I sat at the dinner table, the chopsticks in my hand rattling faintly against the bowl as though my nerves had taken over completely. Everyone around me—my mom, Mrs. Tsubaki, Ms. Hanabira, and now Chiyo—was laughing, chatting, eating like this was just another night. But for me, the whole scene was suffocating. Their numbers hovered relentlessly above their heads, sharp and glowing in my vision, reminding me that nothing about this was normal.
[Mrs. Tsubaki: Masturbation: 25 | Intercourse: 57]
[Ms. Hanabira: Masturbation: 14 | Intercourse: 32]
[Chiyo: Masturbation: 3 | Intercourse: 0]
I gritted my teeth, trying to hold myself together. My brain wouldn't stop screaming, and the worst part was that the screaming was in two different voices. One part of me—the foreign part, the me from Earth—knew this wasn't my world. I remembered watching Doraemon as a kid, watching Nobita fail, cry, and somehow scrape by every episode. I had seen every gadget, every ridiculous plan, every ending of every movie. I knew how their lives unfolded.
But another part of me—the one that wasn't supposed to exist—was swelling stronger every day. Nobita's memories had begun to bury themselves in me like roots, tangling up my thoughts. His childhood tears, his crush on Shizuka, his humiliation from Gian's fists—they weren't supposed to be mine, but they played like my own history. They were the only thing stopping me from falling off the edge.
I stared at Chiyo, her short black hair bouncing as she laughed. The numbers over her head glowed faintly, mocking me. Masturbation: 3 | Intercourse: 0. A whisper in my skull twisted the digits into temptation. She's untouched. She's innocent. She could be yours.
My gut lurched, and a sudden heat flared low in my stomach. My cock twitched inside my shorts, stiffening like it was answering a call I hadn't given. Panic shot through me, and I squeezed my thighs together under the table, trying to smother it. The fabric pressed against me, making it worse.
Stop. I'm Nobita. I'm Nobita. These are my friends, my family. I'm Nobita.
But I wasn't. I knew I wasn't. Nobita never watched Doraemon on TV. Nobita never sat in a theater watching movies about his own failures and triumphs. Nobita never saw his world as fiction. That was me. That was the other me.
My cock pulsed again, hotter, throbbing, and a wet patch began to spread across the thin front of my shorts. I felt it dampen the fabric, sticking against me. I nearly dropped my chopsticks. My face flushed hot, my breath sharp and shallow.
I tried to focus on the rice in front of me, but Mrs. Tsubaki leaned forward, smiling at something my mom said. [25 | 57] shimmered above her head, and instantly a vision forced itself into me—her blouse sliding down, her chest bouncing as a man thrust into her. My hands shook violently.
I'm Nobita. I'm Nobita. I'm Nobita.
But the voice that repeated it inside me was trembling. It wasn't conviction. It was desperation.
Chiyo reached across me for the soy sauce, her arm brushing mine. Her scent, faint and floral, drifted under my nose. My cock jerked, leaking again, the wet spot on my shorts growing larger. My whole body wanted to recoil, but another thought slithered in: She's close. She's within reach.
I slammed my eyes shut, digging my nails into my palm beneath the table. No. Nobita wouldn't think that. Nobita would never—
But that was the problem. I wasn't Nobita.
"Are you okay, Nobita?" Ms. Hanabira's voice broke through, her digits pulsing in the corner of my vision. [14 | 32]. My brain betrayed me instantly, replaying a blurred scene of her panting, her hand buried between her legs. My cock twitched so hard it hurt, another hot leak wetting my shorts.
I forced out a laugh, brittle and fake. "Y-Yeah. I'm fine."
Doraemon, ever oblivious, tilted his head, cheeks puffed with dorayaki. "You don't look fine, Nobita. Maybe you should lie down after dinner."
Lie down. My stomach sank. If I stood up now, everyone at the table would see—the obscene tent jutting up under the cloth, the dark stain spreading across the front. The thought nearly made me gag.
I dug my heels into the floor, my body trembling, caught between two selves. The real me, who knew this was fiction, who knew every gadget and ending. And Nobita, whose memories wrapped tighter and tighter around my skull, whispering that these people were my world, my bonds, my secrets to hold.
The only thing keeping me tethered was that contradiction. I wasn't Nobita. I could never be. But if I admitted that—if I truly let go—what would stop me from using this cursed sight to strip everyone bare, to turn their numbers into my playthings?
My cock ached, throbbing, leaking, the heat unbearable.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my gaze down into my bowl, repeating the lie with every shaky breath.
I'm Nobita. I'm Nobita. I'm Nobita.
But the damp patch spreading wider across my shorts told me otherwise.