Sonic Oc Reference Sheet

Koishi 22 years old there was a time he was a famous painter in the past, but because of personal reasons, he left the painting on the white canvas. The smell of fresh paint he used to love he hates the most. Now just living a normal life as a pizza delivery guy. On the other side Takeshi, famous for his dark theme paintings filled with lust and greed showed in them. Not much is know about the secret painter to anyone. The paintings can give anyone a nightmare story behind it still they are in lusted to buy the beauty of it. The day they cross the path for the tainted forbidden love the promise that was made in the past has to be fulfilled now. "I want you to paint for me," Takeshi said looking down at Koishi the hands that were tied up in bed. "Well, start it once again or-"Takeshi paused pulling the door open as a familiar person falls down. "Or I will paint the canvas with your love" Takeshi smirks as the horror-filled his Koishi eyes hearing a thud right in front of his leg. What will Koishi do now? Painting in the while sheet of the canvas or let it tamed by the blood he onces cared. The single stroke of the brush will tell you every single story. "Why did you run away from me a year ago?"

My husband's gym was celebrating its grand opening, so I grabbed my best friend and headed over under the guise of "checking the place out," armed with a $10 trial class we had snagged from a group deal. I never once mentioned that I was the owner's wife. The moment we wrapped up the workout, a female trainer slapped a price sheet into our hands and gave us a look that could cut glass. "Let me guess, you two came here to milk the freebies? Our private training sessions cost hundreds. They're not here for people like you to exploit." I let out a disbelieving laugh. "We bought a perfectly valid trial class. How does that make us freeloaders? Get your manager." She rolled her eyes, acting like she was the rules. "Call whoever you want! The owner is my boyfriend, and he can't stand penny-pinchers who show up trying to mooch off his gym." Then, right in front of us, she called him—voice raised, dramatic, dripping with fake indignation. "Babe, there are two cheapskates in your gym demanding the manager. Come deal with them for me!"

My wife's gym is celebrating its grand opening, and I drag my buddy along to check the place out with a 9.90-dollar trial class I bought through an e-commerce platform. For the entire time, I never once let it slip that I'm the owner. Right after we finish training, a male coach tosses a price sheet at us. His eyes sweep over us with contempt as he says, "You two look like freeloaders. Our private sessions cost a few hundred each, and we don't offer freebies to people like you." I let out a disbelieving laugh. "We paid for this trial class. How is that freeloading? Go get your manager." He rolls his eyes and makes it seem like he's enforcing a very important rule. "Don't bother looking for the manager. My girlfriend owns this place, and she hates broke losers who try to get free classes." He dials her number right in front of us. His voice sounds both arrogant and pitiful. "Babe, two guys showed up and tried to con us into giving them a free class. They even told me to call the manager. Come over here and show them what's what!"

There is a place where names are forgotten, faces are hidden, and only the body speaks. It doesn’t whisper. It moans. It obeys. It disobeys. It begs. You were warned not to touch. But you will. Welcome to Velvet Heat, a collection of 100 dangerously intimate stories that whisper in the dark and bite when you’re not looking. These are not tales of sweet love and gentle kisses. These are fantasies that unravel you..slowly, slickly, and without apology. Behind every silk sheet is a secret. Beneath every command, a dare. And under every moan, a threat. From faceless strangers in candlelit rooms to monsters who taste like sin, this is a world where desire bleeds, power shifts, and no one escapes untouched. Some stories will make you beg. Some will make you scream. And some… will make you wish you never opened the book. Velvet Heat is where you come to lose yourself. But you’ll never leave the same. Only sinners. No safe words. Only consequences. And no promises of love..just obsession, power, hunger… and release.

They say Don Julian Marconi would burn the world for one tear of mine. Five years ago, at the Met Gala, he spent millions to hang emeralds around my neck and swore I was his Madonna. Five years later, beneath the velvet boxes of our anniversary, I found a lace strap soaked in sin—and a fresh, crimson smear on his collar that told me exactly whose bed he’d left. I smiled. I asked him to sign a blank sheet of paper. And that meant he was agreeing to whatever I wanted. He called it love. I called it the death warrant for his empire. In fifteen days, I finalized our divorce papers. I boarded the Stella d’Oro as Serena Cole and burned Celeste Marconi to ash on the deck. Then I vanished with his fortune, his power and the one secret that would destroy him. I was the saint he worshipped. Now I am the ghost who haunts him. No groveling. No forgiveness. No second chance. Just ashes.

