learning or yearning?
tsukishima kei x filipina!f!reader
falling for a human salt shaker with a pole up his ass wasn't on your bingo card, but life is weird like that. w/c: 3k, request, profanities, translations included
the gymnasium air in karasuno always smelled like a violent mixture of floor wax, sweaty kneepads, and the impending doom of coach ukai’s yelling. it was your favorite place on earth, mostly because it provided you with a daily stage to terrorize the resident dinosaur enthusiast.
you were loud. not just regular loud, but full-volume, hand-gesturing, laughing-with-your-whole-ribcage loud. your accent was a heavy, beautiful thing that wrapped around your vowels like a warm hug, turning sharp japanese consonants into something softer, bouncy, and undeniably rhythmic.
“hoy, payatot! look at this!” you bounced over to the bench where the blonde middle blocker was attempting to drink water in peace. (payatot - skinny)
tsukishima didn’t even look up from his bottle, though the slight twitch of his eyebrows gave away the fact that his peace was officially incinerated. “what do you want, short stack? and stop calling me that. my name isn’t ‘hoy’.”
“it means ‘hey’, sungit! and payatot means skinny. look at you, you are like a tall glass of water with no ice. eat some rice, please, i’m begging your mother through you.” you shoved your phone in his face, showing him a meme of a cat wrapped in a lumpia wrapper. (sungit - meanie)
“look! it’s you. a sad little lumpia.”
nishinoya and tanaka materialized out of thin air, drawn by the sound of your laughter like moths to a particularly chaotic flame. “y/n! teach us more bad words! we need to intimidate date tech at the next practice match!”
you grinned, a truly mischievous tilt of your lips that made tsukishima’s stomach do a weird, uncomfortable flip that he blamed on bad cafeteria yakisoba. “okay, okay. listen carefully. if kageyama hogged the ball again, you call him buwaya. it means crocodile. very greedy, very selfish!”
“bu-wa-ya!” the two second-years chanted, pumping their fists in the air like they had just been handed the nuclear launch codes.
“and if the opposite gets a point,” you continued, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “you say sayang. it means ‘what a waste’, but you have to say it with a lot of drama. like this: sayang naman!”
from the sidelines, tsukishima watched the display with a scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he adjusted his glasses, his fingers brushing against the bridge of his nose to hide the faint dust of pink spreading across his cheekbones. you were an absolute hurricane of noise and unbridled energy, the exact antithesis of everything he preferred in a human being. he liked quiet libraries, strawberry shortcake, and being left alone to judge people in silence.
yet, for the past six months, his eyes had developed a traitorous habit of tracking your movements across the gym. he knew exactly how your nose wrinkled when you laughed too hard, how you unconsciously tapped your foot in a three-beat rhythm when you were bored, and the specific pitch of your voice when you were genuinely excited about something.
he wasn’t obsessed. that was a disgusting word used by stalkers and people who didn’t understand the concept of personal space. he was merely… hyper-aware. yes, hyper-aware of your existence because you were a safety hazard to the structural integrity of his calm demeanor.
“tsukki, you’re staring,” yamaguchi murmured from beside him, wearing a smile that was far too knowing for tsukishima’s comfort.
“i’m looking at the clock, tadashi. her voice is loud enough to shatter glass and i’m checking how much longer my ears have to suffer.”
“sure you are,” yamaguchi chuckled, unfazed by the venom in his best friend’s tone. “she’s teaching them ‘puta’ now. i think tanaka thinks it’s a type of pastry.” (puta - bitch)
tsukishima looked back. you were currently trying to reach up and pat tanaka’s head in approval, your face glowing with animated joy. a sharp, physical ache bloomed right in the center of his chest. it was an annoying, persistent tugging sensation that made him want to drag you away from the shouting second-years, lock you in a quiet room, and listen to you talk about absolutely nothing until his brain melted.
the problem was, tsukishima didn’t know how to handle warmth. he was a creature made of ice and sharp edges, and you were a tropical sun. if he got too close, he was terrified he’d just melt into a puddle of useless, vulnerable mush.
so, he did what any emotionally stunted teenager would do: he acted like an absolute jerk.
