Okay so before I keep rewriting and reediting and going mental, I will just post it on here, knowing a lot of people like me are desperate for some Sparrow content. Dont worry, I got even more cooking, but I fear I need more time on my longer ones. Anyways, for now, enjoy some established relationship fluff (and ignore my rule bending for the apex games lore) ta taaaa
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Sparrow | Enea Davide Guarino x Reader - Spoil and Be Spoiled
Wordcount: 2,4k
Short summary: Enea loves spoiling his partner — and the feeling’s mutual. Here’s a peek into two moments where they take turns caring for each other, with plenty of softness, sass, and stolen kisses along the way.
Warnings:NONE - Reader is a wee bit grumpy, Author has only vibes and maybe half a brain cell when it comes to Apex lore (especially the whole respawn mechanic—don’t @ me). So please suspend your disbelief, grab a snack, and embrace the cheese. We soft. We dramatic.
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You knew long before he even had the chance to say anything.
Though you were currently barred from participating in the Apex Games - your personal doctor refusing to clear you due to an injury - you still kept up with them. It felt natural to have the matches playing on a second monitor while you typed away at the endless stream of paperwork.
Thanks to that live feed, you got to watch - painfully and in crisp 4K - how Sparrow and his squad were eliminated in a frustrating, tilt-inducing fashion. You caught a glimpse of his face as he brushed past post-game interviews, and oh, he looked like a storm barely contained. Disappointed. Angry. Exhausted from giving his all and still coming up short.
The door hissed open just as the game highlights played on the aftershow - hosted, predictably, by some B-list commentators. Artemis was quick to move from her spot beside you, tail wagging as she padded over to greet her owner. You heard him speak softly to her in Italian - his voice gentler, but not as bright as usual. Even when talking to Artemis, you could tell: the loss was still weighing on him.
You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. He was sharp enough to know you were here.
Sure enough, it took barely ten seconds.
“Tesoro?” he called out.
You hummed in reply as he stepped fully into the room. His clothes looked rumpled, his hair a mess, and there were still a few faint stains on his skin - dust, sweat, maybe a little blood.
“Have you seen the- ”
“I have,” you interrupted, already closing your laptop and walking over to him. “They really had you in a bad spot. Nothing you, Newcastle, or Catalyst could’ve done.”
You could see how it gnawed at him - how much he hated that there was nothing more he could do. His jaw worked as he chewed at his lower lip, eyes flicking away from yours. You reached up and gently held his face, coaxing him to meet your gaze.
“There was nothing to be done. You came third. That’s still a solid standing, my little bird.”
He let out a huff but didn’t argue. He knew better by now.
“You’re too kind to me,” he murmured into your hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Too good.”
“This is just how I am. Now go...take off your gear and wash off the grime. I laid out your favorite sweats already.”
A crooked smile tugged at Enea’s lips as he watched you return to your desk. Bit by bit, he peeled away the day, setting aside his bow, his quiver, his gloves, his jacket - shedding Sparrow until only Enea remained. Eventually, he slipped into the bathroom to shower off the weight of defeat.
Just like you said, his favorite cat-patterned sweatpants and a soft shirt were already waiting on the edge of the sink, folded and ready. When he emerged, warm and clean, he was no longer the agile competitor - just Enea, wrapped in comfort, and home.
He could have never imagined a domesticity like this - coming home to be surprised by a partner who doted on him like he was something precious.
He knew you'd smack him if he ever dared say that out loud, especially if it came with one of his usual self-deprecating jabs. You didn’t tolerate that kind of talk - not from him.
Enea still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to score someone like you: a respected Legend in the Games, and an even sweeter partner who listened to him like every word out of his mouth mattered. But one thing he was sure of? He appreciated you more than words could ever really say - especially when you did thoughtful things like laying out his casual clothes after a rough match.
As he stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, he realized your plans for the evening weren’t over yet. You hadn’t moved from your seat - still typing away on your laptop - but the table in front of the couch looked different. All his favorite snacks and drinks were neatly arranged there, and he was certain they hadn’t been there earlier.
Because of course, you’d thought of him. You always did.
Artemis still rested comfortably beside you, basking in the occasional absent-minded pet you gave her. When you finally glanced up from your screen, you smiled.
“I sure hope you didn’t think I’d just do the bare minimum,” you teased, watching as he made his way over and sank down beside you.
“All of this for me, amore?”
“All for you.”
You set your laptop aside and shifted your posture, just in time for Enea to lie down with his head in your lap. “I think I can die happy now,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed.
