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Jul 26

You Loved Me Before I Was Broken

Dorian Havilliard x Female Reader

You fall in love with Dorian before the collar, before the darkness. After he’s freed, he pushes you away, convinced you only love the boy he used to be.

Warnings: ANGST, kinda grief/loss, trauma aftermath (let me know if I forgot anything).

Word Count: 3.1k

Masterlist

You loved Dorian Havilliard when his laugh still rang through the glass halls of Rifthold, bright and careless, echoing off marble and crystal like it had never learned how to fear silence. It was the kind of laugh that made servants smile without meaning to, that made the palace feel less like a cage and more like a home.

You loved him when his magic was a secret even to himself, when it slept quietly beneath his skin, untouched and innocent. Back when power wasn’t something that haunted his every breath. Back when his hands didn’t tremble with restraint, when he didn’t look at himself like a loaded weapon.

You loved his hands then, warm, steady, human. Hands that brushed yours in the library as he passed you a book, fingers lingering just a second too long. Hands that laced with yours in hidden corridors, that pulled you into quiet laughter behind closed doors. Hands unbloodied by a power he never asked for and never deserved to bear alone.

You loved him when he smiled at you like the world was something gentle. Like goodness was still possible. Like the future wasn’t already sharpening its knives. His smiles were soft then, unguarded, meant only for you. He looked at you as if you were proof that the world hadn’t ruined him yet.

You loved him before the crown became a curse weighing down his spine. Before duty carved lines of exhaustion into his face. Before he learned what it meant to rule a kingdom built on cruelty.

Before the collar.

Before the darkness crawled into his veins and made a home there, twisting his thoughts, poisoning his memories, turning every kindness into something suspect and every joy into something fragile.

You loved him before he learned how deeply he could be broken.

And that love, rooted in who he was before the pain, before the horror, was the very thing that would later convince him you could never love who he became.

---------------

Dorian had always looked at you like you were something sacred.

Not untouchable, never distant or fragile, but precious in the way sunlight through stained glass is precious. Something meant to be held carefully, cherished, protected from the worst parts of the world. As if the world had already taken enough from him, and he had made a quiet vow that it would not take you too.

When his eyes found you in a room, everything else seemed to fade. His shoulders would ease, his breath soften, like merely seeing you reminded him that he was still human.

He used to sneak you into the palace gardens at night, guiding you through shadowed corridors with fingers laced through yours, both of you barely holding back laughter. The roses were heavy with scent, petals brushing your skin as you slipped between hedges and marble columns. There, beneath a sky spilled full of stars, the palace felt small. Harmless.

You would lie beside him on the cool stone, your shoulder pressed to his, his arm warm and solid beneath your head. He spoke quietly then, as if afraid the stars might overhear, about books he loved, places he wanted to see, a future he never quite let himself believe in.

Sometimes he fell silent mid-thought, eyes tracing constellations like he was searching for permission.

“I don’t want to be king like my father,” he confessed once, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to rule through fear.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I just… I want to be good.”

You turned to him then, heart aching at the vulnerability he never showed anyone else. You lifted your hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth there, the faint hitch of his breath at your touch.

“You already are,” you said softly, without hesitation. Like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Something in his expression broke open.

He kissed you slowly, reverently, like he was afraid of rushing something holy. His hand slid to your waist, not pulling, just there, grounding himself. The kiss deepened only slightly, enough to steal your breath, enough to make his thumb brush your jaw as if memorizing you. It wasn’t desperate or hungry.

It was hopeful.

Like your faith in him mattered. Like your belief might anchor him. Like love could be enough to save him.

You didn’t know then how cruel hope could be.

--------------

You weren’t there when the glass shattered.

You weren’t there when the sound echoed through the castle like something breaking beyond repair. When magic, violent and wrong, ripped free. When the collar snapped closed around his throat and claimed him in a way no crown ever could.

You weren’t there when the boy you loved cried out for help.

And no one came.

