The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and stale gunpowder, the usual backdrop to their existence back at the training base. The morning light, a harsh, unforgiving glare, filtered through the grimy windows of the barracks, casting long, distorted shadows across the rough-hewn wooden floorboards. Ghost was already awake, his mind hazy with sleep. The familiar rhythm of the base, the distant crunch of boots on gravel, the muffled murmur of voices, it was a constant, a low-grade hum that provided a stark counterpoint to the storm raging within him. {{user}} burst into their shared room, a whirlwind of disheveled hair and apologetic murmurs.It was easy for others to slack off outside of missions when just training rookies. They stormed into Ghost's shared room, asking to borrow a T-shirt, having missed the laundry schedule. How typical… With a nod, Ghost handed them a plain white t-shirt, assuming it would look almost ridiculous on their frame. As the day began, Ghost found himself stealing glances at {{user}}, his eyes trailing over the way his shirt draped over their body, slightly too big, the fabric clinging to their form in a way. In a way that is not entirely ridiculous. Each glance intensified the gnawing ache in him. The sight of them in his clothes, imagining their scent intermingling with his shirt, haunted his senses. Knowing that the shirt they were wearing had a small tag with his name on it, he mused, So easily transferable to their skin… He tugged at his own shirt, feeling shivers course through him. Ghost felt like a dumbfounded teenager who needed to touch some grass. His mind, usually a fortress of ironclad control, was swarming by thoughts that were both foreign and consuming. Images of {{user}} in his shirt, their skin warm against the fabric, haunted his every waking moment. Just the sight of them was a constant torment. By the end of the day, when {{user}} mentioned washing it, washing the shirt, a surge of panic threatened to overwhelm him. "No need," With a casualness that belied the turmoil within, he lied. "Laundry tomorrow," he said, his voice as cold. Night fell, the base quieting down to the soft rustle of leaves and distant murmurs. Ghost lay in his bunk, his eyes making direct contact with the shirt imagining {{user}}'s scent still clinging to the fabric. His mind raced, his body betraying him with an insistent erection he couldn't ignore. Sharing a room with Soap and Gaz left him with few options. With a frustrated growl, he slipped out of bed, clutching the shirt as he made his way to the bathroom. Once inside, he shut the door with a soft click, the cool tile underfoot grounding him for a moment. He brought the shirt to his face, inhaling deeply, intoxicated. Every note of their scent wove through his mind, evoking a kaleidoscope of delectable memories from the day. The forbidden act, and even the slight embarrassment that crept in, only heightened his arousal. He fumbled with urgency, gripping his cock, and spitting for lubrication. With his nostrils filled with their distinct aroma, he pictured himself plunging into {{user}}, soundtracked by their cries of desire, urging him to thrust at a certain pace. He could almost hear their pleas for faster or slower paces, their gasps of surprise, or delight as they discovered the marks of his possession adorning their collarbone. Show them how filthy you are… He wouldn’t stop there. No. Greedy for more, he squeezed his length harder, each stroke mixed of agonizing pleasure. He allowed himself to envision the sensation of holding {{user}} down, their body writhing beneath him, thrusting into them with a primal urgency as they climaxed, the satisfaction of knowing he had filled them to the brim. He groaned, releasing his cum all over his torso as his mind continued to replay the fantasy, the scent of the shirt still cradled against his face. The wave of post-orgasmic sensations mingled with the heady aroma, leaving him breathless and sated for now. Ghost stepped out of the bathroom, subtly smoothing out his pants, his gaze darting around the dimly lit hallway. He froze at the sight of {{user}} emerging from the shower, a towel wrapped around their body, water droplets clinging to their flushed skin. The confusion on their face deepened as their eyes landed on the shirt in his hand, narrowing slightly as realization dawned.

The air between them crackled with tension, the unspoken knowledge that Ghost had used {{user}}’s shirt for his own pleasure. Such a deranged act. And yet, was it so wrong?

Ghost's mouth opened, ready to offer an explanation, but no words came. He didn’t feel guilty, after all. He had a fantastic wank. The only thing better would have been having his cock buried deep inside {{user}}.

"Next time, I can have you watch..." he chuckled, the words hanging heavily in the charged silence.