impossible not to be awestruck. She moved with the fluid grace of a swan, every step deliberate and poised. Her beauty was otherworldly, like a ballerina frozen mid-pirouette—delicate, yet full of controlled strength.
And her mind?
Razor-sharp.
Every word she spoke seemed laced with layers of meaning, her intelligence like a glinting blade hidden beneath darken silky curtains.
Signing a contract with her felt like stepping into uncharted territory. You weren’t sure what awaited you on the other side of that agreement, but the sheer gravity of her presence compelled you to take the leap.
At first, the work was... underwhelming. Mostly routine admin tasks, managing schedules, arranging files, and keeping the ever-ticking machinery of her world running smoothly. Mundane, but not unimportant.
You thought you could settle for this—a quiet existence, one of unobtrusive diligence. For eternity, even. After all, Hell was vast and chaotic, and carving out a small, stable corner within it seemed like a victory in itself.
Or so you believed.
But then, Carmilla’s vision began to seep into your consciousness. It was in the way she spoke of her people, the fire in her eyes when she vowed to protect them, her unyielding determination to carve order from the chaos of Hell. Her strength was awe-inspiring, but it was her heart that truly captured you. She wasn’t just powerful—she was noble. Compassionate. Everything about her demanded admiration.
And you admired her, deeply, unreservedly.
That admiration transformed into something more: a yearning to rise above your station, to prove yourself worthy of standing beside her, even in the smallest of ways. You wanted to embody her values, to reflect her ideals, to contribute meaningfully to her cause.
So, you worked harder. You became a whirlwind of energy and ambition, taking on tasks that others avoided, pouring yourself into every detail, no matter how small. Every effort you made was a step toward redemption—a chance to rewrite the story of your existence. You had died full of regrets, a nobody in the grand scheme of things. But here, in Hell, you have the opportunity to be somebody.
To matter.
Even the smallest tasks became acts of devotion. When a supervisor asked for coffee, you didn’t just make coffee—you brewed perfection. Word spread, and soon, you were unofficially crowned the "coffee master" of the warehouse. It seemed insignificant, but the joy on your coworkers’ faces as they sipped your creations warmed something inside you.
And then, one day, that small ripple reached Carmilla herself.
Your supervisor was sick, leaving you the unenviable task of presenting the quarterly report to Carmilla during a surprise visit. When she walked into the room, her usual brilliance seemed dulled—her face marked by exhaustion, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes betraying her weariness. Even her smile, normally dazzling, felt dimmed.
You stood before her, trembling, clutching the report like it was a lifeline. As you began to speak, your voice faltered, words tangling and fraying under her piercing gaze. The weight of her presence bore down on you, and when she sighed—soft, but heavy—you felt as though the ground might swallow you whole.
You were certain you had failed her. Certain that you would forever remain a blip in her memory, a disappointing nobody in a sea of inefficiency.
But then, unexpectedly, her hand came to rest on your shoulder. Her touch was gentle, her fingers brushing against your skin like the softest feathers.
“Breathe,” she said, her voice low and soothing, carrying an almost maternal warmth. “Go on.”
Her words cut through the storm of your anxiety. You took a shaky breath in, then exhaled, your chest rising and falling as you followed her gentle command.
“Again,” she urged, her tone patient and unyielding.
You complied, drawing in another breath, then releasing it. With each repetition, the raging beast of anxiety inside you ebbed, your pulse slowing, your trembling subsiding.
“There,” she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Better?”
Your heart stuttered for an entirely new reason. Her kindness, her understanding—it was overwhelming. You nodded, heat rushing to your cheeks, your admiration for her swelling into something that bordered on reverence.
At that moment, you knew you’d made the right choice. Carmilla Carmine wasn’t just your employer. She was your guiding light, a force of nature, and the closest thing to hope you had found in the fiery depths of Hell. You would follow her anywhere. For all eternity.
You couldn’t ignore the weariness shadowing her features—the subtle downturn of her lips, the tired weight in her eyes that even her composure couldn’t conceal. Carmilla Carmine, the invincible force of Hell, looked human in her fatigue, and it tugged at something deep inside you.
So, you did the one thing you knew you excelled at.
“Can I brew you a coffee, Miss Carmine?” you asked, your voice almost trembling with a mix of nerves and hope.
She tilted her head, her sharp gaze softening in faint surprise. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” you blurted, stepping forward slightly. “I’d like to make you a cup. It’s... kind of my specialty.”
Her lips quirked upward in a ghost of a smile, and she nodded. “Very well.”
That first brew changed everything. You poured your heart into the preparation, your hands steady despite the quickening of your pulse. When you handed her the steaming cup, you held your breath as she brought it to her lips.
The transformation was immediate. Her shoulders eased, the tension melting from her frame as she closed her eyes, savouring the taste. A sigh escaped her, content and unguarded.
“This is... excellent,” she said, her tone carrying a rare warmth.
The compliment sparked something giddy in you, and before you could stop yourself, you grinned and said, “I’d be happy to make you coffee anytime you’d like!”
