at the premiere of Fantastic Four: First Steps, a sharp-witted interviewer and pedro pascal unexpectedly hit it off, thanks to a perfectly timed polka dot coincidence, a little flirtation, and one unforgettable rooftop moment.
yes this is about the recent premiere his outfit ATE DOWN he looks so handsome and yeah maybe i pretended to be an interviewer that asked him questions and maybe i dreamed he actually fell in love with me on the carpet in that exact moment. i’m delusional ok? sue me… get it? Sue me?
also sorry if this is cringe as hell obviously i’ve never met a celebrity or been to an event like this so if the dress isn’t to the correct dress code or you hate it simply don’t read it 🤷♀️
masterlist 🎞️ 4.8k words 🎞️ pedro being his charming, dorky, & adorable self, fluff, banter, heavy making out, they get horny, & no smut but they talk about sex !
You turn heads on the blue carpet in a dress that’s equal parts playful and vintage. The rich chocolate brown fabric, scattered with tiny white polka dots, hugs your frame as the sleeveless cut keeps things breezy and fun. A wide beige collar frames your neckline, drawing attention upward as you move confidently with your mic in hand.
The off-center line of oversized buttons running down the front adds just the right touch of quirky charm, while the cream waistband cinches your waist before the skirt flares out in soft ruffles that sway with every step. But it’s the oversized bow at your hip, crafted from matching beige and brown fabric, that truly steals the show, giving you a sweet, standout silhouette as you interview stars and steal a bit of the spotlight yourself.
You’re mid-interview with a producer when you spot him—Pedro Pascal, working his way down the line, flashing that signature smile and offering hugs and cheek kisses like they’re party favors. You try to keep your cool, mentally double-checking your notes, but the second his eyes land on you, it’s like the world briefly hushes.
And then he does a double take.
Pedro’s brow lifts, and that warm, curious smile starts to form as he makes his way over. “Wait, wait a second…”
You tilt your head, already grinning. “Caught you staring.”
“I wasn’t staring,” he says, but the little hitch in his voice betrays him. He gestures between you two. “We’re matching.”
You glance down at your dress, then up at the polka dots on his tie, and you gasp with playful offense. “Are you saying you copied me?”
“Oh no,” he laughs. “You wore it better. I’ll concede immediately.”
His eyes drag over the bow at your hip, the bounce in your skirt, and then—his gaze dips to your hand as you lift your mic again.
“Wait… your nails.”
You hold your fingers out just slightly, letting the overhead lights catch the glossy brown acrylics, each dotted delicately in white. “The commitment to the theme,” you say, wiggling them. “I take my job very seriously.”
Pedro looks stunned for a beat. He bites back a grin and mutters, “You’re killin’ me,” before immediately laughing at himself. “Seriously, I’m not even sure I should be interviewed by you. You’re making me nervous.”
You arch a brow. “Pedro Pascal. Nervous? Around me?”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says with a little dramatic flair, but there’s real warmth in it. “You’ve got polka dot nails. A bow. A collar. You ask questions and look like you walked off the set of the cutest Wes Anderson movie ever. I’m thrown.”
You lean in slightly, teasing, “Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”
“Oh, both,” he replies instantly. “Definitely both.”
The camera’s still rolling, but it doesn’t feel like a press interview anymore. You toss one of your prepared questions aside and go rogue.
“Alright,” you say. “Tell me the truth. Do you pick your red carpet looks, or do you just show up and let a very stressed stylist handle it?”
Pedro chuckles, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “A very stylish and slightly bossy stylist. I show up, they sigh at my socks, and fix everything.”
“Well,” you say, sweeping a look down his suit. “They did great. Twinning with me? Bold move.”
“I’ll thank them later,” he replies, giving you a look that lingers maybe half a second too long.
You continue for a few more minutes—he answers your questions, but always with that smirk, that lean, that little tilt of his head like he’s listening to you more than anyone else on the carpet. The moment feels tucked away from the cameras, even as flashbulbs pop behind him.
As the crew starts to wrap and you lower your mic, he leans in again, softer now.
“You staying for the premiere?”
“I am,” you say, suddenly very aware of how close he is. “Row J, media section. Why?”