But you felt it.

It hit you like a sudden loss of gravity, like the world tilting sharply off its axis. A hollowing, bone-deep wrongness bloomed in your chest, stealing your breath, settling into your ribs like it intended to stay forever. You dropped whatever you were holding. Pressed a hand to your heart. Tried to breathe.

Something precious had been taken.

Something irreversible.

From that moment on, every heartbeat felt slightly out of sync, as if your body knew he was suffering even when your mind refused to accept it.

Time blurred after that. Days passed in fragments. Whispers slithered through the halls. You saw him only from a distance, eyes too dark, smile gone, presence sharp and dangerous in a way that made people flinch.

And still, you loved him.

When he was freed, when the collar was finally destroyed, when the demon was torn from him like a parasite that had dug too deep, you ran.

You didn’t think. Didn’t wait. Didn’t ask permission.

You burst into his chambers, heart in your throat, already calling his name.

Dorian stood there like a ghost of himself.

Pale. Unsteady. His shoulders were drawn tight, as if he were bracing for impact that never quite came. His hands were clenched so hard his knuckles were white, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to him anymore, like he didn’t trust them not to do something unforgivable if he let go.

He looked… empty. And shattered. And unbearably human.

You whispered his name.

That was all it took.

He flinched violently, breath hitching, eyes snapping to you with something like fear flashing through them.

That alone nearly broke you.

Still, you crossed the room.

You moved slowly, carefully, like approaching something wounded. You wrapped your arms around him despite the way his body went rigid beneath your touch. Pressed your forehead to his chest, listening to a heartbeat that felt too fast, too fragile.

Just like you used to.

“I’m here,” you murmured, voice shaking despite yourself. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The words were a promise. A plea. A lifeline.

Dorian didn’t hug you back.

He stood perfectly still in your arms, staring over your shoulder like he couldn’t bear to look at you. Like if he did, something inside him might finally give way. His breath was shallow. His magic, raw and unsettled, thrummed faintly beneath his skin.

When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it barely existed.

“You shouldn’t be.”

Not angry. Not cruel.

Just tired. Just terrified.

As if he truly believed that loving him now was the most dangerous thing you could do.

--------------

He stopped touching you.

At first, it was almost easy to miss. A half step back when you reached for his hand. The way his fingers hesitated in midair before dropping back to his side. A pause, just a heartbeat too long, before answering you, like he had to decide whether you were worth the effort of speech.

You told yourself it was temporary. That healing took time. That pain made people strange.

Then the distance grew.

He stopped smiling.

Stopped laughing.

Stopped letting himself exist in the same space as you for too long. Rooms felt too small when you were together, the air thick and uncomfortable, like his presence alone might poison you. He began to leave before you entered, to turn away when he sensed you behind him, to look anywhere but at you.

And you watched him spiral inward.

You watched guilt rot him from the inside out, watched it hollow his eyes and curve his shoulders inward like he was trying to fold himself into nothing. Sleep abandoned him. Food became an afterthought. Every kindness offered by others slid right off him, unanswered, undeserved.

But you stayed.

You tried everything.

You reminded him of the man he was, quietly at first, then desperately. You spoke of his kindness, the way he used to listen like every word mattered. The softness he pretended not to have but always showed you. The way he once looked at the world like it could still be beautiful if he just tried hard enough.

You told him stories he already knew, hoping repetition might make them real again.

One night, unable to take it anymore, you caught him before he could retreat. Your hands trembled as you held his face, thumbs brushing faint shadows beneath his eyes. He felt thinner. Colder. Like he was already half gone.

“I know you,” you said, voice breaking despite your efforts. “I see you. That thing, what happened to you, it doesn’t erase who you are. It doesn’t get to decide what kind of man you become.”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then his eyes burned, bright with something sharp and unbearable.

“That’s just it,” he whispered. “You loved me before.”

The words landed like a blade driven straight into your chest.

Before I was weak. Before I screamed. Before I enjoyed it.

