Off the Record
A Dieter Bravo x F!Reader drabble
This 5k drabble has been in my head for a while, I just needed to figure how who is fitted best. And when I started seriously thinking about it, reformed bad boy Dieter Bravo was the perfect fit. So for my lovely friend @mysterious-musings, a lil' story featuring her favourite boy in her favourite way.
Banner by the lovely @lady-bess (spot her cameo)
Plot: A political journalist has only thirty minutes to step in for a colleague and do an interview with Hollywood's most notorious bad boy. But maybe his reputation is unfair?
NEW: Read on Ellipsus!
The interior of the London black cab smelled of stale beer and motor oil, but that wasn't your focus now. Your focus was on the phone call from your editor-in-chief at The Thames Herald, currently derailing your plans.
"What? Now?!" you hissed into the receiver while you waved at the driver to pull over, "I've got to research the conflict in Jordan, Lottie needs a piece for the Sunday edition. I can't run off and…"
"Listen, you're the only one available, and near the hotel, and even remotely in touch with popular culture. We need this interview for Thursday, Friday at the latest, his film opens on Friday night!"
"But I'm a political reporter an-" you began to protest. Interviewing Hollywood movie stars was not your field in the slightest, and your supposed knowledge of pop culture was your religious following of The Great British Bake Off.
"No buts, I'm sending you the brief on him and the questions Amanda had prepared. Read them quickly, you're interview slot is in thirty minutes at Blackthorne House Hotel."
"But!" you protested again, but he'd hung up on you, and your e-mail notification pinged as you cursed under your breath.
'Dieter Bravo interview - The Remains of We press packet' the attached document said.
"Change of plans, miss?" the driver asked, looking at you through the rear view mirror.
"Yeah…unfortunately. Can you get me to Blackthorne House as quickly as possible?"
"Sure, but with this traffic it'll be about half an hour, it'll be quicker on the tube. I can drop you at Embankment."
"Thanks," you replied, getting out your change as the driver pulled away from the curb. A few minutes later he stopped by the nearby station.
You paid as quickly as possible and rushed inside, running down the escalators while opening the attachment and squeezing between the closing doors of the next train. Scrolling with one hand as you held onto the ceiling strap, you tried to quickly absorb the information in the brief.
' 'The Remains of We' is a bold, elevated meditation on humanity at its breaking point—unfolding in the long shadow of a world irrevocably changed. Eschewing conventional apocalypse in favor of intimate, prestige storytelling, the film interrogates what it means to belong—when the idea of “we” has fractured beyond repair.
At the center of the film is a quietly devastating performance by Dieter Bravo—delivering a portrayal of profound restraint and emotional precision. Hailed internally as career-defining, Bravo’s work anchors the film with a raw, lived-in authenticity—one that lingers long after the final frame.'
"Fuck me, that's the worst fucking AI slop I've ever seen…" you sighed to yourself, making the elderly gentleman next to you frown.
You scrolled down the directions from the actors PR team, and more AI slop followed.
'For journalists conducting interviews with Mr. Bravo, all questions and commentary should remain strictly focused on the film—the creative process—and Mr. Bravo’s professional achievements. Any attempt to divert the conversation into personal history—speculation—or unverified narratives will be redirected immediately—without exception.
Subjects that are explicitly out of bounds include—but are not limited to—gaps in Mr. Bravo’s professional timeline; references to treatment—recovery—or wellness facilities; prior personal or romantic associations; unsubstantiated claims regarding substance use; rumors—or third-party allegations—involving private individuals; and any incidents occurring in Malibu—past, present, or otherwise.'
"Jesus fucking Christ, who is this guy?" you mumbled, garnering another frown from the gentleman across the aisle.
Reading between the lines, this actor, Dieter Bravo, a name you vaguely recognised as maybe getting an Oscar a few years ago, sounded like a wrecked party boy with a drug and sex problem.
'How the hell am I supposed to interview this guy…?' you thought to yourself, scrolling down a bit further through Amanda's notes. You sighed again, Amanda wasn't a bad journalist, not at all. She had the bubbly type of personality that put all the cautious, media trained celebrities at ease. Cute enough so that the men were flattered when she flirted with them, but not too gorgeous, the women didn't feel threatened. But she was working with very slim pickings here and it showed in her prepared questions.
