Summary: Psychiatrist reader and Dex share a moment. Pathetic Dex who cries and whimpers. Psychiatrist reader falls for Dex.
Warnings: Mention of feelings of instability. Other than that none :)
Word count: just under 1300
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White noise hummed in the back ground of your session. The static was a veil, separating between the outside world and the vulnerable moments of honest answers.
Honey soaked light filtered through the window in your office. A warm breeze swept the curtains, and it smelt like sweet summer air.
Dex sat across from you on a black leather chair. One of his legs shook anxiously, and his arms were folded in his lap.
The open window casted his profile in a golden glow. The edges of his face were sharper in the bright light. His soft blue eyes swam with a gentle need, and something deeper rested in his iris. Something you couldn't name.
It was easier, quicker, than you thought to get him to open up. And through your years of working together, you believed you'd seen a true dedication from him.
The FBI deemed him mentally erratic, unstable. He pranced on the thin line between violence and justice.
To you, he was simply a man who struggled to find his center and a moral compass. He was lost. Not in blood lust, but the colorless, monotonous void of fighting between the good and evil parts of ourselves.
You had found, as time went on, that you grew fond of his awkwardness. It reminded you of the beauty of being human; and quickly he became one of your favorites. You'd begun to look forward to sessions with him.
You glanced down at the notepad sitting in your lap. Pressed into the yellow parchment were partially incoherent scribbles meant to keep track of important topics. You used it for continuity in sessions and notes for patient files. But half the time you couldn't read what it said anyway.
Your soft voice floated across the room, "Do you have anything specific you'd like to start with today?"
Dex looked up from staring at his lap. He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing with unsaid words.
"Sometimes," he began. "I feel like I'm floating in the ocean and I don't know wether I'm swimming or drowning."
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.
"I feel so lost in the bizarre of my own emotions."
You nodded, "Could you tell me a little more about that, Dex?"
He cleared his throat. It did little to relieve the tension inside him. "I'm noticing that when I get angry or upset, it's getting harder to calm myself down. It's like my feelings are suffocating me."
"Sometimes," You began. "Emotions are the hardest things in our lives. They're meant to be navigators; and when that compass feels off, our life feels like chaos."
"I think my compass is broken then," he chuckled lightly, dry humor slipping through his words.
Yet beneath his tone was a distant edge. His mind was somewhere you couldn't reach. Someway, somehow you'd meet him there.
"I think you need to stop being so hard on yourself," You said first. You imagined pulling his thoughts from his mind like pulling string, and you saw yourself inspecting each thought.
"What's really bothering you, Dex?" You set the notepad on a nearby coffee table and tucked one knee under your chin.
There was something more. There always was.
You watched as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. You saw his chest tighten, his breath strain.
You waited.
"I feel myself slipping," he said beneath a whimper. "I can feel it everyday I wake up. It's this darkness that rests underneath my chest, and sits at the back of my mind."
He balled his hand into a fist.
Through gritted teeth he continued, "It-it's incessant. And it's growing, and I'm afraid of what it might do to me. What might happen to others because of me."
His eyes grew red as tears brimmed across his lids.
He was beginning to invite you in. So you pulled a little more at that string.
"Dex," you began gently. "First of all, there is nothing wrong with you because you're going through this. It's okay to feel this way."
"I-I just feel so vile," he admitted between breaths.
"You feel vile because of the dark thoughts?"
"Yes." He sighed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"Take a deep breath," you said and guided him through it. "I can see that's something you haven't said out loud yet."
He nodded.
"I'm proud of you for admitting that. It can be hard to come to terms with the way things make us feel."
Something in his teary expression shifted when you said that.
It dawned on you, Dex hasn't been told by many that they were proud of him. Your chest suddenly felt heavy with that knowledge; and you would tell him a thousands times, right now, that you were proud of him, if it healed something inside him.
