smoke breaks
pairing: film director!james potter x actress!reader
summary: a spring afternoon pulls you into james’ orbit, where you meet the people who know him best. It’s a quiet crossing, but once you step inside his world, nothing feels the same
warnings: slow burn, fluff, mention of smoking, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language
word count: 4.0k
a/n: i think i’ve lost the ability to write, but i still like this chapter because it shows muse’s guard coming down. i also tried to add more details to better show their character. if you have any requests or questions about the muse universe, my inbox is always open for you
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YOU HAVE ALWAYS FOUND SOMETHING ABOUT A SPRING AFTERNOON THAT MAKES THE WORLD FEEL DISHONEST. The light is too eager, the pollen too thick in the air, the streets too full of people pretending happiness is a natural response to the sky remembering how to be blue. You walk with your head down, boots scuffing against the cobblestones, heart already tightening with the familiar edge you carry into every room, the one that keeps you alert and guarded before anyone else can get too close.
You weren’t going to come.
You told yourself that twice while brushing your hair out, once while slicking on eyeliner and choosing the right shade of lipstick – the one James complimented not long ago, casually, like it hadn’t lingered in his mind the way it had stayed in yours – and a final time while standing on the threshold of your dorm, phone warm in your hand, glaring down at James Potter’s undignified dump of text messages.
Swing by the quad Free pizza Your fav soda Sirius is dying to meet you. Says anyone who makes me rewrite an entire script deserves canonization Never mind Please come
You’d left him on read, rolled your eyes, and slipped your phone into the back pocket of your jeans like it didn’t mean anything, like the small hitch in your chest hadn’t already given you away. (It does. It means too much.)
And yet, thirty minutes later, you’re here, standing on the uneven pavement at the edge of the university yard, eyes drifting over the crowd as you look for a familiar shape of unruly hair, open posture, that soft charm that always feels slightly out of place on someone who pretends he doesn’t care as much as he does. You’re not here for Sirius Black, no matter how many times James has mentioned him, and you’re certainly not here for the pizza.
You’re here because there was something in that message that unsettled you, a gentleness threaded beneath the humor, a quiet hope that felt dangerously like affection, and you’re still not used to people wanting you around simply because they want you there, not because they need something from you, not because you’re useful, not because you fit into a role they’ve already imagined.
James Potter might be the first.
You find them leaned against a railing that overlooks the south lawn – James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. The whole gang. The quartet you’ve heard about since the first week of the very first term, not because they were campus celebrities or frat boys (though Sirius Black might qualify by the end of the day), but because they’ve been inseparable from the start, bound by art and something else that seems to run in their blood. Apparently, they’re the good chaos kind of people, golden boys with art degrees and black smudged permanently under their fingernails. The Family, as James mentioned once, like it was a fact rather than a choice.
James is wearing a navy hoodie two sizes too big, curls still damp from a shower taken too quickly after practice. His treasured Canon EOS 5D Mark II rests carefully on his lap, paired with the new 24–70mm L-series lens his mum sent him, the one he’s still trying to understand – how it works, what it sees, whether or not he loves it yet. He’s laughing, head tipped back into the afternoon sun. The sight of him lands in your chest like a punch you hadn’t braced for.
And suddenly, more than anything, you want to turn around and run, to retreat into the sanctuary of your dorm with a family-sized bag of Cheetos Puffs and All About Eve playing for the thousandth time, pretending you could ever be half as sharp or cynical as Eve Harrington.
But James Potter sees you before you can change your mind, before you can vanish into the crowd like you were never here at all.
“There she is!” he calls, already pushing himself upright, nearly forgetting about his precious camera, and when you see it start to slide from his lap your heart jumps, horror freezing in your expression. Thank God Remus catches it just in time, muttering something low and pointed to James, who either doesn’t hear him or chooses not to. All of his attention is on you now, undivided and disarming.
