Moments (Garrick x Reader)
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: Moments with Garrick.
Authors Note: No major warnings below. Kissing and mentions of a sexual relationship. These are just small snippets of a pre-established relationship with our gentle giant. Inspired by mundane thoughts. They’re not necessarily canon or in any particular order. There maybe more moments to come if you enjoy…
The river is slow and bright in the summer sun, glittering like scattered glass along the edge of the woodlands on the outskirts of Basgiath.
Laughter drifts through the air — Bodhi, Imogen, Liam, several other marked ones — some skipping stones, others rolling their trouser legs up to cool down in the water. Others lay on the bank with books open, making sure they weren’t too close in more than groups of three.
You don’t move.
You’re sprawled comfortably on Garrick, stomach-down, tucked between his legs where he’s stretched out in the grass on his back. Your cheek rests against his chest, ear over his steady heartbeat, the warmth of him and the sun on your back seeping through your leathers.
At some point, without meaning to, you fell asleep.
Garrick noticed. Of course he did.
He hasn’t moved since.
One arm is loosely around your waist, the other slowly, absentmindedly combing through your hair. Letting the strands glide through his fingers, brushing a thumb over your scalp in a lazy pattern.
Every now and then he glances down at you, checking you’re still breathing. Still comfortable. Admiring the wall your lashes fluttered, your eyebrows scrunching slightly when someone shrieked too loud in the river.
Around you, the others talked and laughed and existed, something that was hard to do at Basgiath as a marked one, but Garrick stays exactly where he is, acting as your very comfortable piece of furniture.
Bodhi comments on it — quiet and teasing — but Garrick doesn’t even look up.
“She’s asleep,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
And it does.
You shift slightly, sighing in contentment in your sleep, nuzzling closer to his sun-warmth chest. His hand stills for half a second before resuming its gentle strokes. His chest rises and falls slowly, so as not to jostle you too much.
In this moment, there’s no war, no secret rebellion, no missions or fear.
Just the water. The sun. And the quiet certainty of being held and not needing to be anywhere else at all.
Reunification Day always feels heavier every year. No matter how much time passes.
The room is small and warm, steam still clinging to the mirror from Garrick’s shower. You stand in front of it, clad in a lacy black piece that usually Garrick would have already removed with his teeth, but not today.
You finish off the last touches — fingers smoothing your hair, making sure your curls lay just right, a little coal darkening your lashes and eyes and a pinkish hue painted on your lips. Nothing fancy. Just enough to look like you tried.
Like you’re okay.
Garrick sits on the edge of his bed, finishing lacing his boots. The leather creaks as he tightens the last knot, before he reluctantly gets to his feet.
He stills as he catches sight of your reflection.
You don’t notice him approach at first.
But then you feel eyes burning into the back of your skull.
He leans against the doorframe, just watching. Not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious — you feel simply seen. Like he’s memorising you.
“You’re staring,” you say softly, meeting his eyes through the mirror.
“Can you blame me?” He answers, a sly smile on his face.
He crosses the small space to you and rests his hands on your hips from behind, gentle but firm. Grounding. You lean back into him, head tipping backwards to rest briefly against his chest.
“I hate this day,” you admit.
“So do I,” he says without hesitation.
It’s the day your parents died. The day his did too. The day the kingdom calls unity, but you and the rest of the marked ones remember as the day your lives changed forever.
He presses a kiss to your hair. “But we’ll get through it, like we always do.”
You hum in agreement, taking comfort in the moment in his arms before you would have to put on a mask in front of all the other cadets, leadership and royalty expected to attend the ‘festivities’.
You marvel at the way Garrick practically towers over, his strong arms now wrapped around your waist, muscles rippling even under the black tunic he wore. His curls were messily styled, jaw sharp and strong despite the somber look in his eyes. You lift your hand to reach up and gently stroke his jaw and he presses a kiss to your palm before you inevitably move away.
You re-enter the bedroom, reaching for your dress which hangs on the outside of his armoire.
“Let me,” Garrick says.
You let him take the dress, holding it open for you to step into, helping you guide it up and over your shoulders, careful not to rush. His fingers linger on the bare skin of your back as he pulls the zipper up, slow and precise, appreciating that the moment needs care.
“There,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”
You turn, adjusting the fabric, then look up at him. His expression is soft, but his eyes are a little tired. A little sad.
You reach up and straighten his collar. “You always clean up so nice.”
He snorts. “Don’t sound so surprised, love.”
He takes your hand. Squeezes once. “Ready?”
“No,” you say honestly.
“Me neither.”
But he opens the door anyway, and you walk out together — side by side, fingers intertwined — toward a day you both hate, carrying each other through it like you always do.
It happens at midnight.
You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, hair half-braided, halfway through a book, when the air in front of you shifts.
And Garrick appears.
Right there.
In your room.
You scream.
He yelps.
He scrambles to smother your scream with his hand.
You both stare at each other.
“What the actual fuck, Garrick?” You demand, clutching your book to your chest like a weapon.
