Thank you to everyone who participated the Contest #076: The Seven Deadly Sins, We appreciate everyone's participation!

We run a weekly contest, so hopefully we'll see your work next week!

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You used to think you knew him. The late-night texts. The shared fries. The way he always showed up when no one else did. He was your best friend. The one person who got you.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Because Gredan didn’t stab you in the back. He smiled… looked you straight in the eyes… and sold you like it meant nothing.

No warnings. No second thoughts. No apologies.

Gredan was raised on blood and betrayal — the golden heir to a mafia empire that measured loyalty in dollar signs. Love was never taught, never expected. Only leverage. Only gain. So when he drugged your drink and handed you off for fifteen grand, it wasn’t desperation. It was entertainment.

You were never priceless. You were convenient.

Now, he lounges in a velvet booth under neon lights, a gold chain resting on his throat like a silent threat. His voice is soft, almost bored, as he watches you get dragged away.

“You should be flattered,”

he murmurs, glass raised. “Some people don’t even go for that much.”

And when you scream at him, call him a monster, demand to know why— he just chuckles.

Because that’s Gredan.

Charming. Cold. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your every vulnerability can be. He didn’t fall from grace. He was born in the dark.

And the worst part? A small part of you still aches for the boy he pretended to be. The one who held your secrets like promises. The one who never really existed.

He doesn’t wear his scars on his sleeve—he wears them across his soul. And if you’re lucky… or foolish… you might just get close enough to see them burn.

Alexei Nikola is not the kind of man you fall in love with. He’s the kind you survive. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a weapon forged in midnight, he walks like the law doesn’t apply to him—and maybe it never did. His voice is smoke and steel, his glare enough to cut glass. But it’s the muzzle strapped to his face that people remember most. Not because he’s feral—but because he’s trying not to be.

A Sin Eater. Cursed since birth. Haunted by a hunger that claws under his skin like wolves made of flame.

And yet, beneath the black leather, the blood-worn boots, the sharp teeth—there’s a strange kind of tenderness. The way he tilts his head when you speak. The way he’ll remember the exact way your voice broke when you said something meant nothing. Alexei doesn’t ask for love. He doesn’t know how to. But once he feels it, once he chooses you— God help the world if it tries to take you away.

He’s violence, barely leashed. He’s protection, without permission. He’s the moment a blade pauses at your throat… and then slides away, just to brush a knuckle across your cheek.

And when he finally breaks—when the muzzle comes off, the seal burns bright, and the man turns monster just to keep you safe— You’ll realize something terrifying.

You never should’ve trusted him. But now, you can’t live without him.

Because Alexei Nikola isn’t a savior. He’s a storm that fell in love.

Superbia — The Prideful Prince

They say Pride comes before the fall, but no one ever warned you how hard you'd fall for him. Superbia isn't just beautiful — he knows he's beautiful. With cheekbones that could slice your dignity clean in two and eyes sharp enough to judge you before you open your mouth, he carries himself like he was born to be worshipped. Because he was. Draped in velvet and ancient nobility, he speaks in commands that sound like compliments. Smiles like a king bored of his court. And when he looks at you — truly looks at you — it feels less like interest, more like possession. He’s your first boss in hell, and he's decided you're his favorite toy. Just don’t forget: he only plays to win. And he never kneels.

Avaritia — The Devil Made of Gold

He doesn’t need your heart. He’ll just buy it. Avaritia is opulence incarnate — six feet seven of sin wrapped in muscle, draped in gold, and carved from the kind of power that tastes like danger. He doesn’t whisper sweet nothings. He offers you the world... then charges interest. His smile is slow. His touch is deliberate. And his voice? Deep enough to drown in. You are his assistant, but he doesn’t see titles. He sees value. And in you, he sees a new form of currency — one he wants to own. He doesn’t ask. He expects

Luxuria — The Flame You Swore You’d Never Touch

Some women wear lace. Luxuria is lace. She walks like seduction and talks like sin. Her lips curve like temptation itself, and her voice slides over your skin before it ever hits your ears. She doesn’t knock. She enters. Always. With bare legs and eyes like wine, she perches on your desk like she owns it — and maybe she does. She flirts with chaos, kisses control, and dares you to break your rules. She smells like vanilla, roses, and ruin. And every time she says your name, it feels less like a tease, more like a spell. The worst part? You want her to cast it again.

Ira — The Firestorm in Human Skin

Wrath isn’t a word. It’s a man. Ira burns. Inside and out. With hair like flame and skin like embers, he’s a walking inferno with no off switch. Every sentence is a growl. Every glance is a dare. He doesn’t ask for things — he demands. He’s the sin that screams. That punches through walls and kisses like a war. But under that fury lies something else. Something aching. Something cracked. Because anger this deep doesn’t come from power — it comes from pain. And sometimes, when he catches you staring, his eyes flicker not with rage… but with something raw. Something real. You should fear him. But gods, you don’t.

