No copyright intended. It's Jo's world, I'm grateful she lets us play in it.

Sometime at night she imagined him with her.

She would lay in bed, close her eyes, and yearn so much for his touch that she imagined she could feel his arms wrapping around her waist and he came into bed after her, Order missions keeping him out late. She imagined she could feel the kiss he'd press to the nape of her neck, the weight of his leg over hers, his briefs doing little to hide how much he needed her.

She would roll over, facing him, removing his glasses with care before cupping his face to kiss him. Not kiss. Brand. Bruise. A kiss to remind him he was hers, she was his, that they were alive and had survived another day of this insane war. A kiss to say that they could pretend to be normal overly hormonal nineteen year olds, so in love they couldn't keep their hands off one another. And so in love they were. But they couldn't keep their hands off each other because so often they needed to remind themselves that they were real, and there.

Not imagining.

She would sit up and pull her nightshirt over her head, bare underneath, feeling his gaze across her bare chest before he'd sit up and take a nipple into his mouth. She'd throw her head back, hands going to his hair, revealing in the sensations of his mouth. He would sneak a hand between her spread thighs, find her already wet and wanting him, and she would let out a moan as his fingers worked magic, finding her clit and adding to the sensations of his mouth on her breasts. He would make her feel so full, so aroused, that it was almost pleasure to the point of pain when she'd come, too much sensation. And he wouldn't stop, merely slip off the edge of the bed to bring her legs over his shoulders as he used his mouth and tongue of her.

She'd come up onto her elbows, a dominant primal thrill and watching him feast on her, his eyes closed, as if her body and its pleasure were the only thing in the world he was concerned about. He was so thoughtful, giving- but she'd want his cock, and push back on his shoulders to let him know. He'd stand, underdress as she watching, hard and ready for her.

He would take her then, and she would go into a blissful state- sex with him was both loving and intimate, but primal and hard. They made love by fucking, she liked to think. The stress and fear of every day life could disappear and they could use their bodies to express their literal need for one another, to make each other feel as only they could. She'd fuck him, he'd fuck her- an ever changing, primal expression of "I am here. I am here."

They'd both cum, and hard- he liked to shower after, she'd maybe join him. They wouldn't talk about the day's events, that was for the morning. It would simply be slipping back under the covers naked, pressing skin to skin as he spooned her, a whispered "I love you" before the fell asleep.

She imagined it so often, night after night, as his missions got longer and more uncertain. No details, no communications. She would stay in bed, close her eyes, her hands hugging her stomach as if to assure the little life growing inside of her that its Daddy was all right. That all would be alright.

She imagined.