WARNING: There is a Dub-Con sexual part on this fic.

Under Pressure.

He has never kissed a man on the mouth but he sure as hell has fucked them. Whenever he feels pressure. When there was so much need and heat that a woman's wetness wouldn't be enough. Fucking men is always more raw. It's satisfying. Not better, not worse but sometimes it's just what he needs to relieve pressure. It's that kind of pressure that could burn buildings in two.

So in the real world he would call a number and wait for a young man to be at his door and he wouldn't have to care much. An hour, maybe two, and pressure would be sent away.

He mostly fucked pretty boys, blue eyed boys, apparently rich boys. Just like Stick's brother. He wonders if he's one of those boys who seem to be only with Barbie dolls during day, all smiling and gentlemanly and then at night they are against dark alleys walls, in dark clubs, letting some stranger fuck them raw in the ass, or sucking some cock, getting their kicks from it. He wonders and he sometimes think it may be the case, if the worshipping he does – did- for Jackass is any prove.

It has nothing to do with sexuality. It has to do with need and being fucking stranded in a fucking crazy island full with fucking crazy people. People crazier than he is; and even more fucked up than he is, if that's possible. Less than two weeks on the stupid wild and he isn't just pressured. He is going fucking mental.

Insanity is laughing at them and not even jerking off at Freckles or Sticks or Booner or even fucking, stupid Jackass is enough. Sawyer was beginning to wonder if some of the other girls at the island would be up to a quickie, or if he should risk it and see if Stick's brother is really as queer as he looks.

It's different here. In the real world no one would bat an eyelash at some casual sex. The way Stick is, she probably would be up to a one night stand, not even bothering to find a name. In this goddamn fucking island in which there's no where to turn and you'll be watching the same faces day after day after day after day after driving yourself crazy.

He's a little bit claustrophobic, not that he has ever admitted that. He controls it just fine but sometimes the world seems to clench and fit right at his side at the space under a bed. It almost makes his breath catch, sometimes, and the idea of such a close community does that. Just like the idea of living in the fucking caves, just waiting until they fall down over them, it's enough for him to stay as far away from those as he can. The thought of watching every single god-damning day at the same faces, the same eyes, hearing the same irritating fucking voices…

It's time for some alcohol and wanking. An orgasm is an orgasm and when you can very much end up dying, you gotta make them count. Or so he thinks, cursing again the fact of being in a forsaken island when there's no other helping hand than his own but instead he finds surprised, frantic, scared green eyes of the wannabe rockstar, thoroughly messing up his space.

- Hey! – he doesn't let Charlie go. Tackles him against a tree, pressing his arm against his neck. – What the fuck do you think you're doin' with my things, punk?

His snarl does exactly what he intends, freezing the other man, stopping his struggling. He is still the biggest son of a bitch of the island. He knows that the people that know that there was a marshal in the plane probably think that it was him who was chained. It's alright with him. At least it helps people to stay out of his way andof his things. Or so it had been, before.

- Meds. – Charlie squeaks, trying to get his arm of his neck to be able to breath. – Need meds!

- What the hell for? I'm no damn drug store. You need somethin', you take it to the doc. Is that clear?

He drops his arm. The guy staggers to his feet, rubbing his neck, but he hasn't moved. Sawyer rolls his eyes.

- What?

Charlie glances towards the floor. When Sawyer follows his eyes, there's a forgotten bottle of aspirins and then a sprinting punk trying to get them, but he's stronger, quicker, and he pushes the guy away, taking the – by the sounds of it – almost empty bottle. Charlie's eyes are even more frantic, his hands clenching and unclenching over the sand.

Something 'bout his eyes and shaking hands that he has seen before in clients and prostitutes gives Sawyer the right idea. He frowns for a moment before smirking, sounding all too casual and all too bastard.

- You a junkie? – he really doesn't need the answer. He sneers at the youngster still sprawled on the dirt, dusts his pants and pockets the bottle. - I ain't giving anything for free, that's for sure.

- You want bloody money here? – he asks, also standing, but Sawyer's still watching down at him.

He grins, showing the medicine. Charlie licks his lips, his hands are shaking even more.

- Give n' take, hobbit. It's all what life's 'bout.

- How much?

Victory's so sweet that he almost tastes it, his smirk wide. He takes out the bottle, considering how much should the few pills he had forgotten to keep at his secret stash cost. His smirk set, he unbuttons the top of his jeans.

- Suck me.

- What? Are you crazy?

- I'm deadpan serious, punk. You want 'em? Work for 'em. – raising an eyebrow, Sawyer takes down the zip a little bit, glancing towards the now blushing, trembling, angry… and considering it. He has seen that look before (sometimes on his own face) and now that Charlie's shifting, it's probably decided.

- You're queer?

- That's no one's business but mine. – he says, then makes a show at doing the zip up, slowly turning. – Now, if you prefer to take this to doc, be my guest. Do tell how it goes. – He takes a step towards his tent, counts. It'll take less than five steps.

Four, three, two…

- Okay! – Sawyer shows his grin, unbuttons his pants and raises an eyebrow again.

- I ain't got all night, chief.

Reluctantly, half glaring at him, Charlie gets closer, falls to his knees, pulls down Sawyers pants and boxers. He's already half hard at the idea of a warm mouth around his cock and he grins when the brit looks at him a moment before holding his cock on his hand, licking the head, pushing the foreskin, teasing the slit with his tongue, his other hand stroking his balls.

Sawyer moans deep inside his throat because this is (almost) what he has been needing for two weeks now, what he has needed since going to fucking Australia to kill a fucking no one and then being kicked out of that stupid shit of wasteland only to have the damn fucking airplane break in the middle of the nowhere on an islanld where there's fucking polar bears and God only knows what else.

He gasps, hips thrusting. Charlie's head's bobbing around him, sucking sounds coming from the man on the floor. Sawyer grins, licking his lips.

- You've done this before, huh? Yeah, like that…

Sawyer's hand on a tree helps him stay standing, the other one at the back of the musician's neck while he thrusts, closes his eyes, not picturing anyone, just feeling completion and a second of absolute peace. He comes in Charlie's mouth, watching him cough and spit the bitter stuff down on the floor, idly wonders if he might throw up. Sawyer couldn't care less. He tucks himself in and licks his tusks.

- Look who's talking 'bout pansies.

And then Sawyer's just drops the medicine at his feet, walking towards his shelter, not even sparing a glance behind him. Pressure has been relieved for the moment.