𓏵
the tragedy began with a notebook. a small, pocket-sized green notebook that tsukishima kept hidden in the deepest recesses of his school bag, right behind his english textbooks.
he was a top student; learning a new language shouldn’t have been this difficult. but tagalog was a complex beast filled with repeating syllables, actor-trigger verbs, and a sentence structure that made his logical brain want to riot. still, every night after finishing his actual homework, he would sit at his desk, put on his headphones to drown out the sound of his brother breathing in the next room, and write.
mahal. love. maganda. beautiful. marikit. gorgeous. ikaw lang. only you.
his handwriting in the notebook was cramped and precise, filled with arrows pointing to grammatical rules and phonetic spellings. he wanted to surprise you. he had this stupid, agonizingly vivid daydream where he would casually drop a perfectly accented sentence in your native tongue, and the shocked, brilliant smile you would give him would finally make his heart stop pounding against his ribs like a caged bird.
the universe, however, possessed a deeply twisted sense of humor.
it happened on a tuesday afternoon during lunch. you were heading to the vending machine to get a melon bread, hum-singing a catchy opm song under your breath, when you spotted tsukishima and yamaguchi sitting on a bench in the courtyard.
you were about to bounce over and demand a bite of whatever tsukishima was eating, but you stopped when you heard your name.
“…and you really think this is going to work, tsukki?” yamaguchi was saying, looking over a small green notebook.
“it has to,” tsukishima’s voice was low, laced with a harshness that he usually reserved for kageyama or hinata. “it’s insane. she doesn’t stop. she talks and talks, and it’s driving me crazy. i need to get this over with so i can finally have some peace of mind.”
your heart, which had been doing its usual happy drum-roll at the sight of him, suddenly felt like it had been plunged into a bucket of ice water.
“but don’t you think she’ll be hurt?” yamaguchi asked softly. “i mean, she really likes talking to you.”
“i don’t care,” tsukishima snapped, snatching the notebook back with a jerk. “hearing those words coming out of her mouth makes me feel like my skin is getting goosebumps. nakakairita. it’s annoying. i just want to put an end to it.”
you stood frozen behind the hedge, your hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the small, wounded sound that wanted to escape your throat.
nakakairita. you knew that word. you had taught it to hinata last week when he wouldn’t stop poking your cheek. it meant annoying. irritating. bothersome.
and tsukishima had just used it to describe you. he had used a word from your language to talk about how much he hated hearing you speak.
tears, hot and furious, blurred your vision. you weren’t a crier—you were the girl who laughed off insults and turned awkwardness into a joke. but this felt different. this felt like a physical blow to the stomach. you had thought that underneath all his sarcasm and eye-rolling, there was a mutual understanding. you thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind your chaos as much as he pretended to.
how stupid could you be? he was tsukishima kei. he was cool, calculated, and sophisticated. of course he hated your loud voice, your thick accent, and your invasive presence. you were a nuisance he was actively studying how to eliminate.
you didn’t get your melon bread. instead, you turned on your heel and bolted back to the safety of your classroom, ignoring the way your chest felt like it was splitting wide open.
𓏵
for the next two weeks, the karasuno volleyball club experienced a phenomenon that was scarier than coach ukai’s training camps: you went completely, utterly silent around tsukishima.
it was a targeted radio silence. you still brought sliced oranges for the team, you still helped kiyoko with the clipboards, and you still taught nishinoya how to say “you’re beautiful” in tagalog (maganda ka), which he was currently screaming at random girls in the hallway.
but whenever tsukishima approached, you became a ghost.
if he sat on the bench, you stood up and walked to the other side of the gym to help yachi organize the towels. if he asked where the extra water bottles were, you would point to them without looking at him, your lips pressed in a hard, thin line. you stopped laughing at his dry remarks. you stopped shoving your phone in his face to show him ridiculous memes. you didn’t even call him payatot anymore.
the silence was deafening. and it was driving tsukishima absolutely, positively feral.
by day five, he was missing normal serves by a mile, sending balls flying into the back wall with a terrifying amount of force.
by day ten, his mood was so foul that even kageyama was avoiding him. he was snapping at everyone, his sarcasm dripping with actual venom instead of his usual bored mockery.
by day fourteen, he was a hollowed-out shell of a giant, his eyes rimmed with dark circles because he couldn’t sleep. his mind was a broken record playing the same question over and over again: what did i do?
he checked his green notebook every night, tracing the words he had painstakingly written down. had he said something wrong? had his pronunciation been offensive? he hadn’t even gotten the chance to use any of it yet.
