Punch Out Don Flamenco นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Before anyone could say anything, he was sent flying across the room with just one punch from Anthony. "Say that again you retarded moron!" He growled letting go of my wrist and pulling off his suit jacket. "Fuck!" The guy winced from the pain irrupting as a result to the collision between his right cheek and Anthony’s fist. "Repeat yourself!" He gritted out folding the sleeves of his white button down. "Don't come close to me!" He yelled moving back quickly. “Or else "Or else what? You think I can be scared of the likes of you." Anthony spat dangerously stalking towards him.

Don Valentino huffs, readjusting the knuckle busters on his fingers. “Per favore,” the man cries with his head hanging in shame. The man grunts again, coughing and wheezing as Don Valentino punches him in the gut, once again. “I think you mistook my second chance as a sign of weakness, Mr. Nio Mancini.” “No….” He groans.

I said and asked the muranda who just passed by to forward my words to Ignis. "I'll be going first. Ignis won't take long, just wait for her here, okay?" I told her. She nodded and urge me to go. "My dear Fantasians! It's of my great pleasure and honor to present in front of you the next queen of the kingdom of Flamis. Princess Fhyra Icena Doneza." I heard Queen Feu announced and as if on cue fireworks lit up the dark skies of the night but the crowd's attention wasn't directed to it but to me who was standing in front of them.

Jeremy’s breath steamed in the cold, ragged and raw. The doors banged wide. Flinco strode into the deluge, rain flattening his hair, drenching a suit that screamed money but couldn’t buy him guts. His smirk was a knife’s edge, begging to be wiped off. The first punch hit like a freight train. Flinco’s fist smashed into Jeremy’s jaw, a wet crack that sent him staggering back into the mire. Pain flared hot and bright, but he swallowed it, swung back. His knuckles—adorned with that gaudy pinky ring—slammed into Flinco’s ribs, hard enough to feel cartilage buckle. Flinco wheezed, doubling over, but he was up too damn quick.

Because for once, we weren’t playing roles. We were just… us. Dante found us later. Still dancing. Still lost. He clapped Luca on the back and said, “You owe me a toast.” Luca groaned. “Do I have to?” “Yes. You’re the best man. It’s in the contract.” “I never signed anything.” “You signed with your soul.” Luca turned to me. “I’ll be back.” I smirked. “Don’t trip over your charm.” He walked off. I watched him go.

“I call this punch—Return of the Blood Sea! “A hundred years ago, you Obareans took advantage of Florencians who fell into traps to commit arson, killing, looting, and all sorts of atrocities. Today, I’ll make you experience the vengeance that’s as deep as a sea of blood!” With that, he threw a punch with a force like a mountain, sweeping away the many experts rushing toward him and breaking them into two in mid-air. For a moment, blood blossomed, beautiful yet enchanting, full of a macabre beauty. “I call this punch—Punishment from Afar!” “Florence today is no longer the Florence of many years ago. You, with your old and decaying mindset, still think you’re superior and insult Florence, opp

His hand lifted, hovering near my cheek like he wanted to touch but held back. “Ask me anything, little one,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “But know this—once you hear the answers, there’s no going back to pretending this is just protection.” Before I could speak, a loud knock pounded on the outer penthouse door. Sophia’s voice carried through, sharp and urgent. “Dante! Open up. We have a problem—Enzo just made a public move against you. And it involves the girl.” Dante’s eyes never left mine, but his body tensed for another fight.

and "Dominant Delight." Whips, paddles, and cuffs adorned the walls like erotic art installations, and the occasional sharp crack of impact play— a paddle meeting flesh—punctuated the air, bold, raw, and utterly unashamed. Kyra froze just inside the threshold, her plain jeans and oversized sweater making her feel painfully exposed and out of place amid the sea of form-fitting latex corsets, harnesses, and thigh-high boots.

The image was grainy, but the agony was crystal clear, etched in the harsh lines of his body. I saw Vincent stagger back from Luca, the paper in his hand—the fake medical records from Switzerland—fluttering to the floor. He doubled over as if punched, his body convulsing. He vomited over his pristine terrace railing. The sound was muted, but his shoulders shook with a silent scream of grief and denial.

Every strike lands with precision ribs, jaw, throat, knee. Within two minutes he collapses but I can’t see that. I am not here for a win, I am here to let out steam. So I punch him again and again until my fists are bloody. The referee calls it and the crowd screams my name. The second opponent enters quickly, younger and faster than the first. He circles cautiously, clearly aware of what just happened. But fear makes men predictable. He attacks carefully, testing my defences, but something dark is building inside my chest again. The thought of Matteo’s smug expression earlier creeps back into my mind.