#arrow x reader

Before the island, Oliver Queen was a storm in a tailored suit.

Loud, beautiful, infuriating.

You weren’t in love with him.

But you were circling it.

You knew him the way people knew hurricanes. By pressure. By instinct. By the damage he left behind. He was the Queen heir — smug and dangerous, charming in a way that made your stomach twist. And every time he looked at you across some glittering event, it felt like gravity shifting.

He never asked for your number. But he always found you.

A hand on your lower back. His voice low in your ear. That lazy grin that made your skin burn.

You told yourself it was nothing. A flirtation. A bad idea with a beautiful face.

But there were moments.

Tiny things.

The time he ducked out of a party just to sit on the rooftop with you, fingers brushing yours as you passed a stolen bottle of champagne back and forth. The way he’d say your name — slower than necessary, like he liked the taste of it. The kiss.

God, that kiss.

You hadn’t planned it. You were arguing — half-drunk, half-laughing — and suddenly he was inches from your face. Eyes darker than you'd ever seen them.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you’d whispered.

“Like what?” he asked, already knowing.

“Like you mean it.”

He kissed you anyway.

And you let him.

You didn’t sleep together. He left you with a smile and a soft, "See you around."

And you never did.

The Queen’s Gambit went down three weeks later.

And Oliver Queen, for all the privilege and bravado he’d carried like armor, died.

You didn’t cry.

You’d known better than to count on him. But something cracked inside you. Quiet. Deep.

You didn’t know what to do with that grief. So you did what you’d always done — you ran.

Only this time, you didn’t run away.

You ran into it.

You disappeared.

Trained with mercenaries. Learned from killers. Followed whispers of death and justice across continents.

You stopped needing protection.

You became the thing people needed protection from.

By the time you came back to Starling, you were a ghost of the girl he used to flirt with.

And by then, the hood was already legend.

You’d heard the stories — a vigilante taking down white-collar criminals, swift and brutal.

But you didn’t believe it until you saw him.

Until you were on the same rooftop, chasing the same target, and he turned — And those eyes found yours through the dark.

He froze.

You didn’t.

Your blade was at the dealer’s throat before Oliver could even speak. And when it was done — when the man was unconscious and bleeding at your feet — you finally turned to him.

He hadn’t moved.

Just stared.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” you said flatly.

His mouth twitched. Something like a smile. Something shattered.

“So were you.”

You didn’t ask where he’d been. And he didn’t ask what you’d become.

Not then.

But it didn’t take long before your paths crossed again. Then again. Until silence turned into strategy. And tension turned into proximity.

You weren’t a team. Not really. But the streets ran cleaner when you worked together.

And slowly, too slowly, he let you in.

But the more he saw of you, the more you saw it in his eyes — that flicker of recognition trying to claw its way back through guilt and grief.

He didn’t know what to make of you now.

You weren’t the girl he once kissed on a rooftop.

You were sharper. Colder. You moved like you didn’t need anyone — especially not him.

But sometimes, when it was quiet…

When you were both bruised and breathing and the world outside had gone still…

He’d look at you like he almost remembered how to love you.

And that hurt worse than the blade in your ribs ever could.

The door to the bunker shuts hard behind you.

Not slammed, not quite.

But heavy. Final. Like it’s sealing you in.

You drop your weapons on the metal table without ceremony — a blade still slick with blood, the black sheath echoing as it lands. You don’t take your gloves off yet. Not because you forgot. But because your hands are still shaking.

You breathe in through your nose.

Exhale through your teeth.

You are not sorry.

And that’s going to be a problem.

The overhead fluorescents hum softly. A distant monitor beeps. The med cabinet’s light flickers as you open it.

You don’t need stitches. Not this time.

But your ribs burn and there’s dried blood running down the inside of your suit — collateral damage from someone who deserved worse than they got.

You unclip your vest. Peel it off like skin. Underneath, your black undershirt clings to sweat, to impact bruises, to everything you haven’t said yet.

You hear him before you see him.

Boots on concrete. Measured. Controlled.

He walks in like the whole world is pressing down on his shoulders — and for a second, you hate him for how calm he looks.

His arms are crossed. His jaw’s locked tight.

But his eyes?

His eyes look like they’ve already started the argument.

You don’t turn.

“If you’re going to tell me I went too far,” you mutter, voice low, “don’t waste your breath.”

There’s silence. Thick. Stifling.

Then Oliver’s voice — razor-sharp, quiet.

“He begged.”

The breath you take is slow. Measured. Not because you feel guilty. But because you don’t.

