NOTE: This is a slash story with the characters Razor and Ronnie from NFSMW from Ronnie's POV. It involves some hero worship and some very graphic scenes. If you're offended, you should just exit this story now.
The first thing you need to understand about the Blacklist is that you do anything, anything to get to the top. Cheating, bribing, stealing, whatever. Just a couple months ago I was on the bottom, not even able to draw the attention of the lowest Blacklist racers. I was a kid in my senior year of college at the University, just twenty-two years old with a Supra my parents bought me to replace the Mercedes I crashed, and I was already dreaming of the day I'd be Blacklist number one. Looking back on it that was a pretty far-fetched dream at the time, not to mention what my parents would say when they found out I was street racing. The Blacklist was full of punks and criminals, not supposedly-educated people like myself. But that's just the thing, you see—I didn't want to be the educated businessman type. I wanted the adrenaline rush that came with breaking all the laws. I was bored with my life. That's when Razor found me.
He rolled into town after hearing about the racing scene in Rockport, twenty-six years old with a chunk of cash in his pocket and a seriously tricked-out Mustang, and he was looking for people to help him on his rise to the top. I challenged him two days after he arrived, thinking I'd send another out-of-towner back to whatever hellhole he crawled out of. I was wrong and he smoked me. He instantly had my respect. When we went to settle up he stopped me. I still remember the words that guaranteed me my place on the Blacklist.
"Hey kid," he got out of his car and approached my driver's side window.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll have your money," I answered him. I just wanted to get going already.
"Forget about the money, I've got a better idea. How'd you like to make the Blacklist?"
I looked at him in disbelief. "Me? On the Blacklist? Are you high? You ain't even on the Blacklist, how are you gonna get me on?"
He laughed, a low rumble in his throat and he cracked his knuckles. I eyed the tattoos on his exposed arms and worried he was going to jump me. "I ain't on the Blacklist yet," he finally said. "But I plan to change that real soon and I'm gonna need some help to take care of all the posers and hangers-on that'll try to stop me. You're from around here. How'd you like to be my wingman?"
I thought a minute. I barely knew this guy and he was asking me to work for him. "What's in it for me, now?"
"I'll get you on the Blacklist. And I'll forget about the fifteen grand you owe me for losing."
I wasn't sure that he could get me on the Blacklist but at the very least that was fifteen grand I could hold onto. "Alright, fine," I finally said. "I'll do it." And just like that, I was one of Razor's boys. His first, to be exact.
The first few weeks after that were spent building up Razor's hype. I helped him take down some of the better-known non-Blacklisters in the city and he built up a crowd of race junkies and groupies wherever he went. I started to find that people knew who I was, too, and that my Blacklist dreams might not be as far off as I thought they were. For once, people weren't looking at me like another rich kid whose parents handed him money whenever he asked. I was a racer. These streets were my home. And if I was good enough to be Razor's boy then I was definitely too good to challenge. Razor became like my boss. No. More than a boss. More like a hero.
I think it was three weeks after Razor and I made the deal that it started happening. We were chilling around his safe house—just me and him. He'd found another guy, Toru, to take care of some of his dirty work. The guy drove a Mercedes McLaren so he was naturally much more suited to the job than I was. I was in charge of maintaining Razor's ride and doing odd jobs for him. He was lounging around in an old chair at one corner of the garage while I bent over his engine block, my back turned to him, swapping out his spark plugs.
"You know, Ronnie, there's another part of the deal we made," he drawled. I turned and saw him smirking cockily at me.
"What?" I asked. I didn't remember agreeing to anything else.
He stood up and slowly swaggered over to me, his teeth glinting white in the dusty garage. He leaned in real close as I straightened up. "You agreed to do whatever it took to help me get to the top, right?" he whispered, his warm breath pouring over me. I nodded uncomfortably. "Well how can I focus on racing when I've got other needs?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. He licked his lips.
"Wh-what do you mean, Razor?" I asked.
He leaned into my left ear, one hand resting on my hip. I could hear the arrogant chuckle in his voice. "I mean I need some ass, Ronnie," he whispered. I felt his tongue suddenly dart from between his lips to trace the outline of my ear. My knees buckled.
"You…?" I looked at the guy in shock.
He laughed again and my eyes were drawn to the growing bump in his jeans. "Don't flatter yourself, kid, I just need something to fuck," he answered. Then he leaned in and his lips were on mine, rough and chapped. It wasn't soft or gentle, it was rough, commanding. Razor took whatever he wanted. Now he was taking me. He rammed his tongue into my mouth, tasted me and laughed. I was dizzy. I couldn't figure out why I was enjoying this…but I was. I knew this wasn't an act of love or even real passion and that somehow made it…hotter. I opened my mouth fully, welcomed the taste and the sensation of him.
It was hot and we were sweaty. I felt his damp wife-beater sliding against my soaked t-shirt, sticking to his carved abs. Razor's lips left mine. "You got a hot ass, kid," he panted as he pulled at my sticky shirt, peeling it off of me. He smirked again, white teeth shining as he took in the sight of the tan I'd gotten on spring break. Then he ripped his own shirt off. He was slick with sweat and his tattoos gave him even more presence in the dusty room. He licked his lips, then swaggered his way back over to me, pushing me up against the exposed engine of his car.
"Let's do this right," he whispered, yanking me up with one hand and slamming his hood shut with the other. He pushed me roughly back onto the hood and climbed onto me, our lips meeting in a rough, lusty tangle and our bodies sliding over each other. He started taking licks down my sweaty chest and I bucked my hips into him, his warm mouth sending waves of pleasure up and down my spine as I let out a heavy moan. When he reached my waistline, he stopped and got up, fumbling with his belt and pulling his jeans and underwear down in one swift move. I looked at his manhood, hard and erect. "Like what you see?" he asked cockily. I was too stunned to answer. This was really happening. I felt my own erection grow even harder.
Razor approached me once more and grabbed me at my hips, spinning me around and pinning me on my stomach to the Mustang. He yanked down my pants and I knew he was taking in the sight of my ass in the tight, white knit-boxers. He let out a low laugh. "A really hot ass," he reiterated. His hands started to fondle me, rubbing over my ass-cheeks through the underwear before peeling off the sweat-soaked garment and leaving me naked in front of him.
I heard him shuffle around and turned to see him sucking on a finger. Without warning he shoved the finger into my ass and moved it in and out. I felt white-hot pain and I'm sure I screamed but it was all worth it. After he fingered me, I heard him spit and watched as he rubbed it onto his dick. "Get ready for the ride of your life," he rumbled. A second later he entered me. There was searing pain and warmth and the constant feeling of him ramming back and forth into me and I lost my mind, screaming and moaning all at once because it hurt so bad it felt good. Razor yelled out words that I don't remember as he thrust in and out of me. With a low cry he came inside me. I felt it. Then he slid out of me and I heard him pulling up his pants while he left me breathless and panting on the hood of his car.
"I'm gonna make you a Blacklist racer, Ronnie," he said, patting me on the back as he moved toward the door. "Just keep doing your job."
That wasn't the last time he had needs that I needed to take care of. But it was all worth it because, in the end, I became Blacklist number three. That's why Razor is more than a boss or a friend. Razor's a hero.