You didn’t realize how much enthusiasm you’d packed into those words until she blinked, clearly taken aback. And then, to your astonishment, she laughed—bright, melodic laughter that filled the room and wrapped around you like sunlight parting through heavy clouds.
From that day on, it became a tradition. Year after year, whenever Carmilla visited your warehouse, she’d stop by your office. By then, you’d risen through the ranks, becoming the supervisor of her main warehouse. Her visits weren’t always official—sometimes, she’d chat casually about her daughters, share snippets of Hell’s cutthroat politics, or recount silly anecdotes that made her laugh.
And you, ever the eager audience, would listen intently, a wide smile plastered on your face as you brewed her another cup of what she called “a perfect cup of coffee.” Those moments, filled with her presence and her quiet gratitude, were the highlight of your existence.
You’d never been happier.
Until one day, on the cusp of New Year’s, she arrived unexpectedly, her silhouette framed by the dim light of your office door. In her hand was a contract—a contract you hadn’t seen in what felt like lifetimes.
With that gentle smile you adored, she held it out to you. “You mentioned once that you enjoy brewing coffee, yes?”
You blinked, the question catching you off guard. “That’s… right,” you said, hesitating as you stepped closer. Your gaze fell on the paper. There it was—your soul contract, your name signed neatly at the bottom. The very contract you’d sealed decades ago.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began, her voice lilting with barely contained excitement. “Perhaps you’d be happier opening your own café.”
Your breath hitched.
Her eyes crinkled with that rare kindness that both warmed and ached in equal measure. “The streets are safer now, with the exterminations no longer an issue. I’ve already scouted a location for you. It’s perfect.”
Her words painted a vision of a new future—a cozy café, bustling with life. You could almost see her stepping inside, a rare moment of reprieve from her endless responsibilities. But it wouldn’t be the same. She wouldn’t linger like she did now. Her visits wouldn’t come with the easy rhythm of laughter and shared conversations. You wouldn’t see her as often, not with her ambition pulling her in every direction.
Your chest tightened, the thought carving a hollow ache within you.
Outside, the muffled sounds of fireworks burst through the air, mingled with cheers and laughter. Carmilla glanced toward the commotion, shaking her head with a small laugh. “It seems my men have started celebrating early.”
You couldn’t take your eyes off her. You admired everything about her—the sharpness of her mind, the strength in her convictions, the tenderness that she reserved for fleeting moments like these. But most of all, you cherished the serene smile your coffee brought to her lips after a long, gruelling day.
That smile had become your purpose...
Your pride...
...Your joy.
You glanced at the clock on your desk. The second hand ticked closer to midnight. You knew it was reckless, but your heart urged you forward. Maybe it was the champagne fizz of hope bubbling inside you, or perhaps it was the way her gaze lingered, soft and warm.
“Miss Carmine,” you began, your voice a trembling whisper.
She turned to you, her eyes luminous in the dim light.
Your pulse roared in your ears as you took a step closer, emboldened by the fleeting seconds of the year slipping away. If you were wrong—if her touch, her warmth, her laughter meant nothing more than camaraderie—you would accept it. You would stay in her orbit, no matter the cost.
That alone was enough.
The clock struck twelve, its chime swallowed by the thunderous symphony of fireworks outside. Bursts of red and gold illuminated your office, painting the walls in fleeting brilliance. The flickering light danced across her face, highlighting the regal angles of her cheekbones and the warmth in her eyes as they caught yours.
Your heart was a storm—wild, relentless, but determined. Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped forward, rising onto your toes. Time seemed to stretch infinitely as you leaned closer, your pulse roaring in your ears.
And then, softly, tentatively, you pressed a kiss to her lips.
It was brief—just a whisper of contact, a fleeting moment that seemed to burn into your very soul. “Happy New Year, Miss Carmine,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the crackling explosions outside. Her eyes widened in surprise, shimmering in the firelight.
Before you could withdraw, before the crushing weight of doubt could descend, you managed a shy, trembling smile. “I hope… I hope to keep working for you. To keep brewing coffee for you, for many more years to come.”
You began to step back, expecting silence, perhaps even rejection. But instead, her hand caught yours—firm, yet gentle.
And then she leaned in.
Her lips met yours again, this time slow and deliberate, her movements as graceful and unyielding as everything else she did. The kiss was tender, filled with a kindness and warmth that mirrored the very essence of her being. It wasn’t hurried or uncertain; it was grounding, affirming, as though she’d waited lifetimes for this moment too.
The fireworks painted the room in shifting hues of gold and crimson, their brilliance cascading across your entwined fingers. Her touch, her presence—it all felt surreal, like you were floating somewhere far above the chaos of Hell, suspended in a private world of light and warmth.
Your heart thudded steadily, its rhythm no longer frantic but sure. And in that timeless moment, as her lips lingered against yours, you realized with a clarity that stole your breath away:
You were in love with Miss Carmilla Carmine.