Outfit- Day 14 Codextober
Haytham Kenway x f.reader
Summary: The night before Haytham leaves to save Jim Holden, he shares a sweet moment with and his pregnant wife, after he catches her wearing his shirt.
Rating: 18+, no smut just some heated thoughts and a heated kiss. But it’s mostly fluff
A/n: So I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, so I combined Codextober with my Haytham series/works. This is based off of the novel Forsaken, when Haytham had to rescue Jim.
The oppressive heat of the Egyptian dusk pressed down on the ancient city of Cairo like a physical weight. Even inside their secluded, relatively cool chamber in a discreet villa just outside the city walls, (y/n) felt the dry, searing air cling to her skin, making every movement a conscious effort.
She shifted in her chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make her poor back scream in protest. At almost six and a half months pregnant, her body felt like a foreign territory—heavy, swollen, and relentlessly warm.
Her growing bump, an undeniable testament to the life she and her husband had created, had become an unwieldy burden in this stifling climate. Their baby, often as restless as as their father, chose these sweltering evenings to perform its most acrobatic routines, a constant, gentle reminder of the future Haytham so fiercely protected.
Though her mind kept wandering to the man who would be walking those halls of danger tomorrow.
A week of relentless strategic planning had etched lines of exhaustion around her eyes, but her mind, ever sharp, refused to quiet. She traced the intricate lines of a hand-drawn map of Mount Ghebel that she had acquired, her finger hovering over the location of the Abou Gerbe monastery – where Jim Holden was being held prisoner.
Jim. The name alone was a phantom ache in her heart. He was more than a friend; he was family, a man who had faced down horrors with Haytham and her, their trio of chaos and camaraderie. And now Jim was in that monastery because of them.
Or rather, because she felt it was completely her fault , a silent accusation she wrestled with daily.
Her mind continually replayed the nightmare of Jenny’s rescue from Topkapı Palace. Between their meticulous planning, their swift/ brutal execution, and the heart-stopping moment when everything had gone wrong.
Haytham, Jim, (y/n), and Jenny had alerted the guards by accident, which they were then tracked down, and in that desperate, chaotic scramble, Jim Holden – loyal, only to Haytham, and now (y/n)– had created a diversion that allowed Jennifer,a heavily pregnant (y/n), and a furious, grief-stricken Haytham to escape.
Jim’s sacrifice had saved their little family. And yet she, in her darkest moments, could not shake the conviction that her burgeoning pregnancy, her perceived vulnerability, had been the deciding factor in Jim’s desperate gamble.
Haytham, bless his stoic, troubled heart, had tried countless times to set her of mind free of this notion.
"My dearest wife, it was my error, and mine alone." he had told her countless times by now, his voice thick with a guilt as potent as her own. "I dragged us into that hornet's nest. Jim did what he did because that is who he is. He acts, he protects, he sacrifices. It had nothing to do with you, or our child, but with his own moral code." His words, however, only partially assuaged the gnawing feeling.
Yet she wanted to be useful, truly useful, not just a liability. She yearned to be by her husbands side, watching his back, with her hidden blade handy, not confined to maps and strategy by her husband's unyielding decree.
"I’m sorry my dear, but I cannot allow you to come this time." Haytham had stated authoritatively, his voice cool and devoid of negotiation, his eyes holding a haunted, dark glint she knew too well.
"Not now when you are with child. You will stay. You may help plan. But you will not come. I shall not gamble with the lives of my wife and child."
And so, that’s what she did, she planned. Every contour of the terrain, every guard rotation, every whispered rumour from her network of contacts filtered through her sharp intellect. Haytham would consult with her, dissecting her deductions, refining her suggestions, his respect for her strategic mind a silent balm to her frustration. But the final decision, the one to put himself in harm’s way, remained his alone.
Their week had bled into a blur of maps, hushed conversations, and the constant hum of worry. Tonight was the eve of the mission, and exhaustion weighed her limbs, yet her mind refused to disengage.
