Pairing: Older Man! Inho × YoungWoman! Guard Reader (Guard 11/, Y/n)
Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)
Summary: They never had a label — just stolen nights and silent mornings. She told herself it was enough… until it wasn’t.
He never kissed her. Never spoke her name. Only used her — over and over again. But the moment another man looked her way…He remembered exactly who she belonged to.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (non-vulgar. NSFW / 18+) Age gap(Inho in 40s/ reader in mid 20s) Power imbalance. Dubious consent (initially).Possessiveness/ Obsessive behavior. Verbal degradation. Dark themes. Emotionally manipulative dynamics. Mild violence/ rough handling. Toxic relationship element. Angst.
Author's Note: This one’s been sitting in my inbox for a while and I finally got to bring it to life. Hope it will be worth the wait. Also, I don’t write explicit smut with vulgar terms, but I always try to give you enough heat to make your heart race and your imagination run wild — without crossing that line. Don't forget to comment and reblog!
Tag list: Let me know if anyone wants to join the tag list!
@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @watasinekoru @thehellhaveubeenloca @nightlark100 @yosoylaprincesa2004 @drewstarkeysrightarm @lunaryoongie @ilovehwanginho @doodle-with-rhy
She wasn’t sure when it started — maybe the day he first called her into his office and dismissed the others.
“Guard 11, stay. The rest of you, out.”
Maybe it was that first night. Or the second. Or the tenth.
He’d fuck her like he was starving. Like he needed her skin more than he needed air.
And then he’d walk away like it never happened. A silent nod. A locked door.
She told herself it was just physical. That she could handle it.
But that lie wore thin after the fourth time he kissed her throat like it meant something.
After the seventh time she cried in the shower and still showed up at his door when he called.
“You’re not in love,” she whispered to herself after every night.
“You’re just lonely.”
But then why did it hurt like this?
Why did she keep waiting for a look — a touch — a single word — that never came?
But he never reached for her hand after.
Never kissed her like she was anything more than a secret to be silenced.
Now she’s starting to wonder if he even remembers her name — or just the number sewn into her uniform.
The hallway outside his office was cold. Sterile. Silent.
But the second the door closed behind her, everything burned.
His hand was already at her throat — not rough, not quite tender, just possessive — like always.
He didn’t speak. He never did. He just took.
Her back hit the wall with a thud. Her mask clattered to the floor. His followed a moment later.
Sharp suit. Cold eyes. That same unreadable face.
And yet when he kissed her neck, it was fire.
“Strip,” he murmured — voice deep, low, commanding — like a man used to being obeyed.
She obeyed, like always. And hated herself for how fast she did it.
He didn’t touch her gently.
He handled her — arms gripping her thighs as he lifted her effortlessly, letting her legs wrap around his waist like they belonged there.
Her back arched. She gasped his name.
The sound of her own breath echoed against the wall as he thrust into her — deep, slow, maddeningly controlled.
Like he was savoring her, not loving her. Like she was something he owned, not something he cherished.
His lips ghosted over her jaw, her ear, her throat.
Hot breath. Cold fingers. That deep, cruel voice:
“You like this, don’t you?”
“Being used like a good little secret.”
She bit her lip to hold back the sound. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
But she couldn’t hold it when he pushed harder — deeper.
His hand over her mouth now, muffling the cry he knew was coming.
“That’s right,” he whispered. “You only exist for this. For me.”
It wasn’t love. She knew that.
He never kissed her lips. Only her skin — her neck, her chest — like tasting her was enough, but knowing her was too dangerous.
When he zipped his pants back up like nothing had happened…
She was left standing there — breathless, sore, raw —
…while he turned away without a word.
And as she pulled her mask and uniform back on and stepped out into the hallway again — head low, cheeks burning — she wondered how much longer she could take being his shadow.
How many more nights she’d let herself be used… hoping one day, he’d turn around and stay.
The door clicked shut behind Guard 11, and the silence settled again — thick, heavy, suffocating.
