This is an original work of fiction and is no way related to, or endorsed by, Robert Pattinson or Javier Beltran. This is a slash-pairing. NC-17
No Limit
By: @RobsLostSoul
I couldn’t believe how fucking lonely I was. I walked back to my apartment by myself, winding through the empty streets of this Spanish town that time had clearly forgotten. I didn’t hear anything but the sound of my own shoes hitting the cobble-stone alleyways, and even though it was a cool night, my cheeks felt hot from the beer I had just consumed at the pub…tavern? Whatever it was called, I drank a lot of beer there. I felt disgustingly full, and I swear I could hear sloshing as I walked.
I gripped my key and stopped short of the street I was residing on. I pressed myself against the edge of the stucco structure I was next to and peeked down to the entryway of my building. God dammit, it’s dark. I couldn’t see a fucking thing. See, there is this girl, or fan or something, that has decided to take it upon herself to just sort of ‘wait’ for me outside my apartment. She didn’t seem to be particularly harmful, but to be honest, I can’t imagine why anyone would exert that kind of energy and dedication on me if they weren’t a little bit nuts. I swallowed hard.
It must have been quite late by now, and the chances that she was there were slim. Not that I was afraid…I just like to be prepared to meet faces in dark, foreign streets. Perfectly reasonable. The coast seemed to be clear, and I shoved my hands in my pockets and quickly made my way to the building’s entry. After stepping inside, I ran up the tile stairs to my third floor apartment, or at least, I thought I was running. Like I said, I had had a bit to drink. Who the fuck am I kidding? I have the tolerance of a 300 kilo man, and to feel like this, I drank like a fucking fish tonight. I tried to stifle a giggle at that as I opened my door and stepped into the dark apartment. It was actually quite nice. I had a view of the town, and everything was quintessentially mission-Spanish. It was definitely a step up from my dingy flat in London.
Suddenly, a pang of homesickness rippled through me at the thought of my wretched little flat that I adored. Filming was almost over, and I tried to console myself with that fact; I would be home in a matter of weeks. Of course, that thought also scared me, because I was returning home to no real job, no sense of purpose or direction, no sense of anything, really. I tried futilely to push those thoughts out of my mind.
I landed heavily on the sofa and stared out the open windows, not really looking at anything except the gauzy drapes that were shivering from the Mediterranean breeze. I rubbed my eyes and blinked when reality slapped me sharply in the face. Tomorrow. Fuck. The scene is tomorrow. Christ.
I sighed and let my head fall back as I stared up at the ceiling while panic started to grip at my chest. You see, this movie I’m working on, and the character I play…well, I am sort of bi-sexual. I of course thought about whether or not I would be okay with this before I took the role, especially because when I first signed on, I was cast as the essentially fully-gay supporting role. And I am okay with it. I mean, I want to be the type of actor that takes roles because they are meaningful, not just easy to do, or whatever. All that aside, the fact was, I was going to have to pretend to attempt in having full-on anal sex tomorrow with another man. And naturally, I have to be the one getting fucked.
I sat there frozen for a time, just trying to even imagine how it might go while my mind kept tripping over itself. While I was wistfully toying with the idea of just calling the whole bloody thing off, there was a soft knock at my door. I about jumped out of my fucking skin. Who the hell could THAT be? Everyone is supposed to down at the pub still… My naturally paranoia-disposed mind started to take over and I imagined a million things. Stalker girl. Burglar. Murderer. I felt almost sober as I lightly crept to the door and listened. Another gentle knock. Shit. I cleared my throat, and in my most intimidating, ‘don’t fuck with me, I’ll kill you first’ voice, I barked, “Who’s there?”
A hurried mumble and deep Spanish accent answered me through the thick, wooden door.
“Robert, it is me. Javier.”
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