Title: Take It in Trade
Author: gracerene
Characters/Pairings: Antonin Dolohov/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Clothed Sex, Facials, & Self Taste
Other Warnings/Content: Hogwarts 7th Year, dub-con, sex for favours, age difference/cross-gen, blow jobs, facials, power imbalance, underage in some countries (though not in the UK)
Word Count: ~3,150
Summary/Description: Without a wand, and with his family out of favour with the Dark Lord, Draco finds himself in need of protection. Draco is fairly certain Antonin Dolohov will provide it, but he's not going to do it for free.
Author's Notes: This is a pairing I've been wanting to write for literal years, and finally I made it happen! Thanks so much to capitu and amorettehd for their brilliant help whipping this one into shape. :D

Draco swallowed, and the sound seemed to echo throughout the silent Manor corridor. In front of him, the door to the guest bedroom Antonin Dolohov had claimed for his own when he stayed over on official business loomed large and ominous. Antonin had recently commanded one of the Malfoy house-elves to bring him a bottle of Lucius's finest Firewhisky, and when Draco—who'd taken to hiding out with the elves in the kitchen to avoid notice—had heard of the request, he'd told the shaking elf that he'd bring it to Dolohov in her stead. Despite her terror, the elf had still tried to resist, insisting it wasn't Young Master Draco's place to be serving their… guests, but Draco had reminded the elf that he was still Young Master Draco, which meant his word was law. She'd acquiesced, albeit with clear discomfort, before handing over the bottle of whisky and joining the rest of the elves in preparing for the next day's breakfast.

As Draco made his way up the stairs and down the corridor, he began to curse his rash decision. Perhaps it was a mistake, maybe there was another way? Even the best case scenario of Dolohov agreeing to his proposal was hardly ideal… was he being too hasty?

Draco shook the anxious thoughts out of his head before squaring his jaw; resolve straightened his spine. No, this was the right call, the only call. He'd gone over every possibility in his head hundreds of times now, and with all scenarios he'd reached the same inevitable conclusion—he'd run out of options. It had been a week since Potter had stolen his wand, and since Bellatrix's haste had earned his family even more of the Dark Lord's displeasure. Draco's position was precarious at best, and despite what the thrice-cursed mark on his arm might indicate, Draco was no fool. He'd seen the way the older Death Eater's looked at him, eyeing his fine features and lithe body with an indecently ravenous hunger. They'd managed to control themselves thus far, but with the Malfoys out of favour, and only a single wand to share amongst the three of them, Draco could feel the tension mounting. It wouldn't be long now before one of them made their move, which meant Draco needed protection… and fast.

He'd spent the past several days mulling over the possibilities, considering, and then quickly discarding, most of the options. It turned out a bunch of half-mad, sadistic dark wizards didn't make for the best candidates when it came to protection… go figure. Severus was probably the only one of the lot who held anything at all resembling affection for Draco, but he was also one of the only ones who'd never looked at Draco like he was imagining what he'd look like choking on his cock. Draco didn't have anything other than his body to barter with, and he was almost certain that wasn't of any particular interest to Severus. His professor might not wish him ill, but he was still the Dark Lord's most loyal follower, and he was a cunning man—he wouldn't help Draco and risk his own position without something in return, and Draco was sinkingly certain he didn't have anything worth offering a man like Severus.

After much deliberation, Draco had decided Antonin Dolohov was his best—his only—hope. He wasn't a kind man, wasn't gentle, but he wasn't quite as ruthless as the others, either. Like all of the Dark Lord's followers, he loathed Muggles and believed unequivocally in pure-blood supremacy, but he'd never been cruel to Draco, and the lust in his eyes when he watched Draco was never tinged with malice the way it was with so many of the others. It made Draco think (or rather, hope) that Dolohov's desires wouldn't lean towards the sadistic, that he'd be satisfied with Draco's willing submission without needing his pain, too.

