Prepare yourselves for serious OOC-ness and worlds of good times. For all intensive purposes, let's just pretend this is after Ouran has released them all, and they're living in the real world (or whatever you want to call the place in my head -snicker, snicker-). Honestly, I have to say that Haruhi came out like nothing I've ever read by Hatori, so much so that she's almost like a totally new character (and the relationship between Tamaki and Haruhi took an… interesting turn, one might say)! Yay deviation! I just… I like sexual characters –fidgets-… and people with multiple facets to personalities. Besides, crazy people are more fun anyway –pouts-.

Oh, and by the way, I invented the games. Those are very, very fun things to play. –rolls on floor laughing-

So, what I'm saying is, leave me flames or leave me praise, just please, sweet Jesus, leave me something!

Rating: I'm going to go with T... but assume it's a more mature T. Okay? You were warned.

Disclaimer: May I just ask why you think I would own anything? I'm poor. And the only few things I want to own are as follows: Takashi, Thomas Raith, a Mark Rothko painting, an apartment in France.

What Haruhi Did:

Haruhi was the last one to fall.

They all did; it was a part of being a teenager (or young adult) all the books said, that, and being caught in the grip of acne and the formation of new curves and planes and angles.

But she was different, or so she prided herself.

She'd avoided the acne, embraced the new curves,

(she knew that she could get anything and anyone with a look, a twitch, and a flutter of dark eyelashes (a curl of full, garnet lips, a dangling, wanting hand gesture).

and stubbornly set herself against falling.

But she crumbled, weak-kneed and starry-eyed, cricking and tumbling and thumping on her way down (in silent abandon).

Yet she didn't say a word. Not to her father and not to the others.

They had fallen (for her), and she was completely oblivious.

She had bigger plans in mind with her embraced, new, young body.

That was how she had gotten herself into the trouble of falling—she picked the wrong somebodies to taunt and tease and devour.

Everybody knew of the six boys that hung out in an exclusive clique, all so different yet so aloof that they had managed to form their own group of distant, remote friendship.

And (lucky, lucky boys) she had picked them as her own self-evaluated graduation grade (and prize).

Kyoya was dark of mind and eye color, with steely gazes, blackened hair, and a self-empowered smirk that sang of confidence.

Tamaki was beautiful: blond hair, violet eyes, and the kind of looks that mark a male as lovely and brought romantic charm to the table.

Mori was silent, reserved, and spoke through simple actions and shadowed glances, wrenching at her soul with every blink of gray orbs and flick of raven locks.

Hunny, sweeter than cake and prettier than candied fruits, claiming skin with sticky palms and childlike wonder (while his eyes were anything but).

And the twins, Hikaru and Kaoru, both sexual and touchy-feely and unbearably proud and gorgeous.

For them all, she changed, becoming the idyllic, beautiful, individualized Venus. She could be flirtatious, or beautiful, or sweet, or dark, or silent. She was everything in a world of nothing.

But for all of these sides in her personality, she liked that they fit all of them. A flavour du jour, a boy toy for almost every day of the week.

And thus, falling ensued.

It wasn't like she set out to do it, and it wasn't something obvious that she could steer away from (as she'd sworn herself against it). It was gradual, and subtle, and gorgeous. Until her fingers slipped from the precipice they'd been dangling upon, and she'd looked up with panic-filled eyes as her last hopes of escaping without heartbreak and hurt fled up as she went down.

And she knew that she would always (dare she say it) l—lo—like them all.

Of course, she hadn't realized that would happen when she'd set out on her mission: she'd had specific intentions in mind. Mostly revolving around the bedroom.

She'd seen the looks the others had cast the boys' way as they huddled in their groups and isolated themselves, and she liked it. They held endless possibilities, looking like that (and smelling like that, and, she was pretty sure, tasting like that).

Haruhi had never been a selfish girl. She had never been rich, and she knew to be grateful for things received. It was those… idiots' (those lovely, wonderful idiots) faults.

She wanted.

And, as much as it hurt to turn her back on what she'd grown up as, it was much more… amusing to embrace this new side in herself.

What the Twins Liked:

The twins liked games. All sorts.

She played games with them too… lots and lots of games.

The honey game. The number game. The question game…

Oh yes, they liked this last one best of all; they learned all sorts of things about their toy (which she had become in their eyes).

She wasn't a virgin (anymore), and she'd planned all sorts of… fun activities for them.