Just the way he liked it.
Or at least, the way he used to.
In-ho—stood still in the center of the room, jaw clenched, the taste of her still on his tongue.
He shouldn’t have done it again.
On the big screen in his room, players moved like ants. Guards patrolled in rigid lines. Everything ran with perfect order — because he demanded it. Becausee he controlled it.
There was nothing controlled about the way she moaned for him. Nothing disciplined about the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching.
He knew her patterns. Her steps. Her tells.
The way she twirled the hem of her sleeve when she was nervous. The way her voice dropped when she lied.
She didn’t even know she’d given herself away the first night he had her — trembling under his touch, but leaning into it all the same.
He had warned her. Don’t get attached.
But he never told her the full truth.
That he’d chosen her the moment she’d taken off that mask in front of him, months ago, without knowing he was watching.
He told himself he only kept her around because she was useful. Quiet. Loyal.
He knew this wasn’t love. It was something darker. Something hungrier.
Obsession is a quiet thing, until it starts to starve.
And lately, he felt starved.
There was only one camera feed he watched.
A small, grainy screen tucked in the top-left corner of the monitor wall.
She was sitting on the edge of the cot now, her mask off, hair messy from his hands, uniform wrinkled from the way he had pulled her into him only an hour ago.
But more than that — she looked empty.
In-ho leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk. He stared at her image, unmoving, like a predator watching its prey through the scope of a rifle.
Slowly, his gloved hand lifted.
Not the air — the screen itself. His fingertip dragged over the lines of her shoulder, down the slope of her arm, lingering over the soft curve of her face.
“You always look like this after I touch you,” he muttered, almost fondly.
One word. Whispered like a promise.
Claiming her — not with permission, not with tenderness — but with pure, cold-blooded certainty.
Frontman — stood silently in the center of the control room, his boot planted on the floor with player photos.
Behind him, guards sat stiffly at their monitors, watching every grainy feed of the Dalgona game in progress.
But his attention was elsewhere — far from the cracked sugar and terrified players.
His jaw clenched behind the black mask.
Not because of the guards.
But because of last night.
The memory still lingered — the way she had trembled beneath him, her soft gasps echoing in his ears hours later.
And still, that hadn’t been enough to satisfy the gnawing ache in him.
He scanned the room slowly, eyes darting toward the corners, until he realized — she wasn’t here.
Where is she? He thought.
His brows furrowed, but just as he was about to ask the officer in charge, the heavy door creaked open — and in stepped Guard 11.
She was always quiet, always composed. She took her position behind him at a respectful distance, but he could feel her eyes on him.
He didn’t acknowledge her right away. He never did.
But after a moment, his voice broke through the tension — deep, clipped, and absolute.
“Come with me, Guard 11.”
Then he turned and left the control room.
She followed without hesitation.
By the time she stepped into his office, he was already seated on the leather chair, mask removed, crystal tumbler of whiskey resting loosely in one hand. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.
“Lock the door,” he said calmly.
Without a word, she walked toward him and stood between his spread knees. Her breath was steady, even if her chest rose a little faster now. She knew what this was. She always knew.
Except… lately, something had shifted in his stare. There was a weight in it. A flicker of something else beneath the hunger.
She took of her mask and her hands reached up, steady and slow, resting first on his thighs before trailing upward toward his belt. He didn’t stop her. He never did. His head tilted slightly, watching her every move like a man watching his favorite weapon being drawn from its case.
He raised the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, his other hand brushing her cheek with his gloved knuckles. Gentle — too gentle for someone like him.
“You know what to do,” he murmured.
Because she wasn’t just another guard.
The one he summoned when the world felt too loud.
The one he allowed to kneel before him — not because he needed it, but because she calmed the storm in him.
But today — as her lips touched his skin — something tugged at his chest.
A heat that had nothing to do with lust.
He stared down at her, her eyes closed in quiet submission, and something dangerous curled in his voice as he whispered,
“You were never meant to belong to anyone else.”