Pedro smiles, and this one is different. Less for show, more real. More him.
“Well, if you feel like ditching that seat,” he says, slipping a folded pass from his jacket pocket, “there’s one next to me. I promise good snacks and better company.”
You blink at the VIP pass, then at him. “Are you bribing me with popcorn and charm?”
He grins. “Is it working?”
You take the pass from his hand, your fingers grazing his—and that’s when he sees your matching polka dot nail on your ring finger and actually blushes. Like, full-body, pink-eared blush.
“Dangerous,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself.
And just before he walks off, he turns back, points at your dress, and says: “Seriously. You stole the show.”
The moment Pedro walks off, you blink a few times, trying to ground yourself before someone calls “aaaand cut!”
You keep the mic up a beat longer, then lower it slowly, exhaling like you’ve just survived a near-death experience via charming Chilean actor.
You glance toward the camera with wide eyes, still smiling. “Okay,” you say, breathless. “So no, he did not slip me his number…”
You lift your free hand, flashing the VIP pass with a little shake.
“…buuuut I may or may not be sitting next to him for the film.”
Then you lean into the camera just slightly, lowering your voice like it’s a secret you’re letting the audience in on.
“Which means, I now have approximately twenty-five minutes to calm the hell down and pretend I’m not already planning our wedding.”
You end it with a ridiculous wink—cheesy, exaggerated, fully unserious.
Your producer stifles a laugh off-camera. “You’re glowing, by the way.”
You fan yourself with the pass. “I need a fan and a shot of espresso. In that order.”
You’re in the women’s restroom, both palms planted on the marble counter, staring yourself down in the mirror like you’re about to walk a runway instead of sitting next to Pedro Pascal in a dark theater.
Your heart’s still thumping. A little too fast.
“Okay,” you whisper, straightening your posture. “You are a professional. You are composed. You are not gonna spill your drink on him. You are not gonna trip walking up the stairs. You are definitely not gonna sniff his cologne like a freak.”
You pause. “…Maybe just once. But subtly.”
With a huff of nervous laughter, you pop open your lipstick, chestnut brown, a wine colored gloss, and you reapply, carefully and slowly. Then the matching dark brown liner. A little finger tap to blend. You press your lips together, check the teeth (clear), check the bow at your hip (still perfect), then pull your small travel perfume from your bag.
A soft spritz of vanilla at your neck. Another for luck on your wrist.
“Showtime,” you whisper, tucking everything back into your purse like it’s a ritual.
Outside the theater, an usher scans your special pass and gestures to you toward the reserved seating near the front of the VIP section. Rows of producers, stars, and studio execs then him.
Pedro’s already in his seat, arm draped lazily over the back of the one next to him, eyes flicking toward you the second you step in.
And he smiles. A real one. That slow, warm, just-for-you one.
You walk toward him like you’re in stilettos on a Paris runway instead of kitten heels at a superhero premiere.
As you slide into the seat beside him, Pedro leans over slightly and murmurs, “You smell good.”
You blink, cheeks already heating. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”
He chuckles, the sound low and pleased. “I mean, it’s kind of unfair. You look like that and you smell like a dessert.”
“Vanilla bean,” you whisper back, like you’re letting him in on something private.
Pedro’s lips twitch, and he murmurs like a dare, “Dangerous.”
The lights dim. Trailers start.
His arm stays right where it is, hovering behind you, fingertips brushing the back of your seat, like a tether he’s not quite ready to admit to.
And when your knees gently touch halfway through the second trailer… neither of you moves.
The movie starts, and the room darkens, the glow of the screen painting your faces in flickering light. Your shoulders brush lightly against Pedro’s, sending a tiny, unexpected thrill up your spine.
Midway through a tense scene, explosions, flying debris, heroic saves, and Pedro leans in just enough so his warm breath tickles your ear. His voice is low, smooth, almost a purr.
“Remind me to never get on your bad side. You’re watching all of this violence with a straight face.”
You bite your lip, heart fluttering. “Is that your idea of flirting or a warning?”
He grins, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe both. But mostly a compliment.”
The action ramps up on screen, a daring escape, a close call, and Pedro nudges you gently with his elbow.
“You know, you’d make a killer sidekick. Quick, smart, and you have a killer fashion sense.”