The novel is mainly about the forgotten British poet/writer named C. J Richards who lived in Burma/Myanmar in colonial times and he believed himself as a Burmophile. He served as I.C.S (Indian Civil Servant) and when he retired from I.C.S service, he was a D.C (District Commissioner) and he left for England a year before Burma gained its independence in 1948. He came to Burma in 1920 to work in civil service after passing the hardest I.C.S examination. He wrote several books on Burma and contributed many monthly articles to Guardian Magazine published in Burma from 1953 to 1974 or 1975. Though he wrote several books which had much literary merit to both communities, Britain and Burma (Myanmar), people failed to recognize him. The story has two parts: one part is set in the contemporary Yangon (then called Rangoon) in 2016 context and a young literary enthusiast named “Lin” found out unexpectedly the forgotten writer’s poetry book and there is surely a good deal of time gap that led him into a quest to know more about the author’s life. The setting is quite different comparing to colonial Burma and independence Myanmar (Burma), early twentieth century and 2016 which is a transitional period in Myanmar. The writer’s life is fictionalized in the novel and most of the facts are taken from his personal stories and other reference books. It is a kind of historical novel with a twist and it has comparatively constructed the two different periods in Myanmar history to convince readers, locally and abroad more about history, authorship, humanity, colonialism, and transitional development in Myanmar today.

Everyone in class can hear my thoughts, but there's a catch—the "thoughts" they hear have been deliberately altered. During the exam, while I swiftly fill out the answer sheet, the rest of the class stays put. They eagerly wait to hear the answers in my head. [The answer for this is C, of course. These questions are exactly the same as the ones Ms. Clarke revealed to me. I'm going to be the top student again without even breaking a sweat!] Everyone else immediately copy my answers. Ultimately, apart from me, they all end up failing the exam. During our swimming class, my leg cramps, and I start sinking underwater. I try to scream for help, but my classmates hear something entirely different in my head. [I'm going to act like I'm drowning and see who's the idiot who jumps in to save me. Hahaha!] In the end, they all watch indifferently as I drown. My eyes open again. I've gone back in time to the day of the exam. This time, I can also hear these "thoughts" of mine that have been altered.

The room is dimly lit, the air is filled with the smell of sex and alcohol; the guy laying next to the girl is panting heavily. She on the other hand is laying next to him, all curled up; soft whimpers are coming out of her lips. The guy wraps his muscular arms around her waist and pushes her a little away from him. She opens her eyes halfway through and stares at the guy, his hair sticking to his forehead due to the sweat; his dark brown eyes are closed. His sharp features are glistening, when the little rays of the sun hits his face that is coming in through the window. Forwarding her hand, she caresses his thin lower lip with her index finger and closes her eyes. "Get out." He says in a harsh tone from beside her. Her eyes flutter open completely hearing his harsh words; she always thinks why he acts so badly with her? Retracting her hand back to herself she sits up, her lower belly aches in the bitter sweet pain. A groan comes out of her mouth and her hands go straight to on top of her lower belly, to caress it. His clothes and hers are scattered around on the floor. The entire room is a mess, the bed sheet is all crinkled; pillows are off the bed.

My roommate blew up online overnight, becoming a 'luck streamer' that everyone could not stop talking about. On her livestream, she only took three requests a day. Anyone who paid could make a wish, and no matter how absurd it sounded, it would come true. However, ever since she started, my luck spiraled downhill. I would choke just drinking water. I would miss a step and tumble down the stairs. During finals, I even filled out my answer sheet in the wrong direction. She would always smile and reassure me, saying, "It's okay. Your zodiac sign is going through a strong Mercury retrograde this year. It'll get better soon." A few days later, a falling billboard crushed me to death in the street. It was only after I died that I learned the truth. Every wish she granted during her streams was paid for with my luck. The reason I died so suddenly was because someone had wished for their enemy's entire family to die. The price was too high, and my luck was completely drained. Then, I opened my eyes again. I was back to the moment not long after she had just started streaming. "Lucky?" Yeah, right. This time, she can be the one carrying all the bad luck.

"This is a notice regarding proper use of the air conditioning. Please sign to acknowledge receipt." My six-year-old son stood there with a stern little frown, slapping a sheet of paper down in front of me. I glanced at the page. Written in colorful marker were several neatly listed "charges." The whole thing felt absurd. When I did not respond, he pointed at the paper like a tiny adult. "Mom, you didn't turn the air down in time yesterday. That could've affected my health. It was very irresponsible." I looked toward my husband, who had just gotten home from work, hoping he would say something, anything, in my defense. Instead, he snatched up the paper and slapped it down on the table, his voice sharp. "Can't you be more attentive? Our son's health comes first. If you can't even handle something this simple, what kind of mother are you?" With someone backing him up, our son's eyes immediately reddened. He burst into tears. "Mom doesn't love me!" The two of them, playing judge and jury, left me suddenly breathless. "Fine," I said at last. "If I'm such an unfit mother, I'll leave. Let your father find you a new one, someone who knows how to set the air conditioning properly."