of seahorses and sponges
you fall for gojo, but your asexuality brings fear.
sex was all around every particle, breath, movement in this world. sex kept the world moving, to be exact. it was in every song, in every movie, in every novel, every app (what on earth was that endless tumblr smut scrolling?), even in the plants you so much cared for. but not in you. not in that way.
you thought you were broken. your friends, your cousins, everyone your age were drooling about their lovers, their performances on bed, first times, porn videos to watch later, but you just didn’t have it in you.
let’s not even start with your past relationships. all of them assholes. hands out of place, insisting, persisting, refusing to take a no for an answer until you got really mad and they called you boring. maybe some cheated on you, who knows.
you didn’t knew before you were different, just knew you didn’t want them touching you everywhere.
in high school, when your best friend would text you links to fanfics laced with scenes that made her giggle and fan herself, you’d skim past them, focusing on the plot twists or character backstories instead.
“don’t you get it?” she’d ask, eyes wide. “the tension is everything!”
you’d nod, pretend, but inside, it was like reading a recipe for a dish you’d never crave.
college wasn’t better –parties where people paired off, whispers about hookups over brunch. your roommate once dragged you to a club, insisting it would ‘loosen you up’.
you danced for a bit, but when a guy leaned in too close, his breath hot on your neck, you excused yourself to the bathroom and stayed there scrolling plant care tips until she was ready to leave.
your first boyfriend, back in freshman year, seemed nice at first. movie nights, walks in the park. but then came the expectations. his hand would slide under your shirt during a film, and you’d shift away, say you were cold.
“come on, babe,” he’d whine. “it’s normal.” normal. that word stung.
the breakup was messy –he called you frigid, said you were wasting his time.
the next one was worse: persistent texts at night, links to videos he thought would ‘help’ you. when you finally snapped, telling him no meant no, he laughed it off as you being uptight.
“everyone wants this eventually.” he said.
you blocked him, spent the night repotting your pothos, watching the soil settle around the roots like a sudden reminder of stability.
work life didn’t help. coworkers swapping stories about weekend flings over coffee breaks, assuming you’d join in. you’d smile, steer the talk to weekend hikes or that new cafe with the great matcha. but alone in your apartment, surrounded by your balcony garden –ferns unfurling slowly, succulents plump and resilient–, you wondered if something was missing in your wiring.
plants reproduced through cuttings or spores, no drama, no pressure. why couldn’t people be more like that? no demands, no expectations beyond what you could control.
you threw yourself into hobbies to seek your own passion: knitting scarves that piled up unused, baking bread that you’d share with neighbors, and online forums about aquariums ph levels and algae blooms.
that’s where you met satoru, on a forum for enthusiasts, of all places.
your username was something like ‘greenyfishyh2o’ and his was ‘thatankdude7’, with a profile pic of a defiant-looking clownfish peeking from an anemone.
thanks to a thread about betta fish setups –your post a detailed, almost obsessive guide on using natural planting to reduce stress for the fish–, he replied: “whoa, this is gold. my betta’s been flaring at his reflection like it holds a personal grudge. trying this tomorrow. updates incoming?”
his enthusiasm was a perfect mirror to yours, no ulterior motives, just pure, unadulterated geekery. you both geeked out over the nuances of rare guppy morphs and the precise water parameters for discus fish, debating the merits of canister versus sponge filters in late-night comment sections that bled into early morning.
but those chats inevitably evolved from public forum replies to private direct messages. he’d send motion-blurred photos of his tank progress, the flash reflecting off the glass: “day 3: plants are thriving, betta’s chilling. you’re a wizard.”
you’d reply with tips on lighting cycles, sharing pics of your own setup –a modest 20-gallon where guppies darted like scattered jewels among thickets of java moss. “and now you’re almost there. keep it going!” you’d cheer. he was always far more impressed with your humble tank than you were, to say the least.
months of messages turned into voice calls, late evenings when you’d both be winding down, the low hum of his computer fan a familiar backdrop. “okay, no, i do like plants, but i’m such a dork on the subject.” his voice was light, almost musical, with a laugh that bubbled up easily. “tell me about them.” he’d say. “not the tank ones, obviously. i mean the balcony crew.”
