Welcome to Norwood House for the Insane. Home to serial killers, psychos, where all sanity has been lost. But it's also home to two men, Oliver and Josh. Can an asylum hold love or will it just crumble down like many minds.

Stella's life is relatively normal until she befriends the High School's heart throb Zack Merrick and starts dating him. She is then welcomed until the most popular clique in her school, and with that she gains the resentment from The Trouble-Makers, whom make a point to show their distaste. Although she's never really met any of them, the main Trouble-Maker, Jack Barakat, makes it a point to go out of his way to pick on her, but what happens when Jack's right hand Trouble-Maker sticks up from Stella?

The sex industry was a dangerous place, everyone knew that. Sure, it had its perks, but for glamour model Ryan Ross, the only perk was being asked to partake in a photoshoot with gorgeous pornstar Brendon Urie, a man he both hated and admired. That single photoshoot might just have been the detonation that started everything: the lies, the affairs, the heartbreak, the scheming - in order to stay sane, you had to keep your hands to yourself. And for someone like Brendon, it would be the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. Because when you fall, you bring everyone else down with you. "How can you be okay with yourself knowing that you caused all...this?" "I'm never okay with myself, Ryan. Ever." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Book 1 in the Grim Reaper trilogy! Dan's just like any other person out in the world. Except he's a Reaper, someone who decides whether or not a person should die. He's had this job for as long as he remembers, and is never bothered by what he does. But when he is sent to judge Phil Lester, his life becomes harder and he has to decide between his feelings for the boy and his role in the world.

What is the best way to keep a secret? "Tell it to everyone you know, but pretend you are kidding" - Lemony Snicket. It turned out that Snicket was painfully correct. By the time I reached P.E. after lunch on Monday, it was tipping over the edge of eighty degrees, and my red hoodie had been stuffed in the back of my locker since Brunch. I'd lost count of how many people had gaped at my arm with shocked expressions and open mouths, curious voices unsure of whether or not they wanted to know the answer asking, "Did you cut your arm?" By third period, I'd gotten so fucking sick of repeating the same excuse that my sarcastic asshole side had leaked out. So, I'd been responding to my classmates appalled questions with something along the lines of, "Yes, I cut myself." There was a kind of sick humor to it - technically, I was telling the truth. Not that anyone would ever know it. Cover cred to RazorbladeKissesx