And you know he hears it.

“I did what had to be done.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer, voice getting harder. “You did what was easy.”

You finally turn.

And everything between you tightens.

He’s a few feet away now. Still holding it together. Still trying not to feel too much.

But you’re not here to be gentle.

“You froze,” you say evenly. “I didn’t.”

His expression flickers. Just a little.

“That’s not what happened.”

“No?” You take a step closer. “Because it looked like you hesitated. Looked like I had to clean up your mess.”

That breaks something.

“Don’t,” he says. Low. Cold. “Don’t act like this is about me being weak.”

You don’t flinch.

“I’m not acting.”

He’s breathing harder now.

Not from exhaustion.

From you.

“You used to be better than this.”

The words slip out like they taste bitter.

Your jaw tightens. “You used to see me.”

“I still do.”

“No, Oliver.” Your voice drops. “You see a ghost. The girl from the rooftop. The one you kissed and forgot and buried when the Queen’s Gambit went under.”

His mouth opens. Shuts. There’s pain behind his eyes now — and you hate that it still makes you ache.

You step in. Close enough to feel his breath.

“I’m not her anymore,” you whisper. “I bled her out years ago.”

He’s shaking his head. Not denying it. Just trying to swallow it.

“I didn’t want this version of you,” he says, quiet.

“Then you shouldn’t have left.”

That lands like a slap.

And you mean it.

You mean every word.

His voice drops. Barely audible.

“I lost five years of my life.”

“And I lived every second of them,” you snap. “Alone. Angry. Becoming the kind of person who doesn’t need someone like you telling her how to do this.”

Oliver exhales. Looks away. And that — that look — it splinters something raw between you.

Because he still can’t accept that the girl he once flirted with at parties is gone. And you can’t accept that he wants her back more than he wants you now.

You turn back toward the med table, chest heaving, trying to get control of your breath, your voice, your rage.

Then, softly:

“I’m not sorry for what I did.”

Silence.

You hear him step forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then his voice — low, level, quiet in the worst way:

“I know.”

You turn.

And this time? The air shifts.

Because the next words are close. Too close.

And you’re both about to break.

Your chest rises and falls too fast.

You’re not out of breath — not from the mission. Not even from the pain in your side. But the air feels thin. Like all the oxygen has been replaced with tension.

You can feel his gaze on you. Heavy. Calculating.

Like he’s still trying to figure out who you are.

And you’re sick of it.

"Say it," you whisper.

You don’t yell. You don’t have to.

The words hit harder because they’re quiet.

Oliver’s standing near the center of the bunker, arms still tense from whatever fury he’s choking down. The bruises on his jaw are blooming violet, dried blood at his collarbone.

He looks like a man unraveling beautifully.

And it should terrify you.

But you just want to tear him open.

"Say it," you repeat. “Whatever it is. Whatever you’ve been biting back since the second we walked in here.”

His mouth opens, closes. He paces one step. Then another.

Then he stops.

Looks up.

“You scare me.”

The words land like a slap.

You freeze. Not because it surprises you — but because he means it.

Every syllable is soaked in it.

You stare. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, voice low. Not cruel. Just… bare.

“You scare me because you don’t hesitate. Because you fight like you don’t care if you walk away. Because you don’t flinch anymore, even when you should.”

He takes a slow step forward. One hand curled into a fist, the other twitching like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or push you away.

“And I used to think I was the one who came back broken,” he says. “But then you looked that man in the eye tonight and didn’t blink while you drove your blade into his shoulder.”

His voice catches.

“And I realized I don’t know who the hell you are anymore.”

The silence stretches.

It buzzes in your ears like static.

Your blood feels too hot in your veins.

You swallow, once. “Then why keep me around?”

Oliver’s mouth parts like he might deflect — deny — retreat.

But he doesn’t.

His voice drops into something quieter. Something that sounds too much like a confession.

“Because I can’t let you go.”

That’s when it happens.

The shift.

The air changes.

Something between you snaps, but not in half — it snaps tight.

You can feel it pull. Between your ribs. Low in your stomach. Beneath your skin.

Oliver steps in — and your backs are no longer straight. Your spines curve toward each other like they were always meant to close the space.

“You think I don’t see you?” he breathes. “I see everything.”

His hand is at your wrist now. Light. Testing.

“I see the way you hold it in. The way you fight like it’s penance. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching—like you’re daring me to stop you.”

You swallow, hard.

He leans in, close enough that his forehead almost brushes yours. His voice barely a breath.

