What you say is like a dating hc or overall relationship hc for the mla? Like what is it like dating them?
Dating? HMMM okay i shall feed you my self-ship children (or those looking to ship them with other chars you do you, I'll be using second person though for sake of ease). Note after finishing this: i didn't mean for it to be this long whoops I was like "oh yeah bare bones summary" then I went "wait but wouldn't it be better if i broke down like how the relationships progress" and i didn't wanna erase what I already wrote and then i blacked out
Re-Destro (Yotsubashi Rikiya)
It's like dating a religion wrapped in a CEO. He’s polite, stable, infuriatingly composed until you earn a crack in the mask. He doesn’t do casual; if you’re with him, you’re with him. He’ll spoil you in quiet, old-money ways — custom suits, fine dinners, handwritten letters — but he’ll also test your convictions every time you open your mouth (in the beginning). He needs belief more than affection; prove you have a spine and he’ll trust you with the rare softness. Expect hand on your back in public, silence and tea in private. He won’t say “I love you,” he’ll say “I trust you.”
Early Stage: The relationship starts like a job application disguised as courtship. He’s polite, charming, articulate, and absolutely assessing you. Everything you say is being weighed — your tone, your convictions, how you stand, whether you meet his gaze. It’s not malicious; it’s just how he survives. He’s spent his whole life surrounded by sycophants and opportunists, so he needs proof that you’re not another follower looking for power. He’ll take you out to dinner, but he’s watching how you treat the staff more than what you order. He’s not touchy early on, the most you’ll get is a hand at the small of your back, a guiding pressure that’s protective but proprietary. Compliments come in the form of respect: “You speak with certainty.” “You didn’t hesitate.” That’s him flirting.
Emotionally, he’s still wearing the “Grand Commander” mask. You’ll see the CEO polish and the ideological charisma, but not the man underneath. You might catch him in quiet moments — hands shaking after a rally, or muttering Destro’s words under his breath like prayer — but he’ll straighten up before you can ask. Early-stage keeps you just close enough to impress him, never close enough to see him unravel.
Intermediate Stage: If you’ve made it this far, congratulations, you’ve passed inspection. Now he trusts you — which for him is practically sacred. He’ll start sharing space with you instead of simply inviting you into his. It’s small things: he lets you read over his notes, asks your opinion on speeches, starts calling you by name in rooms where he usually calls everyone “comrade.”
This is the stage where devotion replaces romance. He doesn’t date so much as he aligns. Your relationship becomes something built on mutual belief, and it’s both beautiful and terrifying. You’ll see how gentle he actually is in private — he brews tea for you himself, tucks blankets over you when you fall asleep on the couch — but he still can’t turn the power dynamic off. You’ll catch him watching you like he’s memorizing you for an oath. Touch becomes rarer but heavier: the way his thumb strokes your pulse, the way he presses his forehead against yours before meetings. It’s affection translated through reverence.
This is when his stress quirk bleeds through. You’ll notice how much tension he carries, how his calm cracks when legacy weighs too hard. If you ground him here — if you can sit through his rants about ideology without rolling your eyes — he’ll start relying on you to keep him human.
Late Stage: This is the point where trust and love have fused so completely that he stops differentiating them. You’re not his partner anymore — you’re part of his structure, part of his purpose. He’s softer in ways no one gets to see. His voice lowers around you, his hands steady. He’ll actually laugh. He’ll start talking about the future in small, hesitant ways — not revolution-scale, just things like “we should replace the garden fence” or “maybe we’ll travel when this is over.”
He’s still got that possessive edge, but it’s not jealousy, it’s guardianship. He wants to protect what’s sacred. You could be sitting in silence reading, and he’ll look at you like he’s looking at proof that destiny doesn’t have to be cold. He won’t say “I love you” often — maybe once, maybe never — but he’ll say “You are necessary.” And if you ever leave, he’ll never replace you, he’ll just keep your teacup on the counter forever.