Casting process, why this project? Filming process? Emotional toil, dark material, preparation?
The train pulled into the next stop and you had to hurry off, trying to read Amanda's notes on the film. There had been a press screening yesterday, but you had obviously not been invited. And it didn't seem like Amanda had high thoughts about the film. 'Pretentious' was a word she'd written in bold and underlined.
Glancing at the clock, you cursed for what felt like the hundredth time, and started running up the slow escalators. The hotel was just a block from the tube station but the early evening crowd forced you to slow down. When you finally reached the hotel, you hurried through the lobby, waved your press pass, and was ushered to a lift. Trying to catch your breath, you gathered your thoughts on what to ask this actor you'd never heard of, about a film you hadn't seen while trying to navigate the minefield of no-go questions in the press brief.
A stiff-faced assistant met you at the doors of the lift and escorted you down the hallway to the double doors of a grand suite.
"You're late," was the greeting you got from the slick looking man standing by the doors as you arrived, "You're the final one and Mr Bravo would like to wrap this up on time, so hurry up."
"I'm sorry," you replied, "I was pulled in last minute, I'm not real-"
"Through here," he interrupted, and waved you through the double doors, into a lounge, and then into the large living room of the suite, which seemed to have been turned into a makeshift studio. An uncomfortable, but chic, looking sofa stood in the middle of the room, flanked by a Roman statue and an overgrown Monstera plant. Cameras and light boxes were placed around the room (shit, is this an on-camera interview?!), and two people were touching up the subject of the interview, blocking him from view as you stepped inside.
"You sit here," the man who'd escorted you in said, pointing to a chair, "You've read the brief?"
Before you could answer, he rattled off the don't's.
"No questions about Mr Bravo's absence from moving making, no questions about rehab, no questions about past relationships, no questions about alleged substance abuse, no questions about alleged prostitutes and no questions about the Malibu incident."
"Can I ask about the weather in Malibu?" you said before you could stop yourself, and the man shot you a murderous look. But behind the wall of groomers, someone snorted.
"It's fine, Marcus, let's just get this last one done with, and we can all go home."
The groomers promptly stepped to the side and Dieter Bravo stood up, stepping forward.
"You're not Amanda," he said, as you shook hands, his large hand momentarily engulfing yours and warming your cold fingers.
"N-no, sorry, she-she got food poisoning," you stumbled, feeling heat creep up your neck as your usually so well behaved brain ground to a halt at the sight of his dark brown eyes focusing on you, and you alone. He looked vaguely familiar, but above all, he was handsome. Drop dead, gorgeous, handsome in a way that made your breath hitch. A soft looking cloud of dark brown curls wrapped around his ears and collar, strands of grey shooting through in places, but more grey in his beard and moustache, and then a strong curved nose and plush lips that gave you a warm smile.
The corners of his mouth dropped down in a half-grimace at the mention of food poisoning though, the dimple in his cheek disappearing, and his brow furrowed in concern.
"Ah, that sucks, I feel so bad for her, that's the absolute fucking worst."
"Yeah, our editor said she felt really bad about missing the interview, but hoped you'd be ok with me filling in at the last minute."
Your editor hadn't said anything like it, but it felt like the right thing to say, and judging by the way Dieter smiled, it had been.
"Yeah, of course, it'll be great," he beamed, finally releasing your hand, "C'mon, let's get started. Did you see the movie?"
He sat down on the sofa again, and you sat down in your assigned chair as the assistants swarmed around.
"No, I'm afraid I haven't," you apologised, "Amanda saw it though, I'm sure she loved it."
Dieter's mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "I'm sure she did, Amanda always sees right through my bullshit."
"Ok, we're rolling," someone called behind you, and Dieter fell into a relaxed pose, his legs crossed, an arm draped nonchalantly across the back of the sofa. His smile turned into something more polite, more contained.
You drew a deep breath to focus, it was just another interview. But with a devastatingly handsome Hollywood actor instead of a slick politician. No difference, both would be drilled in how to handle the media. The only difference here was that you had no need to make Dieter stumble or say something incriminating. Just let him answer the polite questions and make him look good.
"Very nice to meet you, Dieter," you began, "tell me, what got you interested in 'The Remains of We'?
