♯┆ [booster gold x overworked gf!reader] INCLUDES.ᐟ
⤿ MICHAEL CARTER is the most toting boyfriend you've ever had. Maybe even the most toting boyfriend you've ever seen. But regardless of that, you didn't expect him to make your 12 hours of exhaustion wash away.
!! fluff. romcom vibe. fem reader. established relationship. no real warnings. language. booster gold the man you are. FIRST TIME WRITING FOR HIM YAY. this was such a good idea ily anon this was perf. ENJOY.
The obnoxious LED lights of your office had given you a headache hours ago, but you'd pushed through anyway, because what choice did you have? The project deadline loomed, your boss had been breathing down your neck all day, and somehow every single coworker had decided today was the perfect day to forward their problems directly to your desk. By the time you finally shut down your computer and grabbed your bag, you felt wrung out like a dishrag. Every muscle in your body was tense, your jaw aching from clenching it, your eyes burning with exhaustion, and you just wanted to sleep.
The commute home felt longer than usual. Every red light, every slow driver, every minor inconvenience felt like the universe piling on just one more thing. You gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, trying to breathe through the knot of stress sitting heavy in your chest. All you wanted was to get home, collapse on the couch, and maybe have the energy to order takeout before surrendering to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
When you finally pulled into your parking spot and trudged up to your apartment, your shoulders sagged with relief just at the sight of your front door. Home. Finally. You fumbled with your keys, pushed the door open, and the smell hit you first.
Something savory and rich, with hints of garlic and herbs, wafted through the apartment. Your exhausted brain took a moment to process this, confusion cutting through the fog of fatigue. You definitely hadn't put anything in the slow cooker this morning. You'd barely had time to grab coffee before rushing out the door.
"There's my girl!"
Michael John Carter, your dear boyfriend, emerged from the kitchen, and the sight of him made something in your chest simultaneously tighten and loosen. He was wearing one of his ridiculous graphic t-shirts, this one proclaiming him "The Greatest Hero You've Never Heard Of" in bold letters, and a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His blonde hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it, and his trademark cocky grin softened into something gentler when he saw your face.
"Hey, babe," he said, crossing the distance between you in a few long strides. His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as those blue eyes searched yours. "Rough day?"
The concern in his voice, the warmth of his palms against your skin, the simple fact that he was here and asking? It all threatened to crack the brittle shell you'd been holding together since you woke up at a 6 today and rolled out of bed. You managed a nod, not trusting your voice just yet, a small frown that felt like a permanent fixture at this point spoke more than your words could've
"Yeah, I figured," Michael murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment, warm and gentle. "You've got that look. The one that says your boss is lucky I wasn't there, because I would've given him a piece of my mind. Or possibly thrown him into next Tuesday. I've got the tech for that, you know."
Despite everything, you felt your lips twitch. "Michael..."
"I know, I know. 'No throwing people through time, Michael. It's illegal, Michael. The Time Masters will get mad, Michael.'" He mimicked your voice with exaggerated seriousness, then grinned and pressed another kiss to your temple. "But the offer stands. Just say the word." His lips peppered across your face until they reached your lips.
You let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh, and leaned into him. His arms came around you immediately, strong and secure, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed slow circles on your back. He smelled like cologne and whatever he'd been cooking, and you buried your face against his chest, feeling some of the tension start to drain from your shoulders.
"There we go," he said softly, his voice rumbling through his chest against your ear. "I've got you. Just breathe, yeah? You're home now, work can wait."
You stood there for a long moment, just breathing him in, letting his presence ground you. He didn't rush you, didn't pull away. He just held you, solid and warm and real, one hand stroking your hair in a gentle rhythm that made your eyes want to close.
Finally, you pulled back enough to look up at him. "What's that smell?"
His face lit up with pride. "Dinner! I made your favorite-... well, okay, Skeets helped. A lot. There may have been a minor incident with the smoke alarm, but we handled it. The important thing is, I made you dinner, and it's actually edible. Possibly even good! Skeets says my culinary skills are 'improving marginally,' which is basically a rave review from him."
"You made dinner?" Your voice came out softer than you intended, touched by the gesture.
