Eggsy Unwin grew up in a house where three nights out of five his sister’s cot got stuck in his room, his door didn’t lock, and sometimes he ended up sleeping on the sofa, if Dean had one of his fucking goons staying over and fancied playing big man power games about who got to sleep in a bed.
He also grew pretty quickly into wanting to get his dick wet all the fucking time, and he weren’t ever short of choices, exactly, but sometimes a wank was just as good and twice as easy to come by as a proper shag. So he wanked, like, a lot.
And not to brag or anything, but he is fucking brilliant at it. Absolutely A plus wanker. Shame there weren’t a Kingsman class, to be honest, because he’d be undisputed top for technique and for never getting caught.
Because you didn’t grow up in a gaff like his without learning to wank fast, wank quiet, bite back every possible noise and come with just a single harsh little breath, get your breathing back down fast and lick your own jizz off your hand, hide the evidence.
And yeah, he was never short of mates to get his end away with if he wanted company – Ryan’s big brother with the massive mouth who liked to get stoned and suck cock, Janey whose mum was never home and who used to wank him off in front of Home and Away then make him go down on her during The Simpsons, so he never got the references but the theme tune got him sprung. Sarah-Lee and her mate Lola who was the first bird ever to stick a finger up his arse, night he turned fifteen.
A whole boatload of sticky fingers and good times but even in the midst of all that – well, he still wanked, didn’t he?
They used to check your sheets at Basic and his mates in the barracks used to get hauled for it all fucking time, idiots. Upped the frequency of wet fumbly head though, because it was easier to swallow someone else’s for the privilege of not doing thirty press-ups in the buff when your sheets were tacky. And that was nice, but it weren’t always enough.
He’d still rub one out in the showers, trying to get it done before he got company, or out on stake-out, quiet in the undergrowth, palming himself through combats.
And it didn’t change at Kingsman. Things had been shit at the flat, he’d barely been allowed to close his bedroom door for weeks, and so the first few nights away from there, first few nights at HQ, he’d ended up gagging for it just out of relief.
But the Kingsman dorms were worse than the barracks for privacy. And he gave them all the once over but there weren’t nobody he could crack on to – all of them in competition with him, half of ‘em absolute twats, enough to make his balls crawl back into his body even having to talk to them.
Couldn’t imagine getting sprung within ten miles of Charlie, he’d probably smell it and drop trou, ask for a game of soggy biscuit, posh fucker. Gross.
But by the second week he was going mental with it, kept waking up hard, having these stupid sex dreams that never actually got him off.
‘Rox’, he’d said, at the end of a run when they were both sweating out their eyeballs and proper rank, ‘you still getting off while we’re here?’
She’d pinked a little, cocked her head to one side.
‘I’m not entirely sure that’s an appropriate question,’ she’d replied, then grinned. ‘But, yes, actually. Not that hard for me, always done it on my front. And I’m pretty quiet.’
There’s a silence then, a little pause where Eggsy imagines it, and then….
‘That wasn’t an invitation, by the way. Ask Digby, I’m sure he’s dying to feel a hand that isn’t his own.’
‘Ew, Rox, piss off.’
And that was the end of it. He’d tried to stay awake for a couple of nights to see if he could hear her, but it didn’t quite feel right and anyway, she weren’t lying, she must silent as the grave. Bit creepy.
Eventually, sixteen days in, his dick actually wakes him up – or something does, so he finds himself jolted at 4am, the weird green light over the loos giving everything an eerie wash. A noise, maybe – they’ve replaced that two-way mirror, but not the soundproof seal yet, he’s noticed.
He’d realised it when Charlie was up all in his face one afternoon, just in front of the mirrors. Eggsy’d heard a noise behind the screen that Charlie missed and rather than fighting back he’d just smiled and thought yeah, dickhead, come at me, let ‘em see the sort of cunt you are.
Why there’d be anyone lurking behind the mirror at 4am, he’s no idea, except he suspects that Merlin never sleeps, powers himself on the second-hand adrenaline of new recruits, and coffee. Wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing sleep studies on ‘em all.
Anyway he’s up, and his dick could hammer nails into steel, and he’s pretty sure everyone else’s sleeping. And if they ain’t sleeping, well, they fucking should be, and he wants a wank.
And if Merlin’s behind the glass, well. Tough shit for him.