The interview went well. Dieter smiled, joked, made you laugh, and answered your dull questions about the project, praising his co-stars, the director and the crew. As he wrapped up a story about how good the catering had been on set, the man who'd ushered you into the room stepped into your field of view and tapped his wrist watch, mouthing '30 seconds'.
You thanked Dieter again for his time, and the cameras turned off, Dieter standing up and stretching his tall body, arms above his head.
"Fuck me, that sofa is the most uncomfortable designer piece of shit ever," he groaned, flashing a fair bit of tanned belly as his black t-shirt rose up high, "You did great," he added, flashing you a smile, "I never would've thought you hadn't seen the movie. You're a good bullshitter."
You laughed, "I usually interview politicians, and they are world class bullshitters."
"You've learned from the best then," Dieter replied, coming over, this time close enough so that you could smell the remnants of his woody after shave, "So you usually don't do this kind of Hollywood shit?"
"No, I'm a political journalist. I'm on our international politics desk. I got assigned this when Amanda called in sick because I was the one closest to the hotel."
"Lucky me," Dieter smiled, and you could've sworn his eyes flitted down to your mouth for a split second, before they came back up to meet yours, and he suddenly looked bashful.
"I mean…lucky you were around and could do it and be so good at it and…and all…that…"
Was he blushing? A pink tinge crept up his neck from the neck line of his t-shirt, and he suddenly ran his hand through his hair, making his well-coiffed curls stand on end.
"Anyway, I was, maybe…" he began.
But he was cut off by someone coming up and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"That's a wrap for the day, Dieter, we're out of here," the escorter guy said, glancing over at you with a blank smile, "Thanks for coming, enjoy the movie."
He manoeuvred Dieter out of the room, who only had time to shoot you a quick smile, before he was gone, surrounded by a cluster of people who swarmed him as soon as he stepped outside.
You watched for a few moments as the group moved as a unit towards the double doors out into the hallway, and then disappeared. A strange little ball of discomfort sat in your chest as you bent to retrieve your notes and pack them away.
"We'll send the raw cut to your editor," a glamorous looking assistant told you on the way out, "Thanks for coming, enjoy the movie."
"Thanks," you replied, but the glossy woman had already turned away, focusing on her tablet.
The hotel felt deserted as you made your way down to the lobby. Not even twenty minutes had passed since you'd arrived, but it felt like it had been a lifetime. Smiling at the door man, you turned the corner and headed towards the tube.
Your phone rang just as you'd pushed the door to your flat closed, and you had to fumble to fish it from your pocket as you tossed the keys in the vintage ashtray on the dresser.
"Hello?" you said into the mouthpiece, a career in journalism had taught you to be wary of unknown numbers, but also to never not answer them in case it was someone important.
"Hi," someone said with a nervous tone, but it was a low, warm voice that flowed into your ear, "It's me, I-I mean, it's…it's Dieter, we just met…at the interview."
"Hi…" you replied, somewhat breathless, but mostly surprised, "Hi! Dieter."
"I'm…I'm sorry, I hope you don't mind me calling you. I got your number from Amanda."
He sounded guilty, a little bit sheepish, as he chuckled into your ear, making your toes involuntarily curl.
"I don't mind," you smiled down at your feet, "But I hope you don't regret our interview and want to retract the story about the catering."
Dieter laughed, a full blown cackle that made you laugh too at your end.
"God, that was the most boring story ever. I should retract it, or everyone will know what an absolute loser I am," he giggled, snorting at the end, the sound making you giggle too.
"I'm sure they won't think that," you replied, "But they'll probably wonder about your love for spring rolls."
Dieter chuckled, and you waited for him to continue, but he was so quiet you wondered if he'd been disconnected.
"Hello?"
"Yeah, sorry, I'm here," he replied, the nervous tone back in his voice, "Sorry, I was just…I…yeah. I got your number from Amanda and, and…yeah, you can call her if you want, she'll tell you, I mean, I don't do this, anymore, at least, and maybe, I mean, I just thought, it'd be kinda nice to, and maybe you'd like to, I don't know, hang out? Or something? Maybe? If you like, I mean? And if not, I totally understand, you've probably heard all the shit and…and…shit…ah shit, I'm sorry, I'll just…shut up."