"Of course I did." Booster's expression turned earnest, his hands sliding down to hold yours. "I knew you had that big presentation today, and I figured you'd come home exhausted. So I wanted to do something nice for you. Because you deserve nice things, and also because I'm an amazing boyfriend. But mostly the first thing."
Your throat felt tight again, but this time for entirely different reasons, and your eyes began to sting before you could help it. "Michael..."
"Nope, no crying," he said quickly, though his smile was gentle. "Or if you're gonna cry, at least wait until after you've tasted my cooking. If you cry before, I won't know if it's because of your day or because I accidentally used salt instead of sugar again. That was one time, by the way, and that recipe was unclear."
You laughed, watery but genuine, and his whole face softened with relief and affection.
"There's that smile," he said, squeezing your hands. "Come on. Let me feed you, and you can tell me all about whose ass I need to kick. Metaphorically. Probably."
He led you to the kitchen table, which you now noticed was actually set with placemats, real napkins, the nice plates you usually saved for special occasions. There were even your yankee candles, though they weren't lit yet. Your heart squeezed at the sight of it all, at the effort he'd clearly put in.
"Sit," Booster commanded gently, pulling out a chair for you with a flourish. "Your chariot awaits. Or, you know, your chair. But that sounds less impressive."
You sat, and he disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with two plates of food that actually looked incredible. Pasta in a creamy sauce with chicken and vegetables, perfectly plated, with a sprinkle of fresh parmesan on top.
"Skeets," Michael called out, "dim the lights, buddy. Set the mood."
"Setting the mood for what, sir?" Skeets' robotic voice responded from somewhere in the living room, dry as ever. "Should I be concerned?"
"For a nice dinner, you fuckin' perv," Booster shot back, though he was grinning. "Honestly, Skeets. Get your mind out of the gutter."
"I am a security robot. I do not have a mind, nor do I have access to gutters."
"Could've fooled me," He muttered, but the lights dimmed to a softer glow, and he lit the candles with a lighter from his pocket. The warm, flickering light cast dancing shadows across his face as he sat down across from you, looking absurdly pleased with himself.
"Okay," he said, gesturing to your plate. "Try it. But be gentle with your critique. My ego is very fragile."
"Your ego is the least fragile thing about you," you teased, but you picked up your fork and took a bite.
It was delicious.
Your eyes widened, and your boyfriend leaned forward eagerly with some concern. "Good? Bad? 'I'm-going-to-have-to-order-pizza-anyway' bad?"
"It's amazing," you said honestly, taking another bite. The pasta was perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and flavorful, the chicken tender. "Like, this is really, really good."
He sat back with a triumphant grin, pumping his fist. "Yes! Booster Gold, hero, celebrity, and now master chef. Is there anything I can't do?"
"Apparently not," you said, and felt yourself smiling—really smiling—for the first time all day.
As you ate, Booster kept up a steady stream of conversation, telling you about his day in that animated way of his, complete with dramatic hand gestures and sound effects. He'd stopped a bank robbery "Amateurs, really. They didn't even check for security cameras.", signed autographs for a group of tourists "They thought I was someone else at first, but I won them over.", and apparently had a long argument with Skeets about the proper way to fold fitted sheets.
"It's impossible," Booster insisted. "They're designed by chaos itself. You can't convince me otherwise."
"There are numerous video tutorials available online, sir," Skeets interjected.
"Lies and propaganda," Booster declared, and you laughed, the sound coming easier now, the knot in your chest loosening with each passing moment.
He didn't press you to talk about your day, didn't demand details or try to fix everything. He just... was there, filling the space with warmth and light and his particular brand of charm, giving you room to breathe and decompress. But his eyes never left you for long, and you could see the concern lingering there, the way he was watching to make sure you were okay.
When you finally set down your fork, full and feeling more human than you had in hours.
Michael had a grin on his face, and reached across the table to take your hand. "Better?" he asked softly.
"Better," you confirmed. "Thank you."
"Hey, that's what I'm here for." He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Well, that and my devastatingly good looks and incredible heroism. But mostly the being-there-for-you thing."
He stood, gathering the plates. "You go sit on the couch. I'll clean up."
"Michael, you cooked. I can-.."
"Nope." He pointed toward the living room. "Couch. Now. This is a full-service evening, babe. I'm spoiling you, and you're going to let me, because you deserve it and because I said so."