Trumpet (Hanabata Koku)
It's like being backstage at a perpetual rally. He’s charming, theatrical, exhausting, and genuinely affectionate when he lets the performance drop. He’ll wine and dine you, quote poetry mid-argument, and call it foreplay. He thrives on admiration but doesn’t want a fan, he wants a confidant who laughs when he postures. He remembers every detail: your favorite drink, the exact tone you use when you’re lying. The relationship feels like a campaign you’re both running; when it works, it’s magnetic, when it doesn’t, it’s PR damage control. He kisses like he’s promising you the world and apologizes like he’s negotiating a treaty.
Early Stage: Early on it feels like being swept into the orbit of someone who has never once had to chase anyone in his life. He’s smooth, confident, magnetic; you don’t fall for him so much as get convinced into doing it. Dinners that feel like interviews, laughter that sounds like applause — he keeps everything on-script. Every word is chosen, every touch deliberate. He’s charming because it’s his profession.
But behind the politician polish is someone testing the waters of trust in the only way he knows how: through performance. He’ll flirt like it’s a debate, and watch how you counter. He doesn’t want a fan, he wants a sparring partner who doesn’t lose composure when he turns the full charisma on. His compliments are precise: “You’re very composed,” or “I like the way you phrase things.” He likes being surprised by intelligence, wit, self-assurance.
Early-stage he doesn’t let you see exhaustion. He keeps it light, social, wined-and-dined. But if you linger after the speeches end, you’ll notice how still he goes when no one’s watching. He looks at his reflection like he’s checking the mask is still on straight. Catch him there, and he’ll either crack a joke or change the subject.
Intermediate Stage: Once he’s decided you’re worth real time, the relationship becomes an ongoing dialogue — playful, rhetorical, but personal. He starts seeking you out between meetings, sharing half-finished ideas, even small frustrations. He’s not good at admitting stress, but he is good at talking around it, and you start noticing how much he uses you as his calibration point.
This is where you see the savior complex. He’s drawn to people who work themselves too hard, who carry exhaustion with grace. He wants to take care of you, lift you up, fix everything that’s made you tired. He thrives on being needed, but deep down he’s also desperate for someone who sees him when he isn’t performing. He’ll cook for you — not fancy, just something warm and careful — and hum while he does it. He’ll say, “You deserve better,” and mean it.
But intimacy is still partly performance. He flirts like it’s choreography; even when he’s sincere, he wants it to sound right. You’ll see cracks sometimes, moments where he forgets to modulate, where he stumbles over a word because the emotion was real. Those are the most honest seconds you’ll ever get from him, and he hates that you notice them.
Late Stage: This is what happens when he finally stops treating love like an audience. You’ve outlasted the campaign, and now he’s just a man who wakes up next to someone he doesn’t have to impress. The first time you see him truly quiet — not composed, not calculating, just quiet — it’s almost disorienting. He becomes tactile in ways he never was before: casual touch, head on your shoulder, fingers brushing your wrist when he needs grounding.
He starts trusting you with his silence, which is his version of devotion. You’ll see him without the glasses sometimes, or in an old t-shirt that doesn’t fit his image, and he won’t flinch when you look at him. That’s love. He’ll let you hear the imperfection in his singing, the tiredness in his voice, the small confessions that don’t make good speeches: “I don’t know if I’m doing enough.” “I just want this to last.”
By now he’s no longer performing leadership. He’s just building something private, small, sacred. He’ll still give the world his voice — but you’ll get the unfiltered moments between breaths.
Skeptic (Chikazoku Tomoyasu)
Think equal parts “this man needs therapy” and “this is the best conversation you’ve ever had.” He forgets to eat, spends nights coding instead of sleeping, and sends you thirty-paragraph essays instead of love letters. He’s easily flustered, easily jealous, and pretends he isn’t either. You’ll catch him staring at you like he’s trying to solve you. You’ll have to remind him that love isn’t a system he can debug. He’ll record your laugh and pretend it’s for audio testing. He’ll spiral, and he’ll need you to ground him without pity. The affection is real, it’s just buried under seventeen tabs of self-destruction.
Early Stage: He doesn’t date so much as he analyzes. If he’s interested, you’ll never know at first, because he’s testing every variable before he even considers making a move. He notices things like typing patterns, eye contact intervals, voice pitch fluctuation. He’ll talk to you for “research purposes” and tell himself it’s not emotional. He has no idea how to flirt. His idea of showing affection is proofreading your presentation slides or sending you random articles with, “You seem like you’d appreciate the logic in this.”
