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haythams-blade · 1 day ago

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Unconventional Proposal

Rating: Mature moments but no smut and lots of fluff so +18

Summary: Haytham’s ready to settle down, but first he enjoys a few moments of tranquility with his beloved. It’s written as a female reader but it doesn’t mention body parts exactly.

The flickering candlelight danced across the worn stone walls of their secluded room, casting long shadows that shifted and swayed like silent observers. Haytham Kenway, a handsome man in the cusp of his youth, stood in the doorway, a predator in repose. His grey eyes, sharp and intelligent, were fixed on (y/n). They had returned from their assignment only an hour before, the adrenaline of the chase and the satisfaction of their success still humming faintly beneath the surface of their weariness. Now, the mission was done, the world outside momentarily muted, and only the quiet intimacy of their shared space remained.

She stood before the steaming washtub, the pale glow of the water reflecting in her own eyes. The air hung thick and fragrant with herbs she’d tossed in, calming scents for weary muscles after their shared mission across the city. With a slow, deliberate grace, she began to unlace her leather jerkin, the soft sounds of the leather yielding filling the quiet room. Haytham watched, a silent appreciation in his gaze as the garment fell to the floor, revealing the delicate curve of her spine beneath a thin chemise.

Haytham’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He knew the curve of her shoulders by heart, the delicate slope of her back, the way her hair cascaded down her back like spilled ink. He knew these things intimately, had traced them with his hands countless times, yet the sight of her disrobing always held a certain thrill, a forbidden allure that resonated deep within his cold templar heart. Haytham felt a familiar stirring within him. It wasn't merely lust, though desire certainly played its part. It was a deeper appreciation for the woman before him, for her strength, her intelligence, and the fierce loyalty that burned in her eyes. She was his equal, his anchor, and the only person he truly allowed himself to be vulnerable with.

He watched, a slow smile playing at the corner of his lips, as she began taking her time unfastening the ties of her chemise. The worn fabric slid down her shoulders, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, the faintest dusting of perspiration still lingering there from the day’s exertions. He had mapped every inch of her skin, every curve and hollow, yet the sight of her, even in this commonplace act of preparing for a bath, held an undeniable allure that never faded. She moved with a languid sensuality, perfectly aware of his presence, each movement deliberate, a silent performance only for him.

The chemise pooled at her feet, leaving her clad in only her undergarments. She turned then, her eyes meeting his across the dimly lit room. A knowing smirk curved her own lips, mirroring his. She knew he was there, of course. She always knew. It was a game they played, this silent acknowledgment, this dance of anticipation. Her eyes, held a playful challenge, a silent invitation.

“Planning on watching all night, or are you going to join me Haytham?” Her voice was a low murmur, laced with amusement, the sound rich and warm even across the distance of the small room.

Amusement flickered in Haytham’s eyes, warming them from their usual cool intensity. He pushed off the doorframe, moving into the light. “And deprive myself of the pleasure of anticipation? Never, my dear.” He shed his weapons belt first, the familiar weight hitting the wooden floor with a soft thud. He began to unbutton his coat, slowly, deliberately mirroring her earlier movements, a teasing counterpoint to her seductive striptease. He shrugged off the coat, then his waistcoat, each garment landing softly on a nearby chair. The candlelight painted his broad and muscular physique in warm tones as he peeled off his own shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the intricate scars that crisscrossed his skin – mementos of past battles, badges of honor in their dangerous world.

She watched him, her smirk widening into a full grin, as he took his time unfastening his breeches. “You’re taking your sweet time, Haytham.”

“Patience is a virtue, is it not?” He savored the way her gaze followed his every move, the way her breath hitched as he discarded his breeches, leaving him in his own undergarments. He paused, his eyes locking with hers again, a silent question passing between them. Then, with a final, almost imperceptible nod from her, he shed the last barrier, letting it fall to join the growing pile of discarded clothing at his feet.

He stepped towards the tub, the water reflecting the flickering light on his face. He lowered himself carefully into the steaming water behind her, his larger frame settling comfortably around her smaller one. A sigh of contentment escaping his lips as it soothed his tired and strained muscles. (y/n) leaned back against his hard chest, her spine nestled against his sternum, the warmth of him seeping into her skin. Her head resting back against his shoulder, eyes shut, and contentment spread across her face. The heat of the water, combined with the closeness of their bodies, created a cocoon of intimacy, a sanctuary from the harsh realities of their shared little world. The tension of the day began to melt away, replaced by a comfortable, intimate silence broken only by the soft sounds of the water. (y/n) turned away for a moment to extinguish a few of the candles on the table next to the washtub, dimming the light further and deepening the intimacy of the space. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder.