"Dex, allow yourself the freedom to remember that you aren't ruled by your thoughts or desires. You have the capability to overcome them. And being here is proof of that enough." You slid to the edge of your seat, trying to meet his now lowered gaze.
You had met him where you once couldn't reach. You held the entire length of string and you wouldn't let it go now.
"You don't need to be scared of what you're capable of, because you've shown that you can have restraint."
He shook his head.
"What if I can't? What if something bad happens?"
"I don't think it will. But that is why we're here. To build resilience. And you're doing that. Do not discredit all that you've done just because you've hit a road block."
You paused, watching the light glisten across his shed tears. For a moment he looked beautiful. And you dared to let yourself wonder how someone so tortured by themselves could look so angelic.
Dex thought of himself as a monster, but all you saw was an angel.
Reaching out you placed a hand on his knee.
He flinched at your touch.
You thought, for a split second about removing your hand. But as you stared into his teary eyes, you left it, and hoped that somehow it was comforting.
"It's hard. The worst battle is when you see yourself as something evil. But god, Dex, when I look at you I don't see any of that."
He inhaled sharply.
"When I look at you, I see someone fighting for justice. I see someone doing the honorable work of trying to get better."
Dex made a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a groan. He shifted in his chair, bringing his hands over his face, and began to sob.
Your chest tightened with sympathy. No one deserved to feel this way.
A lump formed in your throat. You urged to reach out and hold him.
No. It was against protocol, you couldn't.
You glanced down at your hand on his knee.
That was against protocol, too.
You stood up anyway. The office around you disappeared and all you saw was Dex. Everything after that was a blur.
Except for the way he held onto you.
You remembered how he circled his strong arms around your waist, holding you like he would never give you up. Like you were his life line. His North Star.
You remembered how his tears soaked through your blouse.
You remembered whispering sweet nothings of comfort.
Finally, you remembered how you held him too. One arm wrapped around his back. One hand in his hair, keeping him pressed close.
It had felt right.
His warmth. His embrace.
In that moment something stirred beneath you. It was a scary thought, and you tucked it away deep within your heart. You realized that as much as Dex needed you, you needed him.
When Homelander first met you, he just came in because Madelyn cooked up some scheme with Edgar to 'prove' that the members of The Seven were sound of mind and could pass a psychiatric evaluation similar to the one used in the army. Of course, you had been paid a lot of money to do the evaluations and even more money to ensure that these heroes passed no matter what they said. You were a respected psychiatrist in your field; that’s why Madelyn wanted you specifically.
Homelander went to his appointment, planning on leaving until you said something that caught his attention. You said, 'I am here for you. I took this job because you all spend your days helping and saving people, but at the end of the day, who helps and saves you? Obviously, I couldn’t physically save you, but I can be a place for you to talk if you need it. Nothing you say will leave this room.' Boy, did that stroke his ego in all the right ways. He decided to stay. Something about you was comforting, and he wanted to talk, so he started small with the obvious stuff. He led the conversation by making off-handed remarks about being better than everyone and having to be perfect for Vought. It was clear you didn’t understand his pain, but you were listening to him. You were actually listening to him and responding.
You weren’t like Madelyn, who seemed to argue with every other thing he said; you didn’t respond with dismissive and uncaring responses like Queen Maeve, and you could actually keep up with the conversation, unlike The Deep.
Homelander surprised you and himself when he began attending regular scheduled sessions. You usually led the discussion by asking various questions. Some questions he would lie about, not feeling totally safe to dive into certain topics, or he would just dodge the question and change the subject. Homelander knew you noticed this because anytime he did either of those things, your body language would change, and you would write something down in your little notebook. That notebook had made Homelander incredibly nervous until he found out you were not in there calling him a useless pussy. You were just simply writing topics you two had discussed and what topics made him uncomfortable.
You seemed to actually care about Homelander’s feelings, even the bad ones. Stan Edgar put Homelander in his place, and Homelander looked down avoiding Edgar’s pointed gaze like a child being scolded by their father. Homelander needed some reassurance, but he would never admit that willingly. Homelander felt weak and stupid for needing someone, but you didn’t seem to mind even when he was ranting and raving, so he went to you. You had been his haven. The one person he could confide in and actually be himself.