Haytham was out, tying up some last-minute loose ends, making his final preparations. So she was alone, except for their baby’s rhythmic thrum against her ribs.
A bead of sweat trickled slowly down her temple. Her nightgown, a fine linen brought with her from the colonies, was a stifling shroud in this foreign heat, it had now begun to stick uncomfortably to her damp skin. It was designed for the brisk, often chilly nights of Boston or New York, it was useless against Cairo’s furnace.
So with a sigh, she gradually pushed herself up from the low divan, her movements much slower, and more deliberate than she remembered them being just months ago. Her body protested with a series of minor aches, a now common symptom of her pregnancy.
One of her hands instinctively cradling the heavy curve of her belly. The baby kicked—a strong, insistent thud against her ribs—and she paused, a smile formed on her lips as she rubbed the spot with a gentle palm.
"You are as restless as your father," she murmured to the silent room.
Her eyes began to scan the room, landing on Haytham’s traveling chest, it was tucked against the wall. It contained some of Haytham’s personal effects, extra clothes he hadn't needed for their current, more discreet attire. She knelt, her bulging bump making the action awkward, and lifted the lid.
Inside, folded neatly, lay several of his large shirts. Her gaze settled on a fine, light cotton shirt, one of his white dress shirts, simple and practical. It was one he wore often on their long journeys, a fabric that breathed, unlike her colonial linen.
She quickly discarded her stifling gown and chemise , letting it pool around her feet, feeling the dry air kiss her damp skin, and pulled his oversized shirt over her head without hesitation. The fabric was exquisitely soft against her skin, a feather-light caress compared to her own oppressive clothing. His large shirt swallowed her whole, the sleeves falling past her fingertips, the hem reaching her mid-thigh, a vast, airy tent around her swollen form.
The comforting scent of Haytham– a mix of the desert air, leather, sandalwood, gunpowder, and his own distinct masculine musk – enveloped her, a welcome embrace in the quiet room.
She let out a soft sigh of relief.
This was better. Much, much better. It was cool, comfortable, and oddly reassuring.
She wobbled as gracefully as possible back to the table. She sat herself back down slowly and had picked up her quill, dipping it in ink, and began to make a final, meticulous check of the supply manifest. Rope. Grappling hooks. Flint and steel. Medicinal herbs. Every item a silent prayer, a ward against the treacherous unpredictable nature of their world.
She physically couldn’t fight anymore, not with the weight of the child anchoring her, but she could fight from the sidelines, she could strategize and plan.
She would ensure Haytham missed no detail.
The baby gave a particularly forceful kick, as if concurring with the urgency of her task.
(y/n) rested a hand on her belly, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "Soon, little one," She whispered.
"Soon, your Papa will have us out of here, and we'll be out of this scorching desert. He will not have you born in this kind of dreaded heat, god knows you’re parents were not built for this heat, and neither are you our tiny love..."
But a soft click of the outer door, barely audible, made her quickly pause. She didn’t even have to look, She already knew it was him.
Haytham. Her heart gave a familiar flutter – a mix of relief at her husband’s temporary return, and an intensifying anxiety for the morrow.
Haytham quietly stepped into the main chamber, the faint glow of the oil lamp casting long shadows behind him. He had spent the last few hours meeting with their local contacts, securing final intelligence, ensuring every contingency was as covered as it could be. He had also did his routine check of the perimeter of their safe house, ensuring they weren’t being watched. He would not gamble with the safety of his wife and their unborn child.
His mind was a constant whirlwind of logistics, potential pitfalls, and the grim realities of their objective. The man was tired, his shoulders heavy with the responsibility of Jim’s life, and the unspoken, infinitely heavier responsibility of his wife and unborn child.
He moved silently, his steps practiced and light, his gaze immediately drawn to the light spilling from the inner chamber where (y/n) worked. He pushed open the archway curtain, his eyes scanning the room, seeking his wife out.
She was hunched over the table, her dark hair a cascade obscuring her face, her concentration was absolute (even though he knew that she was aware of his presence).
