You know it's a bad idea.
It's a horrible idea for so many reasons, and on the top of that list is that your sister is going to kill you for desecrating the onsen. You don't fuck in the onsen, you don't come in the onsen, you don't kiss in the onsen, hand-holding allowed only if nothing else touches. She drilled this into your head when you were fourteen and she caught you fooling around with a friend after the opening hours. It took years before Takeshi could meet her eyes again.
You can't even blame the booze because you're as sober as the day you were born.
You can blame him though. You know he knows the rules, he can't not know them by now, but you also know that he doesn't give a fuck about them when they're standing between him and what he wants. It's on you to be the responsible one and you're a complete failure at that.
But there's only so much a man can take before he snaps and Yuri getting out of the onsen, sitting on the edge with his legs splayed, hard cock in his hand and a challenge in his eyes, is where your limit is. You want, like you wanted a gold at the World's and like at the World's, you're going to take what you want.
You grab his knees and push them wider apart and it's just luck that it's the shallow part of the pool. When you get on your knees, the hot water reaches your waist and hides your own hard-on, not that it matters when you both know it's there. He grabs your head, twists fingers in your hair and tries to pull you closer, faster, now, fuck. He's greedy but so are you and if you're going to do this, you're going to do it your way.
His wrists feel thin and fragile when you force his hands off and he swears up a storm, precome dripping down his cock in thick droplets. He's so wet and hard already and you've barely even touched him. It goes to your head faster than the finest champagne.
His fingers grip his own thighs, strong muscles bunching under them when you lean in and breathe on his cock. It's a nice one, flushed as red as his burning cheeks and curving to the left. Uncut, and you like that, like to pull the foreskin back and expose the head fully.
The broken sound he makes when you swallow him down is worth any sisterly lecture you might get.
You'll have marks on your back after this, red streaks from your shoulder blades to your neck, bruises where his fingertips really dig in. He doesn't know how to be careful or he just doesn't care and it doesn't matter. You like the thought of skating with his marks on you and no one knowing, not your coach, not your family. Just you and him, and every time they ache, you remember the weight and the salty bitter taste of him.
You'll know he was here, completely undone above you and that in this moment, he would've sold his soul to get more of you and the twist of your tongue.
He doesn't last long but you didn't expect him to, and at least he has the decency to cry out a warning. You don't choke, you take it all in and swallow and suck until he twitches, until he's desperate to get away from your mouth. Letting go would be the nice, the polite thing to do but you don't feel nice or polite. He made you do this here instead of your room, he can take it a little a longer, he can take it until there are tears in his eyes and he's pleading you to stop, fuck, please stop.
When you let go and his soft cock drops down to his thigh, wet with your spit and his come, you get up and push a knee between his legs on the edge of the pool. You splay your fingers on his chest and push him back, and he goes willingly until he's sprawled on the ground below you. His hair is like a halo around his head, face delicate and green eyes wide, and you take it all in, his lean strength and pale skin and the blotchy blush spreading from his face to his collarbones and down, so beautiful. It's nothing you see in the mirror, not even in your best days.
You want to keep it. You want to ruin it. Him.
He doesn't know what to do with his shaking hands so you show him. One to your hip, to make bruises to match the ones on your back. The other to your cock, your hand curling around his. Like this, twist here, tighter around the head, try it, it won't break. You let go and then it's just his hand on you, hesitant and exploring, and it's obvious he's only done this to himself before. It's a heady thought, one that makes you groan more than his touch does until he figures out the right rhythm, the right angle. Then it's almost perfect.
It's perfect after his hand slides from your hip to your neck and pulls you down for a kiss.
His mouth is open already and when your tongue meets his, his hand falters on your cock. It's a small moment of stillness, a mere second before he moans and arches up, up until he's grinding against your knee and letting you devour his mouth, panting around the sloppy kiss and urging you on. You bite his bottom lip and fuck into his fist and then your own fist because his fingers slacken when he comes again, on his own stomach and your leg. Just like that, without a warning, without a touch from you and with a startled cry that anyone could hear.
That pushes you over the edge too and you can read it from his lips more than you can hear it, his hoarse oh god, fuck, fuck, yes, when he throws his head back and shudders under you, under the hot spurts of your come.
You straighten your back and observe your handiwork.
He's filthy and he's not getting into the onsen again, not without showering first, and you drag your fingers through the mess on his stomach. He grabs your hand and brings it to his lips, sticks out his tongue to lick it and makes a face at the taste. You snort and he grins and he doesn't let go of your hand, not until your fingers are clean because he's stubborn like that.
You could get hard again from this but you stand up instead, offering a hand for him. There are better places for this and your room isn't that far.
He takes your hand and you pull him up, and he draws you in for another kiss, less sloppy and clumsy, and says, I fucking got you now, and you reply in kind.