His grip in her hair tightened — not cruelly, but possessively.
She knew what effect she had on him.
And he hated that he loved it.
Her movements slow and warm, lips brushing over sensitive skin with a softness that made his breath hitch.
In-ho’s eyes dropped shut.
A sound escaped him — low, deep, guttural.
He placed the glass of whiskey back on the side table with a solid clink, no longer interested in distractions. One gloved hand gripped the armrest, the other tangled in her hair, guiding her with just the right amount of pressure.
His head tilted back against the chair, jaw clenched, breath unsteady.
“Just like that,” he growled. “Don’t stop.”
She picked up the pace, using her mouth like she knew exactly how to unravel him, inch by slow, torturous inch.
Each movement made his stomach tighten, made a vein throb in his neck, made his grip on her hair tighten.
“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” he rasped, voice heavy with desire.
“Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you’re always so eager to get on your knees for me.”
Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t stop. If anything, her hands gripped his thighs tighter, her rhythm more confident now.
He looked down at her — flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, mouth working him over like she was starving — and something feral twisted in his chest.
“You’re so good like this,” he whispered darkly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Obedient. Quiet. Mine.”
That last word hit heavy. Possessive. Cold. True.
And when she hollowed her cheeks, adding just a little more pressure, a sharp breath hissed between his teeth. His fingers curled in her hair, holding her still, fighting the instinct to lose all control right there.
“You like making me fall apart, don’t you?” he muttered. “You like knowing you’re the only one I call for. The only one I let this close.”
She hummed against him, and he cursed — a deep, husky sound from the pit of his chest.
“Fuck—if you keep going, I might actually start believing you belong to me.”
He laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it — only need. Only truth.
Even if he hadn’t said it out loud, even if he never kissed her after. She was his.
And he wasn’t planning to let her go.
It didn’t take long after that.
With her lips swollen and eyes glistening from the intensity, she felt him tremble—his grip on her hair tightened one last time as a deep, shuddering groan left his throat. He threw his head back, breathing ragged and heavy, chest rising and falling.
She stayed still, eyes lifted to him as she always did, waiting—hoping, foolishly—for something more than silence and tension between them.
But the moment it was over, the change in him was almost immediate.
He blinked once. Twice. Then his features hardened.
That warmth in his gaze? Gone.
The soft tremble in his breath? Steadied.
The hand in her hair? Dropped.
He buckled his pants again and picked up his glass of whiskey, swirling what little remained like nothing had just happened — like she hadn’t just given herself to him all over again.
And then, without so much as looking her in the eye, he spoke.
That one word—cold, flat, emotionless—sliced deeper than it ever had before. It always ended like this, always with him pushing her away like she was nothing but a tool to take the edge off. And still, every time, she came back.
But this time, her throat tightened more than usual. Her knees ached against the hard floor, but she didn’t move just yet.
She wanted to say something—anything.
She wanted to ask why he could touch her like that and still act like he felt nothing.
She was just a guard. Just a body he used when he wanted to feel something… or when he wanted to forget.
Quietly, she lowered her gaze, fixed her mask back onto her face, and stood.
She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, heart pounding and chest tight, wondering just how many times she could take this before she broke.
Behind her, In-ho didn’t move. He just kept swirling his whiskey, staring blankly on the monitors across the room—where her small guard station camera flickered in the corner of the screen.
And still, he watched her.
Because no matter how cold he acted…
She was his favorite sin.
And he was far from done.
Three days since she’d knelt before him.
Three days since he’d touched her like she meant something—like she was his.
And three days since he’d thrown that single word at her like a blade:
Guard 11 had barely slept since. Not because of her duties, but because every time she closed her eyes, she could still feel his fingers in her hair… hear his groan echoing in her ears… taste the heat of him on her tongue.
Now she walked the halls like a ghost.
She moved with the same efficiency, wore the same mask, responded to orders the same way—but her body felt heavier, like her skin didn’t quite fit anymore.
