STAR WARS IMAGINES

poe dameron | your love is my turning page

self-indulgent? mayhaps; 1k+ words

/ / /

He loved that you were a writer.

There was something poetic about the way you scribbled words on sheets of paper, words that consumed your mind the way a rainstorm consumed a forest in the spring. But it wasn't a dangerous storm, it was a refreshing one that brought new life to all it touched. You were like that for him.

Reading your words was as refreshing as the air outside. He couldn't get enough. The stories you told, the love poems you wrote, even the notes you jotted down. They were all sunshine and sweet-scented flowers and blue skies and a gentle breeze. Fresh and alive.

It was three months before your relationship that he asked if he could read something you'd written. To his surprise, you shrugged and nodded, offering every book you'd ever written in. It confused him, because weren't all writers secretive with their work?

Well, you weren't. When he said, "You're absolutely sure I can read these? You really don't mind?"

You replied with, "Of course you can read them. They're all for you, anyway."

They were for him. Paragraphs and paragraphs written on how much you loved the way he lived for the Resistance. Pieces on how much you loved his eyes. Descriptions of holding his hand in thick crowds during missions. You wrote about how safe it made you feel.

He loved that you were a writer, because if you weren't, he never would've known your feelings for him matched his for you.

He loved you. Force, he loved you. It was impossible to say it, even after reading the love letters you'd started leaving him before he left on missions. It terrified him to think that his inability to say it back would drive you away. So far, you'd really given no mind to it that he could see, but he feared he was running out of time.

So on a sunny afternoon, when the base was quiet and nothing was going on, he took you to his favorite spot in the forest. You sat beside him underneath a giant tree that offered beautiful rays of green-yellow sunlight through the leaves and branches overhead. You had a leatherbound notebook in your lap and a pen in your hand.

"So I need your help," he said.

"With what?"

"Writing something."

Your eyes glanced up from your paper that you were writing on. You raised your eyebrows. "You are writing something?"

He smirked. "Mhm."

"Can I ask what?"

"A love letter."

Those three words made your eyes sparkle. You grinned. "Really? A love letter?"

"Mhm." He nodded.

You bit your lip gently. "Can I ask who it's for?"

"Uh, well, that's kinda personal, so no," he joked, making you laugh. "But just to give you an idea on what she's like, just know that she is... everything to me. Sweet, loving, creative, so beautiful. Brave. Considerate. She writes me almost every day and it's been really upsetting to me that I couldn't really write a coherent sentence back. Or speak one. I couldn't live life without her."

As he spoke, your smile grew smaller and gentler. You hugged the journal to your chest and nodded along.

"Got any advice for how to write a love letter to a girl like that? Figured I'd ask, since you're the best writer in the Resistance."

"Hm... that is a lot of pressure for the only writer in the Resistance," you said. "But I will give it a shot. Let's start with opening your letter with why you're writing it."

"Because it's about time she knows," he answered easily. Why was this so easy? "It's about time she knows that I feel like I have waited too long for a girl like her, but I would wait a thousand more years if it meant the wait would end with meeting her all over again. That there isn't a single thing about her I do not absolutely adore. That if I die tomorrow, I want her to know all of this, so she can hold onto it forever."

You kept focused on the page as you wrote every word. He waited. You paused, then pen hovering over the paper. "Okay."

"Sounds good?"

"Sounds great." You looked at him. Your eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips to his hair --- you were looking at every inch of his face with pure love in your eyes. He was doing the same. "What do you love about her?"

"Everything," he whispered. "There isn't a single part of her that isn't beautiful and talented and wonderful and strong. I am in love with everything about her."

Your smile slowly grew. "Is there anything else you want to tell her?"

"That getting to be her best friend was the greatest part of my life," he said, "until I started falling in love with her, too."

"You know," you whispered, voice slightly shaky. "I think she'll really love this."

"You think so?"

"I do."

"And you don't think it's too much---"

"No," you said quickly. "No, it's... it's everything she ever wanted."

He grinned. "Good."

Carefully he cupped your chin in his hand, pulling you closer. His lips touched yours and it was soft and slow but over too soon. His lips left yours and he kissed the center of your forehead.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to say it," he said, touching his forehead to yours. "I love you and I have for a while now."

"I always knew you did. But it was nice to hear. And to write it down for myself. Next time, you'll have to be the one writing it down with pen and paper."

"You'll have to keep teaching me how to write then," he said.

"Oh, I plan on it. Although I think you're showing a lot of promise, from what I have seen today."

"That's hopeful, at least."

"Mhm." But you were done talking, done writing. The notebook fell off your lap as you wrapped your arms around Poe's neck and pulled him in to kiss him again.