He’s awkward as hell in person — flustered, defensive, overly literal — so most of his early relationship happens through screens. Texts. Emails. Shared documents with weirdly personal annotations. He’s way more confident typing than talking, because computers make sense and people don’t. You’ll catch him overthinking every interaction: rereading your messages, rewriting his responses, getting visibly frustrated when tone doesn’t translate.
He doesn’t touch much early on. He’s not physically shy, he’s just so self-conscious about doing it "right" that proximity feels like standing too close to a mirror. If you touch his arm, he freezes like a startled cat. Then pretends nothing happened. Early-stage affection looks like professional precision. He’ll fix your code, upgrade your devices, build you a backup server “just in case.” He doesn’t say “I like you,” he says “I optimized your network security.”
Intermediate Stage: Once you’ve been around long enough that his brain starts categorizing you as “safe,” you’ll notice him trying. It’s so endearing and so painful. He’ll invite you into his workspace, hovering awkwardly between pride and anxiety. Everything is labeled, sterile, and yet somehow deeply personal — like a mind laid out in neat rows. He’ll ask for your opinion, even if he ignores it. He’ll mutter “I value your input” while avoiding eye contact, and it took him an hour to work up to saying that much at all in case you read into it wrong somehow (this man is not ready for the implications of his attention being reciprocated).
This is also when his spirals start hitting you secondhand. The moments where a project fails or a system crashes and he unravels completely. He’s not mean, but he panics — pacing, muttering, catastrophizing, repeating that everything was supposed to be perfect. If you try to soothe him with softness, it backfires. He doesn’t want pity, he wants control over whatever is breaking. You'll probably have a land mine of trial and error where you either figure out how to actually help or you learn to fuck off until he's fixed it himself. (I'd definitely say that this would be one of the make it or break it parts of the relationship on both ends because he is a lot.)
Survive that and he’ll start trusting you with small touch — shoulder brushes, leaning in to point at your screen, falling asleep sitting beside you without realizing. He’s hyper-aware of it afterward and will apologize too much. Emotionally, he starts opening up in weird sideways ways. He’ll show you personal code archives, old half-finished projects, things no one else has seen. That’s intimacy for him.
There’s also the voyeuristic streak that leaks through — not in a creepy way or even a sexual way necessarily, but in how he’s just fascinated by watching you be. He’ll sit quietly, studying your habits like they’re algorithms, memorizing the shape of you in his mental schema. It’s obsessive, but oddly tender because he's openly showing interest in you for the first time.
Late Stage: If you get this far, you’re basically part of his architecture now. Late-stage Skeptic is frighteningly dependent, not in a clingy way, but in how you become integrated. He factors you into every plan, every schedule, every code routine. He doesn’t just love you — he’s rewritten parts of his internal system around you. It’s devotion disguised as logic.
He’s calmer around you now, not because he’s changed, but because you’ve become a known variable. He stops masking as much. You’ll see him in his most human forms — messy hair, half-done projects, muttering to himself while making tea. He talks more freely now, still rambling but softer, almost like he’s narrating for your benefit. He’ll let you touch him without freezing, even lean into it unconsciously.
Affection is subtle but overwhelming once you realize what it means. He gives you access codes no one else has. He leaves his laptop unlocked around you. He lets you read the drafts he’d never show anyone else.
He listens when you say his name. He still doesn’t handle emotional conversations well — he’ll short-circuit halfway through and go silent — but he’s learning that silence doesn’t mean failure. Sometimes you’ll find him just watching you, utterly at peace, or he'll drop his laptop on your desk and just work next to you in silence.
Iceman (Himura Geten)
This is like living beside a glacier that occasionally cracks open to reveal fire. He doesn’t talk much at first, but when he does it’s deliberate, precise. Acts of service are his love language — he’ll fix your broken heater before you even notice it’s off. He needs strength around him; if you can’t hold your own, he’ll freeze you out emotionally. But if you earn his respect, he’s loyal in a way that’s almost religious. He doesn’t say “I love you,” he stands guard beside you in silence.
