𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐄 ★ Jinx x Reader (Arcane S2)

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞
▶︎ ●──── 12:10
⇆ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ㅤ ▷ㅤ↻
𝖢𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖺 𝖠𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺

ʻʻ If you wanna be with me
Baby, there's a price to pay
I'm a genie in a bottle
You gotta rub me the right way. ʽʽ

★

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 : November 12
𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖽 : TBA
𝖴𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽𝗎𝗅𝖾 : Weekends
𝖳𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾 : Second Chance
𝖦𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾 : Romance, Thriller, Crime, Comedy, Angst, Gore
𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾 : Greed, Absence

⚠️ SNOWFLAKES DNI ⚠️
(Very immature humor)

“ I will not succumb to your pelvic sorcery, ” Gabe declares, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “ That’s what I told him, ” he finishes proudly.

“ Alright, could you not say it like that? ” you groan, giving your cousin a look that barely masks your annoyance. Considering his luck in love is about as low as his height, you doubt he's ever actually had a man try to seduce him.

Gabe huffs, muttering curses under his breath as he adjusts the straps on his backpack and stomps ahead of you. You let him go, the sand whipping up and stinging your eyes. Squinting, you catch sight of the distant outline of Corin, your home. It’s beautiful, almost painfully so.

But beauty doesn’t change the fact that you need to leave. People on death row don’t have much of a future here.

Death row, you ask? Honestly, no idea. All you need to know now is that you’re on the run—or else.

The place you and Gabe have decided on is Piltover. Word is, it’s a city of progress, wealth, and opportunity—just the place for a fresh start. Looking at the large bags slung across your back, heavy with spices, you can’t help but feel a flicker of hope. If the stories are true, maybe—just maybe—there’s a chance your spices will sell well there.

That is, of course, if they don’t think your spices are drugs.

Back in Xyra, business was booming—for all the wrong reasons. Maybe it was the packaging, or maybe it was your little “Genie in a Cellophane” tagline, but every other day, some poor fool was snorting your salt and leaving in a fit of coughs and watery eyes. You’d explain—again and again—that it was just table salt, but by then, they’d be too busy hacking up their lungs to listen.

And word got around. Soon enough, the shadier folks in Xyra seemed to think you had some special connection to the underworld, making your shop the hottest destination for every spice-seeker and thrill-chaser from here to the desert outskirts. Didn’t matter how many disclaimers you hung up; you’d always get at least one guy shoving coins in your face, whispering, “ I hear you got the good stuff. ”

You’d sigh, hand them a jar of saffron or a packet of smoked sea salt, and watch as they skulked away, glaring when they realized it wasn’t anything illegal. Still, they’d always come back, even if just to glare through your shop window like you’d scammed them. You’d gotten used to it after a while—cleaning up the floors after another disappointed customer stormed out, cursing your name. It became part of the job.