And best of all, she'd introduced them to all the games, her games, and the twins had been able to manipulate the roles and rules to their liking:

Double your honey, double your fun.

Eventually she'd had to stop asking questions so the two could bury her in their queries, always wanting to know more, more, more.

The number game they'd kept the same… why fix what was already perfect?

She'd introduced them to that game in a different way; the others she had explained to them carefully before the doubles clamored to play, but the number game she'd let them experience, figure the rules out, no explanation needed (when they figured it out, which they did… quickly).

They'd returned home from an afternoon romp watching girls play tennis (and titter gently at the gorgeous boys looking) at the country club, only to meet their rarely-there mother looking frazzled.

"There's a girl in your room," she exclaimed as they came through the doors. Four eyes flitted to her, one tawny and one gold, one gold and one tawny…

She still couldn't tell them apart.

"She said she was a school friend. She showed up while you were out," their mother continued , nearly stuttering in her shame that she couldn't tell her only children apart. "I let her wait in your room."

The doppelgangers looked to each other, inclined their heads, and both agreed on who it was… devilish, pleased grins licked at their thin, appealing lips. The both started for the stairs with identical strides while their mother moved to the door they'd just entered.

"I'm going out," she called, fluffing her immaculate, auburn hair before summoning up a: "She's so gorgeous… don't mess it up, boys…"

She sauntered out, and as she left, the pair started galloping up the stairs.

"You think…?" Kaoru began. His twin's grin widened.

"Oh yes…"

"New game!" they chimed together, smacking palms as they snaked up three levels to their shared attic bedroom where they stopped at the door.

A square of paper had been taped to the wood, and Haruhi's elegant script flowed in a straight, simple line across it.

Close the door behind you. And lock it. –H

They went busting and thrusting their way in, expecting their brunette (sex) toy to be stretched languidly across the couch in their room, yet no such sight met their eyes. Instead the room was curiously empty of silky, ivory girl flesh.

Kaoru sagged against the door, and his twin went to lock it (only to meet with their holy grail).

Something lacy, and black, and sufficiently (sexy) lacking in material dangled from the door knob. Another cube of white had been attached with a very distinct '5' drawn upon it.

Hikaru was nudged by Kaoru, and both went boggly-eyed. Kaoru was nudged by Hikaru, and both smiled their not-so-innocent innocent smiles.

Underneath the number lay a 'Come find me.'

"Are those…?"

"Hell yes…"

"I like…"

"I know…"

"You think…?"

"New game!"

Both twins let loose identical, exultant whoops and went on the hunt. Kaoru went left; Hikaru went right. Hikaru went left; Kaoru went right. And both began to sing-song: "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

No answer.

Instead, Kaoru found a thigh-high sock with a card of '4'.

Hikaru uncovered the other, '3', of course, intact.

On the bed lay a black bra with a '2' on the left cup and both dove for the silk/lace contraption.

"What does it mean?" one asked the other.

"Maybe she only has two articles of clothing left on her," the other gleamed at the one.

Both allowed smiles of infinite mirth to crawl up their chins.

They liked this game.

And finally on the couch lay a skirt, white and beautiful and delicate, like their toy.

They nearly screamed (very manly screams they'll have you know) when the voice soared up behind them with a light, laughing, "one."

Hikaru and Kaoru (or is Kaoru and Hikaru) rounded on their toy with identical gasps of, "Haruhi!"

A long, man's t-shirt dragged to the tops of her thighs, so they didn't stop to ask where she'd been hiding.

It's sufficient to say that no more numbers were needed.

What Tamaki Loved:

Tamaki liked all things beautiful, and he found that he could find a bit of beauty in everything.

He liked art, and he liked music. He appreciated a good-looking woman and acknowledged a good-looking man. He liked flowers and sunsets and could see the appeal of cuisine.

He liked certain things best of all yet could see what charm things held for others.

And because of this admiration, many judged Tamaki to be a total flake.

Except for her (and his friends he supposed).

That was why Tamaki liked her: she understood the beauty of the world, of others.

She would look at him with those starry eyes, and he just knew that she just knew, and it made life worth knowing.

There was constant chatter in his life (because of her), discussions of light and beauty, debates of why others saw the things they did, conversations on all topics lovely.

There was no boredom as they both agreed that such a feeling held no emotions worthy of the title 'pretty'. The deal was that you had to feel something, and the complacency of monotony was experiencing nothing.

The pair argued… a lot… for nothing and everything.

Anger and fury were especially beautiful.