𓏵
the breaking point came on a rainy friday evening after practice. the gym was mostly empty; only a few stragglers were left to lock up. you were in the storage room, wrestling with a heavy bag of deflated volleyballs that refused to fit on the top shelf.
“let me,” a cold, familiar voice said from behind you.
you jumped, dropping the bag. a large, pale hand reached over your shoulder, gripping the bag and effortlessly sliding it onto the shelf. you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. the scent of clean linen and ironed cotton gave him away instantly.
“thanks,” you muttered under your breath, your voice small and devoid of its usual lively melody. you immediately turned to leave, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor.
a hand shot out, slamming against the doorframe right next to your head and blocking your exit. you stopped dead in your tracks, your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“no,” tsukishima said. his voice wasn’t bored. it wasn’t calm. it was shaking with a raw, jagged edge that you had never heard before. “you’re not walking away from me again.”
you refused to look up at him. “i need to go home, tsukishima. move your hand.”
the use of his last name felt like a slap in the face. his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grind.
“why are you doing this?” he demanded, leaning down so his face was level with yours. his golden eyes were flashing behind his glasses, filled with a desperate, agonizing frustration. “what did i do to make you look at me like i’m a piece of trash on the sidewalk? why won’t you talk to me anymore?”
“because i get it, okay!” you suddenly burst out, the dam holding back two weeks of hurt finally breaking. you looked up at him, your eyes brimming with hot tears that made his chest seize with a violent wave of guilt. “i know you hate me! i know i’m loud and annoying and that hearing me speak makes your skin crawl! you don’t have to keep reminding me with your face!”
tsukishima blinked, completely blindsided. the anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated confusion. “what are you talking about? i don’t hate you. when did i ever say that?”
“i heard you!” you wiped furiously at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “two weeks ago at lunch. you and yamaguchi were sitting on the bench. you had that notebook and you said i was driving you crazy and that i was nakakairita! you used my own language to insult me, tsukki! that was… that was really mean.”
the realization hit tsukishima like a freight train traveling at full speed. his face went from pale to a shade of red that rivaled a ripe tomato. the notebook. the lunch conversation.
“you… you idiot,” he breathed out, his voice cracking. he dropped his hand from the doorframe and dragged it through his blonde hair, looking incredibly stressed. “you complete and utter absolute airhead.”
“don’t call me that!” you snapped, sniffing loudly. “just let me go.”
“no! listen to me!” he grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but careful not to hurt you. he was staring at you with such intense, blazing urgency that you forgot how to breathe. “you didn’t hear the whole conversation. yamaguchi was asking me about the notebook because i was getting frustrated with the grammar. i was complaining because i couldn’t get the pronunciation right and i wanted it to be perfect for you!”
you blinked, the tears freezing on your eyelashes. “perfect for… me?”
“why would you want to be perfect for me? to taunt me? to make me feel worse than i already do?” you scoffed.
tsukishima let out a sound that was halfway between a growl and a sigh of pure desperation. he was done being cool. he was done playing the detached spectator. his pride was in absolute tatters, lying in a puddle on the storage room floor, and he didn’t care at all.
“kase mahal kita!” he shouted, the filipino words bursting from his lips with a thick, distinctly japanese accent but a mountain of raw emotion behind them.
you froze. your brain short-circuited. because i love you.
“i have been staying up until three in the morning every night trying to learn your stupidly complicated language because i am so hopelessly, pathetically in love with you that it makes me physically ill!” his voice was rising now, his chest heaving as he poured out the feelings he had kept locked behind a titanium wall for months. “i wasn’t calling you annoying, you dense girl! i was calling the language rules annoying because i was impatient! i wanted to be able to talk to you in the words that make you happiest. i wanted to be someone you could feel at home with!”
you stared at him, your mouth falling open. tsukishima was breathing hard, his glasses slightly crooked, his face a deep shade of crimson. his eyes were wide, filled with a terrifying vulnerability, searching your face for any sign of rejection.