“Sure,” you replied dryly, “and what about winning the Games and finally making your family love you again?”
Still with his eyes closed, he raised a hand and mimed a shushing motion.
Knowing exactly what was missing to complete the moment, you picked up the remote and queued up his beloved soap opera. As the dramatic opening theme began to play, you gently ran your fingers through his hair, combing through the dyed tips.
Artemis, ever the opportunist, took that moment to reposition herself, climbing onto Enea’s chest and curling up there with a pleased purr. He chuckled softly and let one hand drift to her side, carding through her fur as you continued to pet his hair.
And just like that, the weight of the day started to melt away.
As the soap opera’s characters launched into yet another dramatic shouting match, Enea surprised you by catching your hand in his.
“You do know how much I love and appreciate you, right?” he asked, voice soft. “Doing all of this for me... I wish I could sing your praises, but I fear my voice would give out.”
He trailed off into Italian with a reverent murmur, “Mi dolce metà.” before turning your hand palm-up and pressing a tender kiss to it.
You watched him, expression flat. Mostly because your mouth was full of waffle you'd just stolen from the snack table.
“You’re missing the engagement fight, Enea.” you deadpanned.
“Ey, I’m being sweet and this is what I get? Che crudeltà!”
You laughed, letting him have his dramatic moment before answering.
“It’s because I don’t need you to say it. I already know. And I know you’d do the same for me. So quit the yapping... and just let me adore you.”
He smiled - soft, real, a little stunned - and gave a small nod before turning his gaze back to the screen.
Under the flicker of the TV and the weight of Artemis still purring on his chest, he squeezed your hand once more and murmured, “Then I’ll consider myself the luckiest man alive.”
-
It didn’t take long for Sparrow to return the favor of being spoiled - though not in the way either of you would’ve preferred.
Despite repeatedly downplaying your recovery and ignoring your doctor’s firm “no,” you reentered the Games anyway. And, well… hindsight was cruel.
Sparrow hadn’t even known you were hurt again until after his squad came out on top. He was still riding the high of victory when Octane rushed over, quick in his retelling.
“Hermano, hey - just so you don’t freak or whatever - but Y/N got caught up in some mess.”
That stopped him cold.
“Fuse dropped his missile thing right into enemy cover - big boom, crazy fireworks, ten outta ten - but the platform Y/N was on? Not exactly up to code anymore. Whole thing gave out under 'em.”
Sparrow’s heart started racing. “Are they - ?”
“Not dead!” Octane added quickly, seeing the panic flare behind his goggles, “Nothing life-threatening! Rescue crew got there fast. Broken leg, sprained wrist, lil’ bruised ego - todo bien!”
Sparrow didn’t respond. That didn’t sound “all good” to anyone, especially not to him, but then again, measuring severity by Octane standards was a dangerous game.
“They’re not gonna be happy about this,” he muttered.
“Nope! They hate being sidelined.” Octane bounced in place like he’d mainlined three energy drinks. Which, knowing him, he probably had. “Anyway - I did my job! Now I gotta go do a flaming trident stunt live. ¡Vamos! AHAHA - ”
And just like that, he was gone, a blur of motion and dust in his wake.
Sparrow shook his head and pushed into the medbay, hoping for the best and bracing for the worst. Fortunately - or unfortunately - you were already there. In a wheelchair. Right leg in a full cast, left wrist bandaged and resting on a cold pack, with other spots of damage scattered like bruised paint across your arms and neck.
He would have worried more if not for the signature scowl on your face as your doctor scolded you with the patience of someone who had clearly reached the end of their rope.
“I told you not to reenter the Games yet!”
“And I got bombed standing on bad scaffolding, cleared or not, that would’ve happened anyway,” you snapped back, irritation practically radiating off you - until you finally spotted him.
Your expression faltered. Not softened, exactly, but flickered with something warmer.
The doctor sighed and looked at Sparrow like he was a godsend and a nuisance all at once. “Take them. I’m done arguing for today.”
“Will do!” he chirped, already making his way to your side. He gently took the wheelchair handles and began wheeling you out, careful not to jostle you too much.
You stayed quiet, but he could feel the storm brewing in your silence.
“Does it hurt, tesoro?” he asked softly.
“Physically? Yeah, a bit. But mostly?” You exhaled sharply through your nose. “My pride’s in absolute shambles.”
He chuckled, pushing open the door with his hip. “Yeah, I figured.”
There was a pause.
“…They didn’t even let me finish the match.”
He grinned. “Tragic. We’ll add it to the long list of crimes against your honor.”