The rage, the heat, the passion. The tears that fell when the screeching became (almost) too much for their mortal bodies. The flush that covered their skin as accusations went back and forth, smacking and slapping skin, and hearts, and souls. The crashing (together) as the battle finished. The clinging for forgiveness in the aftermath.

They thrived in being dysfunctional.

Of course, being dysfunctional and beautiful gave way quickly to being selfish. They didn't like to share (anything).

(With anybody.)

The others would watch as Tamaki and Haruhi hurled and whirled in their topsy-turvy world, and they would stay out of it.

Like that one afternoon…

"I hate you," she screeched, voice ringing and enchanting with bell-like quality.

"I can't stand you," he flung back mercilessly, the velvety smoothness of his voice husky and fantastic. Her pale cheeks went crimson in rage.

"You're an arrogant son of a bitch who has too much innocence to see straight with his head shoved so far up his own ass he's bent double," she shrieked.

His eyes went crystalline and cold. "Was that your idea of an insult? Little girl, you aren't ready to play with the big boys yet. Go back to your dolls."

She lunged; he parried. They already sported injuries delivered by the other—a bruise hung around her left wrist; his cheek was almost purple from her furious, flying fists.

The others watched (with the same morbid interest one matches a mating program on Animal Planet with).

"I wish you would rot!"

"I wish you would die!"

It didn't matter who said it, it was just there.

The others watched (with the same silly fascination one watches a tennis match with).

"Nobody likes you!"

"Everybody hates you!"

"Do me a favor and kill yourself."

"Only if you go first!"

The others watched (with the same instant dread one has when faced with a test they didn't know about).

"You're a bullshit excuse for a man!"

"You're a whore of a girl."

Her chin trembled; his eyes misted. Both launched again.

Hits soared, tears fell, legs wavered, slaps missed.

The others watched (with the same clear stupidity of one who doesn't understand).

Tamaki fell; Haruhi tumbled—somehow they ended up in the other's arms, comforting and sobbing, sobbing and comforting.

A twin made a move to help (and instantly backed down when the two sent up ferocious snarls at the intruder).

Apologies were murmured, and kisses were pressed. And both exulted in the beauty of the experience.

The others rolled their eyes, grumbled words in their jealousy (but they knew they had to share), and decided to leave the room they'd crammed into in Haruhi's apartment.

"I'm sorry," he pressed again, and she grinned a watery beam into the skin of his neck.

"I know."

"It doesn't mean anything," he continued, pecking at her collarbone and whatever he could reach, fingers roaming freely.

"I know."

But it did; it always meant something. The words were insipid, but the fights were the significance, the understanding, the beauty.

"I love you," he promised, still cradling, still stroking (whatever he could).

The two stayed like that for a moment before Haruhi found her voice again.

"I know," she chimed back. The taste of the words, to him, was almost (always) enough.

What Kyoya Wrote:

Kyoya was dark (calculating, cynical, organized, and far, far too smart).

His father scowled with (slight) pride and called him strong and competitive; his mother looked with anxiety and labeled him manipulative.

His friends put up with it.

Except for Haruhi… she understood.

Haruhi was dark too.

Though she kept it locked away, around him, the mists of dark secrets clung to her like the sexiest cowl, lent her a sudden air of mystery that had him entranced.

He discovered her secret on a rainy, cold day of winter. He had moved to her side at her place at the window in his house. Her arms were crossed, and her gaze was fogged with a lusty sort of quietness.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, and he grimaced, sans remark—he didn't approve of Tamaki's way of life. "I love the rain," she continued without waiting for an answer. "It's soothing… and it hides things."

He shot her a strange look, thunderstorms crossing his brain, and she quickly clarified.

"I'm not a fan of thunder, as you well know, but I see no problem with rain," Haruhi tacked on.

Kyoya shot a doubtful look at the cumulonimbus clouds that hung low in the sky and then back at the girl.

She shuddered delicately, understanding his reasoning.

"You're a masochist," he accused (without much conviction), jotting it down in his always-present notebook.

"Aren't we all?" she giggled, though the sound was without charm or joy.

"Us? Or everyone else?"

She turned from the panes to face him, the stark look stealing into her eyes with her words of: "Everybody… I think anybody who partakes in even the tiniest bit of hedonism is guilty of it. Profligacy, while it has merits, only leads to disappointment eventually… and then, it's a short step from there to pain… self-inflicted, of course. But yet, if given the option, all people would willingly put themselves up for it, and if that isn't masochistic, then I don't know what is."