You glance at him, amused and flushed. “I’ll take ‘killer sidekick’ as a promotion.”
When the film hits an emotional moment, Pedro’s voice lowers to a whisper and he says, “don’t worry. I won’t cry… unless you hold my hand.”
You glance at him, surprised by the honesty masked in his tease. You reach out just a little, letting your fingers brush his.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he leans in once more, lips barely grazing your ear as he whispers:
“Best premiere ever.”
The credits start rolling, the theater dim except for the glow from the screen. The room begins to stir with applause, but you barely hear it. You’re still caught in the bubble of the evening, his warmth, his presence, the light brush of your fingers.
Pedro shifts slightly, turns toward you with that mischievous glint in his eyes.
“So,” he says low and easy, voice just for you, “after all this… you sticking around?”
You smile, heart flipping. “I was thinking I might. Why?”
He glances toward the exit, then back at you, cheeks coloring just a bit in the dim light. That rare, genuine flicker of nerves. “There’s an after party nearby. I’ve got an extra invite.”
Your breath catches. “An extra invite?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the way his eyes lock on yours says everything.
“I’d like it if you came with me.”
You pause, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. Then you grin, matching his energy.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
His smile grows, genuine and wide, and he reaches over to gently bump your knee with his.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice soft. “Because I have a feeling the night’s just getting started.”
The venue is sleek and softly lit, buzzing with chatter and clinking glasses, neon blue lights echoing the Fantastic Four branding across the walls. Pedro’s hand hovers at the small of your back as the two of you step inside together—close enough to be protective, but still testing the boundary.
He leans over as you pass a cluster of publicists and murmurs, “You good?”
You nod, smiling. “You’re not gonna ditch me for a shrimp tower, are you?”
He smirks. “I was planning to, but now that you’ve said it, I guess I have to keep you around.”
Before you can throw a playful jab back, Pedro spots someone across the room and taps your arm gently. “Come on—I want to introduce you to the cast.”
Your pulse kicks up just a little.
He leads you to a corner where Vanessa Kirby, Joseph Quinn, and Ebon Moss-Bachrach are mid-conversation, laughing over something in Joseph’s hand and what looks like a terribly drawn caricature from a novelty photo booth.
Vanessa’s the first to spot Pedro, and her eyes flick immediately to you with interest.
“Well hello, who’s this?”
Pedro casually slides his hand off your back but stays close. “This is…” He pauses, glancing at you with a slight grin, “…the woman who made me forget how to answer interview questions tonight.”
Joseph lets out a very Joseph Quinn “oooOOoh,” while Ebon raises his glass and says, “Scandalous.”
You laugh, waving it off. “I swear I was just doing my job.”
Vanessa steps forward, extending a hand. “I saw your interview and you had brilliant questions, and that dress? It’s giving a vintage journalist in her prime.”
“She interviewed me before you,” Joseph chimes in, squinting at you. “Right? You’re the one who asked me if The Human Torch could outdrink Eddie Munson?”
“That was me,” you grin.
“And you said I’d black out after one whiskey sour.”
“Because you would,” Vanessa says, rolling her eyes affectionately.
Pedro’s watching all of this unfold with an expression that toes the line between awe and giddiness. You’re clearly winning the room.
“See?” he says, nudging Ebon. “Told you she was cool.”
Ebon raises a brow. “Didn’t take much convincing. We’ve been talking about you for like ten minutes.”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
Joseph grins. “He was out here all flustered before you showed up. Said—and I quote—‘She had polka dot nails. I’m too old, I might have a heart attack. I’m not built for this anymore.’”
Pedro covers his face with one hand. “I regret bringing you into my life.”
You laugh, eyes gleaming. “So you were nervous.”
He peeks at you through his fingers. “Maybe a little.”
Vanessa slides a cocktail your way. “You’re stuck with us now. You passed the vibe check.”
You raise the glass and clink it lightly with Pedro’s. “Guess I’m part of the team.”
Pedro leans in with a smile so soft you barely catch it.
“Guess you are.”
