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Chuck Taylor wasn’t used to being singled out. Maybe it was because his identity as a wrestler was entwined with being part of a tag team, a ‘Best Friend’, always mentioned alongside Trent and Orange Cassidy but rarely on his own. He was used to being treated like part of a unit, and that was fine with him: he loved his friends, loved that when you dealt with when of them you got all of them. He didn’t need the spotlight, didn’t want to stand out.
Which is maybe why Miro was so goddamn unnerving. The man had been on Chuckie’s case—not the Best Friends but specifically him, Chuck Taylor—for a while now. Goading him into that fight, getting him to agree to this idiotic stipulation. He hated it, hated feeling those unsettling bulging eyes on him, that smile that was like a tiger baring its teeth.
And now here he was, in Miro’s mansion, stuck as the man’s butler until the time limit was up. Miro seemingly lived here alone (“I thought you were married?” Chuck had asked and been slapped upside the head for it). Each day Chuck was tasked with vacuuming the carpets, mopping the floors, doing Miro’s laundry, taking his dogs out for a walk, and a dozen other things Miro would assign him.
And each night...
Each night went one of two ways. Some nights Miro was unhinged, those wild eyes locked on Chuck as he strode over and lashed out at his so-called ‘butler,’ interrupting Chuck in the middle of some domestic duty such as dusting the study or cleaning the sink. Chuck would fight back, of course: he was taller than Miro, could hold his own for the first few minutes. But eventually Miro’s strength would win out. He’d land a stomp to Chuck’s already bruised back, and while Chuck lay there trying to push through the pain Miro would be on him, ripping off the butler uniform, stripping Chuck of that ridiculous outfit like an impatient child ripping wrapping paper off a present. Miro would be equally rough fucking him, not even preparing Chuck before entering him, still pinning him there on the floor in whatever room they happened to be in.
Chuck preferred those nights.
The other nights, Miro would seem calm. His eyes would still have that burning gleam to them, but his smile was tight lipped, teeth sheathed.
“Charles, undress me for bed,” he’d say, standing in the middle of the master bedroom, his arms out like a scarecrow. And Chuck would. He’d carefully take Miro’s shirt off of him, pull down the man’s track pants, unclasp the gold chain around his neck. As Chuck did this, Miro would talk. Once he talked about how he’d seen Sue out buying groceries, and watched her walk through the parking lot and loaded up her car (“America is so dangerous for a lone woman. I watched her the whole time to make sure nothing happened to her.”). Another time he mentioned how he heard that Tent’s physio was going well, being sure to make it clear he knew exactly what clinic Trent went to (“It is tough to regain strength when he was already so weak. Let us hope nothing happens to him that sets back his recovery.”) Or sometimes he’d just comment on how he’d seen Orange Cassidy backstage, alone and vulnerable (“He looked so pathetic. But then again, that is how he always looks, no?”).
Once Miro was done making his not-so-subtle threats and Chuck had finished undressing him, he’d slowly undress Chuck. They’d sit on the bed and Miro would move his hands over Chuck’s torso, moving upwards until his large meaty hand gripped Chuck’s jaw and drew him in for a kiss. Miro was still a dominating presence on these nights, but his manhandling of Chuck had a gentle edge to it, like he wanted to make love rather than merely fuck. He’d even see to it that Chuck got off, using his hands and mouth until Chuck was coming, Chuck squeezing his eyes shut both in an attempt to block out the world and to keep any tears from escaping.
Chuck hated it. Hated having all of this man’s attention on him. Hated feeling too weak to protect himself, to protect his friends. Hated that more often Miro was getting more and more affectionate, more tender. He didn’t even threaten his friends anymore while Chuck undressed him: maybe Miro thought Chuck T knew the score and there was no need to reiterate things. Or maybe he thought Chuck was finally tamed, and didn’t need threats to be kept in line.
Chuck was turning this all over in his mind as Miro fucked him. Miro’s bed was huge and soft, too soft for Chuck’s liking: his body sank into in a way that made it an effort to crawl out in the morning. Miro had Chuck’s legs pushed up, his thighs pressed into his chest as Miro pounded away at Chuck’s ass (at least on nights like this, Miro prepped his asshole before plowing in, but fuck, the man was big).
“Why me?” Chuck felt like shit saying it out loud. He hated what it implied, like he was just some self-pitying sad sack. Like he wished one of his friends was there in his place. He’d never wish that, but he just had to know: “Why did you zero in on me?”
Miro looked at him in surprise, as if he’d forgotten that Chuck could talk. Then he grinned.
“Your friends are all flimsy little children,” Miro said, still thrusting away. “But you, Charles, you…you I can make a man.”
Then he was coming, his hips snapping as he delved deeper into Chuck.
When he was done Miro pulled out of Chuck and let his legs fall onto the bed. Miro leaned forward, smiling before capturing Chuck’s mouth in a bruising kiss.