BINI X FEM READER ONE SHOTS

Don't Blame Me

A/N
I suggest y'all listen to "Don't Blame Me" by Taylor Swift while reading, para masaya. Hahaha

BINI Aiah x Fem Reader

People warned her not to love a monster.

They say the devil wears a pretty face.
No one told Y/N she’d wear it so well, she’d mistake her for salvation.

It was a Thursday.
Not a stormy night, not under some dramatic lightning — just an ordinary afternoon, hazy sunlight bleeding through the cracked gallery window where Y/N worked.

She was mid-way through cataloging a shipment when the door opened with a soft creak.

And then she walked in.

Aiah.

Back then, Y/N didn’t know her name. She only knew that the woman moved like she owned the ground under her feet — black coat tailored to perfection, the hem brushing toned thighs, boots clicking against polished marble like she was marking her territory. The air itself seemed to take a step back to let her pass.

Her eyes found Y/N immediately.

"You’re Y/N, right?"
Her voice was low, smooth, dripping with that dangerous curiosity that made Y/N’s skin prickle.

Y/N hesitated. "Do I… know you?"

A small smile ghosted across her lips — one that didn’t touch her eyes.
"Not yet. But you will."

Her name, Y/N would learn later, was Aiah.
She started visiting the gallery regularly, buying pieces that were obscure, expensive, layered with strange symbols Y/N couldn’t decode. She lingered long after most customers left, always finding a reason to speak to her.

It started with casual coffee trips after her “coincidentally” timed visits. Then came late-night calls, her voice low and steady through the phone. Then gifts — books with certain passages underlined in crimson ink, sketches of Y/N on coffee-stained napkins, jewelry too fine for her salary bracket.

Y/N noticed the pattern, but only later realized it was deliberate.
She should’ve run.
But instead, she fell. Hard.

Aiah wasn’t just a mysterious art collector.

She was the daughter of a powerful crime syndicate. Not just an heir — the strategist behind its expansion, the puppet master who whispered orders that toppled politicians and dismantled corporations.

The police called her Marionette.
The invisible hand behind assassinations, global cyber-crimes, and disappearances that never made it to trial.

But to Y/N? She was just… Aiah.
Dangerous, yes. But in her presence, the danger felt like a shield, not a blade.

The first time she kissed Y/N, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender.
It was claiming. Like a contract signed in invisible ink, binding Y/N to her for life.

One night, while they sat in Aiah’s penthouse, she tilted Y/N’s chin with her fingers.

"You’re afraid of me," she murmured.

Y/N swallowed. "I don’t know how to walk away."

Her lips curved in satisfaction. "Good."

It was December when Y/N’s illusion cracked.

She arrived at the penthouse unannounced, using the key Aiah had given her. She hummed softly as she walked across the marble floor, expecting to find Aiah in her study.

Instead, she found her in the living room.

Blood on her gloves.
A man on his knees — unmoving, eyes open.