Eastmount Psychiatric Hospital Project Black Widow Patient n. 384 Name: Harry Styles Date of birth: February 1st, 1883 Date of admission: March 20th, 1905 Date of death: - Additional Information: Disappeared on September 6th, 1906. 24/11/19 #15 in fanfiction

// "...Harry? I thought you went home." "Turns out home isn't a place anymore, Flower." // In which a drug dealer takes on more than he bargained for when he's assigned to look after the bosses' daughter.

***completed*** NOW PUBLISHED ON AMAZON Harry Styles. The strange one. The freak. The one who was too kind for his own good, trapped in a world where his job was to bring people pain. Sophia 'Spice' Winters. The dancer. The stripper. The one who who trapped in a world where her job was to provide men with nothing but pleasure. -- "What don't you understand?" Harry seethed, his hands gripping the roots of his hair. "I'm not the good guy here, Sophia. I'm bad, everything about me is fucking bad." Harry looked as if he was about to rip his hair out, his wild eyes shinning with madness. He looked unhinged, raw and angry. It should of frightened me. That look alone should of been enough to send me running. He didn't look like the shy man I first met. He looked...crazy. His fingers were coated in red, stained with the blood of another. He didn't seem to care though. "If I was you Sophia, I would run away. Run as far away as you possibly can, because I promise you...An evil part of me won't let you go, and I hate myself for that. I want you to run away, to a place that I can't ever find you. You'll be safe that way."

The tragic love story of a sad girl and a dead boy who must work together to find his killer, amid heartbreak, mystery, and learning that perhaps death is not the end. [COMPLETED]

Although she wouldn't like to admit it, Isabel Allen can be selfish, argumentative, and more than a little insecure. When she and the moody, tattooed and positively infuriating Harry Styles are forced to work together at a bowling alley three days a week, Isabel thinks she's living in her own personal hell. But time changes more than just the seasons, and one year is a long time to work out not only each other, but yourself, too. A story about messy hair, heavy drinking, marathons, film trivia and being okay. (This story isn't mine, all credit to oxegenstyles!)

"I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons." - Christopher Poindexter

"Smoking is bad, you know." The placid voice speaks up from the distant dark corner, nothing to see but a tall silhouette and an orange glow of a cigarette cherry. "It's the least of my problems," I murmur with my own between my lips, proceeding to feel the stagnant debris valley my throat when I suck delicately. He exhales a chuckle of cynical amusement, his footsteps getting every step clearer to my eardrums until I eventually sense body heat burning my back. "And why is that?" He whispers over my shoulder, hands inviting themselves to grip the railing in front of me so I become a prisoner between his inked arms. I swallow. "Because you'll be the one to kill me first." // Aven Brooks is hired to take pictures for the world-renown punk rock band known today as Duplicity; hoping the experience gets her into her most elite-dreamed university. However, when her lenses accidentally capture more than just cheeky sound checks and performances, she comes to a horrifying discovery that Duplicity is anything but a band. Appalled and frightened, she's trapped. *HIGHEST RANKINGS* #1 IN HARRYSTYLES #1 IN ONEDIRECTION ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO @happydays1d NOT ALLOWING TRANSLATIONS! CONTAINS VULGAR LANGUAGE / DRUG ABUSE / SEXUAL CONTENT / DESCRIPTIVE VIOLENCE / MENTAL HEALTH READ AT OWN RISK!

To love a psycho, a psycho you must become. // COMPLETED // {WARNING: This fiction contains extreme violence, drug abuse, explicit sexual content and features strong language not suitable for minors. Discretion is advised.}