“God, I thought you’d ghosted me,” he says softly when you meet him halfway across the pavement, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, looking at you like you’re some kind of miracle rather than a girl who almost didn’t show up.
“I considered it,” you mutter, doing your best to sound unaffected, like his voice doesn’t do something strange and warm to your insides. (There’s a funny feeling in your stomach that refuses to be ignored.)
James only grins wider, because of course he does – bright and unstoppable, like a sunrise. He doesn’t touch you, James is careful like that, but he shifts just enough for his shoulder to line up with yours, an unspoken invitation rather than a demand. You don’t lean into him, not exactly, but you don’t step away either.
James looks at you and you feel this stupid ache in your chest, like gravity itself wants you closer to him. You’re silent, as always. You’re never silent with James. Not anymore, at least. But in front of the others you keep your walls firmly in place, because when there are strangers you don’t know what to say or which version of yourself you’re meant to offer so they’ll like you. And you do want them to like you, because they’re his friends, because they matter to him, even if you would never say that part out loud.
James sees it anyway. He always does. He notices the hesitation in your eyes, the small crease between your brows, the way you start picking at the skin of your thumb with your nail, your posture going straight and distant, almost military, like you’re bracing for impact. He smiles softly before turning to his friends, whose curious gazes flick back and forth between the two of you.
“Boys,” he says, pride unmistakable in his voice, “this is her. The girl who made me reshoot the alleyway scene four times because I forgot to give her actual dialogue. My miracle. My actress. My muse.”
Your expression twitches despite your best efforts. You close your eyes for a second and take a slow breath, because you did warn him about calling you that in public, about how it makes something tight coil in your chest. But the Marauders don’t even blink.
Sirius Black lets out a low whistle and claps his hands together like he’s just stumbled upon a hidden treasure. “So you’re the one who made him rewrite his ending and stop acting like Nolan with a head injury.”
Sirius is as pretty as the rumors say – sharp cheekbones, too much eyeliner, an heirloom smirk that looks like it’s been passed down through generations. His hair falls in layered waves like a lion’s mane, stopping just above his shoulders, and his eyes shine with constant mischief. You start to understand why half the campus seems permanently undone around him. He looks like a rock star straight out of the nineties, effortless and a little dangerous. Sirius Black is… exceptional.
Music and sound production faculty. He’s already written a handful of short soundtracks for some of James’ earliest films, back when they were barely in their first year. You’ve seen those shorts, heard those compositions, and you’d be lying if you said they weren’t good.
You study him carefully, arms crossing over your chest as you try not to smile. “I hope you’re not always this charming.”
“Only when I’m scared,” Sirius says easily, chuckling as he winks at you.
You just shake your head, unimpressed, or at least pretending to be.
Remus Lupin is sitting a little apart from the others, perched on the upper steps of the north wing with a worn copy of The Decameron resting loosely in his hands. He looks up when he notices you and offers a soft, almost careful smile, like he’s afraid of startling you.
You’ve met Remus a couple of times before, back in the literature seminars at the beginning of your first semester, and you remember how completely paralyzed you were by the sheer depth of his knowledge, the way he spoke about texts like they were living things rather than dead words on a page. He helped you more than once with essays you only needed to pass the elective, never making you feel foolish for asking.
James once told you Remus was an English Literature major, the one who always helped him rewrite scripts and hunt for the right phrasing, because James was good at many things but written words were never his strength – he was far too impatient for them. Back when they were still in school, Remus used to listen to James talk himself breathless with ideas and quietly write everything down, offering gentle advice on how to shape a plot, how to let it breathe.
“Don’t mind him,” Remus says now, nodding vaguely in Sirius’ direction. “He’s been dying to meet you. We all have.” His voice reminds you of autumn leaves crushed underfoot – warm, soft, and reassuring in a way that sneaks up on you.