She hadn’t been called back to his office since. Not once. No glances. No hidden signals. Nothing.
She hated herself for waiting—for checking the hall whenever footsteps echoed outside the guardroom door. She hated how her pulse still spiked every time she passed the control room, wondering if he was behind that tinted glass watching her… or worse—ignoring her.
Was she just… done? Cast aside?
She’d told herself over and over that it didn’t mean anything to him. She knew that. He never promised otherwise. He never touched her with softness, never said anything tender. And yet—something about the way he used to look at her, like she was his only escape from the chaos, had made her hope.
Pathetic, she thought, glaring at her reflection in the guardroom’s small mirror, mask hanging loosely from her fingers.
Her lips still looked bruised.
Her thighs still ached faintly from the last time he’d pulled her onto his lap and taken what he wanted, wordless and possessive like he couldn’t stop himself.
Now he couldn’t even look at her.
She knew what it meant. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe someone prettier, softer, more obedient had caught his eye.
Whatever it was—it burned.
Worse than the shame of wanting him was the pain of being forgotten by him.
Her fingers tightened around her mask.
She hated this place. She hated these walls. She hated how her heart fluttered for a man who never offered her anything real.
If he called for her right now—she’d go.
God help her, she’d go crawling back.
The metallic hum of machines filled the cold air as monitors flickered with the live feeds of the remaining players. Guards stood still, stiff in their pink uniforms, eyes glued to the screens—or at least pretending to be.
At the center, the Frontman watched with an unreadable expression behind his polished black mask. He hadn’t said a word all morning. He rarely did.
Her boots echoed across the steel floor as she entered the room. Everyone stiffened slightly at the sight of her. Everyone noticed the shift.
She walked forward slowly, stopping just behind him. Her voice was low, quiet—but not quiet enough.
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
Every masked head subtly turned.
The air dropped ten degrees colder.
Frontman’s gloved hand clenched on his sides. His head tilted slightly, as if he was making sure he’d heard right.
Then—slowly, silently—he stood.
The tension in the room was unbearable.
Without a word, he walked past her.
“Follow me,” he growled under his breath, low enough only for her to hear.
The door of his office slammed shut behind her.
She barely had time to process the sound before he grabbed her by the chin, forcing her face up toward him, his masked gaze burning into her.
“What the hell was that?” he snarled. “In front of everyone?”
His voice dripped with fury. Not just anger—humiliation.
“No one speaks to me like that,” he hissed, tightening his grip slightly. “Do you want to lose your mask? Do you want the whole damn guardroom to know what you really are to me?”
She flinched, but didn’t back down. Her voice cracked with restraint.
“You haven’t called me in three days.”
His breathing deepened behind the mask.
She swallowed. “I thought I was just a toy to you. So why does it matter what they think?”
His hands dropped from her chin and curled into fists at his sides. He turned, took off his mask, pacing once, twice—and then spun back around.
“You are a toy. You’re for my pleasure, nothing more.”
The words landed like a slap. Her chest twisted, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t.
“Then use me,” she said softly, defiantly. “If that’s all I am, then stop pretending.”
Then he growled, reached forward, and grabbed her by the wrist.
“Fine. You want to be used? I’ll show you what that means.”
He shoved open the door of his bedroom and dragged her inside, closing it roughly behind them.
Dark curtains. Black satin sheets. Dim lighting. And a king-sized bed that had seen things no one would dare speak of.
He turned to her like a storm.
She hesitated—but not out of fear.
Because this was the only place she ever felt like he saw her. Even if it was twisted. Even if it was warped and wrong.
And so, with trembling fingers, she obeyed.
She stood before him now—bare. Vulnerable. Her breathing shallow, eyes flickering with defiance and desire all at once. It was a dangerous combination. One he’d never been able to resist.
Frontman removed his gloves slowly, methodically, and set them on the table with a soft thud. He didn’t speak as he walked toward her, every step deliberate.