But it wasn't her focused posture that stopped him dead in his tracks. It was the clothes she wore. Or rather, his clothes.
The white cotton shirt, one of his favorites, hung loosely on her frame, yet simultaneously clung to the magnificent curve of her heavily pregnant belly. The soft fabric, meant to cover his broad torso, now stretched tautly across her swollen breasts, hinting at the fullness beneath. Her bare legs peeked out from beneath the long hem of the shirt, ending in delicate, bare feet.
The sight hit him like a physical blow, a wave of tenderness and raw desire that stole his breath. Part of him, the hard-nosed Templar Grand Master, melted completely, leaving only Haytham, her husband, utterly captivated.
Haytham felt a warmth spread through him, a feeling akin to the first sip of fine brandy on a cold night. He felt the familiar tightening in his loins, an instinctive surge of arousal that washed over him whenever he saw his wife.
He couldn’t help but notice how she looked… utterly captivating. Damnably attractive. The unexpected intimacy of her wearing his garment, combined with the breathtaking vision of her pregnant form, was a potent cocktail for him. His gaze lingered on the large, growing swell of her belly, round and perfect, a testament to their shared future, and then drifted upwards to her breasts, so full now beneath the thin cotton, her nipples perked under the white fabric.
Her husband simply wanted to stand there, to burn this image into his memory, to savor every exquisite detail. His wife was a goddess of fertility, a warrior queen in stolen garments, and she was utterly, profoundly his, and his alone.
(y/n), choosing to ignore her husband’s presence, had once again begun to get lost in the intricacies of a schematic diagram, before she felt the air shift, a subtle change in the room's energy. A prickling of sudden airflow caused the hairs on the back of her neck to standup, only confirmed her suspicion. A shadow fell across the doorway, silent and sudden, though she didn’t startle. She had learned long ago to sense his presence before seeing him, a shift in the air, a change in the pressure.
Without looking up, a faint smile playing on her lips, she drawled,
"Must you lurk in the shadows, Grand Master? One might think you were an an assassin, with the way you lerk in the shadows.”
Haytham allowed himself a small, private smile before stepping fully into the light. His tall, broad, frame blocking out the dim light of the hallway. He had shed his outer cloak, leaving him in a lightweight, button up shirt—though, (y/n) noted, he had also stripped down to lighter fabrics for the heat.
"Old habits, my dear. Though I confess, I found the view rather… distracting." He leaned against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled halfway up, his muscular arms crossed against his chest, a knowing glint in his eyes.
"And here I thought we had an intruder. Turns out it's just my wife, pilfering my wardrobe."
(y/n) finally looked up, her eyes meeting his, and a faint blush bloomed on her cheeks despite her attempt at nonchalance.
His grey eyes swept over her, and for a moment, the hardened Templar Grand Master vanished, replaced by a man captivated by his wife. There she was his wife, carrying his child, while wearing his clothes.
The possessiveness that flared in the grand masters chest was immediate and overwhelming. He could feel his arousal growing by the minute, a primal response to the image of her—fierce, vulnerable, and entirely his.
"Well, your wardrobe is far more accommodating to my current… predicament. And significantly cooler. My own clothing, I assure you, was designed for the bracing winters of the American colonies, not this infernal Egyptian oven. This situation is of you’re own making."
Haytham pushed off the doorframe, approaching her with slow, deliberate steps. As he reached the table, his much larger hand gently covering hers where it rested on the map. His rough thumb brushed over her soft knuckles.
He loved her body in this state; he had never found her more beautiful, more potent, than when she was heavy with their child. Her breasts were fuller, skin glowing, her curves more pronounced.
But he pretended to look down at the map, though his focus was split.
"You’re still poring over the monastery layout. You should be resting my wife."
"I could say the same to you, my husband," she retorted, though she leaned back slightly into his touch, "You’ve been gone for hours."
"Perimeter checks. Supply confirmations."
He moved his other hand to the table, bracing himself as he leaned over her shoulder to look at her map. His chest pressed lightly against her back, the scent of him enveloping her.