“with one condition: you have to grow one yourself.” you’d counter, smiling into the phone. and then you’d describe the way your aloe vera spiked defiantly from its pot, how the spider plant sent out babies on delicate stems like a miniature palm tree, and the pothos that you swore had the spiky hair of a simpsons character.
he listened, really listened, asking follow-ups about soil ph and sunlight that showed he’d paid attention to every word. there was no flirting, no hints at more, just a shared, comfortable curiosity that never pushed for more than what felt right.
he had this effortless, slightly chaotic way of typing that made you laugh, using emojis that weren’t overdone –usually just a simple 🐟 or 🌱– and telling long, hilarious stories about his disastrous attempts at keeping seahorses alive, which he summed up as “an expensive lesson in accepting that some things just want to float away”.
and he also had layers you uncovered slowly without even trying: he worked as a graphic designer, freelancing from home, which explained his odd hours. “deadlines are killers. why can’t i just be a starfish and filter-feed my way through life?” he’d groan during a call, and you could hear the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his pen on a notepad.
you opened up too, bit by bit, about your job in human resources, interviewing people who reminded you how arbitrary life really was. “it all comes down to whether they like your face.” you’d say, the bitterness seeping in. “if they like you, you’re in. that’s it.”
he never pried, but his questions drew you out gently: “what’s the best interview you’ve ever hosted?” or “what was your first plant love?” he didn’t try to fix your frustration; he just sat with you in it.
the suggestion to meet came casually, after months of this easy rhythm.
“there’s this aquarium downtown. heard they have a new reef exhibit. wanna check it out? no pressure.”
your heart stuttered. online was safe, a curated world of text and voice. in person meant facing the inevitable. what if he expected more? what if you disappointed him like the others? but his messages were always respectful, always ending with “talk soon?” instead of demands.
you typed “yes” before you could overthink it, your thumb hovering over the send button for just a second too long.
-
that day, you arrived early, the scent of saltwater and disinfectant already clinging to the air. you fidgeted with the hem of your soft blue sweater –the one with the subtle wave pattern that reminded you of ocean currents. it matched your jeans and comfortable sneakers, nothing flashy, just practical for walking around for hours.
when satoru showed up, he was taller than you’d imagined (6’3), a full head and shoulders above the crowd. his white hair was tousled like he’d just run a hand through it, and he wore a simple black jacket over a graphic tee with a determined-looking spongebob squarepants on it.
he spotted you immediately, his grin wide and genuine as he waved, dodging a family with a double stroller to reach you.
“hey, you!” he said, his voice warm and familiar from the calls, but seeing his blue eyes crinkle at the corners in person made it all real. he didn’t go for a hug right away, just stood there for a second, a comfortable space between you, taking you in. “that sweater? perfect choice. looks like it was made for today, although i was expecting a little mermaid, if i’m being completely honest; this one looks like the great wave off kanagawa. i like it.”
you felt your cheeks heat up, but it was a gentle warmth, not the pressured kind you were used to. “thanks. i, uh, figured it’d fit the theme.”
he chuckled, a low, easy sound. he offered his hand, palm-up, a clear invitation with no grabby insistence. you slipped yours into it, his long fingers closing gently around yours, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles like he was testing the waters, making sure it was okay.
it was. his hand was warm and steady, not pulling you along but walking beside you as you entered the dim, glowing halls of the aquarium.
the place was alive with the low hum of filters and the soft, constant rush of water. you both lingered at the jellyfish exhibit first, the creatures pulsing lazily in their dark, purple-lit tank, their tentacles like fine, trailing threads.
satoru leaned close to the glass, pointing with his free hand. “see that one? the big one. total show-off. reminds me of my old boss at the ramen shop job. just floating around looking important but doing absolutely nothing.”
he glanced over at you, his free hand absently reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. the touch was light as a breath, fleeting and natural. “your hair’s catching the light here,” he murmured, his eyes soft. “makes you look like you’re part of the exhibit.”
you laughed softly, surprised at how easy it felt, how the gesture didn’t send you scrambling for an excuse. there were no awkward silences, just a comfortable rhythm as you wandered from tank to tank. at the seahorse display –his favorite, he’d said, because they mated for life–, he let go of your hand to press both palms against the glass, mimicking their curly tails with his fingers. “okay, but seriously, how do they even eat? are they just tiny, adorable vacuum cleaners?”