A thin smile tugged at a corner of his mouth, and his glasses glinted coldly.

"And for us specifically, Haruhi dear?" She didn't startle at the affectionate tag, merely pursed her lips and furrowed her brow.

"Well," she began, and he felt himself leaning intently towards her with a spark gleaming on the frames around his eyes. "I wouldn't say that you're more masochistic than most… you're pretty average, actually. I suppose that has something to do with being rich—you're allowed more opportunities and things, thus you aren't nearly as... self-sadistic as others."

He chuckled grimly and made another note. "Actually, dear, I would say that we're more so than most."

"Why?" Her gaze shuffled back to the window, and her voice shook with a curious, innocent, silvery timbre.

"We all want the same thing," he replied easily, catching her nod out of the corner of his eye. "You hold all of the cards, and we are utterly defenseless—this is not a place that I like to be, but there are merits to it."

Her stare siphoned back to his face, scanning with an intent ferocity. "You are all very stupid. But I am very flattered."

"You could always just choose us all," he sneered, and she looked at him with those huge cinnamon eyes (and for once he felt curiously cold).

"I could."

"But you will have to choose," he pressed further, leaning intently in.

"I know," she rejoined.

"And whatever choice you do make, you'll break someone's heart." It filled him with a sort of lemon tart feeling, both sweet and sour, to say the words.

"Oh yes," she finished, returning to her perusal of the rain, a small smile on her lips and an immeasurable sadness in her eyes. He tilted his head, pressed two thin fingers underneath her chin, and went to stake his claim in her too.

But Kyoya knew she wouldn't cut her losses and jump ship (like any good business owner would).

Because, you see, Haruhi was dark too.

What Hunny Tasted:

It was very well-known that Mitsukuni liked sweet things. After all, it was standard fare to offer gifts in cake form to him, and it gave him (almost) utter delight.

Yet he derived the most pleasure from sweet people.

And no one, in his personal/expert opinion, was sweeter than Haruhi.

At least, that was what he goaded his mind with, that tantalizing bit of information that sat like a perfectly ripened strawberry just waiting to be guzzled down.

"Haru-chan!" Hunny squealed, launching himself at the petite brunette while managing to balance a precariously large, ambiguously white box.

"Hunny-senpai," she murmured, sparing a curious glance towards the parcel he carried, but he ignored to, instead, let himself appreciate the way her lips formed his nickname (yet it wasn't quite enough for him, so he tried harder).

"Mitsukuni," he corrected, and the blush that spread made him glow with pleasure. "You graduated last year after all, Haru-chan!"

She tried out the name, rolling it around her mouth to get the taste in properly, and he thrilled every time she said it again.

"I have cake," he offered, after what seemed to be an immeasurable amount of time. "Wanna share?"

A beam broke across her face, the smile of the natural, and he found himself hiding ruddy cheeks into Usa-chan's pink fur and proffering the package her way.

She relieved him of his burden, moving to an empty counter and opening the box. She brandished a knife and, with practiced ease, sliced the man a hunk of his present, effectively removing it from the box without once damaging the pretty swirls of icing of the moist (A/N: Just so you know, I hate this word and think that the only time it can be used is when describing dessert. Kisses are never supposed to be moist, nor are lips—that's just… ew.) confection and extended the cake in his direction.

And that was when the moment struck him.

He wasn't quite sure what he wanted.

Haruhi.

Or the cake.

The cake?

Or the girl?

Mitsukuni had never had any trouble differentiating and deliberating on what he desired—there had always been a very clear line between the things hated and those that he would chase after with a frenzied passion until all of his energy had been zapped and not even confectionary goods would rouse him.

He loved his Haru-chan, but he had never been sure whether it was in the same way as the others, or if it was in his own… special way.

Until that moment.

He just had one more test.

He had grown since his days spent in Ouran's halls, not by much, but enough so that he could comfortably look down on the petite female.

So, he seized the fork, scooped a bite, and pressed the teeth to her (curiously soft-looking) lips.

They parted, the cake disappeared, and he chased the bite with something very adult-like.

First, there came the caress on her cheekbone, just to see if it was as soft as a downy mountain of whipped cream. (It was even more velveteen.)

Then, as the question appeared in those orbs the color of hot chocolate, he dropped his hands and pressed his mouth to hers.

She tasted like sugar, sunshine, and cake… and he thought that not even the finest baked goods in the world could compare.