“You’re still bleeding. I just don’t think you know it.”

You shove him.

Hard.

And the contact sets everything off.

He stumbles back two steps — and in one breath, he’s lunging again.

It’s not a brawl. It’s a controlled fire.

You swing — he catches your arm. You twist, drop your weight, spin around him and land a palm to his chest that knocks him a foot back.

He smiles. It’s dark.

He rushes again. His shoulder collides with yours, driving you into the nearest wall — you twist and use the momentum to lock him by the forearm.

It’s not a spar anymore.

It’s grief in motion.

You’re both breathing hard now, chests heaving with more than just adrenaline.

He grabs your wrist again. This time with real intent. You push your leg between his — twist him — shove him off balance again.

Your bodies crash into each other like magnets fighting the inevitable.

Until your back hits the wall — and he’s right there — so close you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

You’re pinned between his forearm and the wall, your faces inches apart.

Your breathing syncs.

You’re both frozen.

And then— He looks at your mouth.

Just for a second.

And something breaks.

He kisses you like it’s a sin.

Like he’s already damned, and this is his favorite part of hell.

His lips are rough. His grip bruising.

You gasp — and that’s all the opening he needs. His mouth slants over yours again, desperate and messy and so full of everything he can’t say.

You kiss him back with five years of rage.

You bite his lip when he leans in too close, and he groans into your mouth like it’s the first sound he’s allowed himself to make all night.

His hand tangles in your hair. Yours fists in his shirt.

You don’t come up for air. You don’t want to.

You want to burn.

The night was cold, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood—my blood. I struggled to keep my eyes open, but the pain in my side was like fire spreading through my body. My breaths came in short, ragged gasps as I collapsed against the damp alley wall.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement. Fast. Desperate.

"(Y/N)!"

Oliver's voice cut through the haze clouding my mind. A second later, strong arms caught me before I hit the ground completely. His scent—leather, sweat, and something undeniably him—wrapped around me as he scooped me up, holding me against his chest.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, his voice rough with worry. "You're gonna be okay, just hold on."

I wanted to reassure him, to crack some joke about how he worried too much, but the pain was overwhelming. Darkness tugged at the edges of my vision as I weakly grasped at the front of his suit.

"You... came for me," I managed to whisper.

His jaw clenched. "Of course I did."

He moved fast, faster than I'd ever felt him move before, his arms tightening around me like he was afraid I'd slip away if he loosened his grip even a little. Every step sent jolts of pain through me, but I could barely register it anymore. All I could focus on was the steady rhythm of Oliver's heartbeat against my ear.

"Almost there," he muttered. "Just stay awake, (Y/N). Don't you dare close your eyes."

I tried. God, I tried. But everything was getting so heavy.

The next thing I knew, the world shifted again, and suddenly, I was on a cold table, the harsh fluorescent lights of the Arrowcave burning into my retinas. Oliver was right there, his hands pressing down on my wound, his face drawn with fear.

"Felicity!" he barked. "I need medical supplies, now!"

"I'm on it!" I heard her frantic typing in the background.

Oliver's fingers trembled slightly as he applied pressure to my wound. It was rare to see him like this—scared. But his voice, though tight, was steady. "You're not dying on me, (Y/N). You hear me?"

I forced a weak smirk. "You... worried, Queen?"

His eyes flashed with something intense. "Of course I'm worried," he admited, voice barely above a whisper. His thumb brushed against my cheek, gentle, reverent. "You're not just another soldier in the field. "You're—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. "You're important to me."

I tried to hold onto his gaze, but the pain was too much. My body gave in, and the last thing I felt was Oliver's hand tightening around mine.

"I've got you," he murmured. "I'm not letting you go."

Darkness swallowed me whole, but somehow, I knew he'd keep his promise.

--

Pain was the first thing I registered as I slowly drifted back into consciousness. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through my side, but it was nothing compared to the crushing exhaustion weighing down my limbs.

I tried to move, but a firm hand gently pressed me back down.

"Don't," Oliver's voice was low, rough, and closer than I expected. "You're still healing."

I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dim lighting of the Arrowcave. My head swam as I tried to take in my surroundings. The monitors hummed softly, casting a blue glow across the room. Felicity and Diggle were nowhere in sight. But Oliver— was right beside me, sitting on the edge of the medical table, his hand still gripping mine.

"You stayed," I murmured, my voice hoarse.

His jaw tightened. "Of course I did."

