Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/813685.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Borgias_(2011)
  Relationship:
      Cesare_Borgia/Micheletto, Cesare_Borgia_/_Altar_boy_/_Micheletto
  Character:
      Cesare_Borgia, Micheletto_(Borgias), that_altar_boy
  Additional Tags:
      birching_(commented), Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, First_Time, Dubious
      Consent, dubcon, Attempted_Murder, Threesome_-_M/M/M, Pre_Season/Series
      02
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-16 Words: 3546
****** Rewards ******
by Arithanas
Summary
     Written anonymously in reply to this prompt left in The_Borgias_Kink
     Meme
     Cesare/That altar boy/Micheletto
     Micheletto does not kill the altar boy who poisoned della Rovere.
     Cesare fucks the boy and makes Micheletto watch. It might end up a
     threesome.
Micheletto waited by the Atrium, his back against a column. His Eminence had
contacted an altar boy to deliver the hit, and Micheletto was there to hand
over the cantarella. The seasoned henchman was a little worried by this killing
by proxy, although this was not the reason that prevented him from keeping his
ass still. The stinging on his backside was a constant reminder of the
celebratory coupling that His Eminence had planned once the good della Rovere
was sent to settle his accounts with God Almighty.

It had been years since he had a birching this good and Micheletto was eager to
finish this business.

The soft steps on the floor distracted him from rubbing his burning cheeks
against the cool column. The boy in dress, head full of hair, without the
proper cold blood to avoid searching for him moving such head from side to
side. Micheletto extended his arm and grabbed this amateur and dragged him to
the seclude spot between the column and the wall.

“Sing, you little bird,” Micheletto was sure this one was the hand of his
master, but he followed orders and need the signal.

“Magnificat anima mea Dominum,” stuttered the boy, still shaken by the
unexpected contact.

“More or less.”

“I’m feeling restless.”

“It happens to the best. Here,” Micheletto pressed the poison into his hand,
“Pour it all into his wine.”

“I’ll wait for him at the apse with the cruet set,” the altar boy said,
fidgeting the metal capsule, “I'll have plenty of time to set it.”

“On the wing, then, little bird,” the henchman said with a smile, though he
couldn’t even imagine what an apse or a cruet would be. The important thing was
the boy had a plan.

That altar boy ran into the church and Micheletto hold his position until the
echo of his footsteps died in the nave. Then, rubbing his enkindled bottom with
both hands, Micheletto left the building. His skin was starting to itch under
the tight trousers. The next few hours were going to be an exquisite torment.

“Did you have a roasted rump, Micheletto?” the question was a glaring goad.
Cesare, leaning against the outside wall, was enjoying the rare occurrence of
Micheletto with his guard down.

“Early in the morning, His Eminence,” the redhead replied, his hands left his
haunches. His expression was unchanged, except for a small smirk of
remembrance, “made with forest wood .”

“From the local woods?”

“Not too far from here.”

Cesare broke away from the wall and walked toward his henchman, eyes searching
for a sign of reassurance, Micheletto nodded to him so slightly it was barely
noticeable. The poison was delivered, the boy was instructed. They both let
their gaze linger on the other, their breath bated, lips a bit parted, showing
the edge of their teeth. Murder, as coupling, was a sensuous affair that was
better if was shared.

“If you want to see him fall, you should take the sacrament, Your Eminence,”
Micheletto whispered as he took his way toward the horses.

“Aren't you going to stay for mass?”

“The Good Lord is not going to miss me...”
                                      ***
“You must have seen him fall, Micheletto,” Cesare said, entering the inn room
next to the church they had rent, they wanted to attend to dear della Rovere's
funeral rites, “he fainted like an old spinster at the sight of a mouse!”

“That must have been an amusing display, Your Eminence,” Micheletto answered,
trying to keep himself still, but rocking his hips almost against his will.

“Not more than you acting the part of a Turkish dancer,” Cesare Borgia said,
taking pleasure in Micheletto's twisting motions. “Are you still sore?”

“Itchy,” Micheletto explained, trying to contain his need to relieve his
haunches, “birching does that to one’s skin.”

Cesare was in high spirits, and his face showed it; his hand darted to grab
Micheletto around the waist.

“Come, my sweet assassin,” he whispered in his ear, “let's soothe your well-
bruised bottom.”

Micheletto let himself being dragged to the bed; most passively, he allowed the
Cardinal bend him over his knee and rested his chest on the bed. Cesare,
slowly, untied the trousers and pulled them down the redhead's long thighs.

“Open my valise, Micheletto,” Cesare commanded, appraising the quality of the
bruised buttocks, barely covered by the shirt. “I have a tin of salve there.”

Micheletto got a hold on the valise, unlatched the straps and rummage through
the contents: shirt, ecclesiastical clothes, hosiery... He found a small tin
with some greasy marks on his lid. This had to be and he presented it in his
open hand with an almost gallant movement.