You’re perched on a plush velvet couch in a quieter corner of the party, your drink in hand, something bubbly with a fruity twist, just strong enough to loosen the nerves. Pedro’s next to you, thigh brushing yours now and then, body angled completely toward you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
He takes a sip of his tequila neat and glances sideways with a teasing smile. “Alright, important question.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Hit me.”
He leans in slightly, like this is serious business. “What’s your go-to movie snack? And you have to choose one.”
You laugh. “That’s your big question?”
“I said it was important, not deep.”
You pretend to think, tapping your lip with one finger. “Hot popcorn, lots of butter, but you mix it with peanut M&Ms. Salty-sweet masterpiece.” (yes the real @lowrisemiller ™️ does this)
Pedro clutches his chest like you just proposed. “That’s… wow. Marriage material, honestly.”
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Alright, your turn.”
“Red vines and Diet Coke.”
You blink. “You mean Twizzlers?”
“No,” he says, mock offended. “Red Vines. There’s a difference, and I will die on this hill.”
You snort into your drink. “That’s tragic.”
“Tragic is not recognizing true candy royalty,” he replies, gently nudging your knee with his.
A couple of fans approach, hesitant and polite and Pedro immediately shifts into his warm, welcoming mode, standing up for a few quick selfies. He glances at you between photos with a soft, apologetic smile, like don’t go anywhere, and you just nod, sipping your drink and watching the way he makes everyone feel seen.
When he finally sits back down beside you, cheeks a little pink from smiling, he lets out a breath.
“You’re good at that,” you murmur.
He shrugs, glancing down at his glass. “Comes with the job.”
“But I mean it,” you say. “You’re not just…on autopilot, it’s charming.”
He looks up at you then, really looks at you, and something shifts behind his eyes. A little quieter, a little softer.
“You’re easy to talk to,” he says. “I think that helps.”
The air between you settles into something slower. The music in the background pulses faintly, but neither of you moves to fill the space too quickly. You swirl the last bit of your drink, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he’s sitting.
After a beat, he nods toward the side door, a little away from the main crowd.
“You wanna get some air?”
Your eyes meet. Warmth stirs in your chest. You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, setting your glass down. “Let’s go.”
He stands first, offering his hand without thinking. You take it, and don’t let go as he guides you through the crowd, out toward the night.
You follow Pedro out through a side door that leads to a narrow stairwell, his hand still loosely in yours. Neither of you mentions it, but neither of you lets go.
The rooftop is quiet, save for the distant buzz of traffic and the occasional laughter wafting up from the valet below. The air is cooler here, the kind that kisses your shoulders and carries the faintest smell of pavement and summer rain.
Pedro holds the door open for you, then steps beside you, hands tucking into the pockets of his suit pants as he looks out over the city.
“It’s nice up here,” you say softly.
He nods, glancing sideways at you. “Better view now that you’re in it.”
You let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes, but your heart beats a little faster anyway.
There’s a moment of silence, the good kind, the kind that feels like a shared secret instead of something awkward.
He breaks it with a quiet, “You interview a lot of people?”
You glance over at him. “Yeah. Comes with the job.”
He nods. “You’re good at it. You made me forget there were cameras.”
“You say that like it doesn’t happen to you all the time.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Not like that.”
You don’t push. You just lean your elbows on the ledge, looking down at the city. The lights blur slightly in the breeze, and you take a deep breath, vanilla perfume curling in the air between you.
Pedro steps closer. Not in a rush, just… drawn.
“You ever get nervous?” he asks.
You glance over at him with a smirk. “What, like before interviews?”
“No.” He looks at you, full-on. “Like right now.”
Something about the way he says it, honest and quiet, like he’s not trying to charm you, just be real, makes your breath catch.
“A little,” you admit.
His smile returns, slower this time. “Me too.”
There’s a beat where neither of you says anything, and the space between you seems to shrink on its own. He looks at your face, then down at your hand resting on the edge of the wall. You feel his fingers brush yours, tentative and featherlight.
He shifts closer, quiet and sincere.
“Do you ever just want to skip the small talk and see what happens?”
Your lips part slightly. There’s a pause. A slow warmth spreads in your chest.
But before you can respond, he winces, like he just heard himself out loud and cringed.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, half-laughing, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell was that? I’d never say that.”
You blink, then burst out laughing. “You just said it.”
