Hi could I request headcanons for Felix Ignatz and Ashe being shy around female reader? If that's ok of course.
Out of all the boys, Felix is the one who handles his feelings the worst. He doesn’t even know what happened; last week, he’d had no problem mouthing off as the two of you sparred, his tongue as sharp as the edge of his sword. A flick of his wrist and your own blade had gone flying across the arena, embedding itself in a bay of hale near the wall— as you fought to free your sword from its new prison, you’d pouted at your opponent, and Felix’s next words died in his throat.
Since then, he’s had trouble approaching you in any fashion, and he doesn’t know what changed. Used to, the pair of you were constantly bickering, taking clear relish in your verbal sparring sessions as much as your physical ones. Other students would look between each other with obvious worry painted on their faces as Felix made some comment about your parentage— but when you followed with an uppercut to his ego, it was apparent you were comfortable. Now, though, when you sit next to him in the dining hall, Felix doesn’t say a word; your shoulders brush against his and he finds himself curling inwards. It pisses him off.
Of course you noticed. Even if you didn’t know what was going on, it was clear that Felix was struggling with something; he’d never been the type to share his feelings, but damn if you weren’t going to make him talk somehow. But it seems like Felix is avoiding you— whenever you enter the training hall, he’s quick to sheathe his sword and shut his mouth. When your eyes meet his in class, his face turns red— or maybe it’s just a trick of the candlelight. You’ll get him to talk eventually.
Ignatz is already fairly shy; he’s used to having to hide aspects of himself, always fearing what other people might think if he strays too far from his projected self-image. It had taken a lot of work to get him to open up to you, and now that he’s comfortable enough to involve you with his art, you don’t want to shatter that fragile balance.
One night, he’d dragged you to an oft-ignored balcony, where he’d already set up his canvas and paints on the stone. He was a bit too nervous to outright ask if you’d pose for a painting, but you knew him well enough to take the hint, quickly sitting yourself on the low stone wall and turning to stare out over the courtyard. And it was there in the moonlight that Ignatz realized he was suddenly really nervous.
The painting will never be finished if he can’t bring himself to look at you, he knows that much. But Ignatz’s hands are trembling too much now, and he barely gets through a basic sketch within the first hour you’re up there. He sighs out an apology, setting his supplies down and averting his gaze; you just smile, one that has his heart slamming against his ribcage, and agree to come back whenever he’s feeling better. For the next few days, Ignatz observes you from afar, hoping to maybe memorize enough of you that he can finish the portrait by himself— but even that doesn’t work, because you’re always catching him staring, and your smile blinds him.
Ashe is already fairly open with his emotions; from the moment you’d met, he turned into a squeaky-voiced bundle of nerves whenever you managed to rope him into a conversation. His face would turn a shade of red that completely drowned his freckles, and suddenly he found his shoes the most interesting thing on earth. It was probably one of the cutest things you’d ever seen.
He’s very easy to tease, especially because he’s eager to prove himself. You’re surrounded by strong men of varying titles and royal bloodlines— if he wants your attention, he’s going to have to fight for it. Of course, that’s easier said than done; the moment he realizes you’re watching him, he completely falls apart. When you’re paired for kitchen duties, his usually-steady hands are shaking so much that he drops everything; even with his beloved bow and arrow, if you’re around, he can’t hit the broad side of a barn.
It’s too cute. He’s too cute. Whenever you get the chance, you find yourself practically hanging off him in ways that you probably shouldn’t, draping yourself over his shoulders until you’re worried he’ll combust. He still makes valiant efforts to fumble through a sentence or two, but the fact that you’re so close— the fact that you might like him the way he likes you— it’s too much. You know it’s bad when Dimitri tells you to knock it off.