His grin is so wide it’s almost feral. “Did you see your face?”
“You teleported into my room,” you hiss. “I almost stabbed you with my bookmark.”
You suddenly blink. Realisation dawning on you.
“Wait—how did you do that?”
“I distance wilded,” he states proudly. “My second signet finally materialised.”
Your panic fades into awe. “Garrick…that’s incredible. That’s—that’s so rare, and so dangerous.”
“I know,” he says, still grinning. “Isn’t it great?”
You make him sit. You make him explain. You both promise each other not to tell anyone, except Xaden of course. You make him swear to be careful.
He swears.
He lies.
Because from that day on, he uses it for evil.
Garrick Tavis made it his personal mission to give you a heart attack.
He pops up when he knows you’ll be alone. In the gym. On a run. On the flight field with your dragon.
He appears in the showers once late at night, you thought for some alone time, but he promptly stole your towel and then vanished with a boisterous laugh.
He pops in beside you whilst you’re walking with Xaden back from a weapons drop and nearly gets himself stabbed by both of you.
He appears behind you in corridors, in doorways, once directly at your shoulder just to give you a kiss and to say, “Hi.”
Every time, you warn him.
“One of these days,” you tell him, “My instincts are going to kick in and I will hurt you.”
He just laughs. “You love me too much to hurt me.”
“I do,” you say sweetly. “But that won’t save you.”
You warned him.
One night you’re walking back from the library, tired, arms full of books, mind somewhere else.
The air shifts.
He appears.
Right in front of you.
You don’t even think.
Your fist connects with his face.
There’s a very satisfying thump.
He stumbles back with a startled noise, hands flying to his nose. “Ow—! Gods—!”
You freeze. The books hit the floor. “Oh my gods—Gare—I’m so sorry!”
You step forward, concern for your boyfriend’s face overriding the initial flare of survival instincts that caused you to lash out. You take his chin in your hand, turning it this way and that, checking to make sure you hadn’t done any serious damage.
Then you punch him again, hard, in the arm.
“Ow! What was that for?” Garrick practically whines, now rubbing his arm.
“I told you!” You almost shriek, half horrified and half vindicated, before remembering that someone could overhear you and lowering your voice. “You scared me.
He blinks at you, then starts laughing, grinning through the pain. “Worth it.”
“You’re such an idiot, I could’ve really hurt you.”
He sobers when he sees your face turning serious, reaching for your hand. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop using it to scare you. Just for emergencies only.”
You lift a brow. “You swear?”
“I swear,” he says. “No more surprise appearances.”
A beat.
“…Probably.”
You sigh, leaning into him as he throws his arm around your shoulder, beginning to lead you back to the Riders Quadrant. “One of these days you’re going to wield into the wrong place.”
He kisses your temple. “Not when I know you’re always waiting for me on the other side.”
“Not unless you give me a heart attack.”
The smoke from Trager’s funeral pyre still clung to the air.
The makeshift camp the squad had put together was quiet — everyone was afraid to disturb the fragile space between grief and exhaustion.
Garrick had been looking for you for ten minutes, checking the obvious places first, then the less obvious ones, irritation slowly giving way to worry.
Finally, he spotted you as he approached the beach once again.
You were sat just off the beach, tucked under the shade of a crooked tree, the dipping sun bathing the sand and your legs in a warm orange. And you were…talking to yourself?
And giggling?
Garrick slowed his approach.
As he got closer, he could hear you more clearly.
“Would you stop that? You cannot climb that. I’ve already told you twice—ow!”
A pause.
“Oh, so now you’re innocent.”
Another pause.
“…You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He stops a few steps behind you. “Should I be concerned that you’re talking to yourself?”
You jump slightly and twist around. “Garrick! I didn’t hear you.”
“I can tell,” he says dryly. “You were clearly having a conversation with…yourself?”
You grin. “I’m babysitting.”
He frowns and steps closer. “You’re what?”
He crouches down and begins to lean over your shoulder to see what you’re talking to—
—and a orange furball launches over your shoulder directly at Garrick’s chest.
“—Sh—!”
Garric jerks back with a startled curse, nearly tripping over his own feet as a very small, very angry ginger kitten latches onto the fabric of his shirt, claws digging in.
You absolutely lose it.
You’re laughing so hard you have to brace a hand in the sand.
“You should’ve seen your face,” you wheeze.
Garrick stares at the kitten, then back at you.
“…This,” he says slowly. “is a cat?”
“This,” you say proudly, carefully prying the kitten from Garrick. “Is Broccoli.”
He blinks. “That’s the angriest vegetable I’ve ever seen.”
“Drake asked me to watch him,” you explain gently. “He’s with Cat.”
Garrick nods in understanding, crouching again beside you, eyeing Broccoli suspiciously. “It attacked me.”
“He,” you emphasis. “Has been through a lot today. Be nice to him.”
“I am being nice,” Garrick replies. “He attacked me first.”
“You scared him,” you coo down at the kitten. “He’s just a wittle baby, aren’t you?”