“I know,” he says, grinning, visibly flustered now. “I blacked out for a second. That was, like, premium grade-A bullshit line delivery.”
You’re giggling, hand over your mouth, but he keeps going, cheeks blushing and warm now.
“I love small talk! I’m a huge fan of small talk—especially with you. I think you’re amazing,” he says, voice rushing a little. “I just—I don’t know if we’ll get an opportunity like this again. You’re you, you’re a young successful woman with good taste and cute nails, and I’m a guy whose prime apparently waited until he turned fifty.”
You’re laughing so hard you nearly lose your balance against the railing. “Did you just say ‘terrifying nails’?”
He gives you that look, the boyish, scrunched-up smile that completely undermines his own attempt at being suave.
“They haunt me in the best way.”
You’re still catching your breath, but then he looks at you, really looks, and the laughter slows, settles, turns into something else. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes bright, and you can feel that exact second where the mood shifts again.
You say quietly, still smiling, “You’re ridiculous.”
He whispers, “You’re gorgeous.”
And then he leans in slow at first, lips brushing yours with a teasing softness, a taste, a test.
You meet him halfway. You have to.
The second your mouths fully connect, the heat between you ignites. It’s not tentative anymore—it’s full, deep, a collision of breath and want. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you, while the other slides down to your waist, tugging you closer, closer until there’s no space between your bodies at all.
You gasp against his mouth, just enough to let his tongue brush yours and that’s it. That’s when he loses his careful control.
Pedro groans, low and needy, backing you gently but firmly toward the wall of the rooftop, never breaking the kiss. Your spine meets cool brick, a contrast to the heat blooming everywhere else. His thigh slides between yours, parting your legs just slightly, just enough.
His hands are on your hips now, gripping through the fabric of your dress, thumbs dragging slow circles against the bow at your side like he’s trying not to rip it off.
“Fuck,” he mutters between kisses, voice ragged. “You’re—this dress—it’s— you’re unreal.”
Your hand fists in the lapel of his blazer, the other sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again into your mouth. It’s messy now, deep kisses, gasps, and a moan slipping from you when his thigh presses just right.
He mouths at the corner of your jaw, down to your neck. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his breath hot. “Because if you don’t, I’m not gonna be a gentleman.”
You exhale sharply, tilting your head back. “Then don’t.”
His teeth graze your pulse point and you feel it, his restraint starting to crack. His hand slips down, fingers ghosting along your thigh beneath the hem of your dress, and your back arches slightly against the wall, silently begging him for more.
And then—
He stills.
He pulls back, barely, forehead pressed to yours, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You’re breathless, dizzy, clutching the front of his suit like you might collapse if you let go. “We… could—”
“No.” His voice is soft but firm. “Not like this. Not up here, not rushed.” He opens his eyes, still inches away from you. “You deserve more than half-drunk rooftop sex. I want to take you out properly.”
You blink, still dazed. “A date?”
“A real one,” he says, lips brushing yours one more time. “With a reservation and chairs and napkins and me pretending I’m not dying to do this again the entire time.”
You smile. “So chivalry isn’t dead.”
“Barely,” he breathes. “You make it incredibly difficult.”
You both laugh, shaky and flushed, as he steps back enough to let you straighten your dress. He gently fixes your hair, fingertips lingering a second too long.
“Okay,” you say, teasing as you wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “Let’s go before I change my mind and drag you back to that wall.”
He mutters something in Spanish under his breath. You know you’re not ready to translate out loud.
As you step back into the party, slightly tousled, visibly glowing, Joseph Quinn catches sight of you both, and immediately wolf-whistles across the room.
“Well damn, Pedro,” he calls out, grinning. “You take her up there to read poetry or what?”
Pedro laughs, sliding an arm around your waist.
“You wouldn’t believe how good her small talk is.”
Vanessa clinks her glass in your direction. “Tell us everything at brunch.”
Pedro leans in, low and smug at your ear. “…Assuming you’ll want brunch after our date.”
What if I write a girthy one shot fic with Harry Castillo that is giving cheesy rom com?? (bc let’s be real that’s what we all wanted from Materialists and got severely disappointed)
I’m thinking Harry Castillo x journalist or book editor! fem!reader ???