Of course, Draco could be wrong. He could be wrong about Dolohov's tastes, he could be wrong about his willingness to protect Draco in exchange for his body. There were a million horrible, terrible ways this could go pear-shaped, but Draco knew he had to try. Draco wasn't a brave man, but was he was, was desperate. He was stuck between a cauldron and a hard place, and tonight might very well be his last opportunity to make it through this war on his own terms. Draco wouldn't pretend to be happy about the necessity of selling his body like a two-Knut Knockturn whore, but he had to believe whatever happened with Dolohov would be better than what Macnair or Nott or—Merlin-forbid—Rabastan Lestrange would do to him when they finally snapped.

He hesitated just outside Dolohov's door using his free hand to smooth out any wrinkles in his arse-hugging trousers, and tugging at his too-small shirt, one that he'd grown out of in fifth year and that he'd dug out of the back of his wardrobe for the occasion. It was a risk, walking through the Manor in something so suggestive, but he figured he could use every advantage he could get going into negotiations with Dolohov. It couldn't hurt to emphasis just what Draco was offering.

Draco debated knocking on the door before entering, but Dolohov would be expecting a house-elf with his whisky, and house-elves didn't knock. Taking a fortifying breath, he opened the door and strode confidently into the room.

Dolohov was sitting in an armchair by the lit fireplace, facing the door. His hand twitched toward his wand on the table next to him, but as soon as his sharp eyes caught sight of the bottle of Ogden's finest Draco was holding, his body relaxed. He raised a single brow.

"Young Malfoy bringing me my Firewhisky, now this is a surprise." There was an empty tumbler resting next to his wand, and he flicked a meaningful glance at it, tacitly commanding Draco to pour him a glass.

Draco followed the unspoken order, unscrewing the whisky cap and pouring in several fingers-worth of liquid before setting the bottle down on the table. Miraculously, his hands were completely steady; he'd not spilled a drop.

"You know why I'm here," Draco said, his voice soft, but sure.

Dolohov met Draco's eyes as he picked up his glass and took a long draught. Liquid glistened along his upper lip as his mouth curled into an amused smile.

"Let's say that I don't. Spell it out for me."

Draco clenched his jaw, pushing down the wave of indignity at having to speak his desperation so plainly. It's him or the others, Draco reminded himself as he cleared his throat, and their humiliations won't be quite so tame.

"My family's out of favour, and I don't have a wand," he said bluntly, his Slytherin instincts balking at stating his vulnerable position so plainly, even as he hoped to intrigue and entice Dolohov by not beating around the bush. "You know what the rest of the Dark Lord's followers would do to me if given half a chance. I need protection." He paused and looked straight into the unfathomable depths of Dolohov's eyes. "I'm willing to… make it worth your while, if you provide it."

Caught as he was in Dolohov's gaze, Draco couldn't miss the sudden flash of hunger there as Draco made his offer, and the sight of it made a strange bolt of desire shiver through Draco's belly in response. He wasn't entirely unattractive, Dolohov, and it had been months since Draco had last got off with another person. The situation was far from ideal, but that didn't mean Draco couldn't try to make the most out of it.

"And what's to stop me from taking what I want by force, hmm?" Dolohov asked, his voice a lazy drawl as he looked Draco over from head to toe.

Draco shivered. "Nothing," he replied. Another response that was far too honest for his liking, but Draco was desperate. It was a gamble, coming to Dolohov like this, his hat in his hand, and Draco had to hope he'd read him correctly and that it would pay off. "But I think you prefer your partners willing."

Dolohov smirked and tilted his glass at Draco in acknowledgement. "Or willing enough, in your case," Dolohov replied. "You're right, I'm not like your dear aunt—I don't get off on pain and screaming."

Relief poured through Draco, as warm and intoxicating as the Firewhisky sliding down Dolohov's throat. "If you want willing, I can give you that," Draco rushed to reassure him. "I can give you whatever you want… For a price."

"Such a pretty little whore," Dolohov said, the words frank and without malice, though they still made Draco suck in a sharp breath. Dolohov tilted his head, looking Draco up and down once more before giving him a slow nod and a smile. "All right then, pretty. Offer accepted."