"I really trashed your black and blue this time, Micheletto," Cesare commented,
the skin was not really blue but of a charming purplish tone with some scarlet
spots.

"It was my pleasure," Micheletto answered trying to steel himself against the
cure, which was usually worse than the wounds.

“I’m still amazed by your endurance.”

Cesare was busy rubbing the ointment in his hands so the quick movements of
Micheletto caught him unaware. His assassin rolled over his knee, pulling up
his trousers in the process, and then he made his way to the door without
making a sound with his soft leather boots. Once there, with one hand lacing
his codpiece and the other signaling for silence, Micheletto applied his ear to
the wall.

It was a marvel to see Micheletto at work, maybe he and della Rovere were the
only men in this world who ever saw him at it and lived to tell the tale. His
collected countenance, his measured movements, his shallow breath; he was
waiting for something and that something materialized in the minimal
displacement of the door; then Micheletto opened the door wide and pulled the
dagger, but when he saw the intruder his eyes went to the Cardinal with a
quizzed expression.
“It’s all right, Micheletto,” Cesare said, the boy was getting in his hands and
knees. “Our little friend here has news for us.”

“I poured the dust in the cruet,” the boy said and approached Cesare.

“I suppose you want your reward...”

Instead of answered, and to Micheletto’s surprise, the boy started to shed his
clothes with an eagerness that was almost shameful.

“Stay by the door, Micheletto,” Cesare commanded as he started to take his
clothes off, “watch that no one interrupts us”.

Micheletto's face showed no expression, but his shoulders slumped a bit. Cesare
stopped him when he tried to trespass the doorway.

“From the inside, if you are so kind.”

Cesare waited until Micheletto closed the door and laid his weight against it,
before calling that randy altar boy to his bed. This shady business had needed
a little more than money to be implemented, that boy wanted to be ravished by
the Cardinal and being took to Rome. The second part was not a trouble, the
first part was the real penance, but in order to remove the thorn from his
father's side, he was ready to make some sacrifices.

Micheletto tried to be blind and deaf to the spectacle before his eyes, but the
Cardinal didn't make that an easy task. The boy —although that full grown bush
denounced a man and not a boy— was not something that would attract his
attention; his body type had lost its charm as soon as Micheletto grew a beard.
The Cardinal, in the other hand, was an agreeable view any day of the week.
Micheletto hid his smile at the sight of that male torso besieged by juvenile
kisses and those solid thighs, taut for his kneeled position on the bed. A
sight to treasure for lonely nights, indeed.

As that altar server went down on him Cesare shoot a glance towards Micheletto,
his assassin was still, that itching in his bottom forgotten by now. The
cardinal never expected to get satisfaction by the ostentation of his carnal
prowess but the silent propinquity of his manservant was a spur on his
lecherous desires, even more than the innocence that begged to be taken between
shallow sighs of anticipation. He smirked once he found the will to went
through the hardship and his hand messed the light hair of this occasional
partner, encouraging him to stuff his mouth with more vigor.

"Micheletto," Cesare called out; his assassin focused his attention on him
right away, "Come here and help me to grease this piglet for the spit."

Reluctantly, Micheletto tore himself away from the door and took some steps
toward the bed; Cesare, almost off-handed, threw him the tin of salve and saw
him catch it with both hands. The boy gave him a glance, but returned to his
task with renovated vigor, and the Cardinal took this as a sign of his interest
in being touched by his ginger henchman; Micheletto's zeal was least evident,
he lean on the bed and watched the quivering ass in front of his eyes with the
detached attitude of a professional. Cesare was about to dish him a taunt about
seeing prostitutes being less eager when the muffled moan in his dick
distracted him from his own grouse, the sensation traveled through his nether
parts like nothing he had felt before.

“So, Micheletto...” Cesare said when the new sensation lost its edge, “How do
you find it?”
"I fear, Your Eminence, that this hole had had the visit of many tapers
before." Micheletto's voice sounded bored, his hand was rubbing the ointment
mechanically. "This chasm could fit your girth without any trouble."

Cesare had no reason to doubt of Micheletto's judgment so, in search of an
explanation; he forced the boy to raise his head.

“Are you bilking me?” He asked with a slight frown. “Am I not the first?”

“I never did this before,” the lad tried to explain, but Micheletto's fingers
in his rear hamper his reasoning, “but, since your letter... I used...
objects... I couldn't wait...”

“Then, you will wait no more,” Cesare put his hands together, asking for the
tin in silence. “Turn around.”