“This feels… divine,” she murmured, tilting her head back to rest against him once again. He kissed the sensitive skin of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair, a mix of wildflowers and something uniquely, intoxicatingly (y/n).

“It is,” he agreed, his voice low and husky, “Though, I confess, it would be even more divine if not for the shadow hanging over us.”

Her body stiffened slightly against him, a subtle shift he registered immediately, “Don’t,” she said sternly, her voice losing its playful edge, “Don’t talk about it.”

He knew what ‘it’ was without her needing to elaborate. Edward Braddock. The Coldstream Guards. And the order that had come down, an order forcing him into service under the man they both instinctively distrusted and disliked. War and its looming specter of it, always threatening to intrude upon their own carefully constructed peaceful world.

“They’ve confirmed it,” Haytham murmured finally, his breath warm against her ear as he continued to rested his chin on her shoulder, “Braddock wants me for the Coldstream Guards.”

(y/n) refused to look at him. “Braddock,” she repeated bitterly, a distaste colouring her tone. “That pompous fool. And you’re actually going on this fools quest?”

“Orders are orders, (y/n). Templar orders.” He traced the delicate lines of her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. Her hands were so much smaller than his, a detail he found endlessly endearing. “Besides,” he continued, forcing a lighter tone, ““I will be fine,” he reassured her, his voice low and soothing. “I am not some green recruit, thrown into the thick of it. I know how to survive.” He squeezed her hand, trying to infuse his confidence into her worry, “And we both know I will come back. I promise you that.”

Her small fingers were tracing his scarred hands. Her hand was so much smaller than his, a delicate thing against his calloused strength. He turned her hand over, bringing it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles.

“The Coldstream Guards,” she continued, her tone laced with what almost seemed like sarcasm, “Marching into the wilderness, to fight a war…Braddock’s war.” she continued, her voice low, becoming more and more laced with an undercurrent of worry that she rarely allowed to surface. She didn’t like to think of him in the thick of battle, facing unknown dangers, away from her watchful eye.

“I'll be careful," he said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "I promise. I'm not going to do anything reckless."

He knew it was a lie, or at least a half-truth. He was who he was, a man driven by ambition and a thirst for adventure. But he also knew that (y/n) was the most important thing in his life, the one thing he couldn't bear to lose. He felt her tension, the way she stiffened slightly against him. She hated war, the brutal waste of life, despite being a formidable fighter herself. She fought because she had to, because their cause demanded it, but she never glorified it. He admired her for that. He tightened his hold on her, as fingers began tracing the delicate bones of her wrist, “I have to, (y/n). We both know it. The Templar Order… they are insistent.”

“I know,” she sighed, her voice laced with resignation, “It doesn’t mean I have to like it. Braddock… he’s a brute. And war….” She trailed off, unable to articulate the fear that clawed at her throat. He knew it was fear for him, for his safety. She rarely showed vulnerability, but he knew her well enough to see it in the subtle tension in her shoulders, the tremor in her voice. She was the only person in his hard life who truly cared about him.

He took her hand, her small, delicate hand, so different from his own calloused one, and began to trace the lines on her palm with his thumb. “It is my duty, Rhea. You know that.” he reminded her, “I am not some green recruit, thrown into the thick of it. I know how to survive.” He squeezed her hand, trying to infuse his confidence into her worry, “I will always come back to you, I will always promise you that.”

“Duty,” she echoed, the word sounding heavy, laced with a cold irony. She didn’t wish to continue talks of him going to war. The silence stretched again, thick with her unspoken anxieties.

“(Y/n),” he continued, his tone deliberately light, overconfident even. “I’m a Kenway, remember? I’m a hard man to kill. Nothing will happen my dear.” He knew it was a lie, or at least a half-truth. He was who he was, a man driven by selfish ambition and a thirst for adventure. But he also knew that (y/n) was the most important thing in his life, the one thing he couldn't bear to hurt or lie to. But he needed to project strength for her, to quell the worry in her eyes even if he couldn’t entirely banish it from her heart. “Besides,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, his lips brushing against lightly her ear, “when I return, there’s something I intend to do.”

She turned her head slightly, her eyebrow arched in question, “Oh? And what might that be, my dear Haytham?” Her playfulness was returning, a fragile flower pushing through the cracks of her worry.

“I intend to marry you.” he stated, the words ringing with absolute confidence and certainty in the quiet intimacy of the bath.

She laughed, a short, disbelieving sound, “Marry me? Haytham, you’re going off to war under Edward Braddock. If you manage to come back alive, and more importantly, manage not to succumb to the charms of some tavern wench, then maybe, just maybe, we can talk about marriage.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest against her back, “I’m not joking, (y/n).” He released one arm from around her and reached for his discarded jacket, his arm dripping water onto the stone floor, and rummaged in the pocket of his discarded waistcoat. He retrieved a small, velvet pouch, drawing out a ring that glittered even in the subdued candlelight. He had chosen it carefully, months ago, waiting for the right moment. He hadn’t planned for it to be in a washtub, but the moment felt right, undeniably so. It was simple, elegant. A singular large stone, set in a band of gleaming silver, imported from Spain just for her. He sat back down behind her, gently tucking a stray strand of her damp hair behind her ear. He in closer, his breath warm against her neck.