He arrived at your office in the morning while you happened to be filling out some paperwork. He knew you didn’t have any appointments today because this had been previously the day Vought scheduled for the evaluations of the heroes. Homelander spent the whole day pestering you. 'What are we doing now?' He asked, not entirely oblivious to your mild frustration. 'Still just filling out paperwork,' you replied. He rolled his eyes. 'God, your life is so boring. Go to work, talk to the crazies, fill out paperwork and go home, and you do that all alone? I forgot how boring normal people can be.'
You laughed before telling him, 'no one is keeping you here.' Homelander’s jaw tightened. This pissed him off. You’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to offer to do something more fun. You seemed to notice that 1,000-yard stare he has as he retreats into his own mind. 'Look, I just mean that I have to finish work. I know it’s probably boring you to death just sitting here; you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,' you told him, which seemed to make him feel a bit better, but he’s not entirely out of his head. 'It’s fine, we can just talk while you work,' he tells you with a feigned smile.
Homelander begins to perk up while you finish your paperwork and finally asks you the million-dollar question, 'What are we doing when we get home?'
'I am going home to cook up some dinner and watch some television,' you told him, trying to hint that you were wanting to be alone. Homelander was undeterred. 'What are we eating? I could use a home-cooked meal. We could watch one of my movies. I’ve been told I’m a great actor.' Homelander needs you to agree and compliment him. He desperately wants you to tell him he does a good job, even if you’re just talking about acting. 'Yeah? Your movies are pretty famous,' you say, accepting your fate that he isn’t leaving you alone tonight.
The night is spent with him at your house. Homelander wastes no time making himself at home and pilfering through your things. He feels comfortable being so ensnared in your scent. He becomes more comfortable as the night carries on. You fix his plate and drink for dinner, and the two of you share a dinner that he perceives as romantic. Your food isn’t as good as the private chefs at Vought, but Homelander loves it because he got to see the love you put into making it just for him.
You two clean up together. It’s really you cleaning, and Homelander helps by talking about which movie of his you should watch tonight. Finally, you try to retire to your room, but he follows. 'I thought we were gonna watch a movie… it doesn’t have to be one of mine,' Homelander tries not to sound too desperate, and he hated to say that last bit.
'I had planned on watching something in my room, but you can come lay with me if you want,' you tell him reluctantly. Homelander is excited but tries to keep that hidden. You two lay down and begin watching one of his movies. By the end, Homelander is 'asleep.' He knows you can’t tell the difference in him and ignores you when you gently shake him trying to wake him. He’s not the biggest fan of sleeping in strange beds, but for you, he can make an exception. Next time, he wants you in his bed though.
warnings: +18, mdni, talk about murder, mention of suicide trauma, mature and dark content, pet names.
a/n: 'If he's a serial killer, then what's the worst?' maybe i'll turn this into some au.
The file in her hands feels heavier than the others. Not physically—emotionally. The name Rafe Cameron is scrawled across the top, the ink pressed into the page like the person who wrote it was angry. Or afraid.
“Patient 013.” her supervisor had said. “Take him. No one else will.”
She’s handled difficult cases before. Sociopaths, trauma victims, violent criminals. But there had been something unfamiliar in her supervisor’s eyes. Not warning — something worse. Pity.
And now, here she is. In a cold observation room with flickering lights, sitting alone at a metal table as two orderlies escort him in.
He looks… normal.
Taller than expected. Blonde hair messy, like it’s never met a comb. Hands cuffed, eyes dull and detached. He slumps into the chair with the lazy confidence of someone who believes the world owes him something. Or that he's already taken it.
Twenty-six. Twenty-six.
The number echoes in her mind. She’s his twenty-seventh psychiatrist.
The others didn’t just resign. Some vanished. Some died. Rumors claimed he killed them. Not all — but enough.
