Stucky's daughter

35

Bruce's voice rang with concern, urging me to take better care of myself. I averted my gaze, frustrated by the constant reminders. "Y/n, you must eat and drink more!"

"Yeah..." I replied, my annoyance palpable as I walked over to Natasha. She embraced me, offering a momentary respite from the overwhelming emotions. After a sigh, I made my way upstairs, seeking solace in the confines of my room.

Minutes later, Bucky entered with a purpose, handing me his favorite t-shirt. He suggested I wear it, a small gesture meant to bring comfort. Changing into the shirt, I returned downstairs, attempting to distract myself with my phone. But before I could immerse myself in the digital world, Morgan snatched my phone and dashed into the kitchen.

Chasing after her, I discovered that she had handed my phone to my father figures, who proceeded to sift through its contents. My request to have it back was met with a resounding no, their eyes filled with suspicion. Bucky's voice boomed through the room, accusingly asking, "You're texting with this MJ girl?"

Peter, fueled by jealousy, rushed towards me, his palm connecting harshly with my cheek. He exclaimed, "You know she thinks I'm a playboy?!"

A mixture of pain and defiance filled my eyes as I retorted, "Well, you deserved it!" A smirk played upon my lips, a momentary glimpse of my own rebellion.

His hand struck me once more, eliciting a sharp sting, but my resolve remained unyielding. "Hey, come on, you know it's true," I taunted, the bitterness seeping through my words.

Tony stepped forward, restraining Peter to prevent further violence, while Natasha's laughter filled the air. Undeterred, Peter lunged towards me once more, his anger barely contained. This time, however, I managed to catch his fist, our eyes locked in a battle of wills. With a swift motion, he struck me, causing my nose to gush with blood, but I retaliated, my blow landing with even greater force.

The commotion drew the attention of the other Avengers, who rushed to intervene, their collective strength needed to separate us. In my fury, I unleashed my final words, seething with contempt, "You little bastard will never change!"

Peter, unwilling to concede defeat, spat venomous words in response, "And you're just an ugly, fat bitch. I wanted to say that every day, and now I can do it!"

A surge of anger coursed through me, overwhelming reason as I vowed to exact revenge. "I swear to God, if they let me out, I will stab you with a knife! You're such a bastard. I will kill you!"

With great effort, they managed to subdue me, dragging me to my room, their hold unyielding. Fueled by frustration and despair, my hand banged against the door, the sheer weight of my emotions unleashing an onslaught of pain upon my own body. Blood trickled down the walls, mirroring the inner turmoil that threatened to consume me.

After an agonizing thirty minutes, I was finally released, my anger still burning bright. I stormed past them, my heart heavy with unspoken words, determined to distance myself from their suffocating presence. But as I fled, dizziness overwhelmed me, and I crumpled to the ground, consciousness slipping away.

When I awoke, the morning light pierced through the curtains, illuminating the room. Gathering what little strength remained within me, I descended the stairs, my eyes fixated on Peter. With a mix of disbelief and incredulity, I uttered, "How are you still alive? Didn't I kill you?"

His gaze seared with anger, but I couldn't help but offer a twisted smile in response. However, before our exchange could escalate, the Avengers made their way downstairs, prompting me to feign distress, falling to the ground and feigning tears.

Concern filled their eyes as they rushed to my side, desperate to understand my pain. I stuttered through my words, accusing Peter of striking me in the stomach. Their anger directed at him only fueled my vindication. But then, with a wicked grin, I laughed and warned, "Don't mess with me, Peter, because I swear to God, I will make your life unbearable."

Turning my back on the chaos, I walked away, leaving them to grapple with the lingering tension. Minutes later, I returned downstairs, only to be met with their disapproval. My father figures placed me on the time-out bench as a consequence for my fabricated tears, a reminder of my need to reflect.

As I sat there, waiting, a sense of trepidation washed over me. Unbeknownst to me, they approached silently from behind, causing me to jump and scream in fear. Bucky's voice pierced the air, his stern tone commanding my attention. "So, do you understand what you did, doll?"

Struggling to steady my breath, I met their gaze, a mixture of guilt and defiance etched upon my face. "I...I'm sorry for wanting to kill Peter, for punching him, for calling him names, and for faking my tears," I confessed, my voice laden with a newfound sincerity.

Steve's voice resonated with understanding, "It wasn't that hard, Missy. Come on, food is ready."

Unwilling to partake in the meal, I declared my reluctance, stating, "I don't want to eat today. Goodbye, I'm going to my room."

Bucky's grip tightened around my arm, preventing my escape. He dragged me into the kitchen, the tension between us palpable. However, before I could sit down, a sudden dizziness overcame me, and I collapsed to the floor, my body succumbing to exhaustion