“i’m desperate for your love, okay?” he continued, his voice dropping to a raw, aching whisper that made your knees go weak. “it’s pathetic. i can’t focus on volleyball, i can’t sleep, i can’t even eat properly because all i can think about is how much i miss the sound of your voice. i miss you making fun of my height. i miss you forcing me to try filipino snacks that are way too sweet. i miss you. and the thought that i had genuinely hurt you and made you hate me was tearing me apart. so please, don’t ever be silent around me again. scream at me, call me names, teach me more swear words, i don’t care. just… please talk to me.”
the silence that followed his outburst was thick and heavy, filled only with the sound of the rain drum-rolling on the metal roof and your own frantic heartbeats.
you stared at him for what felt like an eternity, processing the absolute masterpiece of a confession that had just been delivered by the most prideful boy in school.
and then, you did the only logical thing. you burst out laughing.
tsukishima’s heart plummeted to his shoes. he winced, his shoulders sagging as he prepared to be utterly humiliated. “fine. laugh at me. i know i sounded ridiculous. my accent is probably terrible—”
you didn’t let him finish. you launched yourself forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest. the impact was so sudden that he stumbled back a step, instinctively wrapping his long arms around your waist to keep both of you from toppling over.
“you’re such a giant torpe!” you muffled into his shirt, giggling through a fresh wave of happy tears.
“a what?” he asked, his voice muffled against your hair, though his arms tightened possessively around your small frame.
“a guy who is too shy to confess his feelings. a coward in love!” you pulled back just enough to look up at him, a wide, dazzling smile on your face that illuminated the dark storage room like a thousand suns. “but it was a very good confession, tsukki. your accent is actually very cute. a bit stiff, like a robot trying to be romantic, but cute.”
tsukishima looked down at you, the sheer relief flooding his system making him feel lightheaded. a slow, genuine smile—the rare kind that reached his eyes and made his whole face soften—tugged at his lips.
“shut up,” he murmured, leaning down until his forehead was resting against yours. “i was being sincere.”
“i know,” you whispered, your hands moving up to cup his face, your thumbs gently tracing his high cheekbones. “i love you too, you giant glass of water. mahal din kita.”
the effect of hearing those words directed at him was instantaneous. tsukishima’s breath hitched, and without giving himself time to overthink it and let his brain ruin the moment, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
it was clumsy at first, born from weeks of pent-up yearning and desperate anxiety. but as your lips parted and you melted against him, pulling him closer by his collar, it turned into something incredibly sweet, deep, and impossibly soft. it was the feeling of a long-awaited rainfall after a grueling drought.
when he finally pulled away for air, his eyes were heavy-lidded and incredibly dark. his glasses were completely askew now, sitting lopsided on his nose, which made him look endearingly disheveled.
“was that okay?” he asked quietly, his thumbs tracing the curve of your waist under your jacket. the level of raw devotion in his gaze was enough to make your soul leave your body.
“it was perfect,” you beamed, standing on your tiptoes to straighten his glasses for him. “but we still need to work on your accent. you sounded a little bit like a dying microwave when you said ‘kase’.”
tsukishima groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “you’re never letting me live that down, are you?”
“never! i’m going to tell the whole team tomorrow. nishinoya will make a banner!”
“if you do that, i’m never kissing you again.”
“you’re lying,” you chirped, kissing his cheek. “you’re completely whipped for me, tsukishima kei. you said it yourself. you’re desperate.”
he didn’t even try to deny it. he just sighed, pulling you flush against his chest and resting his chin on top of your head, listening to the beautiful, chaotic rhythm of your laughter filling the quiet gym. he was hopelessly, utterly defeated by a hurricane of a girl, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind losing at all.
n: tsukishima kei, pregnant? no, he’s just in love.
kei’s taglist 1/3
@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @moon-blizz0 @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @rabbitcola @nivabiva @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @asthmaticasma @michexoxo @meonelixir @xiansoria @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @knkzshx @midnights-with-him @depressinglyobsessed @buriedfifii @ghostwifeyy @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @poeticsorcery @fiannee @eri0-0 @snowstormsandavalanches @tsukkislala @starzlytoetsie @ceramic-raven @nekoffie @kuroofangirl67 @thinc0ck @estelleythegreat @lilith-dear
© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !
iloveu