“Here to fix me?” His voice is low, almost amused. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He shows no remorse. If anything, he looks... satisfied.
The orderlies cuff his wrists to the bolted table, struggling to get him to sit still. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn't submit either. There’s something coiled beneath the surface — taunting, simmering.
“Thought shrinks were supposed to be old. Or ugly.” he says, grinning. “You’re neither.”
She exhales, keeping her expression unreadable. No reaction. No reward.
Eyes still on his file, she slowly flips through the pages—each one more disturbing than the last. The number twenty-seven drums in her ears. A quiet, persistent beat of dread. Finally, she looks up and meets his gaze.
“I’m not here to fix you." she says evenly. The words come before she can stop them. “I’m here to see if there’s anything in you worth saving.”
That makes him laugh. But not the kind of laugh that relieves tension. It’s cold, jagged — wrong. A laugh that belongs in a Netflix true crime documentary.
She tightens her grip on her pen.
Her supervisor had provided details, photos, case notes on every psychiatrist before her. No obvious patterns — no specific gender, age, or appearance that triggered his violence. Maybe it was the role itself. The power dynamic.
Still, the look in his eyes now — it’s not rage. It’s something worse. Vain. Empty. Shameless.
“They all thought they could handle me.” Rafe says, fingers twitching against the cuffs. “They said the same things. Asked the same questions. Screamed differently, though.”
Her brows furrow, but her expression remains composed. She scribbles quick notes: tone — calm, calculated; affect — disturbingly flat. He notices.
“Don’t look at me like that.” he warns, voice low and sharp. His fingers dig into the edge of the metal table. “I didn’t kill them all. Two of them killed themselves.”
Was that supposed to comfort her?
“That doesn’t change anything, Rafe.” She sets the pen down, eyes locked on his. Her voice is steady. Measured. “You’re still responsible. You still took lives. That fact doesn’t get rewritten just because your hands weren’t the weapon.”
"Are you sure they weren't?" He watches her with a smirk on his face, processing her defiance. His gaze drops — linger on her lips, still glossed in a soft pink sheen, catching the dim light above them. Then lower, to the long lines of her legs crossed beneath the table, framed by black heels and poise. He shifts slightly in his seat, leans forward.
There’s a new expression on his face now. Not anger. Not cruelty. Curiosity. And something else. Something dark and aching.
“Are you scared?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not tender — it’s rough, intimate, like sandpaper against silk.
“No.” she whispers back.
“Don’t lie, doc.” His smirk fades. His tone darkens. “You’re trembling.” He leans in further, invading her space with terrifying ease. And yet — she doesn’t move.
His presence is stifling. The air between them thins. And against all logic, all reason. She feels herself leaning in too.
There’s something magnetic here — chemical, wrong, addictive. For the briefest, most dangerous second, she imagines his hand on her cheek. His mouth on hers. How rough he might be — or maybe, not at all.
The sharp tick of the clock pulls her back. Reality slams down like a gavel. She rises from her seat, quickly collecting her files. “I’ll see you next week.” she whispers, sealing the words like a promise — or a curse.
As she turns away, she doesn't notice it. The subtle clink of loosened metal. One hand. Free. And behind her, he smiles. His fingers brush against her wrist.
As the weeks passed, Homelander continued to integrate himself into your life, blurring the lines between patient and "friend." One evening, after a particularly intense session, Homelander broached the subject of spending more time together outside of the therapy room. "I was thinking," he began, his blue eyes searching yours, "maybe we could grab a bite sometime. You know, outside of this place." Your heart sank, torn between the genuine connection you felt with Homelander and the professional boundaries you knew you needed to maintain. With all your other patients, you had discussed boundaries, but not with the members of The Seven. The Deep, A-Train, and Queen Maeve viewed these sessions as a waste of time. Starlight and Black Noir had kept a very professional relationship. You weren't totally sure why Black Noir still came to the sessions since his sessions were spent in silence, usually with him drawing pictures of Buster Beaver and his little buddies. Starlight was the only one that used the sessions for what they were meant for.