Early Stage: Falling for Geten doesn’t start soft. It starts as a duel, a debate, a push. He doesn’t notice people who don’t stand out; you have to earn his focus. He respects strength. Not cruelty, not arrogance. Strength. Whether that’s in conviction, resilience, or sheer will, that’s what draws his attention. Early on, he’s all sharp edges and curiosity, testing you like he’s trying to see what you’re made of. He’s a leader, yes, but an intense one: brilliant, disciplined, and still learning what vulnerability feels like.
At this point, he’s not good at talking about emotion. He’ll lecture you about quirk theory, strategy, or moral purity before he’ll say he likes you. But it’s obvious anyway — the way he lingers in your presence, the way he starts mirroring your speech patterns, the way he watches you train and tries to match your style. He’s competitive but in that sweet, dumb late teen/young adult way where he wants you to notice him. If you praise him, even offhandedly, it wrecks him for hours. He’ll act unaffected and then go train until midnight trying to live up to your words.
He’s not touchy early on, mostly because he doesn’t know how. He gets flustered easily; physical closeness reads as danger until he’s sure it isn’t. But he wants it. The first time you bump shoulders, you’ll feel him go still, then thaw a second later like his body had to recalibrate to “safe.” He’s the kind of person who looks you in the eye too long when he’s trying to understand why his heartbeat feels wrong.
He’s also hilarious in subtle ways — deadpan humor, muttered one-liners, quiet smiles that show up when he lets his guard down. People around him forget due to his rank that he’s barely an adult and that he's still trying to find his own place to belong. That warmth under the devotion is very real.
Intermediate Stage: Once he decides you’re worth his loyalty, he’s all in. There’s no halfway point with him. His affection manifests like worship, but it’s not submissive — it’s reverent. He admires strength and honesty, and when you show him either, he locks onto it like gravity. He starts offering you things without being asked: help with tasks, quiet companionship, standing between you and trouble. He doesn’t articulate it as love; it’s duty, it’s trust, it’s right.
This is when his personality starts showing in full. He’s still disciplined, but now you see the fire: the passion, the stubbornness, the way he argues not to fight but because he cares. He’ll argue with you about the best way to train, or the meaning of freedom, or whether you’re taking care of yourself properly. He’s a perfectionist with the people he loves because he wants them to live up to their potential. It’s not about control, it’s about belief.
He’s also younger than the rest of the MLA (17-19 take your pick), which means hormones and chaos are part of it. Once he’s comfortable, he’s actually affectionate — awkward, intense, but genuine. He’ll touch you hesitantly at first, testing boundaries with surprising gentleness. He memorizes how you react, files it away like data. Once he’s sure you’re okay with it, he’s tactile: hand brushes, shoulder touches, long, grounding hugs when words won’t do.
He’s not stoic in private. He laughs more. He teases, quietly but with sincerity. He’ll let you talk him into stupid shit if you push hard enough — skating on frozen ponds, sparring at midnight, climbing rooftops just to feel the wind. He likes shared adrenaline; it makes him feel connected. He understands the attraction to chaos, he just channels it through structure.
This stage also shows his intensity. His devotion can border on self-sacrificial. He’ll prioritize you even when it hurts him. He doesn’t realize that loyalty and love aren’t the same thing yet, they run side by side in his doctrine.
Late Stage: Once he’s sure — once he’s settled into the idea that you’re safe, constant, and real — he’s unshakable. His affection transforms from admiration to almost sacred loyalty. He doesn’t just want you; he believes in you. It’s quiet, constant, terrifying in its purity.
He’ll start saying things like “You make me want to be better” or “I trust your judgment.” Those are declarations. He’s not good at poetry, but his devotion sounds like scripture. He’ll train beside you for hours, just to stay close.
Physically, he’s warm now. You’ll find him leaning into touch without thinking, resting his head on your shoulder while reading, tracing shapes into your palm absentmindedly. He’s not clingy, just. . . steady. If you leave a room, his eyes follow without him realizing.
Love is simple and absolute. You don’t have to earn it anymore. He’s already chosen you. He doesn’t do jealousy much; he just expects honesty. Lie to him, and it shatters everything. But if you stay truthful, you’ll have a partner who’d freeze the world solid before he’d let you fall.