Then he stopped—just inches away—and dragged a single finger up her bare arm.
“You think I forgot you?”
“You think I didn’t want to call you?”
“You think I didn’t ache to feel that mouth again?”
His voice was low and gravelled, a growl that licked across her skin and sent shivers to places she couldn’t name.
He leaned in, whispering just beside her ear—not touching, not yet.
“No, little girl. I didn’t forget. I stayed away… because I wanted you too much.”
And with that, his hands snapped to her waist and pushed her back onto the bed like she weighed nothing.
She gasped, but didn’t resist.
He climbed over her slowly, like a predator taking his time. His black shirt brushed her chest as he caged her beneath him, forearm pressing the mattress beside her head.
“Do you even understand what you do to me?” he growled.
She looked up, lips parted—but he didn’t give her time to speak.
His mouth was already on her neck, hard and punishing, kissing and sucking like a man who’d spent every minute of the last three days torturing himself over the fact that he needed her.
When he pulled back, their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the space between.
“You made me weak,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “You—you’re the one thing I kept coming back to.”
She reached up, fingertips ghosting his jaw.
“Then stop pretending I’m nothing.”
Then something in him snapped.
He growled, low and ragged, and flipped her over without warning—pulling her hips back, forcing her hands to the headboard.
“You don’t want soft tonight, do you?”
“No. You want the man you’ve been crawling to behind locked doors. You want the man who ruins everything he touches—including you.”
He wrapped his hand in her hair and leaned down to her ear.
“And you’ll thank me for every second of it.”
She whimpered when he yanked her hips back into place. Not from pain—no, from how deeply she needed this. How much she wanted him, even when he treated her like a possession, like a secret he refused to name.
“You only exist like this,” he muttered under his breath, one hand pressing her down. “Bent over, quiet, obedient.”
His voice held no softness. No affection. Just dominance laced with venom… and something buried deeper. But he would never let her see it.
“I own you in here. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Don’t lie to yourself now.”
Every movement was punishing. Precise. He didn’t give her time to recover, to speak, to think.
All she could do was feel.
She moaned into the mattress, her hands gripping the sheets like they might anchor her to sanity.
And still, he didn’t stop.
“Three days,” he hissed, gripping her waist harder. “Three days and you come in front of everyone asking why I haven’t called you?”
His lips brushed her shoulder now, hot breath making her shiver.
“You have no idea what kind of line you crossed, little guard. What kind of danger you’ve invited.”
She tried to turn her head, to look at him. She didn’t expect gentleness—but maybe just a sliver of what she felt from him when no one else was watching.
But he wouldn’t let her see it.
His hand wrapped her jaw and turned her face back down.
“No,” he growled. “You don’t get to look at me like that. This isn’t love. It’s consequence.”
But even as he said it… even as he bit down on her skin and left another mark to claim what he insisted was only a body for his use—his movements faltered. Just slightly.
Too much like a man who was falling, even while he kept telling himself he was in control.
Eventually, when the heat ebbed and silence filled the room, he sat at the edge of the bed. Quiet. Stone-faced. Jaw tight.
She didn’t say anything. Her body curled on the bed, bruised, boneless… but her heart?
Because he didn’t look back at her.
Just stood up, walked to the door, and paused for a second. Not enough to give her hope—but enough to make her ache.
“Put your uniform back on,” he said coldly. “And leave.”
And as the door clicked shut behind him, she realized something she’d been afraid to admit—
He wasn’t just using her.
The control room was empty now, apart from him.
A dim blue glow flickered over his masked face as the monitors played quiet shadows of the facility. The guards had retired. The games were paused for the night. But sleep? That was something he hadn’t earned in years.
One of the screens caught his attention—
Camera 12. East wing. Guard Quarters.
Sitting on the edge of her cot, still in uniform, her back curled in on itself like a fragile thread. She wasn’t moving. Just sitting there with her hands gripping the edge of the bed like she might fall apart if she let go.
He leaned in, not even realizing he had.