"Are…are you asking if I want to hang out with you?" you asked, once your brain had caught up with his outpouring of rambling words.
"Ah…yeah…" Dieter replied, the words coming out with a rush of air, "If you want to."
"I'd like that," you smiled, "Sounds nice."
"Yeah? You sure?" came his surprised response, the bewilderment in his voice making your heart swell.
"Yeah, I'm sure," you replied, and he must've heard the smile in your voice, because he suddenly chuckled.
"I'm so smooth, aren't I?"
"Totally, very smooth," you laughed and for a few moments you were both giggling like school kids on either end of the phone.
"So…I know this is very soon and all, but are you free tonight?" he asked eventually, "It's just that, I have to leave tomorrow for this stupid press tour, and won't be back in London for like another three weeks, and I'd like to see you before then…if you want-"
"I'm free," you interrupted him, trying to repress your grin, "I have no plans."
"Amazing," he huffed out, smiling so brightly down the phone you could feel it, "And you're the local girl, any ideas on where to go? Somewhere low key maybe? I don't feel like…I mean, you know…" he trailed off.
"Somewhere without potential photographers? Don't worry, I know the perfect spot," you grinned, "I'll text you the address."
An hour later your taxi pulled up to the pub in Pimlico you often visited for more clandestine interviews. Dieter was waiting outside, a cap pulled down over his forehead and sunglasses on despite the dark November evening. He pulled them off as you approached, the dimple deep in his cheek as he smiled.
"Hi," he said, gently placing a hand on your arm as he half leaned in, and then stopped himself.
You had to stand on your tiptoes, steadying yourself on his shoulder, as you closed the distance instead of him, pressing a light kiss to his cheek.
"Hi, Dieter," you replied as the scent of him hit your nose; fresh aftershave, clean cotton and a hint of grapefruit. He smelled delicious, and you delayed pulling back just an extra second as his soft moustache brushed against your cheek.
"Hi," he mumbled, close to your ear this time, and when you both stepped back, it took a second for the world to right itself again.
You'd asked Amanda about him, of course.
As you rushed through your flat to get ready, you'd had her on speaker phone, getting all the details.
"So, the thing is," she said, "he used to be this real wild child, real Hollywood bad boy, sex, drugs and rock n' roll. He had a string of short term flings, both men and women, always very public, always very messy break ups. Whatever you do, don't google his name, you'll get to see all the ugly stuff from his party days. But….".
"Please tell me he's reformed," you begged as she paused, and she nodded over the video call.
"Yeah, I think so, actually. He's been out of the lime light for like three years. And that's a lifetime in Hollywood. And from what I've heard, he went to rehab for a year, and then went back to his hometown for a year. Stayed in his parents guest house, hung out with his nieces and nephews, therapy, long walks on the beach, reconnected with old friends and totally left the whole Hollywood lifestyle behind. And then he moved to New York, or at least that's where he's been sighted the most, and I hear he's been working on a screenplay while he's been doing this 'The Remains of Us'. Which, by the way, is a pretentious piece of shit."
You laughed as she said it, "Dieter said something before the interview that made me think he probably knew you wouldn't like it."
"Yeah, I bet he did," she replied with a smile, "Listen, I can't say I know Dieter Bravo, but I've been interviewing him for years, ever since his first breakthrough. Back then he was just a sweet boy. Polite, eager, hard working and very ambitious. But he was a bit like a child let loose in a sweet shop, he wanted to do it all and did so many projects. And it took a toll on him. I think he at some point started blowing off steam in the wrong way, with the wrong people, and the stories about how he partied started leaking to the press. And then he turned up drunk or high, or both, to interviews, he even threw up on my shoes once. He was a mess. But…he seems to have turned over a new leaf. I met him a couple of months ago in New York, and he looked better than he had in years. Sounded better too."
"So I'm not making a mistake by going out with him?" you asked, shrugging into your coat, "I mean, one date can't be that bad right?"
"I think you're smart enough to see through his bullshit if it is more than one date," Amanda replied, "And give him my love, I'm really glad to see him doing so well, even if the film is bad. Even when he was at his worst, he was still a pretty sweet kid underneath it all."
At the pub, Dieter pulled open the heavy oak door and let you walk through first, his hand resting on the small of your back.
