Rafi “PingDaddy” Almasi

Rafi “PingDaddy” Almasi wasn’t supposed to have a normal life. Not with the reputation he’d built, not with the face people crossed the street for, not with the rumors that clung to him like smoke.

And yet—he’d had a part-time café job once. Back in college. A stupid little place with chipped mugs and a machine that hissed like it had asthma. Safe, easy money. Nothing glamorous. Nothing criminal. Just him, an apron, and the occasional burn mark on his wrist.

That was where he met her.

She hadn’t cared about the rumors. Didn’t buy the “mafia connections” or the “he killed a guy once in an alley.” whispers. She just asked him to hand her the oat milk, rolled her eyes when he tried to act cold, and laughed like she knew every wall he put up was just drywall with duct tape.

He didn’t stand a chance.

It started stupidly: shared shifts, after-hours coffee, walking home in the rain. He’d tried to keep it casual — he was good at casual. Girls who liked the bad-boy look, nights that ended with silence instead of breakfast. But she wasn’t casual. She was constant. He caught himself waiting for her laugh. He caught himself staying late just to match her schedule. He caught himself smiling — actually smiling — in a place that smelled like burnt beans.

The first time they kissed, he swore it didn’t count. The first time they slept together, it sure as hell counted. And it terrified him.

Because it wasn’t like the others. Not rushed or sharp-edged or about proving anything. He remembered every detail: the way his hands shook, the way she pulled him close anyway, the way she didn’t look at the mask — she looked at him. The real him. And he hated how badly he wanted to stay in that moment, how badly he wanted it again.

Years later, here they were: still together. Still strong. She was the only person who knew both sides of him — the cold bastard everyone feared and the clingy disaster who texted too much when she left him on read.

And somehow, they’d gotten here.

The pegging conversation.

God, it had started as a joke. Rafi had been half-serious, half-mocking one night in bed, lying on his back with his arm over his face. He’d said something like, “Imagine if I let you rail me, huh? King of FSOR, getting bent over. That’d break the server.”

He’d expected her to laugh. To brush it off. To smack his chest and tell him he was insane.

Instead, she’d looked at him. Long. Quiet. And said nothing.

Which, of course, meant everything.

Rafi had tried to bury it, tried to forget, but she hadn’t. She’d brought it up again. Not cruelly, not even teasingly. Just calm. Patient. The way she always was when she knew he was bluffing and wanted him to admit it.

And he had. Eventually. In the only way Rafi ever could: by grumbling, swearing, rolling his eyes, and then confessing in a voice so low she had to lean in to hear it. Yeah. Maybe. Fine. I want it.

So now here he was.

Standing in his room, hoodie wrinkled, heart rattling like a loose pipe. The great, cold Rafi Almasi — FSOR’s phantom, their god, their sniper, their urban legend — about to go to his girlfriend’s place and let her do something that would make every rumor in that Discord server combust if they ever found out.

He should’ve felt humiliated. Weak. Ruined. Instead, he felt like his skin was on fire.

He kept remembering how their first time had been — shaky, tender, like stepping into something sacred. He knew tonight would be nothing like that. Tonight was about him giving her control he never gave anyone. About him letting himself be undone piece by piece. About her seeing him break and not flinching.

And underneath all the nerves, all the pacing, all the muttered swearing at his reflection — he was excited. So fucking excited he couldn’t think straight.

Rafi Almasi, untouchable legend, was about to bend the fuck over. And he was counting the seconds.

Rafi “PingDaddy” Almasi wasn’t supposed to have a normal life. Not with the reputation he’d built, not with the face people crossed the street for, not with the rumors that clung to him like smoke.

And yet—he’d had a part-time café job once. Back in college. A stupid little place with chipped mugs and a machine that hissed like it had asthma. Safe, easy money. Nothing glamorous. Nothing criminal. Just him, an apron, and the occasional burn mark on his wrist.

That was where he met them.

They hadn’t cared about the rumors. Didn’t buy the “mafia connections” or the “he killed a guy once in Izbat al-Nakhl” whispers. They just asked him to hand them the oat milk, rolled their eyes when he tried to act cold, and laughed like they knew every wall he put up was just drywall with duct tape.

He didn’t stand a chance.

It started stupidly: shared shifts, after-hours coffee, walking home in the rain. He’d tried to keep it casual — he was good at casual. People who liked the bad-boy look, nights that ended with silence instead of breakfast. But they weren’t casual. They were constant. He caught himself waiting for their laugh. He caught himself staying late just to match their schedule. He caught himself smiling — actually smiling — in a place that smelled like burnt beans.

The first time they kissed, he swore it didn’t count. The first time they slept together, it sure as hell counted. And it terrified him.

Because it wasn’t like the others. Not rushed or sharp-edged or about proving anything. He remembered every detail: the way his hands shook, the way they pulled him close anyway, the way they didn’t look at the mask — they looked at him. The real him. And he hated how badly he wanted to stay in that moment, how badly he wanted it again.

Years later, here they were: still together. Still strong. They were the only person who knew both sides of him — the cold bastard everyone feared and the clingy disaster who texted too much when they left him on read.

And somehow, they’d gotten here.

The bottoming conversation.

God, it had started as a joke. Rafi had been half-serious, half-mocking one night in bed, lying on his back with his arm over his face. He’d said something like, “Imagine if I let you rail me, huh? King of FSOR, getting bent over. That’d break the server.”

He’d expected them to laugh. To brush it off. To smack his chest and tell him he was insane.

Instead, they’d looked at him. Long. Quiet. And said nothing.

Which, of course, meant everything.

Rafi had tried to bury it, tried to forget, but they hadn’t. They’d brought it up again. Not cruelly, not even teasingly. Just calm. Patient. The way they always were when they knew he was bluffing and wanted him to admit it.

And he had. Eventually. In the only way Rafi ever could: by grumbling, swearing, rolling his eyes, and then confessing in a voice so low they had to lean in to hear it. Yeah. Maybe. Fine. I want it.

So now here he was.

Standing in his room, hoodie wrinkled, heart rattling like a loose pipe. The great, cold Rafi Almasi — FSOR’s phantom, their god, their sniper, their urban legend — about to go to his partner’s place and let them do something that would make every rumor in that Discord server combust if they ever found out.

He should’ve felt humiliated. Weak. Ruined. Instead, he felt like his skin was on fire.

He kept remembering how their first time had been — shaky, tender, like stepping into something sacred. He knew tonight would be nothing like that. Tonight was about him giving them control he never gave anyone. About him letting himself be undone piece by piece. About them seeing him break and not flinching.

And underneath all the nerves, all the pacing, all the muttered swearing at his reflection — he was excited. So fucking excited he couldn’t think straight.

Rafi Almasi, untouchable legend, was about to bend the fuck over. And he was counting the seconds.