Each sentence fell heavier than the last, like he was confessing sins he believed could never be forgiven. You recoiled, horror flooding you, not at him, but at the pain he was drowning in.

“I never-” you started, breath shaking.

“You don’t know what it was like,” he snapped, voice cracking under the weight of it. “You don’t know what I did. What I wanted to do.”

His magic flared instinctively, shadows crawling up the walls like living things responding to his fear. The room darkened, air buzzing with something raw and unstable. He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers like they were weapons he couldn’t put down, like they might turn on you at any second.

“I am not safe,” he said, voice stripped bare, brutal in its honesty. “And you keep standing too close to the blade.”

His gaze finally lifted to yours, terrified and resolute all at once.

As if pushing you away was the only way he knew how to keep you alive.

He begins avoiding you entirely after that.

When you finally corner him in the throne room, empty, echoing, too large for one broken king,he looks exhausted. Hollow.

“I won’t beg you to stay away anymore,” he says quietly. “I’m asking.”

Your heart splinters.

“Why?” you demand. “Because you think I only loved the boy you were?”

“Yes.”

The honesty hurts worse than any lie.

“You don’t love this,” he continues. “You love a ghost. And I-” His voice breaks. “I can’t be him again.”

You step closer anyway.

“I don’t want him,” you say fiercely. “I want you. Every piece. Even the broken ones.”

He laughs, a sharp, humorless sound.

“That’s not romantic,” he says. “That’s suicidal.”

His hands shake.

“One day,” he continues, eyes glassy, “I won’t stop myself in time. One day my power will slip. And I will hurt you.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then, barely audible:

“I would rather die than live with that.”

--------------

It happens suddenly.

Too suddenly for your heart to brace itself. Too suddenly for you to believe it’s real.

You wake before dawn to the sound of movement outside your door, measured footsteps, metal softly shifting. The palace is still dark, the sky outside your window washed in that dull gray that exists only before sunrise. Everything feels wrong in that quiet, like the world is holding its breath.

When you open the door, Dorian isn’t there.

Instead, two guards stand stiffly in the corridor, eyes fixed somewhere just past you, as if looking at your face would make this harder for them too.

Your stomach drops.

“There’s been a change,” one of them says carefully. “By order of the king.”

The word king feels sharp. Impersonal. Wrong.

You wait for the rest, for Dorian’s voice to cut in from behind them, for his familiar footsteps, for him to tell you this is a mistake. He’s done that before. He’s always come for you.

He doesn’t come now.

“You’re to be escorted to the gates,” the guard continues. “Immediately.”

Something inside you fractures.

You ask to see him. Just once. Just for a moment. The guards exchange a glance that tells you everything you need to know before they even answer.

“He won’t,” one of them says quietly.

They give you time to gather your things, though your hands shake too badly to do much. Everything you own feels meaningless suddenly. What does clothing matter when the life you built here is being taken apart piece by piece?

The walk through the palace feels longer than it ever has. Corridors you once wandered at Dorian’s side stretch endlessly ahead of you. Servants pause in their work as you pass. Some look away. Some look at you with something like pity.

The gates loom in the distance, cold, enormous, final.

Still no Dorian.

Just before you reach them, a folded letter is pressed into your hands. The paper is thick, familiar. You recognize his handwriting instantly, and your chest tightens painfully.

You don’t open it right away. You already know.

When you finally do, your vision blurs after the first line.

I love you enough to be cruel.

Your breath stutters.

If you stay, you will become collateral damage in a war I am already losing.

Your fingers curl around the page, knuckles white.

Please, let me be the monster alone.

There’s no goodbye. No explanation. No promise.

Just distance, wrapped in love and sealed with fear.

Your knees nearly give out. For a moment, you consider running back, throwing open the palace doors, forcing him to look at you, daring him to say this to your face. You imagine him standing somewhere behind stone walls, listening, unmoving.

Choosing this.