Peter Pettigrew remains the most mysterious of them all. You don’t know much about him, mostly because James rarely speaks about him, only ever mentioning that Peter is painfully shy and prefers staying back at the dorm to study. You don’t even know his exact major, just that it’s somehow connected to media production.
He hovers on the edge of the group, eyes flicking nervously between faces, before finally stepping forward and offering you a paper plate like a peace offering. You don’t take the pizza, but you nod your thanks anyway, because the thought of eating feels impossible when you’re this overwhelmed, this aware of every sound and movement around you.
James’ fingers brush lightly against your wrist as he nods toward the lower steps where he’d been sitting before, the brief contact sending something electric straight through you. You hesitate for a few seconds before taking the seat, leaning back against the railing, and James settles beside you easily, a small smile playing on his lips like he’s pleased you stayed.
The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken expectation, but no one rushes to fill it with small talk. They’re all just looking at you, not in a way that feels invasive or cruel, just openly curious, like they’re trying to understand where you fit among them.
Some of the tension drains from your body without you noticing when it happens, and for the first time in a long while you don’t feel like a wild animal trapped in a room of glass walls.
James leans closer, his voice lowered so only you can hear. “Do you want to eat? I’ve got a green apple in my bag. Your favorite.”
“I’m good. Thanks,” you say, biting gently at your lower lip.
He nods, like he expected that answer all along.
Someone mentions a classmate’s short film, Sirius immediately tosses in a brutally honest critique, Remus counters it with a thoughtful defense, and Peter changes the subject before it can turn into a proper argument. You sip your drink, the one James gallantly handed to you earlier, watching the exchange unfold, choosing not to speak unless there’s a reason to. You can feel them registering it, the way you hold yourself slightly apart, the resistance in your posture, the razor-edged wariness you carry like a second skin. None of them challenge it, though. They let you be as you are. They wait.
You’re halfway through checking the time on your phone when James gets called away to help someone with sound equipment. He squeezes your hand, quick and reassuring, promising to be back soon before disappearing inside the university building. The moment he’s gone, you stiffen, like a wire pulled too tight, your one tether abruptly cut.
Now it’s just you and the other three. What a nightmare.
For a few seconds, no one speaks, and you find yourself expecting them to stand and follow James inside, because why would they want to stay with someone like you – too guarded, too distant, too easily mistaken for arrogant. You frown without realizing it, too caught up in your thoughts to notice Sirius shifting closer until his presence edges into your space, close enough to feel.
When his voice finally cuts through the silence, you flinch despite yourself.
He strikes a match with theatrical precision, shielding the flame from the breeze as he lights a cigarette. “Smoke?”
You hesitate. You don’t usually smoke. You used to, though, back in your rebellious high school years, when nothing in your life felt stable except your ambition and the family you loved but never quite felt seen by. It was a short chapter, full of bad company and worse influences, one that burned out almost as quickly as it began.
Your gaze drops to the cigarette again. Then you take it, your fingers brushing his as you accept it, because you’re too tense and you need something, anything, to take the edge off.
Remus raises an eyebrow, watching you with quiet interest. “He said you were fireproof,” he says mildly. “I see what he meant.”
You take a long inhale, let the smoke curl slowly past your lips, watching the pale cloud rise and disperse into the afternoon air. “I’m not fireproof,” you say evenly. “I just don’t flinch.”
The boys smile. You don’t.
“Do you like acting?” Remus asks after a moment. He sounds genuinely interested in the answer, not like he’s asking out of politeness, and you make a conscious effort not to let that sink too deeply under your skin.
“I like doing it with people who know what they’re doing,” you reply, your gaze drifting toward the building James disappeared into, because something in your chest is starting to ache again, tight and insistent, like it needs him nearby just to breathe. How stupid. You need it to stop. “He’s one of the only ones who does.”
Sirius smirks around his cigarette, studying you like he’s already catalogued every one of your tells, even the ones you haven’t figured out yet. “You’ve got it bad.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got the 'I’m Not Into Him But I Memorized Him' expression.”