"You come here often?" he asked after the bartender had waved at you, and gestured you both over to your usual table in a dim corner, tucked behind the corner of the bar.
"It's close to Whitehall, but not too close," you said, "And I know the staff are discreet, as are the other patrons. So it's a good spot to talk to sources who don't want to be seen talking to the press, but who don't trust e-mails and phone calls."
"I love it," Dieter beamed, "Very John Le Carré. I can be your undercover American source, but maybe I'm a double agent, you're not sure really, we'll keep the readers in suspense until the last page."
"Are you going to slip me microfilms hidden in a pack of cigarettes?" you laughed as the server brought out a couple of menus.
"What'll it be, my darlings?" she asked, her round Northern accent making Dieter scrunch up his forehead for a second before he deciphered what she'd said, "Got a lovely new red ale on tap, or just the usual G&T?"
"Uh…no alcohol for me," Dieter immediately replied, glancing over at you, the smile in his eyes suddenly replaced by nerves, "Just orange juice, or a Coke, if you have it?"
"We just stocked a new ginger beer, non-alcoholic, love, and it's lush. I really recommend it, if you're after something more interesting than just juice."
You couldn't help smiling as you watched Dieter hang on to the waitress every word, his forehead furrowed in concentration as he struggled with her accent.
"Yeah, if it's non-alcoholic, that sounds great," he replied, smiling as the woman, clearly pleased with his choice, winked at him.
"Excellent, and for you, my love? The usual?
"I'll try the ginger beer too, Bess, thanks."
"I'm fine with you having alcohol," Dieter said, "I'm just…not drinking."
"But I want to try the ginger beer," you smiled at him, "Bess sold me on it too."
Bess looked pleased with herself, "Coming right up then, and I'll take your order when I come back with the drinks."
"I-I've been sober for three years," Dieter said, rubbing his thumb over the bull's eye tattoo on his hand, it took him a few moments to meet your eyes, "I had - have a problem with alcohol. And other…things."
"I know," you said, "I kinda figured based on all the questions I wasn't supposed to ask. And Amanda told me. But she also told me you've been to rehab and seem to have put all of that behind you."
He nodded in response, still anxiously rubbing the tattoo, but he kept his eyes on you, "Yeah, twelve months in this place out in Arizona. I checked myself in after…the Malibu thing."
"I won't ask," you said, and he sighed.
"I'll tell you some other day, not my finest moment. But I've put in a lot of work on myself since then, and I will be for the rest of my life," he said and gave a half hearted shrug as Bess came over with the drinks.
"Will you order for me?" Dieter asked, "I trust you to know what's good."
"Two Ploughman's," you immediately told Bess, "Extra pickles."
"Coming right up, love," she replied and retreated to the bar after putting down the ginger beers on the table.
"Amanda said you'd spent time with your parents after rehab?" you asked, as Dieter poured first your ginger beer into a glass, and then his own.
"She's kept tabs on me, huh?" he smiled, a lighter smile now, "Yeah, after rehab I needed a break from the industry, from all my so-called friends. It was good. It balanced me and gave me reassurance that I was on the right path. I got back to writing, painting, all the creative stuff I'd ignored for years. And it was good spending real time with family again, I'd been too busy. But..I know it sounds corny, but they also showed me what's most important."
He looked brighter as he spoke, his eyes lighting up as he told you more about his family, his siblings and their kids, the area they all lived in and the beauty of the beaches there.
He paused and chuckled, "I'm rambling."
"You sound happy," you replied, "I like hearing about it."
"Yeah? Honestly, most people I talk to just wanna hear about the scandals."
"I think you might be talking to the wrong people, Dieter."
"Probably," he smiled, his eyes crinkling around the corners again, the dimple deep in his cheek, "I like talking to you though, you seem to be the right person to talk to."
"I like talking to you too, and I have to admit, you're nothing like I thought you'd be."
"You were expecting the drunk and high version of me?"
"I think I was expecting a very arrogant, self-centred guy who'd either ignore me or try to fuck-"
You bit your tongue as you felt your cheeks heat up. Dieter, on the other hand, looked delighted.
"Don't rule out the second one yet," he quipped, hiding a wide grin behind his drink, his dark eyes glittering over the rim of the glass as you grimaced.
