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Tunnel Vision

Tony (Catterick) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: You finally invite Tony inside, and neither of you know how to deal with it.

Warnings: Mentions of smut, violence, swearing, masochism, obsessive behaviour, stalking

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I was so close to titling this chapter Smack My Bitch Up. Also how many times can I compare Tony to a dog in this fic? They literally even did it in canon he’s so puppy coded (and that puppy is a crusty white dog).

Chapter Six - Hit Me

His eyes widen, like you just said forever.

“Are you-?” he starts, but you turn before he can finish, stepping back just enough to open the door fully. He stands and follows like he’s in a trance. Like a dog off a chain.

Inside, he hovers in the entryway, dripping rainwater and adrenaline, eyes darting around like he doesn’t know where to stand or sit or exist.

You close the door behind him. It clicks shut like a vault. A line crossed. A silence that says too much.

You don’t speak. You don’t look at him.

You just walk ahead, toward the dimly lit living room, your hands shaking.

Behind you, he follows like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind. Like he’s ready to live and die at your feet

He looks around the room like he’s never seen it before, even though he has. Too many times. Always wrong. Always in secret. With your toothbrush still damp from your bedtime routine. With your washing still warm from the dryer. With your pink stuffed rabbit fallen down the side of your bed, one eye staring like a witness. But this time, you’d invited him in. And that means everything.

You lead him upstairs without thinking. Just habit. You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t ask where you’re going. He just follows - silent, close behind. The stairs creak under your steps.

His breath hitches in his throat every time you pause, every time you glance back, eyes flickering with that wild, desperate hunger you’ve seen before. His mind is racing, tangled with want and madness, painting a thousand reckless scenarios.

He’s thinking of all the ways he could cross the threshold, of how he could close the distance until there’s no space left between you - no room for fear, no chance to pull away. The thought makes his heart hammer so hard it feels like it might shatter his ribs. The desperation curls his fingers into fists, trembling, as if the mere act of holding back could tear him apart.

Your bedroom door swings open. You don’t know what you’ll do with him right now. You don’t know what this changes. But for a sliver of reason, you allow it. And maybe that’s worse than any other mistake.

The door closes softly behind you both, and for a moment, the world shrinks down to the four walls of your bedroom. The faint glow of streetlight slips through the curtains, casting shadows that dance across his face - softening the madness, making him almost angelic in his need.

He steps closer, every movement slow but desperate, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast he’ll break the fragile spell between you. His eyes burn into yours, wild and unrelenting, drinking in every flicker of your fear, every flicker of hesitation that only feeds the hunger twisting inside him.

Tony’s breath is ragged now, a mix of longing and something darker - need so raw it claws at his insides, pulling him forward. He wants you so badly it feels like his body might combust, that aching desperation pooling in his chest and spreading through his veins like wildfire.

He reaches out, fingers trembling as they brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear, reverently - like he’s touching something sacred, something fragile he can’t afford to lose. You shudder at the touch. His lips part, trembling, aching for the taste of you, the sound of your name caught between a whisper and a scream.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You have no idea what this means. What you mean.”

His hands clench at his sides, the fight to stay composed slipping away. His body is betraying him, every inch wanting to close the gap, to claim you - not just with touch, but with everything he is. The way his chest rises and falls, the desperate pulse throbbing at his throat, it’s all raw and exposed.

You’re standing a few feet from your bed. The room smells like you - like faint florals and warmth. The curtains sway slightly with the window cracked. It’s quiet. Almost reverent.

That’s the moment his brain snaps.

Because this - this - is where every late-night fantasy of his has started. You. In your room. No one else around. Soft light. Silence. Maybe it’s raining. Maybe you’re tired. You say his name in a whisper, or maybe you don’t speak at all - maybe you just look at him like you need him, and he goes to you like a tide pulled by gravity itself.

That was the loop in his head. The scene he ran a thousand times when everything else in life was too loud to survive.

And now it’s real - it’s reality folding over itself to give him something he was never supposed to have.

He was good. He was trying to be good. But you’re standing there - in your bedroom - real. And it’s too much. The weight of it hits like a truck.