You had not thought you needed to set boundaries with them, and that, since these were America's greatest heroes, the boundaries were obvious and unspoken. Oh, how that had bitten you in the ass now, having to turn down the offer. You let those boundaries slip by allowing Homelander to come to your house, but in that situation, there was not a lot you could do to stop him.
"I appreciate the offer, Homelander, but it's important to keep our relationship within the confines of our sessions," you replied carefully, trying to hide the conflict in your eyes, unaware that he could hear your heartbeat and smell your nervousness. Homelander's expression shifted from hopeful anticipation to a subtle disappointment that cut through you. "Right, professional boundaries," he said, a forced smile tugging at his lips. It is the kind of smile that does not reach his eyes. "I get it." You could not let his dangerous expression get to you.
The following sessions became strained. Homelander seemed distant, his usually confident demeanor replaced by an air of vulnerability and irritation. You should be thanking him that he is interested in you. He attended sessions less frequently, and when he did, the conversations were stilted. It was clear that your rejection had affected him more than either of you anticipated. Homelander was not willing to give up. You just needed a chance to come around.
One day, after a difficult session, Homelander lingered in your office. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked, his tone a mixture of frustration and hurt. Homelander knew you did not have a partner in your life. He had stopped by to do a thorough search of your home while you were out, and there was no evidence of you dating someone, not even the smell of a casual hookup still lingering on your skin. You sighed, maintaining the professionalism that defined your role. "It's not that I don't value our sessions, Homelander. But crossing the boundaries of a therapeutic relationship can be detrimental for both of us," you explained, your words hanging heavily in the air. "I want what's best for you, and sometimes that means maintaining a professional distance."
Homelander's jaw tensed, and he stood abruptly. "So, I'm just another patient to you, is that it?" His eyes bore into yours, searching for a hint of vulnerability that matched his own. "No, Homelander, you're not just another patient," you replied softly, your heart aching at the pain evident in his eyes. "But I have a responsibility to ensure that our interactions remain focused on your well-being." He stormed out of your office without another word, leaving you with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Homelander is a dangerous and unpredictable man. The once-promising therapeutic alliance had crumbled, replaced by an unspoken tension that hung in the air during each subsequent session.
Days turned into weeks, and the divide between you and Homelander deepened. He attended sessions less frequently, and when he did, the conversations were strained and unproductive. Of course, for Homelander, he still had his time with you even if you were oblivious to it. Though, he would much rather be in your arms than jacking off on the building next to yours while you participated in a similar activity in the warmth of your bed.
One evening, after a silent session, Homelander was particularly grumpy in this session. He had expressed that he had a bad day. Homelander lingered at the door. "You should be fucking thanking me,” He pauses. “I am giving you the opportunity of a lifetime, and you're fucking throwing it away. Do you know how many people would leave their whole families just for one glance from me?”
The weight of his words settled heavily on your shoulders as he walked away, leaving you alone in the empty office. It made you wonder how dangerous Homelander really was and how desperate he would become if you continued to deny him. The once-promising connection had fractured irreparably, and the professional boundaries you fought so hard to maintain had come at the cost of a genuine connection with Homelander.
The weeks passed with a lingering tension between you and Homelander. The once-promising therapeutic alliance had crumbled, leaving behind an unspoken rift that seemed insurmountable. Homelander attended sessions less frequently, and when he did, the conversations were strained, devoid of the genuine connection that had defined your earlier interactions. It became evident that your rejection had affected him more deeply than either of you anticipated. Homelander, usually the embodiment of confidence, now wore an air of vulnerability and loneliness that tugged at your conscience. The sessions were marked by long pauses, resentful glances, and a palpable discomfort that neither of you could ignore. You couldn't shake the feeling of regret that lingered each time you saw him. The haunting realization that you had sacrificed something meaningful for the sake of professional decorum weighed heavily on your conscience. Late one evening, a knock echoed through your home. Homelander stood at the doorway, his usual confidence replaced by a vulnerability that mirrored the man you had glimpsed in the early days of your sessions. "I need someone to talk to," he admitted, his voice a whisper.