"But I find myself drawn back here. To the maps. To you."
He straightened up, stepping around to face her. He offered a hand. "Up."
She looked at him, her eyes questioning, but she placed her palm in his. His grip was firm, grounding.
He then pulled her up carefully from the chair with surprising gentleness, his other hand finding the small of her back to support her weight as she found her balance.
"My shirt, it suits you perfectly." he murmured, his voice softer now, devoid of its usual playful sarcasm.
Her husband pulled her smaller body into his larger one, closing the distance. He noticed her cheeks were flushed from the heat—and perhaps, he hoped, from his attention.
"I’m quite found of my wife wearing my clothing," he observed, his tone casual, though his eyes were intense.
"Like I said it’s cooler," she said simply, her cheeks deepening in colour at his attention.
"It is," he agreed, his voice dropping an octave. "But I find the sight… distracting. And on the eve of a mission, distraction is dangerous."
"Is that a complaint Kenway?" She challenged, arching a brow.
"Possibly." He pulled back slightly, as he brushed his fingers over her stomach. He flattened his palm against the curve, feeling the warmth of the fabric and the life beneath.
"In fact, I think I prefer this outfit to any other you’ve worn. You should wear my shirts more often, dear."
The sincerity in his voice stripped away her sarcasm.
She looked down at his large hand sprawled across her bump, then back up to his eyes. She was now flushing on her chest, which now was rising to her neck.
"Though I confess, a part of me believes you wear it purely to distract you’re poor husband from his duties."
Haytham leaned in closer, his intense gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the extremes swelling of her breast, then down to her baby bump.
(y/n)’s blush deepened, her heart giving a giddy little leap at his flirtations. She couldn't help but feel a warmth familiar to his, spreading through her, an arousing sensation that momentarily eclipsed the heat of the climate and the stress of the mission. His compliments, delivered with such sincerity, caught her off guard.
"Oh?" she managed, her voice a little breathy. "And what might your reasons be for such an insistence, pray tell?"
He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her.
"Aside from the obvious aesthetic benefits," he said, his eyes twinkling, "it puts your worried husband at ease knowing you're both cool and comfortable. This heat is truly beastly. Does the baby protest it as much as you do?"
She sighed shyly, leaning into his touch.
"He—or she—is quite the little dancer in this temperature. And yes, the heat is utterly unbearable. I swear, my colonial wardrobe might as well spontaneously combust if I wear it much longer."
Haytham nodded grimly. "I understand dear. I truly do. But take heart, my dear wife. Soon enough, we will be out of this desert. Jim will be free, and we will find a cooler climate for you and our child. Perhaps we’ll even stay with Jennifer, at least for a time, before… well, before our commitments call us back to the colonies." He paused, his steely gaze searching hers, his expression turning serious.
"Though I promise you comfort and promise escape from this heat, but what I truly wish to know is if my wife is truly well. Beyond the physical discomfort, I mean. I know what this mission signifies, for all of us. And I know what it means for you, watching from the sidelines."
Her carefully constructed composure fractured. She sagged against him. Her head rested against his strong chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.
"Oh, Haytham," she whispered, the words thick with emotion.
"I am absolutely terrified. Not for myself, not for the baby, but for you. For what could happen. I hate this feeling of helplessness. I abhor how much my pregnancy has slowed me down, how it keeps me from standing beside you, watching my husband’s back." Her voice broke slightly, "I feel… useless. And I completely loathe it."
Haytham tightened his arms around her, holding her close again, her belly pressing against his own hard frame. He could feel their baby's movements, a gentle thump against his toned stomach, a silent affirmation of the life they had created together. He rested his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her, now mixed with his own.
"Useless?" he scoffed gently, his voice rumbling against her ear, "My dearest wife, you are the furthest thing from useless. Every successful step of this plan, every contingency, every detail, has your imprint on it. There isn't a strategos in the Templar Order who could rival your mind. And as for watching my back," he paused, his voice softening, "I am glad, truly glad, that this pregnancy prevents you from following me into more danger. My heart could not bear it, not again. Not a second time."
