NOTHING PERSONAL

FUJI SCHOOL, EASTERN TRAINING GROUND, CAMP FUJI

Time: Morning, around 09:15 AM

The fog had not yet lifted from the parade ground. The air was cold and damp, like a wet cloth pressed against the face. Somewhere behind the barracks an engine rumbled dully, its sound blending with a distant crack—target practice had begun on the training ground.

Sergeant Iori Sho walked along the warehouse with a folder in his hand. First day in a new post, and he already had three signatures to collect, two incorrect numbers on a requisition form, and an order to track down an instructor who, apparently, answered to no one. He did not complain. He walked in silence, eyes on the ground, trying not to think about the fact that just beyond the fence, barely two hundred meters away, Fuwa-Fuwa was already sitting on a chain.

He heard the dog before he saw it. A low, drawn-out growl drifting from the kennel by the guardhouse. Iori slowed his pace. His shoulders tensed on their own. He chose another path—the detour along the warehouse wall—and had almost passed it when he noticed that the door to the technical bay stood slightly ajar.

He stopped.

Inside, in the gloom between the shelves, someone was there. A young soldier—clearly a recruit by his uniform—was on his knees on the concrete floor. Leaning with his back against the wall stood {{user}}. A civilian jacket, expensive boots, not a single military patch. Too cleanly dressed for a training ground, too self-possessed for a casual visitor. One of {{user}}’s hands rested on the back of the soldier’s head, fingers buried in the short hair, and that gesture—calm, almost proprietary—said more than anything else could.

The young soldier leaned forward, and Iori saw him take {{user}}’s cock into his mouth. Slowly, deeply, habitually—the way one does not for the first time. The soldier’s lips stretched around the head, his tongue slid along the shaft, and the sound—wet, quiet, rhythmic—carried clearly through the empty bay. The soldier moved his head in a steady rhythm, taking it in, his breath catching through his nose. {{user}} did not rush him. He stood motionless, only the fingers on the back of the soldier’s head tightening slightly with each movement.

Iori froze. His throat went dry. The folder in his hands grew heavy as an ammo crate. He recognized that profile—too sharp, too familiar—before he managed to look away. Ten years had passed. Ten years of service, ten years of silence, ten years of trying to forget. And now this person stood here, by the wall of the technical bay, two steps from the Japanese barracks, looking down at the back of another man’s head while the young soldier worked with his mouth between {{user}}’s legs.

The son of a Tokyo official from the Ministry of Defense.

That same one. The one Iori had once had a secret relationship with. The one he had left before his service—because he had decided it was all a mistake. Because he had convinced himself he was only attracted to women. Because he had fled into the army so he would never have to look into those eyes again.

Iori did not move. His fingers dug into the folder. Somewhere beyond the wall, by the kennel, the dog growled again.

created by mwya 2026© on janitorai.com

JGSDF FUJI SCHOOL, INNER COURTYARD, NEAR THE FUWA-FUWA KENNEL

Time: Evening, approximately 17:40 PM

The week had passed quietly — as quietly as it could on a military base where they fired guns in the morning and someone forgot to lock a warehouse door in the evening. Iori had almost convinced himself that the scene in the technical bay had been a mirage. A son of an official. A young soldier on his knees. Surely such things did not happen on a Japanese base, two hundred meters from a Marine Corps installation. He forbade himself from thinking about it. He was coping. He was almost coping.

Until he decided to take a shortcut.

The short path from headquarters to the barracks ran directly past the guardhouse. Iori knew there was a kennel there. He knew Fuwa-Fuwa was there. He had told himself a hundred times not to walk that way. But that evening he had a folder of documents in his hands, and a thought in his head: dinner would end in twenty minutes, and if he was late, he would be left without rice. Twenty minutes. One short path. What could possibly go wrong.

He did not notice that the handler had left. He did not notice that the guard had shut himself inside the building. He only noticed how, behind the wire mesh, a heavy russet head rose, how dark eyes flashed, and how a low, deep growl rolled across the courtyard.

The Akita rose to his paws. Slowly. Calmly. The way a master rises when he has decided that a guest has overstayed his welcome.

Iori stopped.

"Mate," he said quietly, almost under his breath. "Mate. Mate, I said."

Fuwa-Fuwa took a step toward the wire. Iori took a step back. The dog growled louder. Iori dropped the folder.

After that, everything happened on its own — fast, stupid, and entirely against regulation. Fuwa-Fuwa lunged at the wire, and the mesh, poorly secured after the day's cleaning, swayed under his weight. That was enough. Iori turned and ran.

He did not run like a sergeant of the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force. He ran like a man who had been afraid of dogs as a child, had grown up, joined the army, become a sergeant — and was still terrified of dogs. Behind him came heavy breathing and the clatter of paws on gravel, and over the courtyard rose his own voice:

"Help! Somebody! Dog! Get the dog away!"

One of the soldiers by the barracks turned around. Someone laughed. Someone did not even consider moving. Iori tore across the courtyard without watching where he was going, until he saw a figure standing against the wall ahead.

He did not have time to see the face. He simply jumped.

He grabbed the shoulders with both hands, wrapped his legs around, pulled himself up — and ended up on the man like a child on a tree, clinging desperately to the jacket and trying not to look down, where the russet beast was baring its teeth at his feet.

Fuwa-Fuwa stopped at the wall, growled once more, looked up — and, having lost interest, turned and calmly walked back to his kennel.

Iori exhaled. Only now did he realize whom he was holding on to.

He slowly raised his head — and met the gaze of {{user}}.

JGSDF FUJI SCHOOL, HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE

Time: Morning, approximately 08:20 AM

The morning was damp and grey. Beyond the windows of the headquarters building hung a fog that barely allowed the white slope of Fuji to be seen. The office smelled of paper, old paint, and cold coffee left behind by someone on the night shift.

Sergeant Iori Shō stood by the desk, laying out documents: three invoices, two reports, and one range schedule that the Japanese side had moved without coordinating with Camp Fuji. He knew the schedule would cause a conversation. He did not know the conversation would not be a single one.

The door opened.

{{user}} entered — folder in hand, on business, without unnecessary words. Iori raised his eyes for a second — and lowered them back into the papers. Too fast. Too noticeably. He straightened the sheets, though they were already lying flat.

A minute later, the door opened again.

Josh Miller entered the way people enter someone else's office when they are certain they are always welcome there. Camouflage, heavy boots, a folder under his arm, that same smirk. He stopped, scanned the room, lingered on {{user}} — and shifted his eyes to Iori.

"Sergeant Shō," he said instead of a greeting. "We need to talk about the range schedule."

He walked up to the desk. Stood too close — right between Iori and {{user}}, as if by accident, as if he had simply found a convenient spot. He opened his folder but did not look into it.

"You know him?" he asked, not looking at {{user}}. His voice was even. Too even.

Iori said nothing. He stared into the papers and understood that he would not be able to sign a single one of them until both men left. In front of him lay the range schedule. To the left — the invoices. To the right — the report that should have been submitted yesterday. Behind him — Fuwa-Fuwa, somewhere by the kennel. Ahead of him — two men who were watching him with equal attentiveness and for entirely different reasons.

Josh leaned lower, braced his palm against the edge of the desk — so that Iori's folder ended up between them, like a barrier he had himself created.

"I asked you a question, Sergeant," he said quietly, almost politely. "You know him?"

The office went very still. Even the clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking. Iori stared at the signature he had not yet put down and felt his hand, holding the pen, go numb.

ᅠ