Homelander had arrived at your office earlier than your usual meeting time. You had asked him to be there around an hour earlier than your scheduled session. He was putting on a fake smile; he was always good at that. Homelander thought he knew what was happening. You were dropping him as a client. You had to be. You had all but threatened it the last time he came to your house when he was desperate for someone to talk to or even just be around. When his reflection was saying things that were beyond harsh and his penthouse felt a little too empty. Even if you did drop him as a client, he didn’t plan on going anywhere, but it bothered him that you would have even tried.
Homelander stepped into the office without knocking, like he always did. He knew that bothered you, but he didn’t need to knock. It was obvious to him when someone else was in the room, and you would not be dumb enough to book someone over his time with you. He immediately noticed your heart beating faster and the stink of adrenaline all over your body. You were afraid. The smell of adrenaline was fresh, so that meant one thing: you were afraid of him.
Homelander took his seat across from you. You smiled a fake smile before asking, “How are you today?” He wanted to gripe about you, tell you that you had no reason to be afraid of him right now, tell you that even if you tried to drop him as a client, he wasn’t leaving. “Fine,” is all he says with an irritated tone. “What’s so important that I had to be here an hour before our meeting? You know I’m a busy man,” he scolds. Your heart rate spikes.
“Well, we’ve been having some issues with boundaries. Usually, I discuss these things in our first meeting, but since my contract with The Seven was a unique experience, I hadn’t bothered to have a boundaries talk with any of you, at least not an in-depth one.” After you finish talking, Homelander relaxes a bit. You weren’t trying to get rid of him. It was a relief. He figured since you were human; you probably didn’t notice the change in his demeanor, but in reality, it was a very noticeable change. He was like a feral cat finally calming down enough to eat or drink.
“Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries,” Homelander mocks a bit. “Is that all you doctors want to talk about? I thought you wanted to talk about me?”
“This is about you. It’s about both of us,” you counter. He stands back up and begins pacing a bit with his hands behind his back. “Look, we need to have boundaries. They are important. In our first session, I said that I am here for you, and I cannot be here for you if we have no boundaries. If these boundaries continue to be pressed, then I will recommend you to another psychiatrist, one that will be better suited to your needs.” It’s obvious this pisses him off enough that his mask drops. Homelander’s already thin lips flatten into a line of a scowl. At first, his eyes widen a bit, clearly shocked at your sudden assertiveness, but then narrowing somewhat out of anger. He is not looking at you. He’s looking in your direction but pointedly avoiding you or maybe looking through you. Homelander seems to be lost in thought or as if he has suddenly begun to disassociate.
“So you are dropping me?” he finally says. His voice is flat, and his eyes are somewhat glassy. “No. I am still your psychiatrist. We will just be working on our boundaries. It’s my fault. I should have discussed this with you the minute I realized we would be meeting regularly, and I should not have been so indulgent, but that stops now. We will both be good, okay? And you can continue to be my patient. But there will be no time for us outside of this office, and you will quit showing up at my house or following me home. I know you are lonely, but I cannot fill that loneliness as your psychiatrist. I can help you understand why you are having those feelings, but I cannot fix them.” You speak with a confidence that Homelander has never seen from you. He likes this attitude you have.
He ponders it for a moment before sitting back down. Homelander thinks he can make this work, for now. He will still get to see you and visit your house while you’re out. You’re still his. “Okay, I’ll behave,” Homelander says in a way that borders on pride and flirting. He feels somewhat proud of you for being so assertive with you, even if he’s not a huge fan of the outcome.
He knows you will come around eventually, and when you do, he will be waiting with a dinner reservation and the mirror on the ceiling of his bedroom freshly cleaned.