You let him in. You let him follow. You’re here. Alone. Just like he dreamed it. And in his mind - that’s consent. That’s fate. That’s everything.

And now every cell in his body is screaming the same thing:

Take her. She’s yours.

And Tony’s whole body locks up.

He moves before he thinks. Not careful anymore. Not soft. Not the version of himself he tried to hold together with trembling hands. His eyes darken. No longer that desperate boy begging. Now something sharper. Something that knows exactly what he wants - and you’re the only one who can give it to him.

He’s across the room in two strides. Behind you. Taking hold of your wrist - gently, but firmly enough that it’s clear he’s not asking.

You turn, startled - eyes wide, a breath caught halfway up your throat. But he’s already there.

He pushes you back against the wall with the kind of intensity that should terrify you. Maybe it does. But you don’t pull away.

His body cages yours, close and trembling, and when he speaks, it’s not calm. It’s not quiet. It’s the sound of something breaking - ragged and low and full of desperate heat.

His hand cups your jaw - tender and possessive. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s memorising the texture of your skin. He’s panting. Actually panting.

“You brought me here. You walked me into this room. D’you even know what that does to me?”

He presses his forehead to yours. You can feel how badly he’s shaking - like something feral is fighting its way out of his ribs. His lips brush yours without kissing, just breathing the same air, just hovering like he’s starving.

“I’ve lived in this room. Every night. Watching you sleep, watching you breathe, wishing I could be this close without ruining it. I lie awake in my bed whispering your name just to see if it made the ache stop.”

His voice breaks.

“It didn’t.”

You’re frozen. Your body pressed between him and the wall. Your hands at your sides. You should scream. You should shove him off. You should run. But you don’t.

He takes that silence and fills it with himself - pressing his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder - wet, open-mouthed, reverent, claiming kisses. He groans into your skin like he can’t stand being in his own body. Like you’re the only thing holding him together.

He moves like someone half-wild. One hand fisted in your shirt. The other gripping your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

His voice, when it comes again, is dark and wrecked. “You don’t get it. You can’t. I need you more than air. You’re in my head, under my skin - I dream about your voice, I taste you when I’m alone. And now you’ve brought me here.”

He pulls back just enough to look in your eyes.

“You can’t take that back.”

You don’t speak. Your pulse is thunder under your skin. Your head is screaming and silent at the same time.

And all Tony does is lean closer. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Waiting. Like he’ll do whatever you say - but if you don’t say anything at all, he’ll make the choice for you.

Something primal deep beneath his flesh, under the obsession and the devotion and the worship - the part of him that’s all man - aches to bend you over like an animal and rut into you with everything he has, with every ounce of desperation.

His fingers curl into your hair, not gently - firm, anchoring, claiming. His dominance is overwhelming. It’s predatory, it’s primal. It’s edging away from the pitiful, starved boy, and into someone who believes you’re his simply by your presence.

Your breath catches. Your pulse drums. You know he’s teetering on an edge you can’t reach. Your throat tightens as you struggle for clarity - or escape.

But the pull isn’t physical. It’s something darker. Emotional. Atmospheric. The way the room holds its breath with him. The bed, the lamp, the curtains, the shadows - they all seem to lean closer.

Because he’s lost now. Fully. And you are the one he’s crashed into.

He leans in again, and your hand shoots up before your mind catches up. A sharp crack splits the air - the sound of skin against skin, hot and sudden.

Tony’s head jerks to the side. His breath stutters. Silence stretches.

You’re trembling. Your palm burns. You don’t know if it was fear or instinct or fury. Maybe all three. But it was real.

And he doesn’t back away.

Instead - he laughs. Quietly. Breathlessly. Working his jaw. Like the slap knocked something loose and he liked what he found.

His head turns back slowly, a thin line of blood where your ring caught the edge of his lip. His eyes shine, wide and wild and glimmering with something unholy.

“You hit me,” he says, voice low, reverent. “God, you actually hit me.”

You shove him, hard. Both palms flat against his chest. You don’t know if you’re trying to get away or if you just need to touch him in a way that’s not soft, not yielding.

He stumbles a step back - not because you overpowered him, but because he lets you.

And he grins.

