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can we get headcannons on what Ron would be like after the war with female reader? Such as his nightmares of the war and basically life in general with him? If you could add romance please :)

Thank you 🫶🏻

Combining these two prompts if anons don't mind. :) tw// mdni, adult content, sexual content, Ron Speirs x female reader, talks of the Korean War and WWII, angst over marrying a career soldier, PTSD, PTSD-related physical outbursts, emotionally unavailable Ron, talks of divorce, breeding kink (oops but not), female reader has children, female reader feeling alone

Post-War Ron Speirs x female reader Headcanons

The war's over for everyone. But not for you. And not for Ron. What're you expecting, marrying a career soldier? Everyone's back home, and Ron's called to organize and clean up the remaining war effort.

Everyone's back home, and then Ron's called to some country named Korea; how funny that the few "blissful" years before his orders are given are spent preparing for them. So what's it like, marrying a career soldier? It's more than a career, you know; it's his lifeblood. He kisses you once at the pier and leaves, the scene of his retreating back one of many. One that you should be used to by now, but it doesn't get any easier. Never was.

What's it like to wake up to an empty bed? To be a wife to a man who you can't even see most of the time. Wife to Ronald Spiers, more a Major than a husband. More of Uncle Sam's property than your Ronnie.

Keep telling yourself that it is what it is. That this is the life you chose. That you shouldn't complain. This is your fate; this is your life. He comes and goes, war after another, and you think nothing changed about your Ron?

It was awkward before Korea. He had...these...strange dreams. They didn't happen all the time. But they were there. Simmering before the surface, in the form of bated breaths, of how you accidentally grabbed for his arm when he was in its thralls, and how he'd pinned you to the bed, wild eyes seeing but not seeing in the dark. Crushing your wrists, and you'd wailed his nickname, screaming out your desperation in mantras of itsmeitsmeRonniepleasewakeupwakeupronnieRONNIE until he finally snapped to; he finally snapped to to never sleeping in the same bed again, never sleeping in the same room again. He couldn't. He wouldn't; not after what he put you through, and the anguished reckoning in his eyes made it clear. He never was at the house long enough to see the questions, the broken state of your marriage. Cold dinners, cold coffee, cold seats, cold bed.

He slept in the cold barracks before he shipped off to Korea.

You slept in a cold bed alone before he shipped off to war. Again.

And then he's back. Back from a forgotten war, you quickly learn. Korea? What the hell's that? The world had moved on since World War II. The world had moved on while millions of men had shipped off to some place in the east, returning with no victory, no parade. Nothing.

They come back with something, however. Ron comes back to you. Back with these papers, and every single feeling of wretchedness surfaces when he comes back with the nightmares and his gift to you of divorce.

"The house. The cars. You can keep them all. You can have everything."

You tear up every single page. You cry. You weep. You wail. You hit at his chest. That what the hell is this, after everything the both of you went through. That didn't he make you his wife? That you wear your wedding ring every single day, laying every single night in your cold bed, refusing to give up on a man who's married to the army more than the flesh and blood of his woman. And you were okay with that; you are okay with that. So why can't he be?

He tells you to go free. You'd been a prisoner long enough. How long are you going to stay chained to him as a Speirs, as a literal widow? You want him to come back to your bed; you want him to lay with you, but you clearly don't remember that he'd nearly done something inexplicable. That if he hadn't come to that night, he could've...he would've...

You kiss him. You kiss him because he doesn't kiss back. It hurts, but you kiss him again and again. You kiss him, because you trample the torn divorce papers under your heel. You kiss him, because you reach for his calloused hand and still feel his wedding ring, and you touch your wedding ring to his through the salt of your tears. You touch at his cheek, his chest, the heat of his trembling skin hidden underneath his uniform.

You bring him to your cold bed. You don't want it to be cold, any longer. You kiss him, and you pull him down on top of you. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him to find your Ronnie, the man who made your whole world come to color, the man who had the power to take it all away.

The man who finally kisses you back, who gives you room to run to call it quits, because through hoarse whispers, he warns you that once you're fully his, not just through a flimsy marriage license, that you'd never get rid of him. Through his eyes, he tells you it's a trap. That if he sinks low, he'll drag you to hell with the burdens of a man made alive by war.

Yes, yes, yes, everything yes. You'd choose him each and every single time. You kiss him because he should've known by now. You kiss him because you want him to make love to you. You kiss him because he kisses you back, and you realize how ravenous a starving hound can get.

The bed, he takes upon as his duty to keep it stoked each and every night. What was ice was now a bubble you never want to leave. Not that he'll let you.

Clawing at his back while he fucks you with your legs pressed up near your head. On your side. From behind. With your hips canted up, attempting to meet him thrust for thrust while he drives into you relentlessly. Begging. Sobbing. Orgasm after orgasm. Wailing to the high heavens while he groans that you'd make a good mother, and that from now on, his sole mission is to pump one into you. Every. Single. Day. That you'd like that too, wouldn't you? One, two, three kids, maybe more? It's filthy. It makes your womb clench. But for him, it's nothing but the truth, because he tells nothing but the truth.

It's not a fairytale resolution to all of the cobwebs, the problems. But it's the start to the healing of your marriage. All through a kiss, just like the first time you knew you loved him when he held you.

He's an old dog. The army knows that and posts him as appropriate. Promoted him to lieutenant colonel. And by you, he'd been promoted to father, the man who loves and provides for both of your beautiful children.

The man who sleeps in the same bed you sleep in. The man you know inside and out, that you may not know what he'd been through in the forests of Europe and the mountains of Asia, but you knew when the darkness made its appearance. You knew the signs of when the alternate world will come to him late at night. You knew. And you accept that it's not just a part of Ronald Speirs, but that it is him, that gentleness had its twin of vicious survival.

Ronnie, it's me. You're safe. You're in Washington, Honey. Ronnie. Ronnie, wake up, Dear. You're back at home. You're back at home.

2 A.M. 4 A.M. In the middle of a nap. It doesn't matter. When it happens, it happens. You know the drill. You don't touch him, you don't go close within arm's reach. Nearby, you repeat the mantra, your soothing words. Whether it takes a few seconds to hours, you standby ever so patiently, praying for him to safely exit the dreamscape. And it's only when he does, when he whispers your name, the inquiry ever so present in the exhale of his breath, that you bring his head to your bosom. That you touch him, smooth your fingers over his eyes, lips, the bridge of his nose, telling him that it's all right, that he's safe at home here in America. That you're still his wife, that his lovely children are sleeping soundly in their rooms, and you love him and you love him and you love him so much, your sweet Ronnie.

You love your husband, Ronald Speirs, so very much. And at cruel nights such as these, you kiss him because he needs to know that he belongs in the warmth of your bed, that he belongs with your body opening up to let him in. He belongs in your arms, here where he's safe with you; far, far away from the likes of war.

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