And when they parted, the cake between them, Usa-chan forgotten, their hands at their side, Mitsukuni smiled.

"Hunny-senpai?" she murmured, the question there still, and he frowned that she hadn't understood the first time around.

She would the second.

"Mitsukuni," he mumbled against her skin, and he felt the area heat delicately as he swooped in for seconds.

Oh yes, nothing was quite as sweet as Haruhi.

What Mori Heard:

In the real world, everybody thought Mori was boring (like pencil lead dull). In the Host Club, his poker face had been adventurous and wild, the unknown; but, in life, it was absolutely necessary to be black, or white… there was to be no dwelling in gray.

Mori liked gray.

Sure, he had opinions. And he had thoughts. And he even had emotions. He wasn't an animatronic, soulless male set so hard on 'protect' mode that his other settings had left.

He just knew quiet. And quiet knew him.

It was an equal partnership, a compatible combination.

Haruhi understood that.

And so, when the long-ago Host Club would leave the pair, the two settled into the easy language of Mori.

She got such a thing, which was surprising to the gentle giant for no one had ever managed to decode the silent tongue like Mitsukuni.

She didn't speak, and he agreed, and the two settled into a sort of gentle rhythm of placid gestures and loaded looks.

There were moments where he felt so… close, so intimate to the girl he dwarfed.

But she was always able to comprehend that the gray area where Mori chose to reside was not muddled and hazy, but full of emotions and words—one just needed to look in the right way, with the right mindset.

He was pensive and serene, the gentlest sea and the broadest forest. He was the infinite promise of silence.

And, though the others could be high-strung, hypersexual, (borderline) cold, or sugar-crazed, Mori was noiseless.

And when his arms were around her, he liked to think that he made her hushed as well.

Of course, this… revelation wasn't instantaneous—it was slow and sweet, like all the best things are.

It was that afternoon.

When she made him tea, and he wanted to read, and she (really and truly) saw (for the very first time).

Mori was Understanding. And Silence. And Devotion. And Compassion. And Patience.

He was all of the truly wonderful virtues without the fuss and preamble of their (albeit loved) friends.

Mori was what Haruhi really wanted to be (without the pretenses and façades and silliness).

And, in return, Mori saw that he was what Haruhi really needed (after dealing with all of the others).

And he was very content to be as such for her.

What Haruhi Accomplished:

You could ask anybody, and they'd say that they had changed.

For the better.

There was a tangible relationship, a communion that resulted in one living and breathing organism that could leave a world and a population stunned.

Because… for every deficiency, there was a person who could help plug the hole, who could make each person complete, yet dependant.

It was united in a girl.

Of common birth.

And of no great beauty.

A girl who could be everything (or nothing). Who allowed others to grow (while taking her own nourishment). Who was the common cadence of six people with one voice. But she did not enforce, and she did not demand. She did not call the others to become different, merely helped them to become complete.

Completion was beautiful for she helped their worlds have one plus one always equal two, a and b always to be followed by c.

And, for that, the world could be infinitely grateful and inspire all to search for that lovely (but seemingly muddy) ideal.

Well?

It's done. It's OOC. And it got cheesy at the end, but that's just my personal opinion.

Honestly, I guess the reason that Haruhi is like… not… is because it is very difficult to depict our favorite little apathetic host—I love me some of those people though (YOU WILL BE MINE, JOHN! I WILL HAVE YOU AND YOUR APATHETIC-NESS! –shakes fist in air-).

If you couldn't tell: I love Takashi. He's yummy and God only knows that I have enough drama in my life that I'd like to tap into that silence. He can keep me company anytime.

Anyway, I'd much appreciate reviews. They'd make me smile with happiness.

Just… let me know.

Mmm… as an incentive: tell me of your friends (why you love them, what they've done, etcetera, etcetera).

My friends: I have three of the most wonderful guy friends that a girl could ask for. They're all so different that we're almost an impossibility—but, at the same time, we're similar too. I've gone through a LOT of friend drama before, and I can say that these boys are always willing to listen to me, will always stand by my side, will always let me hug them, will always offer up a shoulder when I'm breaking down, and will always freak OUT over music, my writing, and whatever is going on in our life. They're my support system, and my guardians, and my soul brothers. And I am so grateful that they're willing to put up with all of my shit. I LOVE YOU, BOYS!

Now… if that isn't cheesy, then I don't know what is. So, now it's your turn: I want so much cuteness that I throw up after.

Much love and writing,

Ace