“they are, actually.” you found yourself saying, leaning in beside him. “they have no stomach, so they have to eat constantly. it’s why they’re so hard to keep in captivity.”
he turned to you, his eyes wide with genuine delight. “see? this is why i needed you here. you’re the living, breathing version of those forum posts.” he nudged your shoulder with his, a playful, solid bump. “my own personal fish encyclopedia.”
by the shark tunnel, he complimented your sneakers. “smart pick. these floors are slippery as heck.” and shared a story about slipping and sliding in one as a kid, complete with exaggerated arm flails that had you genuinely giggling. his energy was infectious but never overwhelming, like he was constantly tuned into your pace, matching his steps to yours.
when a kid bumped into you in the crowd, he steadied you with a firm but brief hand on your shoulder, then dropped it right away, not lingering or letting it wander.
you found yourselves in front of the freshwater exhibit, pointing out the species you’d both only ever seen in pictures. “look, a pair of german blue rams.” you said, tapping the glass gently. “they’re supposed to be a bonded pair. see how they stick together?”
satoru watched them for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “it’s nice, isn’t it? just… finding your one tank mate and sticking with them. no drama.” he looked at you then, his gaze open and clear. “like us. just… two weirdos in a giant, metaphorical tank.”
the word ‘us’ hung in the air, simple and unburdened. not like a label or a pressure, but like a fact.
it was the little things: him asking if you wanted to sit on a bench to watch the otters play for a bit, fetching you a water bottle from a vending machine without being asked, and pointing out a clownfish nestled in an anemone to say, “that one’s got your smile: bright and a little bit weird, in the best way.”
as the afternoon faded, the aquarium lights seemed to grow softer, and you realized you weren’t counting the minutes or bracing for the inevitable ‘next step’. but then, as you were both watching the giant pacific octopus rearrange its tank, he suggested heading to his place.
“i’ve got this killer tea latte recipe,” he said, turning to face you, his expression open and hopeful. “and i promise my pancakes are legendarily bad, but we can laugh about it while bingeing spongebob. no pressure, though. we can just… do the tea.” he paused, then added with a small, almost shy smile, “or we could just sit and talk about the moral implications of keeping sentient cephalopods in glass boxes. your call.”
you hesitated only a second before nodding. why not? it felt right, like extending the ease of the day, a natural progression from the waters to the ground of his home.
-
his apartment was comfortably pleasant, not flashy: a small space with mismatched cushions on the couch, a bookshelf crowded with titles like the incomplete guide to fish diseases and aquascaping for dummies, and a kitchen that still carried the faint ghost of vanilla and burnt sugar from the pancakes.
he’d insisted on making breakfast-for-dinner, and now he was flipping the last batch with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. you perched on the high stool at the counter, cradling the tea latte he’d pressed into your hands first –warm milk frothed just right, a careful dusting of cinnamon that made your chest feel strangely soft.
you watched the way his shoulders hunched a little when the spatula slipped, the way he muttered curses under his breath and then immediately glanced over to see if you’d heard. you had. and you smiled anyway.
“taste test.” he finally announced, sliding a plate across the counter. the pancake was lopsided, edges darker than the center, more abstract expressionism than breakfast. you took a small bite, chewing slowly while he watched with the anxious focus of a kid showing off a drawing. “verdict?”
“edible.” you said, letting a teasing lilt creep in. “terrible, in the best way.”
he exhaled –actually exhaled–, and laughed, the sound a little too loud for the quiet kitchen. “high praise. i’ll take it.”
he carried both plates to the living room, patting the couch beside him. you settled in, close enough that your knees brushed when either of you shifted. spongebob was already playing its catchy theme song in his 24-hours-channel of that cartoon for, probably, the 68th time. halfway through the episode where patrick starts by plugging up all of spongebob's holes to prevent bubbles from coming out, satoru stretched his arm along the back of the couch. not quite around you. not yet.
your pulse kicked up anyway.
the arm stayed there for two commercial breaks, doing nothing more aggressive than existing. you could feel the heat of it behind your neck, the faint tremor in his fingers where they dangled near your shoulder, like he was debating whether touching you would ruin everything or whether not touching you would.
you stared at the screen without really seeing it. a real doctor prescribed the yellow friend a real treatment, but all you could register was the centimeter of space between his knuckles and your sweater.
you hated this part.
the part where closeness started feeling like a question you didn’t know how to answer. the part where your body wanted to stay exactly here –warm, safe, laughing at cartoon stupidity–, but your brain was already cataloguing escape routes. you shifted your weight, just enough to lean a fraction away. his arm lifted immediately, like it had been waiting for permission to retreat.
