Can I request a MCU Peter Parker X Stark fem reader where at the Avengers’ gala was in full swing — glittering gowns, crisp suits, cameras flashing, laughter echoing through the grand ballroom of Stark Tower. (Y/N) Stark, the daughter of Tony himself, descended the marble staircase in a stunning pale blue gown, elegant and radiant. Her heels clicked lightly with each step, Peter following behind, heart pounding in his chest as he watched her.
But then it all went wrong.
Her heel caught on the hem of her gown. She stumbled. The next second, she was falling — crashing down the last few steps, the sharp crack of her head hitting the marble making the entire room freeze.
“(Y/N)!” Tony’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.
He was at her side in seconds, kneeling beside her crumpled figure. Her body was limp, a deep gash on her temple bleeding slowly down her cheek. Her eyes were closed, skin pale, breaths shallow.
Tony gripped her shoulders, his voice already shaking. “No. No, no, no — sweetheart, come on.” He shook her. Once. Twice. Harder.
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Summary: In the glittering ballroom of Stark Tower, laughter and music die, replaced with dread and the sound of Y/N’s shallow breaths.
The ballroom of Stark Tower had never looked more alive.
Golden chandeliers sparkled high above, spilling warm light across rows of tables draped in silk cloths and decorated with flowers. The air was filled with the sound of clinking glasses, the gentle hum of music from the live orchestra, and laughter that carried across the glittering room. Cameras flashed constantly—reporters and photographers eager to capture every moment of the evening, every celebrity and hero that walked through the doors.
The Avengers’ annual gala was more than just a party. And tonight, everyone was watching.
You, Y/N Stark, stepped onto the marble staircase at the top of the ballroom, your pale blue gown flowing like water with every step. The diamonds sewn into the fabric shimmered when the light hit them, and the fitted bodice accentuated your figure perfectly. Your hair had been styled to perfection, delicate pieces framing your face in a way that made you look like you’d walked out of a dream.
You held yourself with elegance, chin high, shoulders back, even though your heart pounded. This was your father’s world—the flashes of cameras, the whispers of journalists, the constant spotlight. You’d grown up surrounded by it, but it never truly got easier. Still, tonight, you were determined to walk down those stairs with confidence.
Peter followed a few steps behind, his suit crisp, tie slightly crooked the way it always was no matter how many times Aunt May fixed it. His brown eyes never left you, wide with awe and admiration. He wasn’t sure if it was the lights or you, but he swore you outshined everything else in the room. His palms were sweaty, his chest tight, but he couldn’t stop smiling.
“So beautiful,” he muttered under his breath, the words more to himself than anyone else.
The world seemed to slow as you descended. Guests turned, necks craning, the whispers spreading like wildfire. "Stark’s daughter. Look at her. She’s stunning."
Your heel caught the hem of your gown.
It was subtle at first, a small tug, your ankle bending the wrong way. Your eyes widened, but before you could grab the railing, gravity took over.
The next second, the sound cut through the entire ballroom—your body crashing down the last few marble steps. The sharp crack of your head hitting the floor silenced the music, silenced the laughter, silenced everything.
Tony’s voice ripped through the silence like a whip.
He was on you in seconds, shoving chairs, and startled guests out of the way. He dropped to his knees beside your crumpled figure, his hands already reaching, trembling as they brushed your shoulders.
Your eyes were closed, your chest rising shallowly. A deep gash split across your temple, blood already trickling down your pale cheek, staining the silk of your dress.
“No. No, no, no—sweetheart, come on,” Tony’s voice broke, raw and desperate. He shook you once. Twice. Harder. “Open your eyes. Please. Wake up.”
His hands pressed against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. His heart raced in his chest, his mind spiraling.
Peter stood frozen halfway down the staircase, his stomach twisting violently. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was heavy, and guilt slammed into him like a truck. He should’ve been closer. He should’ve caught you. He should’ve done something.
“Move back!” Tony barked at the crowd forming around you, his voice sharp and commanding, though it trembled with panic. “Give her space! FRIDAY, call medical, now!”
“Yes, Mr. Stark. Emergency response en route,” FRIDAY’s calm voice echoed through hidden speakers, a cruel contrast to the chaos unfolding.
Peter finally jolted into motion, stumbling down the steps, his knees nearly buckling as he dropped beside you. “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t—” His words came out in fragments, his throat tight, vision blurring with tears.
“Peter!” Tony snapped, his voice cracking. “Don’t just stand there—help me keep her steady.”
Peter’s trembling hands reached for yours, clutching your fingers tightly. “Y/N, please, please wake up,” he begged, his voice breaking. “It’s me, it’s Peter. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
Your lips didn’t move. Your eyes stayed shut.
Tony pressed harder against the wound, his mind a whirlwind of equations, protocols, and memories. He wasn’t Iron Man right now. He wasn’t the genius billionaire. He was just a father, on the floor of his own gala, begging his daughter to breathe.
“She’s not waking up,” Peter’s voice cracked, his shoulders shaking.
“She’s breathing,” Tony snapped back, though his voice was thin, strained. “Shallow, but she’s breathing. Stay with me, baby girl. Please.”
The gala, once filled with glamour, was now a scene of horror. Guests whispered frantically, some gasping, others pulling out their phones. Flashbulbs went off, though most reporters were too stunned to react. Steve Rogers pushed through the crowd, his face grim, kneeling opposite Tony.
“Tony,” Steve said firmly. “We need to keep her head stable until medics arrive.”
“I know, I know,” Tony snapped, though his hands were shaking so badly it betrayed him. “She’s losing blood.”
“I’ve got her neck,” Steve said, gently supporting you, careful not to move your spine. “Just keep pressure.”
Peter’s tears blurred everything. His hands clutched yours desperately, his thumb stroking your skin like it would wake you up. “C’mon, angel. You’re stronger than this. Just open your eyes. Please—just once. Look at me.”
Your chest rose faintly, each breath weaker than the last.
Tony’s breath hitched. His throat burned. For once in his life, he couldn’t fix it—not here, not with just his hands. His genius, his suits, his tech—none of it mattered. He was just a man watching his daughter bleed.
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder.
“Hold on,” Tony whispered, his forehead pressing against your hair, his voice breaking completely now. “Hold on for me. Don’t leave me, baby girl.”
Peter leaned over, pressing his lips to your knuckles, his tears dripping onto your skin. “Stay with us. Stay with me. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.”
Time blurred. Seconds felt like hours.
Finally, medics rushed in, pushing through the crowd with equipment in hand. “Step back! We need space!” one shouted.
Tony’s hands didn’t move until they physically had to pull him away. His palms were stained red, your blood smeared across his fingers and tuxedo. He staggered back only far enough to let them work, his eyes locked on you, unblinking.
Peter stayed on his knees, his breaths sharp, shallow, his entire body trembling. Pepper appeared at his side, her hand firm on his shoulder, her face pale. “She’ll be okay,” she said softly, though her own voice wavered.
The medics worked quickly—checking vitals, applying pressure bandages, securing your neck, lifting you onto a stretcher. Every movement felt like it took a lifetime.
“Pulse is weak, but steady. We need to move now.”
Tony’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m coming.”
“She’s my daughter,” Tony barked, his voice hoarse but commanding. “I’m not asking permission.”
Peter’s chest heaved. He looked at you one last time as they wheeled you toward the exit, your head strapped, your temple still bleeding through the white gauze. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling after them.
The gala was chaos—guests whispering, cameras flashing again, panic in every corner. But Peter didn’t see any of it. All he saw was you, fragile on that stretcher, being wheeled into the night.
And all he felt was terror.
