Lemons are sharp. Sweet with tea. Sour enough to burn.
So was Citrine.
He wasn't like the others—no rose petal wings, no flower-sweet laughter. His kind sniffed at him. Called him "bitterblood." Said his magic was too wild, his aura too loud.
So he left.
He drifted. Tried gardens, forests, fields. Tried healing weeds beside highways and singing to wilting tulips in city planters. One farmer sprayed pesticide on his work, so Citrine cursed the ground, covered it in choking vines, and flew off with a scowl and glitter in the wind.
He wanted a place that needed him.
And then he found it.
A lemon orchard.
Dead. Guarded. Forgotten behind cracked walls and barbed wire.
The trees were brittle and silent, like they hadn't been touched by joy in years.
Citrine floated in, wings fluttering slow. He moved between branches like a secret. Hummed low, brushing his fingertips along curled leaves. Buds stirred under his touch.
The orchard breathed.
And then-
Click
Metal. Guns. Men.
He turned slowly, like a delicate dangerous ballerina.
Three suited bodies, guns raised, all glaring at him at the same time, feeling confused and threatened at the same time. "Don't move," one barked.
He smiled like sin in silk. "Darling, if I followed the order every time someone told me to, I'd still be stuck in a rose garden."
"You're trespassing."
He rolled his eyes. "Ugh, humans and that word. You build fences and think it means something, how can i trespass nature? I am nature"
That's when it happened. The shift, the men parted almost unconsciously. Like wolves part when something bigger, badder comes to play. The orchard held its breath.
And he appeared.
Six-foot-two sin wrapped in silent authority. A presence sculpted from winters and war.
Black coat. Black gloves. Emerald eyes.
The fairy blinked, intrigued and hovered up, his wings pulsing slow and sensual.
"Well," he whispered, "who let tall, dark and brooding in?"
He didn't answer, he stepped closer, each movement precise, heavy, measured like a man who once danced with the reaper and didn't flinch.
"You're not human."
The fairy arched a brow. "Took you long enough. I was about to start glowing brighter and sprinkle pixie dust on your guns"
His jaw ticked, "You don't belong here,"
"Tell that to the trees," he purrs, "They were moaning to my magic."
"You crossed my land."
The fairy spun once in the air, stardust scattering, "I don't cross land, i bless it. Big difference Sweetie."
Their eyes locked. The air between them cracking.
"Name," he said gruffly.
"Excuse you?" the fairy blinked.
"Did i fucking stutter?" he almost growled angrily, his irritation clearly evident.
The fairy smirked, and floated closer, until they were on eye level. "Names are power, Sweetie. You first."
His brow twitched, his annoyance on spur, "Malakhov,"
The fairy's lips curled, a delighted flicker in his gaze, "Pretty. Harsh. Very mafia-chic," he twirled mid-air, leaving a golden glow behind him. "Call me Citrine. Yes, like the stone, color and, no, you may never shorten it."
"Leave," he says softly, but deadly.
"Hard pass." he says and flying to Malakhov's shoulder and perched on it like his personal throne, one leg crossed over the other. Back arched in perfect curve of arrogance, wings tucked behind him like couture. "Mmm...its firm," he muttered, patting the muscle beneath him like inspecting furniture.
Malakhov, didn't flinch and just flicked him off his shoulder, causing the Citrine to squeal as he falls but catches himself, "Hey! That's very rude mister!" he floats back to his face and tries to sit on his shoulder multiple times but each time he got flickered off. Malakhov's men held in their laughter, it was a rare sight to see, a stubborn mouthy fairy trying to perch on their Tsar's shoulders, but gets flickered off like an annoying fly. Citrine huffed, his hair messy from tumbling through air but finally succeeded and perched on his shoulder, glancing at him waringly, "Honestly, you act like me sitting here drains your soul," Malakhov didn't flick him off this time, so he regained his posture, "Intimidating. Bit too stiff, though-have you ever considered smiling? Or is it illegal in your crime cult?"
Malakhov didn't react, causing Citrine to sigh, "Well, let's make it official. I stay. I heal your creepy haunted orchard." Malakhov's men shifted, exchanging glances. A muscle ticked in Malakhov's jaw, "I don't tolerate parasites."
Citrine tapped his chin with a green-nailed finger. "You say parasite, i hear symbiosis." He leaned in to whisper in Malakhov's ear. "You don't want me here but nature does, we both know nature always gets what it needs"
"You assume much," he said finally, voice low and ice-slicked, like a warning shot.
Citrine yawned, "And you brood too much. Balance, darling. I bring sparkle, you bring homicide-it's synergy." Malakhov moves to flick him off, but Citrine perched on his hand instead, "I'm staying, your trees said please." Malakhov's eyes flicker down to him, cold, dark and lethal. A beat of silence. A glare. A shimmer of fairy dust.
"Stay," he said, "and you follow my rules."
"Oh?" Citrine cooed. "You want a contract, sweetie? A pact between mafia royalty and a lemon fairy?" He hovers and grabs his forefinger and shakes it, "Done and done....i stay, you protect me, in return I heal your land and chase the ghosts away."
"First rule," Malakhov said, voice steel-dipped, "no touching my weapons."
"Second rule," Citrine shot back, "no touching my glitter." Malakhov didn't respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, not a smile, more like a storm considering the idea of sun.