You let out a weak laugh, and for now, that was enough. He'd get you food later. Maybe a trophy that said "Best at Almost Dying Dramatically."
You’d hate it and secretly treasure it in the same breath.
Back at home, Enea insisted on carrying you - bridal style, no arguments. You'd barely gotten a word in before you were already swept up into his arms, wheelchair abandoned at the front door like an afterthought.
"You're ridiculous," you muttered into his shoulder.
"You're injured," he countered. "Let me be ridiculous."
He was unusually quiet as he moved through the apartment, as if each step needed care to balance the gravity in his chest. Guilt, worry, relief - they all played silently across his features.
He laid you gently down on the bed and immediately got to work.
Blankets - your favorite, of course. Pillows fluffed. Game consoles brought to you. Snacks lined up neatly on the side table like offerings to royalty. A straw in your drink so you didn’t have to move yourself too much. He even remembered to grab that ridiculous cat-shaped plush he gifted to you back when you first started seeing each other. (He calls it Artemis less demanding cousin)
You watched him bustle around, brows raised.
“…You don’t have to do all this.”
Enea just looked at you like you’d suggested the sky didn’t need to be blue.
“You did it for me,” he said, placing a kiss on your temple as he tucked the blanket around you. “Let me do it for you.”
Then he disappeared into the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards, taking mental stock of what you had and what he could turn into something comforting. You could hear him moving around, humming quietly to himself, the soft clatter of pans and the occasional muttered, “Dove cavolo hai messo il sale…”
It took a while, but eventually, he returned with a warm plate of pasta - steaming, rich with sauce, and smelling like something pulled from a cozy trattoria rather than your modest kitchen. He placed it in front of you with a little flourish, proud as ever.
“Et voilà!” he beamed. “Made with love…and slight panic.”
You took one bite and groaned.
Of course, it was perfect. Perfectly seasoned, the pasta al dente, the sauce a perfect balance of comfort and richness. You looked up at him, incredulous.
“Okay, what the hell. How are you this good at everything?”
He grinned, already sliding onto the couch beside you. “Nonna made me learn all the family recipes until I could cook them blindfolded. Said I’d never seduce anyone with my looks alone.”
You raised a brow. “She was wrong.”
“Grazie, amore,” he said with a wink, stealing a forkful off your plate even though he’d already made a bowl for himself.
You let him, of course. He’d earned it.
You two ate and he kept pressing teasing kisses to your cheek and dramatic sighs about your “terrible taste in structural integrity.” You rolled your eyes, but let him do, you knew there was no real way of stopping him.
Later, as the soap opera he'd preemptively queued up began to play, he settled down beside you - careful, but close. His arm found its way around your shoulders while your head leaned against his chest. His fingers slipped easily into your hair, stroking in gentle patterns.
“You’re spoiling me,” you murmured sleepily.
“I plan to do much worse once you’re healed,” he teased, voice low and fond. “But for now, this is just penance.”
“Penance?”
“For back when you doted on me, after my tragic third place.”
You turned your face into his neck, pressing a kiss against his pulse. “As if you'd need to repent for that.”
Sparrow leaned down and whispered against your skin:
“Mi cuore. You don’t ever have to lift a finger. Not while I’m here.”
And true to his word, he stayed beside you the whole night—fussing over your comfort like it was his full-time job, stealing kisses between fluffing your pillows, and loving every second of it.
That is, until morning came and he bolted upright with a gasp, suddenly remembering Artemis.
“Oh no, she's gonna turn my coffee table into mulch if I don't feed her, subito!”
He kissed your forehead in a flurry and sprinted out the door like his life depended on it, leaving behind a warm blanket where he’d been, and the lingering scent of his cologne.
Even in his absence, it still felt like he was doting on you. And you knew he would soon return, unable to stay away for long.
Warnings: None!!! no pronouns used, honestly this is just fluff w a hint of angst bc idk he’s a silly guy
A/N: yeah i got tired of there being nothing for this pretty baby!!! so i did it myself 🤦🏽♀️ THIS GOD DAM ITALIAN WONT LEAVE MY HEAD!! anyways i wrote ts at like 2 am idk i thought it was cute i was inspired by how different his hair looked in these photos and was like WAIT just something cute for my shayla <3
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“Are you almost finished,” Sparrow whined in his thick accent. “My neck is starting to hurt…”
Normally, you enjoyed his constant whining and complaining—which he was like all the time— but today you were under a time crunch. He’d told you last minute that he needed his hair dyed for a photo shoot.
