can you do one with azzi and the five love languages? like how her and her gf are with all 5
ugh i love azzi so much, shes my baby angel precious princess she cannot do anything wrong in my eyes. anyway! heres a fic
words of affirmation
It wasn’t like Azzi needed to be told she was good—her stats, her trophies, her highlights, they all spoke for themselves. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear it. Especially from her.
Azzi was always hardest on herself after a bad game. And by “bad,” it usually meant she’d still dropped a solid twenty points but missed a few shots she thought she should’ve made. She didn’t sulk, exactly, but she got quiet. The kind of quiet that sat heavy between them, stretching across the space in their apartment like an unspoken loss.
And Azzi never asked for reassurance. Never outright sought it. She was too disciplined, too locked in, the kind of player who internalized every mistake and used it as fuel. But that didn’t mean she didn’t need it.
Especially on nights like this.
You knew the pattern well by now—how she’d shower in silence, how she’d settle onto the couch with her protein shake, her body still tense from the game, jaw tight with whatever frustration she was turning over in her head.
You didn’t say anything at first. You just sat beside her, close enough that your thigh pressed against hers, letting the space between you settle. Letting her come down from it in her own time.
When the moment felt right, you leaned into her a little more, your fingers tracing lazy shapes against her wrist. “You know,” you started, keeping your voice soft but certain, “I love the way you see the court. You always make the right play, even when it’s not the easiest one. That kick-out to the corner in the third? That was beautiful, Az.”
You felt her exhale, the slightest release of tension, but she didn’t respond. You kept going.
“And I love how you fight for every single point. Even when it’s not your night, you never stop pushing. That’s what makes you different.”
Azzi turned her head slightly, looking at you for the first time all night. There was something unreadable in her eyes—something softer than frustration, something closer to understanding.
“Yeah?” she asked, quiet but almost hopeful.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “And also, you’re still the best shooter in the country, in case you forgot.”
That finally pulled a small, breathy laugh from her, her head dipping for just a second before she leaned into you, letting her forehead rest against your shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. You could feel it in the way she softened against you, in the way her fingers curled around yours.
She was letting herself believe it.
acts of service
Azzi wasn’t good at slowing down. You knew that about her. She ran herself into the ground, always pushing past what her body probably wanted, never really stopping long enough to listen to it.
So you did it for her.
It started small—little things like making sure she had her protein shakes prepped, slipping extra recovery packs into her bag before away games. But then you started noticing more—the way she winced slightly when she sat down, the way she rolled her ankle absentmindedly throughout the day, the way she stretched her calf a little longer than usual.
She never complained. Never even acknowledged it. Which meant it was exactly the kind of thing she’d ignore until it became a real problem.
So, when she got home from practice one evening, sweaty and exhausted, she walked into a fully prepped recovery session in the living room.
The coffee table had been pushed aside, a yoga mat rolled out in its place. Next to it, a foam roller, resistance bands, massage oil, the works. Everything she needed to take care of herself—if she ever actually stopped long enough to do it.
She stood there, hands on her hips, staring at it like she didn’t understand what she was looking at. “What’s all this?”
You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. “Recovery session,” you said. “You don’t take care of yourself, so I’m doing it for you.”
Azzi scoffed, amused. “I do take care of myself—”
“You literally said, ‘it’s not that bad’ about a sprained ankle.”
Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it. You had her there.
She sighed, the kind of sigh that meant she was giving in, and flopped onto the mat. “Fine,” she muttered, but there was a smile threatening her lips.
You sat beside her, already reaching for her calf, hands working over the tight muscle with practiced ease. She let out the smallest, pleased hum, melting just a little under your touch.
“You just wanted an excuse to touch me,” she murmured, eyes closed now, smug.
You rolled your eyes. “Maybe.”
receiving gifts
Azzi wasn’t someone who cared about gifts in a material way, but she was terrible at keeping track of things. Shoes, water bottles, her lucky shooting sleeve—you name it, she’d misplaced it at some point.
You, however, paid attention.
So when you noticed that she’d lost yet another pair of her favorite grip socks—the same ones she swore made all the difference in her footwork—you didn’t even hesitate.
You ordered a new pair and tucked them neatly into her practice bag, right on top of her jersey, so she’d find them the next day.
That evening, she walked into the apartment holding them up, an amused expression on her face. “Did you…?”
You barely looked up from your coffee. “You lost yours. Again.”
Azzi shook her head, pulling them on immediately. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me,” you said simply.
She grinned, no hesitation. “Yeah. I do.”
quality time
Time together was rare. Between games, travel, and training, it felt like life kept you moving in different directions.
Which was why, when you finally had a full day off together, you made it count.
You didn’t go anywhere, didn’t make plans—just stayed in, wrapped up in blankets, soft candles flickering, homemade pancakes stacked high on the counter.
At some point in the afternoon, Azzi sprawled across the couch, her head resting in your lap, a book balanced on her stomach. She wasn’t reading, though. Just lying there, eyes closed, letting you run your fingers down her back.
“You asleep?” you asked softly.
She hummed. “Not yet.”
You smiled, shifting slightly so you could get comfortable. This was what you loved most. Not the grand gestures, not the crowded arenas—just this. Just her. Just quiet, lazy afternoons where nothing else in the world mattered.
physical touch
Azzi wasn’t overly affectionate in public. She wasn’t cold, just… private. She didn’t need big displays, didn’t need to prove anything. But when it was just the two of you? Different story.
Which is why, after an exhausting day, she walked through the door and immediately collapsed into you, wrapping her arms around your waist, pressing herself against you like she was trying to crawl into your skin.
You barely had time to react before she buried her face in your neck, sighing deeply.
“Rough practice?” you asked, running a hand over her back.
She mumbled something unintelligible, tightening her hold.
You smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Wanna talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“Just wanna be held?”
A nod.
So you held her. No questions, no expectations. Just the soft weight of her body against yours, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the unspoken promise that no matter how chaotic the world got, this was always her safe place.