Haytham pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt her chin up, holding it in his calloused fingers, forcing her to meet his intense gaze. His grey eyes, usually so guarded, were alight with a fierce, possessive love that both comforted and unsettled her.
"Though I admit, the heat is… formidable. Even for me."
He searched her face, his expression softening. The teasing glint faded, replaced by a quiet intensity.
"And my wife looks exhausted."
She didn't deny it. The adrenaline of planning had kept her upright for days, but the crash was imminent. She let out a long, shaky breath, the fight leaving her shoulders.
"I can’t sleep anymore," she admitted, her voice small.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see the damned palace in Istanbul. I see Jim pushing me behind himself. I see the guards closing in."
"(Y/n)..." He said her name like a prayer, heavy with the weight of shared trauma.
"It was my fault, Haytham," she whispered, the words she had been choking on for a week finally spilling out.
"If I hadn't been so slow, if I hadn't been carrying this child..."
Haytham’s grip on her tightened suddenly, not painfully, but with a fierce possessiveness.
"Stop," he commanded, though his voice was gentle.
"We have been over this. I made the decision to go to Istanbul. I made the decision to infiltrate the Palace. Jim made the decision to create a diversion. You were carrying our child—my child. You were not a liability. You were my priority, and I put you into danger."
"But I hate this. I hate sitting here while you walk into the monks' den. I hate that my body has become a cage." her voice trembling with frustration.
Haytham adored her fire that still burned behind her exhaustion. Even heavy with child, her spirit was fierce, untamable. It was one of the things that had captivated him from the start.
"Your ferocity, your desire to be in the fray, it is one of the many things I adore about you my dear. But our child, and your safety, must come first now that you are going to be a mother." he murmured protectively, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her arm.
"You are the orchestrator of logistics of a high-risk extraction, while more important are carrying the future of our lineage. You are the only person in the world I trust with my thoughts and safety." He paused, his gaze sweeping over her form once more, a dark, appreciative heat returning to his eyes.
"And as I have admited before, I am profoundly grateful that this pregnancy has kept you grounded for once. It has kept you out of the line of fire. It has kept you safe."
He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes—the warrior being told she needed protection—and he softened his tone.
"Your fierceness is undeniable, (y/n). But right now, I need you here. I need you safe. I need to know that when I am scaling those monastery walls, I am not worrying about a blade finding you and my child."
(Y/n)’s eyes couldn’t contain her worry. "I worry about that same blade finding you, Haytham. Every second of the day."
"Promise me," she said, her voice cracking.
“Promise me you will come back. To me. To this." She placed her smaller hand over his on her stomach.
"Our child deserves a living father. Not a man who died a hero." (y/n)’s eyes welled up, "So humour me this," she said, her voice raw, "Promise me you will come back. That you will return to us. This child deserves their father, Haytham. Not a ghost, not a memory told in stories, but a man who loves them, holds them, who teaches them, who laughs with them." Her voice a silent plea.
Haytham's jaw tightened, his expression grim and resolute. He pulled her back, flush against him again, holding her with a fierce tenderness that spoke volumes.
As his strong, capable hands cupped her delicate face, his calloused thumb stroking her soft cheeks as he stared down at her, passionately into her shimmering eyes.
"I promise you, (y/n) Kenway," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vow, "I will return. To you my wife, to our child, I swear it. Even if I have to burn that damn monastery to ash, even if I have to kill every last monk in that accursed monastery, I vow to come back to you. I will not leave you and our child to face this world alone. Not now. Not ever." His eyes were grey pools of absolute certainty.
"Dammit, listen to me," he said, his voice low, resonating.
"I have sent many men to the grave for lesser causes. I have faced assassins, and toppled regimes. The Abou Gerbe monastery is stone and mortar. I will go there, I will retrieve Jim Holden, and I will return to you. No more, no less.”