“Do not assign feelings to me,” you snap, though there’s no real heat behind it, just the habitual prickle you use to keep people at a distance.
You huff out a breath, take one last drag from the cigarette, and hand it back to Sirius. His smirk only grows, and when you glare at him he shrugs innocently, like none of this is his fault. Somehow, that softens something in your chest.
Remus speaks again, quieter this time. “He talks about you like you’re sunlight.”
That does it.
You look down, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket as your nails find the familiar spot on your thumb again, scraping at skin you’ve never quite managed to leave alone. You try to scoff, but it comes out too soft, too breathless to be convincing.
“He’s dramatic,” you say, already bracing yourself to deny whatever conclusions they’ve drawn, even as your heart starts beating a little faster in your ribcage.
“We all are,” Sirius says lightly. “That’s the job.”
And there’s something unexpectedly gentle in the way he says it, something that leaves you unsure how to respond. You’re used to people pushing, poking, wanting closeness only so they can break you open and see what spills out, but this feels different. It’s like standing in a room with all the windows open – exposed, maybe, the breeze sharp enough to sting, but still clean, still better than stale air. You don’t know what to do with that feeling, so you stay quiet, finishing the last of your soda.
You leave not long after, saying you have an essay ti finish that doesn’t exist, and from the looks they exchange it’s obvious they know you’re lying. It doesn’t seem to bother them.
Remus tells you that he and Peter were glad to finally meet you and that it would be nice to hang out again when you have some free time, squeezing your hand softly as he does. You surprise yourself by smiling back, small and almost shy. Peter just nods, still quiet, still watchful. Sirius, of course, smirks, pressing a lighter and a fresh pack of cigarettes into your hand like it’s a ceremonial offering for the start of your friendship. You roll your eyes and turn to leave.
Naturally, Sirius can’t let you go without making it a performance.
“I’ll tell your director you had an emergency and couldn’t wait for him!” he shouts across the yard.
You don’t turn around, but a full smile pulls at your lips as you walk away. Maybe coming here wasn’t the worst decision after all. Even so, the ache in your chest lingers, restless and wanting, still reaching for something – someone – just out of reach.
Later, when the sun is already dipping beneath the horizon, James finds you. You’re sitting on the library steps, legs crossed at the ankle, a half-finished cigarette hanging loosely between your fingers. Courtesy of Sirius Black. Scattered beside you are the pages of the script for the spring performance, the one where you’ve once again been pushed into the background, handed the stupid role of a servant with a maximum of five words in the entire play. No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you show up or prove yourself, at the end of the day James Potter still feels like the only one who sees something more in you.
He sits down beside you without asking. You don’t react, your gaze fixed on the darkening line of the sky. From the pocket of his jacket, James produces the remains of a chocolate bar and offers it to you before breaking off a piece for himself and popping it into his mouth.
“You seem to be the only one who can stand me, director,” you mutter with a crooked grin, crushing the cigarette against the concrete step and tossing the butt into the bin nearby.
Your head tips slowly to the side until your temple rests against the cold metal of the railing. Your thoughts are buzzing, loud and overlapping, and your chest still aches with a familiar sense of injustice. You’ve been working all semester, giving everything you have, and for what? For the role of Mary Warren in The Crucible?
Without even realizing it, you stamp your foot in irritation, and James laughs out loud.
“I knew it,” he says, grinning as he breaks off another piece of chocolate. He reaches for the script and flips through it casually. “So who are you this time? A statue in a museum?”
“Mary Warren,” you mutter, snatching the pages back from his hands. “Three whole scenes, five lines, and thank you very much a monologue at the end!”
You jump to your feet and begin pacing back and forth in front of him, frustration spilling out of you with every step. James’ eyes follow you intently, like you’re the most interesting thing in the world, like nothing else exists in this moment.