You were too tired to argue, and honestly, the offer was too appealing to resist. You made your way to the couch, sinking into the cushions with a sigh of relief. Your feet ached from your heels, your shoulders were still tight with tension, and your head still throbbed dully.
Michael joined you a few minutes later, the kitchen cleaned and the dishwasher humming in the background. He sat down next to you, then immediately pulled you against his side, his arm wrapping around your shoulders.
"Okay," he said, his voice taking on that determined tone that meant he was on a mission. "Tell me where it hurts."
"Where what hurts?" Your eyebrows raised as you moved your eyes up to meet his. Taking a moment to watch him, and take in the features you loved so much.
"You're all tense." His hand squeezed your shoulder gently, and you winced slightly at the pressure on the knot there. "See? You're carrying all your stress right here. So tell me where it hurts, and I'll fix it."
"Babe, you don't have to-.."
"I want to," he interrupted, again, turning to face you more fully. His expression was sincere, almost earnest in a way that he didn't show often. "Let me take care of you. Please?"
The please did it. You nodded, and his face broke into a soft smile.
"Okay. Turn around."
You shifted, turning your back to him, and felt him move closer. His hands settled on your shoulders, warm even through your work blouse, and then his thumbs pressed into the muscles there, working in slow, firm circles.
You couldn't hold back the groan that escaped you.
"That good, huh?" Booster's voice was smug, but his hands were magic, finding every knot and tight spot with unerving accuracy. "I've got a lot of talents, you know. This is just one of them."
"Modest as always," you managed, but your voice came out breathy as he worked a particularly stubborn knot loose.
"Modesty is for people who aren't this good," he said, but his tone was light, teasing. His hands moved up to your neck, fingers working into the tense muscles there, and you felt your head drop forward, eyes closing. "Besides, you like my confidence. Admit it."
"I like a lot of things about you," you murmured, too relaxed to filter yourself.
His hands paused for just a moment, and then continued their work, but you could hear the smile in his voice. "Yeah? Like what?"
"Fishing for compliments?" You teased, an easy smile resting on your lips.
"Always. I'm very needy. It's part of my charm."
You laughed softly. "I like that you're here. That you made me dinner. That you always know how to make me laugh, even when I feel like everything is terrible."
His hands slid down to your shoulder blades, working the tension there with patient, careful pressure. "Everything isn't terrible," he assured quietly. "I know it feels like that sometimes. But you've got this, babe. You're the strongest person I know. You just had a bad day. Tomorrow will be better."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm from the future, remember? I've seen tomorrow. It's great. Very promising. Lots of good stuff happening." His tone was playful, but his hands were gentle as they worked across your back. "Also because you're amazing, and amazing people have a way of making things work out."
You felt your eyes sting with unexpected tears. "I don't feel very amazing right now."
"Well, you are." His hands stilled, and then he was turning you around, pulling you into his lap so you were facing him. His hands came up to cup your face again, thumbs brushing away the tears that had escaped. "You're so amazing that you put up with me, which is basically superhuman patience right there."
"Mikey..."
"I mean it." His blue eyes were serious now, intense in a way that made your breath catch. "You work so hard. You care so much. You deal with so much crap, and you keep going. That's not nothing." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. "And I know I joke around a lot, but I see you. I see how hard you try, how much you give. And I think you're incredible."
The tears came harder now, but they were different, releasing something that had been building all day. Michael made a soft hum and pulled you closer, one hand securing you against him and the other splayed across the small of your back.
"Let it out," he murmured against your hair. "I've got you. I've always got you."
You cried into his shoulder, and he held you through it, steady and strong, pressing kisses to your hair and murmuring soft reassurances. When the tears finally subsided, leaving you feeling tired but lighter, he pulled back just enough to look at you.
"Better?" he asked gently.
You nodded, managing a watery smile. "Better."
"Good." He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the tip of your nose, making you huff out a laugh. "Now, here's what's going to happen. We're going to get you out of these work clothes and into something comfortable. Then we're going to cuddle on this couch, watch whatever you want — and I mean whatever, even that baking competition that I don't understand — and we're not going to think about work or stress or anything else. Just you and me. Sound good?"
"Sounds perfect," you whispered, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his lips.