“(y/n),” his voice husk with emotion, “Will you do the honour of marring me?”

(y/n) was stunned. The proposal, so unexpected, so utterly Haytham, had taken her completely by surprise. She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. She was still for a long moment, stunned. She could feel his breath on her neck, the warmth of his body enveloping her, the weight of the ring heavy in his hand near hers. Finally, she let out a breath, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. She went still, completely still. The playful banter, the teasing skepticism, all vanished, replaced by a stunned silence. He could feel the shift in her breathing, the sudden quickening of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He waited, each second stretching into an eternity.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper, “You’re proposing to me… in a washtub?” There was a tremor of laughter in her voice, but it was laced with an undeniable shock.

"Beggars can't be choosers, my dear. Besides, I leave for service any day now. I haven't the time for elaborate gestures and courting rituals." He retorted, his voice regaining it’s playful humour, “It seemed as good a time as any.”

She remained silent for another moment, then slowly, deliberately, she turned her head, her eyes meeting his, intensily searching, questioning, and finally, softening with a love that mirrored his own. A gentle loving smile, one only reserved for Haytham.

“Yes,” she breathed, the word a soft exhalation of air, but carrying the weight of a lifetime of commitment, “Yes, Haytham, I will marry you.”

He kissed her neck below her ear, his lips lingering on her sensitive skin. “Good,” he murmured against her skin, his voice smug and possessive, “Because I won’t tolerate any other answer.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Haytham's face as took her hand and gently slid the ring onto her small ring finger, the cool metal a tangible symbol of their commitment to each other. It fit perfectly. He watched as she turned her hand, admiring the beautiful ring, the stone catching the light and reflecting in her wide, happy eyes. He leaned back against the tub, pulling her back to him, his arms wrapped tightly around her as his relief washed over him, a tidal wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. The smile spread across Haytham’s face, one of a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes and softened the sharp lines of his templar countenance. He took her left hand, his large fingers dwarfing hers, and admired how good the stone looked on her. He was proud of the ring, and that hid his future wife was smitten with it. He had it made just for her.

“It suits you,” he whispered, admiring the ring, but more so admiring her.

(y/n) continued to admire her new ring. It was exquisite, clearly expensive, a testament to his… resources. He enjoyed seeing her dressed and gifted with only the best the world had to offer. Nothing was too expensive for the woman that owned his heart. She felt a warmth spread through her, a strong mix of love, relief, and sheer happiness. Before she leaned back against him, she had grabbed his face and gave him a passionate kiss. The anxieties of war momentarily forgotten in the intimacy of the moment.

He leaned closer, his voice still taking on a possessive edge, the playful authority that was so uniquely Haytham, “Now, listen to me, (y/n). While I’m away, I will have eyes everywhere. Any man who so much as looks at you for too long will answer to me. And you, my betrothed,” he lightly nipped at her earlobe, “you will behave yourself as well. I expect unwavering loyalty, and absolute fidelity.” He smirked.

She laughed again, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy this time, the tension finally breaking. She turned her hand, admiring the ring, the emerald catching the candlelight and throwing back green sparks that seemed to dance in her eyes.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” she said, but her voice was thick with affection. “Threatening all the other men before you've even left.”

“Only the ones who might dare to look at what’s mine,” he growled playfully, kissing the curve of her shoulder. “Now, about our engagement celebrations…” he murmured, his lips tracing a path down her neck, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “Perhaps we can start right here, right now, in this very washtub…”

“It would be a shame to waste all this hot water, we should put it to good use.” She seductively whispered back to him.

As his kisses grew more insistent, more demanding, (y/n) raised her hand, and took one last look at the way the candlelight caught the facets of the stone. It wasn’t just a token of his affection, but it represented so much more. It was a promise, a commitment, a declaration of their shared destiny. A shiver running through her as his lips found the sensitive skin of her neck. Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw as Haytham’s kisses deepened, and his hands travelled with familiar intimacy over her skin. She knew, with a absolute certainty that warmed her to her core, that despite the looming shadow of war, despite the uncertainty of the future, in this moment, in this bath, in his arms, everything was perfect, and she was safe. The candlelight flickered, casting their entwined figures in dancing shadows, the steam rising around them, enveloping them in a warm, intimate embrace, a promise of celebrations to come, and a future forged in love and loyalty, even amidst the shadows of war.

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