A rustling of fabrics marked the start of the hardest part of the ritual.
Cesare, naked with his hands on the boy haunches, sported the same expression
he had during consecration; the altar server —after seeing his junk, Micheletto
couldn't see him like a boy— had his two hands together like a penitent in the
paroxysm of his regret, this had the appearance of his real first time.
Noticing this, Micheletto tried to make them space to enjoy their rutting, but
the Cardinal's voice commanded him to stay put.

From his privileged position, the assassin could notice the grimace and how his
eyelids flew open at the sensation of a hard dick ramming his rear end; he knew
from experience that His Eminence was too used to women to measure his pace
while he tread by the narrow road, but that it was not a cause of complain in
his case. Micheletto was rather aghast when his cod became tight as he bore
witness of this virginal ache.

"Micheletto, I need you here," Cesare called aloud once he finished feeding his
hard cock inside that up turned ass.

Micheletto went to his side, as was customary, though he never had done it
while the fornication act was being carried out. The youngster moaned and
whimpered but, when breath was enough, he encouraged the Cardinal to take him
and gave him a little more. And it seemed like butter wouldn't melt in his
mouth!

"Shirt off," the cardinal whispered, "I need your help."

The dilemma was if he wanted his direct help with the hussy skewed in his dick,
but Micheletto obeyed, waiting for the best. Cesare gave him reassurance almost
immediately by taking him with his right hand and by letting his hand roam
inside his trousers, kneading his bruised bottom. That was a nice allure and
the assassin complied, rubbing his master’s  torso and tweaking his nipples, it
seemed like His Eminence couldn't maintain his interest without some help,
Micheletto was happy of being of assistance.

The young man, feeling a little neglected, grinded his hips against the
Cardinal, in silent demand of movement. Cesare corresponded as his pushes, his
hand enjoying the coarse texture of Micheletto's ass, searching to hurry up his
pleasure.
The ruse was successful, because in short time he was spewing his seed inside
that young meat, with Micheletto supporting his sated body. They rest on the
bed, among Cesare’s travel valise, the young man was blushed, sweaty and eager
to continue but the Cardinal's desire was low, and his hand between his
henchman's hard buttocks was a constant remainder of the fine dish at hand. He
had no stomach for baby food anymore.

"Off with your trousers, Micheletto," Cesare whispered in his assassin's ear,
with a mellifluous purr.

With lazy movements Micheletto put his weapons out of the way, kicked his boots
and shed the trousers. With careless dedication, Cesare waited until he was
nude to hug him from behind, to drag him to the bed and to start to caress
Micheletto with hands full of salve, one of them was massaging his back door,
and the other his strained member. The young altar hand was agog at this
impudent spectacle.

“Micheletto, do you want your ass pounded?” He asked, hugging the red head
against his naked body.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” Micheletto answered, enjoying his attentions, “if that is
your pleasure.”

“Then, my young friend,” Cesare said, lifting Micheletto’s leg to grant the boy
access, “Pound my Micheletto’s ass.”

The boy practically jump to their tangled forms, he didn't expect to have the
opportunity to taste the most vigorous part of this unholy joining. Micheletto
tried to rise from the bed, but Cesare had a good grip on him and pinned his
body to the mattress, using his mouth to silence his protests. The assassin
tried to struggle but the two of them managed to get him speared in that
child's toy; his eyes were glued to Cesare's face.

“This is my pleasure,” the Cardinal said, his hand never stopped rubbing
Micheletto’s cock.

“Then, so be it,” Micheletto said between his clenched teeth, it was obvious he
was seething inside, "but, may I point something to Your Eminence?"

Cesare didn't answered, he just nod and kissed Micheletto's shoulder; the altar
boy was having his way with Micheletto, in a rather disorganized manner,
kissing, stroking and pushing his young meat into this ripe male body.

“The bells aren't tolling for the dead...”
                                      ***


Cesare was helping the boy with his surplice, under the pretext of sending the
boy to make sure where della Rovere was been taken care of Cesare tried to got
rid from his presence.. That boy still was pouring his excitation over the new
horizons of his carnal knowledge and, truth be told, Cardinal Borgia found that
rather tiresome.

“When would we do this again?”

“In Rome,” Cesare told, his patience has been proved to be strong, “as your
payment.”

It was good to see him go away. Cesare returned to the side of the bed, where
Micheletto was sat, clothed and almost motionless; his hands balled inside his
thighs, his eyes cast down.
“We need to send a message to della Rovere,” Cesare said, putting all his
clothes inside the valise now his cassock was ready, next to the manteletta.
Micheletto didn't move. “He needs to know this failure will never deter us
until we get his hide.”

Micheletto didn't answer, that was strange. Cesare had no time to wonder about
his mood, his mind was getting ready for the upcoming meeting with his nemesis.
His hands were working mindlessly, putting his clothes on his back.

“What do you say, Micheletto?” Cesare insisted, adjusting the sleeves of his
dark cassock trimmed in cardinalatial scarlet.