“hey,” he said softly. no accusation, just genuinely concern. “everything okay?”
“i…” the words felt glued to the roof of your mouth. “today was really nice. like, really nice. and i like you. a lot. but i need to say something before…” you stopped, throat clicking dry. “before anything else happens. or doesn’t happen. or… whatever.”
he turned his whole body toward you, knee sliding up onto the cushion so he was facing you properly. the remote got set on the coffee table with exaggerated care, like he was afraid of startling you. spongebob kept laughing in the background; neither of you moved to pause it.
“okay.” he said. calm. waiting.
you pulled your sleeves over your hands, hiding your fingers. “if you feel the same– if you want more than… this–” you gestured vaguely between you, the couch, the flickering tv. “then i have to be honest. sex is probably going to be off the table. like… most of the time. maybe all of the time. it’s not you. it’s never been about the person. i just… don’t want it. i don’t feel it. any of it.”
the silence that followed wasn’t long, but it felt endless. you kept your eyes on the twisted hem of your sweater so you wouldn’t have to watch his face change.
when he finally spoke, his voice was careful, almost too gentle. “can i ask… is that something you’ve said before? to other people?”
you nodded once. “yeah. usually it goes one of two ways. either they think they can fix me with patience, or they get angry and tell me i’m nuts. or lying. or teasing them.” your laugh came out brittle. “i’ve gotten good at spotting the exact second their expression shifts from ‘oh’ to ‘oh no, not this again.’”
he didn’t laugh with you. instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, hard enough that you heard the faint rasp of skin on skin. “right, well… i’ve been sitting here panicking for like… twenty minutes,” he admitted. “because i kept thinking maybe you were waiting for me to make a move, and i didn’t know how. and the longer i didn’t, the more i convinced myself you were disappointed. or bored. or– fuck, i don’t know. that i was reading everything wrong.”
you looked up then. his ears were pink. really pink.
“you were nervous?” you asked, surprised.
“terrified.” he corrected, letting out a shaky breath-laugh. “i’ve had relationships before. some short, some longer. and yeah, sex happened sometimes. but it was never… i never needed it the way other people seem to. like it’s oxygen or something. for me it’s more like… optional DLC. nice if it’s there, but i’m not gonna restart the game if it isn’t.” he paused, searching your face. “i thought maybe that made me weird. or cold. or– hell, maybe i wasn’t man enough. i don’t even know the right label half the time. i just know i don’t miss it when it’s gone.”
you stared at him, the knot in your chest slowly loosening.
“seriously?” the word came out almost a whisper.
“yeah.” he gave a small, crooked smile. “my last relationship ended because she said i didn’t desire her enough. that i was ‘checked out’. i wasn’t. i just… didn’t want that part. and i felt like shit for it. like i was failing some test i didn’t sign up for.”
you swallowed, kind of relieved. “i’ve spent so long feeling like i’m the only one who doesn’t get why everyone else is obsessed with it. like there’s a secret everyone else was told and i missed the memo.”
he leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees. “same. i kept thinking: maybe if i tried harder, faked it better, it would click. it never did. and then i’d feel guilty for pretending, and guilty for not pretending. fun loop.” he sighed. “honestly… you can put that energy into more productive things. and it’s not that i hate it or find it gross; i just think it’s unnecessary, or that it should only happen under certain circumstances. like an important milestone. being with someone that way is like touching their soul, and that’s a lot. at least for me."
you let out a long, shaky breath that turned into something close to a laugh. “god. we’re both misfits.”
“the best kind.” he said, nudging your knee lightly with his. “the kind that can eat terrible pancakes and watch series without anyone getting their pride hurt or feeling bad about coming too soon or not coming at all.”
the tension in your shoulders finally cracked. you leaned back against the couch, letting your head tip toward him, just enough that your temple brushed his shoulder.
“so… what now?” you asked quietly.
he thought for a second. “now? we finish this episode. then maybe we restart from the pineapple-under-the-sea part because i think we both zoned out. and tomorrow–” he shrugged, the movement soft against your side. “tomorrow we keep doing whatever this is. no pressure. no checklist. just our basics.”
you smirked, pinching his cheek. “i’d like that.”
his arm came back around your shoulders. loose, no weight behind it, just there. you let yourself lean into it this time, gently.
“now shut up.” he said. “the best part’s coming.”
@sukimiya ♡