"You know what I mean," you said, trying to stop yourself from melting into a puddle at his response, and the way he was currently looking at you. Reformed bad boy or not, he certainly hadn't lost his charisma in rehab.
Bess broke the stand-off just in time by arriving with your dinner, putting down an extra bowl of pickles between the two of you.
"Two Ploughman's, extra pickles, my darlings," she smiled, "Enjoy!".
"Thanks," you both said, pulling out cutlery and napkins. You doused your chips in vinegar and Dieter wrinkled his nose.
"Never understood the whole vinegar thing," he said, reaching for the ketchup and preparing to pour it over his meal.
"Dieter Bravo, if you pour ketchup on to that delicious sandwich, I will smack you."
His eyes widened as he looked up at you, another stand-off over the table, and he slowly moved the bottle to the left as his face transformed into a mischievous grin. With a shake, he doused his chips in the red sauce, and you sighed.
"Americans…"
Dieter giggled, putting down the bottle, and dipped one of the pickles in the ketchup.
"You are genuinely insane," you said, shaking your head and digging into your own sandwich while he crunched away at the gherkin with a pleased grin.
"This is a very good pickle."
"I'm glad the pickle flavoured ketchup holder is to your liking."
"You said you got back to writing?" you asked after a few bites of the meal, but Dieter shook his head, wiping his mouth with the napkin.
"No, enough about me, I need to prove that I'm not the self-centered part of that prejudice you had," he smiled, "I want to know more about you now before I call Amanda for the details."
The evening slipped past, tucked away in that dim corner. Bess kept the ginger beers coming, and even though they were non-alcoholic, you felt like your body was tingling. Dieter's warm, dark eyes on you, shifting into something more heated as the hours passed and the flirting banter went on. He left for the bathroom at one point, and when he came back, he sat down closer to you, his knee pressed against yours on the bench seat. The intention was clear, and you leaned into it, letting him place his arm on the back of the seat, his fingers soon drawing small shapes on your back.
"I can't remember the last time I had such a…normal…evening," Dieter said, "Not with someone new."
"Normal?" you asked, raising your eyebrows with a smile, and Dieter chuckled softly, a sound that was quickly becoming one of your favourites.
"Normal is good for me, it's what I need, it's what I want."
He paused and shoved his fingers through his hair, the curls standing up on end once again, before he looked down at your hand laying on the table. With a careful movement he laced his fingers through yours, and looked up again.
"I'd love to see you again, when I'm back in London."
"I'd love to see you again too, Dieter," you replied, smiling back at him, "You've proven my prejudices wrong."
Dieter chuckled softly again, this time much closer to you, and his hand moved up to your neck, cupping your cheek.
"Can I kiss you?" he mumbled, his warm breath touching your skin as he glanced down at your lips.
You could only give the briefest of nods, nearly vibrating with need as he came closer. And his mouth was soft, gentle, as it met yours.
A short, promising, kiss that ended far too soon.
"I've got to go," he whispered, a regretful tone to his voice as he brushed the cool tip of his nose across your cheek, and pulled back, "Early start tomorrow, but I'll be back in three weeks."
"Can't wait," you replied, and he smiled at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners again. You've realised it was one of your favourite things about his face, along with the dimple, that also made a reappearance.
He took your hand as you stood up, helping you on with your coat. His hand was again on the small of your back as you left the pub, waving to Bess on the way out.
"I'm gonna call my driver," he said as you were out on the pavement, "Can I drop you off at home?"
"How fancy," you laughed, "That sounds very luxurious, I'd love to."
Dieter smiled as he made the call, and then hung up.
"He'll be here in a few minutes," he said, tucking the phone into his pocket and rocking back on his heels as he glanced at you.
"I could've called him from inside the pub," he said, taking a few steps away from the entrance, making you follow him.
"Why didn't you?" you asked, his mischievous smile pulling you in as he leaned against the wall behind him.
"Because I wanted to give you a proper kiss," he replied, reaching out so that he could put a gentle hand behind your neck, getting you to take another step closer while his other hand moved to your waist.
"Really?" you mumbled as he leaned closer, "Why's that?"
"I can't let you forget me while I'm gone," he whispered, his lips brushing over yours, "Need to give you something…not normal…to remember."
The End
Want to know what happened in Malibu? Read The Malibu Incident
Many thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!
