Bangchan x reader / personal trainer x gym girl / smut / dom!chan
**Involves!!** cursing, dirty talk, strong language, tension, inappropriare touch, sex, multiple rounds, sex in 'public places', detailed smut part
enjoy xx (open for request)
Bang Chan was supposed to be the solution to your fitness plateau.
Instead, he became the very reason your heart rate spiked the moment you stepped foot into the gym—even before you touched a treadmill.
You met him on a whim. Signed up for a new gym. Thought it’d be cute to get your life together. But when you walked into your first session and he turned around—tight black shirt stretched over cut muscle, hair curling just slightly with sweat, dimples flashing when he smiled—you knew you were in trouble.
“Hey,” he said, voice smooth, warm. “I’m Chan. Ready to work?”
Every session blurred the line between professional and something else entirely. He was hands-on, but not too hands-on. Just enough to make your brain short-circuit. His fingers grazed your skin when he adjusted your form. His breath ghosted against your cheek when he spoke close. His laugh—God, that laugh—echoed in your chest hours after you left.
He called you champ sometimes. Other times, he called you by your name, voice low and rough in a way that made it sound like a sin.
You started to perform for him. Pushed harder. Wore tighter tops. Leggings that hugged just right. You weren’t sure if he noticed... until one day, you caught him staring. Just for a second. But it was there—the flicker of heat, of restraint unraveling at the edges.
You started craving the tension. The tease. The brush of his hands, the way his gaze would drop to your lips when you were panting from exertion. How he lingered a little too long when helping you stretch.
Weeks passed like that. Sweat, breath, glances. Nothing crossing the line, but always dancing right on top of it.
Until tonight.
The gym was quiet. Late. Just you and him, bathed in low lights and soft music. Your final set done, you collapsed on the mat, muscles aching.
Chan knelt beside you, towel slung around his neck. His eyes were darker now. Less coach, more man. “Let’s stretch you out,” he said, voice low. “Can’t have you walking out stiff.”
He guided you onto your back. His hands on your thigh, lifting your leg to rest over his shoulder as he leaned in, stretching your hamstring. It should’ve been innocent. Professional.
But nothing about it felt that way.
Not with his hands gripping your calf, not with his face so close you could feel his breath on your skin. His hips brushed against you with every subtle shift. His eyes flicked to your mouth, your chest rising and falling beneath him.
“You okay?” he murmured.
You nodded, but your voice betrayed you. Just the tiniest sound.
A whimper.
His gaze snapped to yours.
The air changed.
Thicker. Hotter.
He didn’t move. Neither did you.
“This isn’t professional,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours, voice thick with restraint.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
“…Did I say that?”
And that’s all it takes.
Chan doesn’t hesitate.
One hand moves behind your neck, lifting you into his kiss as his mouth claims yours—hot, hungry, devouring. His lips are soft but insistent, tongue sliding past yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this moment.
Because he has.
You feel it in the way he groans low in his throat when your hands fist in his shirt. In the way his body presses into yours—hard muscle, impossible warmth, and the solid, undeniable weight of his desire grinding subtly into your hip. He kisses like he trains: focused, relentless, and in complete control.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes against your mouth, voice hoarse.
“I think I have an idea,” you murmur, arching into him.
His hands are suddenly everywhere—gripping your waist, your thighs, sliding beneath your top to stroke the heated skin of your stomach. You feel his fingers twitch at the soft moan that escapes you when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast.
He breaks the kiss just enough to yank your top off, eyes roaming over you like you’re the only thing he's ever wanted. “So fucking perfect,” he growls.
You tug his shirt over his head, and your mouth goes dry.
Pictures didn’t do him justice. He’s sculpted. Shoulders broad, chest taut and golden under the gym lights, abs rippling with every breath. You reach up, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach, and the sharp inhale he lets out makes you throb.
He leans down again, this time trailing kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He takes his time—kissing, licking, gently sucking until your back arches off the mat.
Then he slides down your body, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
“You know,” he says, voice like sin, “when I said I’d help you stretch, this wasn’t what I meant.”
You smirk, breathless. “I’m flexible.”
That earns a dark chuckle.
“Good. Because I’m not stopping.”
He hooks his fingers into your leggings, pulling them down slow—so. fucking. slow.—eyes drinking in every inch of bare skin. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your hipbones, your inner thighs, teasing you until you’re writhing.
Then finally—finally—he slides his tongue over you.
Your head drops back with a gasp. He doesn’t hold back. His mouth is hot, wet, devastatingly skilled, tongue flicking and curling and dragging in maddening patterns. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you spread and trembling as he devours you like a man starving.
You can’t think. You can’t speak. You’re so close, pulsing, teetering—
And then he stops.
Your eyes snap open. “Chan—”
He’s already kneeling between your legs, undoing his joggers with a look that should be illegal.
“Patience, baby,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m not just gonna make you come with my mouth.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on top of you again, lining himself up, dragging the thick, velvety head of his cock through your slick folds with a hiss between his teeth.
Then—he pushes in.
Slowly. Deeply.
You swear the air gets knocked out of your lungs. He’s big, and every inch stretches you in the most addictive way. Your fingers dig into his back as he bottoms out, chest pressed to yours, groaning against your neck.
“Fuck… You feel even better than I imagined.”
He starts to move, and it’s over for you.
Every thrust is deep and deliberate. He rolls his hips like he knows how to ruin you—grinding just right, tilting your hips to meet him again and again until your body is shaking beneath him. His mouth is on yours, then your neck, then your chest, as he takes you apart piece by piece.
“You’re mine,” he growls, snapping his hips harder. “You understand that?”
You whimper, clinging to him. “Yes—Chan—yes, yours—”
He hooks one hand under your knee, pushing it up as he drives in deeper, and the new angle has you seeing stars.
The coil inside you tightens, your moans climbing with each stroke, your nails raking down his back.
“Come for me,” he grits out. “I wanna feel you lose it.”
You do.
With a cry muffled against his shoulder, your body convulses around him, heat flooding you as pleasure crashes like a tidal wave. Your orgasm rips through you, intense and unstoppable, and he groans at the feel of it, thrusts becoming erratic.
“Fuck—gonna come—where do you want it—”
You can barely breathe, can barely speak, but the only word that comes out is: “Inside.”
That’s it.
He growls your name like a prayer and a curse, hips jerking as he spills into you, pulsing hot and deep, his body shuddering above you. For a long moment, you’re both still—heaving, trembling, pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat slamming against yours.
Then he kisses your forehead.
Soft. Sweet.
“Definitely not professional,” he says with a crooked smile.
You laugh weakly, stroking his hair. “Guess you’ll have to book me in for another… private session.”
He leans in again, voice warm and low in your ear.
