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Rodney hoped Sheppard would never find out what he did because he’d rather feed himself to the Wraith than have anyone find out. It was such a stupid thing to do as well. Sheppard was bound to figure out one of his generic black t-shirts was missing and then he’d lead a manhunt for it and the manhunt would probably lead to Rodney’s quarters and it’d suddenly become this thing. Who needed the constant worry that someone would stumble upon it and wonder where Rodney got it or—god forbid—what he was using it for. Because, yes, he was ashamed to admit that he masturbated to the shirt like it was a glittery dildo that wrought orgasm after orgasm. (The shirt was kinda magical in that way.)

It wasn’t even a clean shirt. It was a bit smelly, but with the smell of Sheppard, and Rodney would freak out about the germs were it not for the fact that he was pretty sure he got some of his semen on it after the hundredth masturbatory session. At this point, he couldn’t really afford to care about the germs so much.

He was always careful to bury the shirt in a black plastic paper bag and under mounds of clothes in his personal footlocker, sure that Sheppard wouldn’t miss it too much—the man probably had an abundance of black shirts and Rodney only needed the one. At least, he hoped Sheppard wouldn’t miss it.

How could he explain it otherwise?