Draco's knees began to shake, tension draining out of him so quickly his head spun. "You'll keep the others away?" Draco asked breathlessly. "You'll tell them I'm off limits?"

Dolohov's smile was diamond-sharp. "I'll tell them you're mine. Now get on your knees."

Draco didn't hesitate to obey the command, dropping at Dolohov's feet and sparing a flash of gratefulness for the plush rug that saved his knees from the hard floor. Dolohov looked down at him from his chair, clearly pleased at Draco's obedience as he spread his legs wide. His outer robes were already off, draped over the back of the armchair, and the thick bulge of his cock was clearly visible where it pressed against the seam of his trousers. He rested one hand against the arm of the chair while the other brought the tumbler of whisky up to his mouth for a long drink. He stared placidly at Draco as he savoured Lucius's finest, and Draco found himself almost eager for Dolohov to make the next move, to get things started.

The suspense was killing him.

Finally, Dolohov smirked before nodding down at his lap. "Time to show me what else that mouth of yours is good for… other than making deals, of course."

It was with some feeling not unlike relief and anticipation that Draco shuffled forward between Dolohov's strong thighs to reach for his flies. His hands were steady as he undid the buttons, and there was no trace of the nervousness that had plagued him when he'd first entered the room. Dolohov had accepted his offer, and Draco had to believe he'd hold true to their bargain, provided Draco upheld his end of the agreement.

Dolohov stayed firmly planted in his seat, so Draco left his trousers on, folding open the flaps and pushing Dolohov's pants down far enough to get at the long, hard prick underneath. It was thick and flushed pink, the weighty girth of it perfectly filling Draco's palm. This wasn't the first time Draco had been on his knees for another bloke—he and Theo had done their fair share of experimentation, and there'd been a Durmstrang boy who Draco had snuck off with a time or two during fifth year—but this was his first time with a man, his first time with somebody so much older than him, so much more experienced. It was a little strange, the way the thought made Draco's entire body grow warm as his mouth began to water. He'd always enjoyed giving head, liked the rush it gave him to open wide around a nice, thick cock. This might not be the ideal situation, but that didn't mean Draco couldn't find some small measure of comfort in the shitty hand he'd been dealt.

Dolohov really did have a nice cock.

He breathed in, letting the musky scent of sex and arousal fill his lungs, stirring desire within him. Leaning forward, he licked at the rounded head of Dolohov's erection, tasting the sharp tang of precome on his tongue. Dolohov let out a small breath of pleasure, and it was all the encouragement Draco needed to open his mouth wide and take him fully inside.

Dolohov was longer, thicker, than any of the blokes he'd done this with before, and he couldn't quite swallow him all the way down, but Draco didn't let that discourage him. He brought his hand up to wank what he couldn't fit into his mouth while his lips and tongue worked overtime to pleasure what he could. A rough hand came up to cradle his cheek and chin, another sliding through his hair and gripping firmly. Draco expected to be held still while Dolohov fucked his face, or perhaps the hands would guide him more firmly along Dolohov's cock, but Dolohov seemed content to let Draco do all the work while he held on for the ride.

A hazy kind of arousal swept through Draco as he sank into the sensation, relishing the heady thrill of feeling a man slide between his lips. There was something soothing in the rhythm of it, in the slick slide of flesh along his tongue, the gentle nudge of a cock against his hard palate. His own cock was fat and heavy in his trousers, but he ignored it, focusing all his effort and energy on making Dolohov feel good, on making this blowjob so spectacular that Dolohov couldn't help but want to keep Draco's skills all to himself.