He does imagine him though, all unblinking and stern, watching over them all.
His dick gives a little jump, at that. Not – well, not surprising, to be brutally honest. Merlin looks like he could fuck Eggsy up proper good and he’s absolutely into it – but wank fodder’s different from actually… doing anything.
Just because he’s hot for teacher don’t mean it’s a good idea to get the goods out while he’s being – assessed for sleeping like a spy, or whatever.
But he fucking wants to, don’t he? And that’s the problem. All instinct and no planning, like Harry says sometimes to him, with that tone that’s half a row, half admiration.
Before he knows it, he’s slipped out of bed and is walking across to the mirror. Slips whoever’s behind it a little look, like he’s giving ‘em fair warning that they might want to make themselves scarce.
If he presses himself alongside the glass, in one of the corners, it tucks him away pretty well from the other recruits. And if that just happens to give whoever’s on the other side an absolute eyeful, then hey, plausible deniability.
He can feel his dick throbbing, though, at the thought of Merlin, face impassive, shoulders broad in that jumper, taking notes on his clipboard as he watches.
He leans his back against the wall, and it’s cold. Feels just hidden away enough that he can let his eyes close a sec, can drop his shoulders a bit. He spits quietly into his hand, wraps it loose around his dick. Fuckin’ Christ but that’s nice.
He twitches a bit, thumb up over the head and pressing gently as he rubs over his slit, just like he likes. Lets the pre-come bead, smoothes it over until the tip is all shiny and red. Hopes whoever it is behind the glass is getting a good look, if they want to. He’s been told enough times he’s got a nice cock, and he hopes they’re appreciating it.
He’s torn – wants to make this a good show, but he don’t want to risk waking up Charlie and his cunt-wads, and frankly, he’s not gonna last long anyway. His hand feels too good, the quiet hum of the temperature controls and the weird green light make the whole thing feel like a fever-dream, and he’s so desperate for it that he can already see little pinpricks of light behind his eyes.
He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, nips it in that way he knows is obnoxious.
He’s used that little move on enough blokes in enough clubs to know it’s effective, even if it does feel weird that he’s doing it to himself in a mirror. He looks a bit of a twat – the column of his neck tense, his chest heaving like he’s out on exercise, a pink blush scribbling across his cheeks.
But his eyes are dark and hungry, and his cock’s stiff and full, and yeah, if he’s being honest there’s something a bit hot about seeing himself like this. And it’s even hotter imagining Merlin – what? He can’t imagine him blushing, can’t imagine him giving anything away, but maybe his knuckles are just a little bit white from holding that clipboard too hard, maybe his shoulders are moving, just the tiniest little bit, from trying to control his breathing.
He’d love to see Merlin undone. He’d love to – oh fuckin’ hell – he’d love to get down on his knees for him, have Merlin just undo his flies and keep on working while Eggsy did his best to drive him mental.
The image is so clear, supernova bright in his head and his hand’s tight and quick round his cock, and he can feel the heat gathering in his stomach, so close he can taste it.
He pauses for just a second, wants to savour the last few touches before he comes, that liquid-spine feeling.
He holds his breath for a second, and that’s when he hears the tiniest noise behind the glass, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to another.
He imagines Merlin’s face, inches away from his own through the glass, looking right at him.
He squeezes round the top of his cock once, firm, and then he’s coming.
He’s coming and it’s so fucking good, the white-heat of the pleasure forcing out a long, shuddery breath, louder than he’d like. His jizz goes further than he thinks it will, up in spurts over the glass, spills over the top of his hand and drips down over his knuckles. His legs go funny, his head drops with a quiet thunk onto the mirror.
Well. Whoever it was got a proper eyeful, and he’s fucking knackered now. Feels good, all fuzzy warm and loose joints, little tingles of pleasure still zipping about in his blood.
He wipes down the glass, washes his hands, and if he swaggers a little on his way back to his bed then that’s his lookout, ain’t it?
And he will swear blind that the next day, when they’re all getting ready to take out targets in the shooting range, Merlin can’t quite look him in the eye. Turns out you can, actually, blush so hard it fucks your accuracy scores, but everyone’s too busy worrying about how you maintain accuracy with the brollies to notice. Well, almost everyone, and he can’t bring himself to look at Merlin.
He doesn’t hear the noise behind the mirror again, and two days later the guys have come and installed new soundproofing.