You crumble quietly instead.

You leave because he asked you to.

Because loving Dorian Havilliard has always meant accepting the ways he tries to protect you, even when it destroys you both.

--------------

Months pass.

The kingdom adjusts, as kingdoms always do. New routines form. New rumors replace the old ones. The court learns how to move around its king like a tide around stone, careful, reverent, afraid of cutting themselves on his edges.

They whisper about Dorian Havilliard.

They say he rules with iron restraint now. That his magic is tightly leashed, controlled with a discipline that borders on brutality. That he listens more than he speaks, that his gaze misses nothing, that mercy is rare but devastatingly precise when it is given.

They say he never smiles.

They don’t say why.

They don’t see the way his chambers stay untouched, immaculate in a way that feels less like order and more like refusal. They don’t see the second cup of tea poured each morning and left to go cold. The chair by the window that no one is allowed to move.

At night, when the palace finally sleeps, Dorian is alone.

That is when it hurts the most.

He wakes reaching for you, hand closing around empty sheets, breath catching painfully in his chest before he can stop it. Sometimes he sits up sharply, heart racing, certain he heard your voice, certain you were just there, just behind him, just out of reach.

You haunt him in quiet ways.

In the gardens, where the roses bloom unchecked and overgrown now. In the library, where certain books remain half-open, waiting for fingers that will never return to their pages. In the spaces beside him that feel too wide, too cold.

He tells himself this is the cost.

That this loneliness is necessary. That this hollow ache is proof he made the right choice.

Still, some nights, when exhaustion finally drags him under, he dreams.

He dreams of warmth. Of hands steady and sure against his face. Of your voice, soft, unwavering, refusing to let him disappear into his own darkness.

You already are good.

He wakes with those words burning behind his eyes.

Dorian hates himself for missing you.

Hates the weakness of it. Hates that despite everything, despite the fear, despite the blood, despite the magic humming beneath his skin like a living thing, some part of him still aches for you with the same quiet devotion he once allowed himself to feel.

He tells himself monsters don’t deserve to be mourned.

Don’t deserve love that lingers. Don’t deserve forgiveness they cannot give themselves.

And yet in the stillness before dawn, when the world is soft and unguarded, Dorian Havilliard presses a hand to his chest and mourns you anyway.

Because love, once given, does not leave quietly.

And neither do you.

--------------

You don’t know if you will ever go back.

Some days, the thought feels impossible, too heavy, too sharp, like pressing on a bruise that never healed. Other days, it feels inevitable, like the tide pulling at your ankles no matter how far you walk from the shore. You build a life in pieces where you are, learning how to exist without the weight of his presence beside you.

But his name still lives in the back of your throat.

You carry him in quiet ways, in the way you pause before speaking, in the way you still look for starlight at night, in the way your heart aches at moments that should feel whole. Loving him changed you. Leaving him did not undo that.

He doesn’t know if he deserves you.

Somewhere in a palace of stone and silence, Dorian Havilliard wears his crown like penance. He rules carefully, deliberately, as if every good decision might balance the scales just a fraction. He tells himself that becoming better is the closest thing to forgiveness he is allowed.

He never tells himself it will be enough.

Love, real love, doesn’t vanish just because someone decides they are unworthy of it. It doesn’t listen to logic or bend to self-loathing. It stays, stubborn and unyielding, carved into bone and memory.

It lingers.

In the spaces between breaths. In the silence after a name is almost spoken. In the ache that flares without warning and never fully fades.

Like a wound that refuses to close, not because it cannot heal, but because it was never meant to be forgotten.

Like a promise neither of you can quite let go of, even as you stand on opposite sides of the same longing, wondering if love like this was meant to survive the breaking, or if surviving was the point all along.

-------------------

I never see any Throne Of Glass fics expect for like 2 about Fenrys, so here is a Dorian one! Plz tag if you find a good TOG or CC fanfic, as much as I love acotar plz give me something else!!!!

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