Your hands don’t stop gentle strokes and tickles which the kitten laps up, purring happily when you rub a finger under his chin, playfully batting at your hand as you try to pull it away.
Garrick attempts to also lather attention on him, but before he can, Broccoli proceeds to latch onto his hand, his small teeth sinking into his skin.
“—Ow! Little shit—“
“Gare!”
He immediately retracts his hand, frowning down at the kitten who proceeds to disappear into your flight jacket in an ungraceful flop, trying to bat at the end of your plait.
You laugh at the devastated look on Garrick’s face.
Garrick watches you — hands to himself now — his expression gentling in that way it tends to when he thinks you’re not looking.
“You’re good with him,” he says.
“He’s tiny, angry and adorable,” you reply. “Relatable, really.”
Garrick snorts.
You scratch Broccoli behind the ears. The kitten melts instantly.
Garrick watches the way your face changes when you smile down at the kitten — like the weight of the day eases, just a little.
“You know,” he says casually, as Broccoli bats another attempt at Garrick to touch him again. “Hopefully our children aren’t this aggressive, otherwise…we’re doomed.”
You freeze.
“…Our what?”
He stiffens a fraction. “Hypothetically. Very distant. Very theoretical. Preferably in a future where we’re not constantly trying to survive.”
You stare at him, then your mouth curves into something warm and stunned.
“You’ve thought about that?”
He shrugs, ears going faintly pink. “I think about a lot of things.”
You lean your head against his shoulder.
“I think you’d be a good dad,” you say quietly.
He looks down at you, and the purring kitten in your lap. “…I think you’d be terrifying as a mother.”
You laugh. “Rude.”
“Efficient,” he corrects.
Broccoli suddenly decides to abandon your petting and launches once again at Garrick, landing on his lap and immediately biting at the zipper on his jacket.
He sighs. “…See? Already practicing.”
You sit there together under the tree, sharing warmth, the affections of the newest member of the squad, and a moment of peace in the middle of grief.
You decide you want three children.
You absolutely do not agree to call your first son Garrick Junior.
Garrick notices it by accident.
You’re in the middle of getting dressed, droplets still caressing down your skin from his shower as you drop your towel, turning away from him to begin pulling your clothes on when he sees it.
A dark, ugly bruise blooming along your hip and lower back.
Not small. Not faint. The kind that looks like it should hurt every time you move.
His entire mood shifts in a heartbeat.
“Who did that?”
You freeze.
“What?”
He’s already crossing the room, eyes locked on the mark like its personally offended him. “That bruise. Who did that to you?”
You instinctively try to turn away, tugging your leathers up your legs in a sudden hurry to finish getting dressed. “It’s nothing.”
“That,” he says flatly. “Is not nothing.”
He tries to gently take hold of your waist to turn you back around, wanting to look closely at it, but you wave him off. “Garrick, it’s fine. I didn’t even notice it this morning.”
He gently catches your wrist as you try to step out of his hold. “Don’t lie to me.”
There’s something in his voice that makes your chest tighten. Not anger. Not really. Something closer to fear.
“…Someone hurt you,” he says. “Tell me.”
You hesitate.
That’s the wrong answer.
His jaw tightens. “Was it a cadet? A flier? Because I will—“
“It was you.”
The words come out quieter than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“You know,” you mumble, your eyes suddenly not meeting his and your cheeks tingeing a faint pink. “From the other day. I mean — you didn’t do it on purpose — you were trying to hold me up…and we crashed back into the sink.”
Silence.
His brain visibly reboots.
“…That was from that?”
You shrug. “I didn’t even feel it at the time.”
He stares at you like he’s just been told he’s committed a crime.
“I hurt you.”
“No,” you say gently. “It’s basically a sex injury. These things happen.”
He lifts his hand like he wants to touch the bruise, then thinks better of it and drops it back to his side.
“I’m supposed to make you feel good, protect you,” he says quietly. “Not—not this.”
“Garrick,” you say, stepping closer. “Trust me when I say you always make me feel good. You didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I should’ve been more careful.”
You smile a little, because of course that’s his first instinct.
“I don’t want you to be careful all the time.”
He frowns. “That’s not reassuring.”
You lean in and press your forehead to his chest. “I like that you don’t treat me as breakable. I like that you’re…a little rough sometimes.”
He makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a protest. “That’s not helping my guilt.”
You look up at him. “Well, it was my idea to try that position in the shower.”
He snorts, hands finally coming up to rest at your waist. His hands are gentle, like you’re something precious he’s suddenly afraid of handling too tightly.
“I still hate that I did it,” he murmurs.
You smirk at him. “I’m sure you can think of a way to make it up to me.”
That gets a huff of reluctant laughter from him.
He presses his forehead to yours. “I swear I’ll try to be more careful next time.”
You kiss his jaw. “And I swear I’ll keep the suggestions more vanilla.”
His arms tighten around you just a little.
“…I love you,” he says quietly.
You smile gently up at him.
“I know.”