Curious (Kizuki Chitose)
A whirlwind of noise, laughter, and too-much-too-fast. She’ll drag you into midnight adventures, film you half-asleep, and make documentaries out of your breakfast conversations. She needs novelty and honesty, if you fake it, she’ll smell it instantly. She’ll hype you up like you’re her latest headline, then pull you close and whisper questions you’re not ready to answer. She’s loud until she’s not; the quiet moments with her feel like rare footage no one else gets to see. You’ll never be bored, but you’ll also never be off-camera.
Early Stage: If Re-Destro courts like a diplomat and Skeptic stalks like a virus, Curious pounces. When she likes you, you’ll know. She’s the kind of woman who finds you in a crowd, locks eyes, and grins like she just found the story she’s been waiting for. Early on, she’s all motion — flirtation, laughter, energy that never stops. She’s the life of every bar she walks into, and she will drag you onto the dance floor whether you can dance or not.
Dating her starts as chaos. You’re not sure if you’re on a date or in an interview half the time. She’ll ask you questions that cut too close to the bone — not because she’s trying to exploit you, but because she’s genuinely fascinated. She collects truths the way other people collect souvenirs. She wants to understand people, to peel them open until something real spills out.
The camera shows up, of course. At first, it feels like she’s documenting everything, but it’s more than that. It’s how she remembers. She’s terrified of forgetting, of things fading. She records because permanence feels like safety. If you stay patient, you’ll realize that under the journalist’s gleam, she’s lonely. The energy is armor — keep moving, keep laughing, don’t give silence the chance to catch up.
She pursues you like a firework show: bright, fast, unpredictable. She buys you drinks, teases you mercilessly, flirts mid-conversation like she’s daring you to match her pace. She wants to see if you can handle her velocity. She doesn’t want control; she wants companionship in momentum.
Intermediate Stage: This is when the novelty wears off and she decides you’re not just another headline. She still loves excitement — late-night karaoke, spontaneous road trips, rooftop conversations at dawn — but you start seeing the quieter side. The camera gets left behind sometimes. The interviews turn into real talks. You’ll find her in baggy clothes, hair up, sitting on the kitchen counter eating instant noodles and rambling about philosophy like it’s gossip.
She’s pushy, yes, but not cruel. She wants you to live. She’ll drag you out of your shell, make you try new things, pull you into dumb plans just to see you laugh. She’s passionate about everything — movies, food, politics, you — and she wants to share it all. But she’s still scared of stillness. The moment the room goes quiet, she’ll crack a joke or reach for you, just to keep the noise going.
Emotionally, this is where her guard slips. You see how much she second-guesses herself, the way her voice falters after an argument, the way she replays moments on camera to check if she was too harsh, too loud, too much. She’s terrified of being too much. She hides it behind bravado, but when you catch her staring at her reflection too long, you realize the bravado is a mask she stitched together with ambition.
Her in love is warm, messy, and desperate for connection. She loves physically — touches, hugs, kisses that land mid-laugh. She smells like perfume and hairspray and coffee. You’ll wake up to find her humming over breakfast like the night never ended.
Late Stage: This is where she finally stops performing. When she trusts you enough, she starts leaving the camera home on purpose. The silence doesn’t scare her anymore. She doesn’t need to document to remember; she believes you’ll stay. That’s the difference.
She’s still loud, still impulsive (she’ll always be that way), but it’s tempered by sincerity. She starts talking in “we” instead of “I.” She lets you see her exhaustion without trying to turn it into a joke. There are nights where she doesn’t want to go out, where she just wants to collapse on the couch with her head on your lap, mumbling about editing deadlines and how the revolution’s PR team is a nightmare.
It's the first time she’s truly still. She’ll dance barefoot in the kitchen, press her forehead against yours, whisper something utterly stupid that somehow feels profound. She’s affectionate in the way people are when they’ve finally found a home. She starts finding joy in little things — cooking, reading, napping — because you make it safe.
She’s still bold, still a little reckless. She’ll still chase danger for the thrill of it, still film when she shouldn’t, still drag you into nonsense just to see what happens. But now it’s not about proving anything. It’s just about living. If you love her long enough, you’ll see that she isn’t the camera or the chaos — it’s the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair messy, laughing so hard she cries because you just made the dumbest joke she’s ever heard.