“What’s wrong with me, James? Huh?” You stop in front of him and steal the chocolate straight from his hand, taking a bite and chewing too quickly, too angrily.
James props his chin against his palm, smiling softly. His free hand drifts forward, fingers brushing against yours, and you don’t even notice, too caught up in the momentum of your own words.
“I deserve more, don’t I?” His smile widens and he nods, like he’s giving you permission to keep going. “But no one likes me… even when I try, and try, and try, and try. It’s like I’m the most untalented person on the planet to them.”
Without thinking, you lace your fingers through his, squeezing his hand as if grounding yourself, and James’ eyes catch the glow of the streetlights flickering on above you.
“Sometimes it feels like you’re the only one who can tolerate me,” you continue, a small pout forming on your lips as you finish the last bite of chocolate. “Even your friends didn’t like me.”
You’re not sure where all of it came from, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, but after you left earlier the ugly thought had settled in your chest – that the Marauders were only kind to you because of James, because of proximity, not because they actually liked you and now it refuses to let go.
“I didn’t say that,” he interrupts you finally, and you frown at him, already opening your mouth to argue, but James shakes his head before you can get the words out.
“They don’t give you roles because you’re too good,” he says instead, calm and certain in a way that makes your chest ache. “And one day the whole world will see it just as clearly as I do through my camera lens.”
He smiles, lifts his camera, that is hanging off of his neck, with his free hand, and snaps a quick photo of you before you can react. You yelp and laugh despite yourself, the sound escaping you as you feel your body begin to loosen, tension slipping away without permission.
Something inside you contracts all at once, tight and overwhelming. You blink rapidly, suddenly aware that there isn’t quite enough air in your lungs, that every sense feels sharpened to an almost painful degree. You feel the warmth of his palm still in yours as you squeeze it, and when the realization hits, your eyes widen in shock. You jump back like you’ve been burned, shoving your hands behind your back as if that might undo it.
“Potter… you! Stop flirting,” you say, forcing the words out as you try to regain your composure, feeling your cheeks heating up.
James just laughs, shaking his head as he stands up, and you take an instinctive step backward.
“I’m just telling the truth,” he shrugs, tipping his head back to glance at the sky. “And for what it’s worth, my friends liked you. Sirius won’t shut up about you.”
You squint at him and let out a slow breath. “Your friends aren’t as insufferable as I thought.”
James grins. “I’m flattered.”
“But don’t expect me to start hanging around,” you add, snatching the script from the steps and turning toward your dorm. He doesn’t look disappointed. Not even a little. “And you and your Marauders,” you go on, glancing back at him, “who even came up with that ridiculous name?”
“Trade secret, muse,” he says easily, hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans as he falls into step beside you. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you.”
He glances at you, expression open and steady. “You can hang out with us or not. It doesn’t really change anything. You’re already part of it.”
You don’t answer, but your gaze lingers on him anyway – on the crooked, gentle smile, the way his hair never quite behaves, the way his eyes light up when they find yours, how calm everything feels around him, how you don’t have to perform or prove anything just to exist. A soft smile slips onto your lips, fleeting and unguarded, and James Potter catches it, tucks it carefully into that mental Muse folder he keeps just for moments like this.
It lasts only a second.
But it feels like the beginning of something you don’t yet have the language for.
thankx for reading <3
i won’t say i’m back, but this series is the one thing that still makes me happy. writing about them comes so easily, especially on days when i have no mood for anything else.
i wrote a lot over the summer and at the start of autumn (all of your requests are sitting safely in my drafts) but lately i haven’t had the strength to edit and post them. i’m also working on a big winter project centered around james potter, a long and really dear fic (it’s already at 14k), but i can’t seem to find it in me to edit that either.
i don’t know… i’ve just been feeling a bit useless lately. still, i hope i’ll be able to share it soon.
anyway, i’d truly appreciate any feedback, whether in the comments or in my inbox :3
– your santi 🪐
masterlist // muse script