"Excellent. Operation Pamper My Girlfriend is going according to plan." He helped you up, keeping an arm around your waist as he guided you to the bedroom. "Skeets, queue up the Netflix. We're having a cozy night in."
"Understood, sir. Might I suggest-.."
"No documentaries about the future, dude. We've talked about this."
"I was going to suggest a romantic comedy, sir."
"Oh. Well. Good call, buddy."
In the bedroom, Michael helped you out of your work clothes with gentle hands, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders as he went. He pulled one of his shirts over your head, which was of course huge and fell to your upper thigh. Then he helped you step into a pair of soft sleep shorts, before practically racing to put on his own pajamas so he could go relax with you.
The couch had been transformed in your absence. There were blankets piled on it, pillows arranged just so, and the coffee table had been moved aside to make more room. Michael flopped down first, then pulled you down on top of him, arranging you so your head was on his chest, your body nestled between his legs, his arms wrapped securely around you.
"Comfortable?" he asked, his voice rumbling under your ear.
"Very," you sighed, feeling the last of the tension drain from your body. He was warm and solid beneath you, his heartbeat steady and strong, his hands stroking up and down your waist in a soothing rhythm.
"Good." He grabbed the remote with one hand, the other never stopping its gentle movement on your back. "Now, what are we watching? And remember, I'm a supportive boyfriend who will watch anything you want, even if it's boring. I'll only complain a little."
You smiled, tilting your head to the side to look up at him, the smile that came to your lips puffed your cheeks against his chest. "Your choice. I'm just happy to be here."
"Dangerous words. I could put on anything. I could put on my highlight reel. I could put on footage of my greatest saves. I could-..."
"Michael." You raise an eyebrow with a playfully unamused downturn to your lips.
"Okay, okay. Romcom it is. Skeets, you heard the lady, something with a happy ending."
"All romantic comedies have happy endings, sir. That is the definition of the genre."
"Then we're guaranteed a good time. Perfect." As the opening credits rolled, you felt yourself relaxing completely, melting into Booster's embrace. His fingers traced idle patterns on your waist, occasionally sliding down to rub your thigh. Every so often, he'd press a kiss to the top of your head, or tighten his arms around you, as if reassuring himself that you were there.
"Hey," he said softly, about twenty minutes into the movie. "You doing okay?"
You tilted your head up to look at him. His face was soft in the glow of the TV, his expression tender as he gazed down at you. "Yeah," you said, and meant it. "I'm doing okay. Thanks to you."
"That's what I like to hear." He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet kiss that tasted like contentment and home. When he pulled back, his smile was gentle. "You know I love you, right? Like, a lot. An embarrassing amount, really, Skeets makes fun of me for it."
"I do not make fun, sir. I merely observe that your behavior has become increasingly—"
"Skeets, man, reading the room here."
You laughed, reaching up to cup Michael's face. "I love you too. An embarrassing amount."
"Good." He kissed you again, then settled you back against his chest. "Now shh. This is the good part. I think. I haven't actually been paying attention. I've been too busy looking at you."
"Smooth."
"I know. It's a gift."
You smiled, closing your eyes and listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear. The movie played on, his hands never stopped their gentle caresses, and slowly, inevitably, you felt yourself drifting.
"Getting sleepy?" His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
"Mmm," you hummed, not quite able to form words.
"That's okay. We can finish the movie later." His arms tightened around you, secure and protective. As you drifted off, warm and safe and loved, you heard him murmur one last thing, his lips pressed to your hair, "I love you."
you can't like john constantine if you don't support social issues, cause like yeah, most people in comics do support social issues (heroes at least, even if john is more like an anti-hero) and yet people manage to beat around the bush with them, but john? john character is directly tied with social issues of all kind, some that affect him directly, and he cannot be a separate character from it.
i always rember a small panel on delano's hellblazer run in which he goes through his old things and a pin of "Rock Against Racism" can be seen, his comics address plenty of things some more obvious like discrimination against working class or how the elites try to squeeze them dry, homophobia, the bad buch of skinheads (could be applied with far-rigth movements today tbh) or others a bit more subtle like racism, or, in a way, mental health and the stigmatization against it.
john is elbow-deep in all of that, and if you strip him from those, you strip him of his identity.
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