“I say, Your Eminence,” Micheletto replied, his hands holding the hose between
his fists, “that I don't care.”

The voice of his henchman was low, almost affectionate, and that made Borgia's
nape hair stood on end almost immediately. “Why, Micheletto?”

His answer came in the form of a scarlet silk hose in front of his face. Cesare
could hardly have time to grab the garment before a mighty tug almost shook him
almost off his feet. Micheletto breathed heavily next to his ear, his body
weight shifting almost as he was getting ready to intensify his efforts.

“Because Your Eminence whored me up to a young” Micheletto tugged the hoise,
trying to bypass that hand that was thwarting his efforts, “failed” he almost
spat the word, he was unable to know which of the insults against his pride was
worst, “amateur!”

Cesare groped his man servant's hip until his hand found the pommel of a
dagger. Never a rounded object felt better in his hand; Micheletto was like a
madman and Cesare was not sure he would hear reasons. The assassin’s weight was
drawing him down and the Cardinal knew he had little precious time to save his
neck.

Micheletto stumbled backwards when the tissue was ripped with a loud, tearing
sound and his quick hand reached the spare dagger in his boot. A quick flash of
slashes, some dodging movements and soon they both were in a corner, face to
face, nostrils flaring, points of daggers in the neck, breathing with murderous
fury and a hint of carnal frustration.

“I didn't whore you up, Micheletto,” Cesare said, the end of his dagger
caressing the coarse dewlap of his favorite assassin. “I made use of the boy to
see your face while you get your insides pounded.”

Micheletto held his gaze and his knife, but his throat gulped almost audibly.

“I never get a good sight of this face when I manage this kind of affairs.”

Cesare closed the space between them, the dagger slide over his skin without
making any harm, but he didn’t allow himself to be lulled into a false
sensation of safety: this redheaded boor could fillet him with a flick of his
wrist. Besides, Micheletto was right, he abused his rights when he obliged him
to partake with the boy.
“The fault is yours, Your Eminence,” Micheletto whispered, pressing the knife a
little, “In Rome, as you well know, they sell mirrors.”

“Good idea, Micheletto,” Cesare said the complete certainty that they had
reached an agreement, “I see that done when we return home.”

Cesare tried to step back, Micheletto seemed to accept his reasons but
Micheletto’s quick hand in his nape

“We are not done, Your Eminence,” Micheletto’s blade was too close for comfort.
“You whored me.”

“Qui tacet consentit.”

“Let’s not mince pretty words, pray.”

“You didn’t complain, then, you accepted it.”

Micheletto averted his eyes, his lips made a crude attempt of a smile, his
knife went down. Cesare heaved a sigh, feeling how the tension washed from him.
That was the moment when Micheletto made his mercurial move.

An inverecund kiss explored his buccal pouch without tenderness, cruel teeth
that nibbled his lips, rough hands kneading his buttocks, messing his hair.
Cesare surrendered to this rugged caress, just at the moment in which
Micheletto considered that he had had enough and let him go.

“What right do you have to treat me like this?” Cardinal Borgia protested,
still trying to make sense of the whole scene. The back of his hand was used to
wipe his mouth.

“I hear no complain,” the acerbic comment was made while he tried to tie his
jerkin, he didn’t even give his master the consideration of a look.

“Did the boy hurt you, Micheletto?” Cesare asked, tying up his cloak,
“Otherwise, I cannot understand why are you in such a foul mood.”

“I barely felt him.”

Finally a thing Cesare could handle. The Cardinal found not a prayer grateful
enough to thank the heavens for this insight on the motive behind his favorite
assassin’s ill-breeded behavior. He slapped his henchman in the back before
shaking his leather-cladded shoulder.

“I must make a visit,” Cesare explained, “but I promise you will feel something
this night.”

“With the boy?”

The face of this man made a pretty contained sneer, but Cesare was used to him
and the abhorrence was evident. That altar boy had outlived his usefulness. The
best option was to tie up that loose end.

“The altar boy will stay here, Micheletto.”

Micheletto casted a sideway glance to his master, trying to read into those
dark, Spanish eyes, then, as the message was completely understood, he kissed
the cardinal ring in that hand over his shoulder with unholy devotion. Trust
and commitment was restored to that simple, mild gesture; Cesare could swear
it.

“That fool doesn’t deserve a snapped neck,” that quiet voice punctuated the
disdain in those blue eyes.

Cesare swore that behind that calm voice was a hint of relief, especially since
Micheletto seemed so unruffled while he took his sword and his cloak with
smooth, measured paces, before heading towards the door.

“He’s yours, Micheletto,” Cesare agreed, full of congeniality, a little
confounded by the mention of a specific method. “Do with him as you please.”

“That shall be done, Your Eminence,” Micheletto assured him, holding the door
open for him to pass.
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