He wasn't sure how long he kept at it, but his jaw was aching by the time Dolohov's thighs began to tense beneath Draco's palm. The hand in his hair clenched hard, bringing prickles of tears to his eyes as Dolohov eased Draco off his shaft. Dolohov's other hand moved to start pulling at his cock, and he didn't have to stroke himself long before he was coming, his release spilling warm and sticky all over Draco's face. Dolohov's stare was hotly possessive as he looked down at him, and Draco did his best not to grimace as come dripped down his nose and cheekbones, coating the bow of his lips and the cleft of his chin. Draco had wanted to be claimed—Dolohov was simply following through on what had been offered. It was hardly the most pleasant of sensations, but there was something kind of hot about it too, about the rush of power that fluttered through Draco's gut at the obvious want writ all over Dolohov's face. That Draco could make somebody like Dolohov nearly helpless with desire was more than a little intoxicating.

He wasn't sure what it was Dolohov was seeing on his face, but whatever it was made him growl before strong hands hooked beneath Draco's armpits and hauled him up onto Dolohov's lap. The faint spicy scent of Dolohov's cologne filled his nostrils—a surprisingly intoxicating fragrance—as fingers slid into his hair and turned his head to the side. A moment later Dolohov's warm, wet tongue was sliding along Draco's face from chin to cheekbone, licking away a large swath of his come. Draco didn't even have a chance to suppress the urge to wrinkle his nose before Dolohov turned his head again and shocked him with a kiss.

Draco hadn't expected such intimacies from this arrangement. True, the kiss was more demanding than sweet, another way for Dolohov to lay possessive claim on Draco and assert his dominance, but it didn't stop Draco from enjoying it. He let Dolohov ravage his mouth, opening eager beneath the onslaught, the tang of Dolohov's come sharp on his tongue. One of those broad hands of Dolohov's drifted downwards as they kissed, giving Draco's arse a proprietary squeeze before cupping Draco's hard cock through his trousers. He pulled back from the kiss with a chuckle, warm amusement sparkling in his eyes as he kneaded Draco's erection.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who enjoyed themselves."

Draco panted as pleasure swirled through him. "You did say you prefered your partners willing."

Dolohov smiled lazily. "I did indeed. Perhaps we'll make better use of it next time."

With that, he slid Draco neatly off his lap, and Draco barely had enough time to get his feet under himself so he didn't topple over. Dolohov's grin widened as he looked at Draco, as if he could sense Draco's indignation. He probably could—Draco never had been as good at hiding his emotions as he wished, though with the Dark Lord around, he'd certainly improved.

His face was still sticky, and without a wand, Draco couldn't clean it off himself. Even if he had possessed his wand, he likely wouldn't have risked pulling it out in Dolohov's presence for fear Dolohov might suspect an attack and over-react.

Death Eaters were paranoid like that.

"Will you clean off my face before I go?"

Dolohov's eyes gleamed as he looked Draco over, and Draco could practically feel him mulling over the request. He did what he could to stay silent and keep his face neutral as he waited for Dolohov's verdict, though he couldn't keep in his pleased sigh when Dolohov brought out his wand and cast the charm.

"I prefer you filthy and covered in my come," Dolohov said casually as he set his wand on his lap. "But best not to tempt the others before I've had a chance to properly spread the word that you belong to me now."

Draco was embarrassingly grateful for the consideration, even as a part of him wondered how much discretion would be afforded to him once Dolohov let it be known Draco was off limits.

"I'll expect you here again tomorrow night, same time," Dolohov said, his tone making it clear it was a command, not a request.

Draco dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning and slipping out the door. He made his way through the Manor halls as quickly and silently as he could, fervently praying he wouldn't run into anybody. His rooms were still heavily warded—thank Merlin—and they were one of the only places left in the world where he felt any modicum of safety. Soon, though, that would change. He'd bought himself a bit of freedom with Dolohov, and though Draco was smart enough to know not to take that at face value, it was something at least, some tiny form of insurance.

He was doing what he needed to survive, and there were certainly worse ways to go about it. If tonight was any indication of how the rest of their arrangement would go, then Draco had nothing to worry about. Hell, he might even enjoy himself, which was leaps and bounds better than the alternative.

Dolohov was the right choice. Draco shivered and nodded to himself in the dark of his rooms.

He had to be.