Haytham felt the heavy mantle of his Templar duties slip away, leaving only a husband and a soon-to-be father. He felt only felt a surge of devotion so powerful it eclipsed his ambition.
Her husband brought his lips to her ear, as he nuzzled his face into her hair. "I promise you," he whispered, his breath hot against her lips.
"I will come back to you. God help anyone who tries to prevent me from seeing my wife and child, they will need it."
The dark promise hung in the air, sealing the space between them. (Y/n) let out a shuddering breath, the tension draining from her body, leaving her trembling in his hold. She needed to hear that. She needed her husband’s arrogance, his absolute refusal to fail.
She tilted her head up, bridging the small gap between them.
"Then come back to us," she whispered back, as she felt Haytham inhaling her scent from her hair.
Haytham didn’t need a second invitation. He cupped her face, bringing her to face him once again, before he closed the distance and captured her lips with his.
The kiss was immediate and hungry, a clash of relief and desperate need. It wasn't the slow, languid kisses of their lazy mornings; it was the kiss of a husband and wife seeking reassurance in the face of looming danger.
Her hands found purchase on his lose shirt, gripping the fabric as if to anchor herself against the tide. pulling him closer still, as if she could meld them into one being.
They shared a silent communion of souls facing an uncertain future, yet bound by an unbreakable present.
One of Haytham’s hands had slipped down to rest possessively on the side of her growing bump, feeling the life of his child. He still couldn’t believe he was going to be a father. He had never imagined himself creating a life instead of taking one.
But he never broke the kiss.
He only deepened it, his tongue fighting against hers with a practiced, knowing intensity that always left her breathless.
Despite the heat of the room, a shiver ran through her. Originating from the core of her body, due to the intimate feeling of Haytham’s hard and unyielding body against the soft, round curves of hers.
He was careful with her, always careful now, but the urgency in his hold betrayed the depth of his desire.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, the lantern flickered, casting long shadows against the walls.
The silence that followed was different from before. It wasn't heavy with anxiety; it was thick with peace.
The baby, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, gave a gentle, kicking movement against her stomach where their bodies pressed together.
He felt it—a small, distinct thump—and he pulled back slightly, looking down amusingly between them.
He had waited to feel movement from her bump again, feeling the movement of his child slowly fade into stillness.
"Finally they seem to be quitting down." he murmured, a small smile ghosting his lips.
"We are truly exhausting the poor thing." (Y/n) whispered, leaning her head against his chest.
The heat of the room seemed to recede, or perhaps they had simply found their own microclimate within the storm.
"Or….perhaps it’s just you. You have a calming effect, surprisingly."
"On the baby, perhaps," Haytham said, his voice husky, "Though I doubt I calm you."
"No," she admitted, her eyes heavy-lidded.
"You never calm me. You excite me. You infuriate me. You make me feel alive. But above all you make me feel safe and loved."
"And I intend to continue doing so," he smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "For a very long time."
They stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly in the dim light, wrapped in the silence of the Egyptian night.
The maps on the table were temporarily forgotten; the monastery, the monks, and the mission were problems for the morning. For tonight, wrapped in the safety of his arms and shielded by the thin linen of his shirt, she allowed herself to simply be.
Haytham continued to hold her tight throughout the evening, even as they laid in bed, committing the scene to memory: the scent of her hair, the weight of her body against his, the warmth of the child between them.
He would return. Even if he had to burn the whole monastery down.
"Sleep now dearest," he whispered into her hair. "I’m here."
And for the first time in a week, (y/n) finally felt like he and their little family were going to be okay.
With the scent of him in her nostrils and the beat of his heart against her ear, his wife felt a profound peace settle over her, a rare and precious calm that had eluded them for months. And within her, as if sensing the quiet tranquility of their bond, their baby stilled, finding peace in the secure, loving embrace of it’s parents.
For this one precious moment, the world outside, with its dangers and its heat and its relentless demands, faded away, leaving only Haytham and (y/n), and the quiet promise of their shared future.
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