“Enea, stop moving so much. You’re making it take longer then it needs to.” you sighed
“I know, but it’s been so long, and we don’t have that much time left,” he whined again even more pitifully.
“I don’t know why you had me redye your whole head and not you the ends like i usually do,” you scolded, rubbing more of the color into his scalp .
“I know, I know. it’s just—what if my parents see the newsletter,” He looked up at you with those puppy eyes he always used to get his way. “And if my mother saw I dyed my hair, she’d kill me… well, find me, and then kill me before I even get to the games.”
You rolled your eyes as he let out a small chuckle.
“Grazie amore”
You tugged lightly at his cheek.
He immediately sat up, yelping. “AHH! You got dye on my face!”
“Stop being such a crybaby.” you mutter as You grabbed a towel from the sink and dabbing gently at the smear on his cheek. “Calm down. You act like it’s gonna kill you.”
“It might…” he pouted. “The guy you bought this from looked sketchy as hell…. for all we know, this stuff will make my hair fall out.”
You raised a brow at him. “Well then, your next shoot will be called ‘Bald and Beautiful.’”
He snorted. “Calvo e bello!” Then he burst into laughter.
You’d picked up a few Italian words over the years with him, though sometimes you just smiled and nodded when he spoke too fast.
But now, his laughter slowly faded. He started fidgeting with his fingers.
“…you really think they’ll see it?” he asked softly. “Does the newsletter even go to Psamathe?”
You glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. The way his shoulders had tensed, it was about more than just hair dye.
“Of course they will. You know how nosy those rich assholes are—” You paused. “…Sorry.”
“If they do,” you added more gently, “they’ll see you smiling. Standing in front of the camera like you own the dam place. Looking happy.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
You rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be. They’re the ones who cut you off. If anything, you should be proud. Look how far you’ve come without them.”
He finally looked up at you, and for a second, the dramatic, teasing boy you loved was gone and replaced by something quieter. There was hurt behind his eyes.
Then he smirked. “You’re giving speeches now? Should I be worried?”
“Only if you mess up the dye,” you said, flicking his head.
“Ow!” he muttered grinning as he rubbed the spot. “That hurt so much, amore!
You rolled your eyes as the timer dinged behind you, twenty minutes to rinse and get to the shoot.
“Okay, drama queen. Let’s finish this. You’ve got a world to impress.”
Sparrow dramatically groaned as he got up and trudged to the sink like it was manual labor. You adjusted the water and gently guided his head under the stream.
For a moment, it was quiet. Just the sound of running water and your fingers carefully combing through his hair.
“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes closed
“Of course, I should really open a salon.” you replied as you rinsed out the last bit of dye.
“I mean it,” he said, more serious now. “Not just the hair… you take care of me. You always do.”
You paused, your heart doing that annoying flutter thing it always did when he stopped being ridiculous for more than five seconds.
“you’d do the same for me”
He grinned. “Yeah, but I’d complain way more.”
You laughed, running a towel through his damp hair and fluffing it around a bit.
He squeaked and swatted your hand away.
“Enea!” you yelped
“It looks good,” you say, ignoring his glare “Really good. You’re gonna kill it out there”
He catches your wrist before you pull away. “You think so?”
Then you meet his eyes, the ones that always made your chest ache just a little
“I know so.”
For a second, he just stared at you like he was searching for something. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.
“Grazie, amore.”
Your fingers find his again before giving them a gentle squeeze. “Now hurry. We’ve got 15 minutes. And if we’re late again, they will kick you out of the game for sure this time.”
Sparrow stepped back, grabbing his bag and a towel. “Alright, alright. But when I’m famous and they make a biopic about my life? This is the part where they’ll play the romantic montage.”
You laughed as he opens the door
“Oh yeah?” you call out to him. “Who’s playing me, then?”
He looked over his shoulder “They could never find someone that looks at me the way you do,” then he added. “Someone with less charm and less attitude”
You grabbed the nearest hairbrush and threw it at his head. He ducked —barely— and cackled as he ran down the hallway.
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A/N: lmk if y’all fw this bc i have more ideas 😽 and time on my hands LMMAOO ik i always say ill write a pt 2 or some bs but i promise i will bc this mf won’t leave me head!! but ty sm for reading 🩷 criticism welcome i fr don’t be writing like that 😓 !!! 
Try to be safe and aware of the risks you are taking. Don't fall into the trap of harming yourself for the entertainment of others, a lot of people will encourage it without understanding or caring about the potentially lethal results.