I tried to sit up, but pain flared through my side, making me suck in a sharp breath. Immediately, Oliver's other hand came to rest on my shoulder, steadying me.

"Take it easy," he warned.

I let out a weak laugh. "When do I ever take it easy?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he just stared at me, like he was trying to convince himself that I was really here—that I was still breathing. Then, before I could say anything else, his grip on my hand tightened.

"You almost died, (Y/N)." His voice was raw, his usual controlled exterior cracking at the edges. "I carried you in here, covered in blood, and for a second, I thought—" He cut himself off, inhaling sharply. "I thought I was going to lose you."

I swallowed hard. I'd seen Oliver worried before, but never like this. Never this shaken.

"I'm still here," I whispered, squeezing his hand as best as I could.

His fingers curled around mine, like he was grounding himself in the warmth of my touch. "Yeah," he murmured. "You are."

A heavy silence settled between us. His thumb brushed absently over my knuckles, his gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart sutter.

"Oliver..." I hesitated. "I've been doing this long enough to know the risks. I knew what I was walking into."

His jaw clenched. "That doesn't mean I have to be okay with it."

I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could, he let out a breath, his head dipping slightly as if the weight of the moment was too much.

"I'm not okay with it, (Y/N)," he admitted. "Because if something ever happened to you—" His voice wavered, and for the first time, I saw it. The fear. The vulnerability. "I can't lose you."

A lump formed in my throat.

I could've played it off, made some sarcastic comment to lighten the tension. But this wasn't a moment for deflection. Not this time.

So instead, I lifted my free hand, weak as it was, and rested it against his cheek. His breath hitched, but he didn't pull away.

"You won't lose me," I promised softly.

His eyes searched mine, something unreadable flashing through them. Then, slowly, he turned his face into my touch, pressing a gentle kiss against the inside of my palm.

"I mean it, (Y/N)," he whispered.

at that he scoffed. "i'm—"

"the green arrow aka arrogant asshole vigilante, yeah i know."

"arrogant asshole is taking it a little bit far," he deadpanned.

you ignored him. "listen, i'm sure there's some damsel in actual distress out there for you to help, but i've got a story to chase on queen industries, mr. glorified leprechaun, so i'll take my leave now."

he watches you leave and a very tiny part of him smiles at the thought of you despite the sarcasm and biting insults.

the second time he runs into you, oliver is at a charity gala that queen industries is hosting to boost their publicity (or rather, their public image which has taken a dip in light of recent news). he sips leisurely on the glass of champagne as his eyes trail after you (because he wouldn't admit it, but you looked damn good in what you were wearing tonight).

"mr. queen, sorry to interrupt, but i'm with the daily planet," you flash your business card to him and try not to act surprised when he actually takes it, "i've just got a few questions for you."

"and this wouldn't be about the collaboration between queen industries and luthercorp on meteorite technology, would it? because that isn't public knowledge yet, and considering that we recently had a security breach," he looked at you squarely, "it'd be awfully convenient for you to have insider information regarding said breach."

you tensed under his gaze. technically, breaking and entering wasn't criminal unless you got caught, which you hadn't been. plus, it's not like you stole anything, you'd just been . . . exploring queen industries' laboratories for a scoop on their experimenting.

"i have my sources," you settled on saying. "unless you're accusing me of—"

he scoffed, and you frowned. it sounded familiar.

"no, i wouldn't be so much of an arrogant asshole to accuse you of such a thing," he quipped sarcastically, the comment slipping out before he could think twice.

that was definitely familiar.

"now that you mention it mr. queen, how are you so sure it wasn't that green masked vigilante that no one seems to know anything about that broke in?" you pressed on, gauging his reaction, "mr. glorified leprechaun could have been the cause of your security breach."

he didn't say anything nor give you the satisfaction you were looking for, but you'd gotten all the reaction you needed.

"i'll be seeing you around, mr. queen."

"that's not likely."

the third time oliver sees you is when his mask slips off his face from all the blood. he'd stopped in an alleyway briefly to catch his breath; he should have known better than to let his guard down.

the lit cigarette between your fingertips fell to the ground as your eyes widened with recognition.

"i knew it," you breathed. "oh, i fucking knew it."

and you're all but barreling over to him before he can stop you from coming any closer. he's bleeding from all over, bruised from the night's patrol, and he doesn't want to hurt you. not to mention, he's feeling faint—dangerously faint.

so he catches you in his arms just as you catch him.

"you can't tell anyone," he says before passing out leaving you with one hell of a problem on your hands.

💭 i'm feeling a part 2 in the works