And then, she did something he hadn’t seen from her before.
She wiped at her face with the back of her glove.
Another wipe. Another quiet shake of her shoulders. A muffled breath.
Inho slowly took off his mask and set it down beside him, his jaw tightening. His knuckles whitened around the arm of the chair.
She never cried—not when he was rough, not when he was cold, not when he left her in that room like nothing had ever happened between them.
Now she sat there, crying over a man who refused to touch her unless it was under the veil of command… a man who couldn’t admit, not even to himself, that the sight of her with anyone else would drive him to murder.
He knew he couldn’t call her.
Not when he still didn’t trust himself.
Instead, he reached over to the control panel. Hovered his fingers above the feed. But he didn’t switch it off.
He needed to see her. Even if it meant watching her cry over the absence of a man who would never admit she meant more than just pleasure.
He stared at the screen, his voice a raw whisper only the room could hear—
“I told myself I’d never break the rules… but you…”
His lips parted, eyes never leaving the image.
“You made me forget I ever made them.”
He leaned back, placing a hand over his mouth like he was trying to silence something threatening to come out.
Frontman stood still in the center of the control room, silent as always. His hands were folded behind his back, mask shielding everything—except the fire burning behind it.
Across the room, she was there—Guard 11.
Her shoulders relaxed. It wasn’t the kind of interaction that broke any rules. But it did something else.
He watched with clenched fists as his blood boiled at the sight.
He didn’t say a word. Not then.
But later, he caught her again—standing a bit too close to the same man. Talking. Smiling. Her head tilted ever so slightly like she was actually… happy.
“Guard 15! Get back to your post. Now!”
His voice was thunderous, sharp, cutting through the silence of the hallway like a whip. The male guard stiffened and left immediately, sensing danger.
But Guard 11? She stood still, chest rising and falling. Silent.
He didn’t look at her again. Just turned on his heel and left.
She entered his dim office room the moment she was summoned. But before the door could even click shut behind her, he was there.
Her back hit the wall. His mask still on. His body crowding hers.
“What the hell was that all day?” he growled, voice low, animalistic. “You think you can laugh with him in front of me? Smile at him like that?”
Y/n’s eyes widened, breath hitching. “Why do you care?” she snapped back. “I’m just your plaything, right? You use me. You don’t even look at me after.”
His mask tilted slightly as if her words stunned him—but only for a second.
And without another word, his lips crashed onto hers—for the first time—hard.
The kiss was rough, bruising, hungry—his gloved hands gripping her waist like he needed her just to breathe.
And she—God, she kissed him back like she hated herself for loving it.
“Don’t—” he growled against her mouth, “don’t ever call yourself that again.”
He kissed her again. Softer this time. Slower. And then he whispered it—
He had never said her name before.
“Y/n,” he whispered again, reverently now, as if it was something sacred. “You’re not just someone I use. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted. The only one I ever—”
He paused, forehead resting on hers.
Then, without giving her a second to react, he lifted her into his arms—one swift motion—and carried her straight into his bedroom.
Clothes dropped like secrets, scattered on the cold floor. The air turned warm from the way he touched her now—not with hunger, but with reverence. Every brush of his fingers, every kiss he pressed down her neck, every breath he shared as their bodies tangled—was different.
There was no mask between them anymore. No orders. No control.
And when she arched under him, gasping his name like it was a prayer—he kissed her. Deeply. On the lips. On the collarbone. On her wrist.
And when they collapsed—bare skin tangled in sheets, heartbeat loud in each other’s chests—he didn’t leave this time.
She rested her head on his shoulder, blinking up at the dark ceiling.
“You were never just a guard. Never just a body.”
He turned his head and kissed her temple.
“I didn’t know how to love until you.”
She smiled faintly and let out a small laugh. “Took you long enough.”
He chuckled softly and turned toward her fully, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You belong to me” he whispered again, this time with gentleness, not claim.
Then he looked down at her—bare, warm, glowing in the low light.