Not cocky. Not smug. No, it’s something deeper. Something cracked open. Like the violence didn’t scare him. Like it made something inside him settle.

“That,” he says, voice wrecked and grateful, “felt fucking good.”

He licks the blood from his lip, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging over your face like he’s trying to memorize the moment you stopped being untouchable.

“You’re fucking fit when you’re angry,” he whispers. “I’ll take that. I’ll take all of it.”

His chest is rising and falling like he’s been running. Like your slap knocked the air out of him and now he’s breathing you in instead.

You stand frozen, adrenaline flooding every nerve, not sure what’s happening - why he isn’t angry, why he isn’t leaving.

And then he moves again, slower this time, like he’s learned the rules changed.

His voice dips lower.

“Do it again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Hit me,” he says. “Shove me. Scream. I don’t care. Just don’t-” his jaw clenches. “Don’t go quiet on me again. That’s worse than pain. Worse than anything.”

He steps closer again, chest to chest, not touching - waiting.

“You think you scare me?” he murmurs. “You think I didn’t dream of this, too? You furious. You strong. You putting me in my place.”

His breath fans across your cheek. “I want that part of you. I want all of you. Even the part that hates me.”

And for a terrifying second, you realise he means it. He would take your hatred. Your fear. Your fists. If it meant he got to stay in your orbit. And somehow, that’s the most dangerous part of all.

You barely have time to blink before your palm swings out again, cutting through the space between you with a sharp smack.

The sound echoes - thud, crack - and Tony’s head snaps to the side like a puppet on a string.

But then.

A ragged moan slips out from deep in his throat as he rubs the reddening skin. His eyes flutter closed for a brief second, lips parted as if the sting somehow thrills him, ignites something wild beneath the surface.

He sways slightly, caught between pain and pleasure, the heat in his cheeks betraying the chaos inside.

You stare, breath caught in your throat. You thought maybe he’d be angry, bitter, or broken. But no.

He’s flushed, breathless, and oddly… wanting more. His grin spreads slowly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice thick and rough. “You’ve got a good aim. Not many people get to hit me twice and get that reaction.”

He meets your eyes, unashamed, untamed. And then he closes the space between you, lips crashing against yours with a fierce, desperate hunger that steals your breath away.

His mouth is rough - urgent and demanding - like he's trying to memorize every part of you in a single touch. You taste the faint metallic tang of blood from his split lip, bitter and strangely intoxicating. His hands grip your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if the world outside this room no longer exists. He’s rock hard as he drags your hips into his, grinding against you through the fabric like a dog in heat.

Tony’s grip on your wrist tightens just enough to remind you who’s in control, but not enough to hurt.

Your heart thunders in your chest, breath catching as the world shrinks down to just the two of you - his heated presence, your own wild, messy feelings tangled in the dark. Something shifts inside you - something raw and unexpected.

Against every instinct screaming that you should pull away, that you should be disgusted, you lean in.

Your lips move in unison with his for the first time on your own terms, soft and hesitant at first, then gradually firmer, matching the desperate heat he’s been pouring into every touch.

You don’t know why you do it.

Maybe it’s the way he’s so utterly devoted, so fractured and desperate and broken all at once. Maybe it’s the hunger in him that mirrors something buried deep inside you.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because no matter how much you try to deny it - you want him.

He feels it too. You know it.

His breath hitches, and a soft whimper slips into the kiss, raw and vulnerable beneath the fierce grip he still tries to hold on you.

He presses closer, trying to stay dominant, to be the one in control, but you can feel the tremble in his hands, the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. He’s overwhelmed - dazed by the fact you’re really here, actually kissing him back.

The desperate boy beneath the predator scratches at the surface again, desperate for this connection, this moment of fragile intimacy.

His hand slides up slowly, almost reverently, until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

The pulse beneath his touch beats fast, wild - matching the chaos pounding in his own veins.

He tightens his grip just enough for you to feel it. Just enough for you to know there’s no escape. He holds you there, as if grounding himself in the simple, undeniable fact that you’re real.

His thumb brushes lightly over the skin, tracing the rhythm that echoes with fear and desire.

And as his fingers rest against you, the air between you buzzes with a promise - this night is only just beginning.

next chapter

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