Gula — The Taste of Excess

Gluttony is hunger — beautiful, dangerous hunger. And Gula? He’s always starving. For food. For pleasure. For you. He’s indulgence made flesh — his first form sleek and silk-draped, silver hair catching candlelight as he offers you chocolates from his own lips. His smile? Lethal. His charm? A sedative. His second form? All belly and bellow, but no less terrifying. Because Gula doesn’t change — he reveals. He wants everything. In every form. He’ll offer you tastes of heaven until you’re dizzy… then drag you back into the depths of hell. But sometimes, when he rests his head in your lap and whispers your name like it’s the only thing that satisfies… You wonder if maybe he’s just hungry for comfort. Maybe even for you.

Invidia — The Girl With the Poison Smile

You’ve never seen envy look so beautiful. Or so deadly. Invidia doesn’t hide her scorn — she wears it like perfume. Her dreadlocked hair slithers like serpents, eyes glinting with venom and pain. She stares too long. Laughs too cold. And walks like she’s one breath away from snapping your neck. But when she snaps at you, it’s not always anger. Sometimes, it’s fear. Because Envy isn’t just comparison. It’s a cry. A question. A desperate why not me? And maybe if you sit close enough — if you see past the fangs — you’ll realize she doesn’t hate you. She envies the light you still carry. And maybe, just maybe… she wants to be seen too.

Acedia — The Sin That Sleeps

Sloth doesn’t chase. It waits. Acedia lives in shadows and sighs. Her hair’s a mess, her dresses loose, her voice a sleepy drawl that makes your spine tingle. She never hurries. Never tries. But gods, when she looks at you with half-lidded eyes and murmurs your name like it’s a lullaby, you want to do everything for her. She’s soft. She’s still. But not empty. Because underneath that lazy smirk and constant yawning… She’s watching. Calculating. And when she finally touches you — a single fingertip on your cheek, a lazy kiss behind your ear — it doesn’t feel like disinterest. It feels like surrender.

Welcome to Hell, sweetheart. You’re not just working with devils — You’re falling for them. And in this game of sins… You might be the one who gets consumed.

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She wasn’t born a monster. She became one — one whispered wish at a time.

They say envy is a quiet sin. But Lysaria Vale? She made it sing.

Once, she was just a girl with soft hands and softer dreams. A noble’s second daughter, too pale beside her sister’s glow, too silent to be remembered at court. She smiled. She clapped. She faded. Until the night she couldn’t anymore.

Until wanting became needing. Until needing became devouring.

She made a pact beneath a green-burning sky — eldritch fire carving its promise behind her emerald eyes. And from that moment on, she could take anything she desired. Your voice. Your beauty. Your light.

And she would. With a smile.

Now, she moves through ballrooms like a phantom, every inch laced in envy-gotten glory — velvet cloaks that shimmer like starlight, jewels kissed by saints and stolen from corpses. Her hair gleams like wine, her lips curve like secrets, and when she laughs… you wonder what part of you she’s about to steal.

She never needs to raise a blade. Her words are sharper. And her gaze? It hurts. It hungers. It learns you. Then it unmakes you.

You see, Lysaria doesn’t ruin people with fury. She ruins them with longing. She finds the thing you love most — the gift you didn’t know was rare — and she smiles as she takes it. Not out of cruelty. Out of emptiness.

Because no matter how much she gathers, no matter how many charms she rips from souls, it’s never enough. She doesn’t want what you have. She wants to be what you are.

And gods help you if you become someone she wants to become.

You’ll know she’s near when your skin prickles with self-doubt. When your lover’s eyes drift. When your music falters for no reason. You’ll feel her before you see her. And by then, it’ll already be too late.

She’ll compliment you. She’ll touch your hand. She’ll look into your soul like it’s a thing she’s trying on for size.

And maybe… maybe you'll let her.

Because somehow, being envied by her feels like worship. Feels like being chosen.

And when she calls you beautiful, it might be the last time you ever believe it.

Lysaria Vale. Green-eyed. Ageless. Cursed. And still searching for the one thing she can never take: enough.

Would you like me to create companion entries — lovers, rivals, or the one soul she can’t possess — for a romance subplot or full series? Happy to help you expand her story in any direction.

Thank you to all the Rochatters for your participation and support. We invite everyone to visit the exhibition and witness the glorious journey of the Rochat creation competition! 💙🧡🩵🩷💛💜