Harold Carmichael-Green

45 years old • evening news anchorman at the BBC • son to the Baronnet Carmichael-Green of London

[harry-carmichael]

Basics

Full Name: Harold James Carmichael-Green

Birthday: May, 28th

Age: 45

Zodiac Sign: Gemini

Religion: Anglican

Religious Level (1-10): 6

Birthplace: London, England

Current Residence: Town house in Belgravia, London

Height : 5ft 11 (180.3 cm)

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Blue

Sexuality: Asexual though not even he knows that.

Love/Romantic Preference: Biromantic 

Relationship Status: Single

Languages Known: English, French, German, some Chinese

Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and such was the case for Harold and his older sibling. While the former was gradually molded into becoming the next CEO of their father’s business, Harold was met with lesser expectations. Although he would have been cunning enough for the job, being second to be born meant getting the crumbs, something he resented both his parents and sibling for.

And so, he tried to prove his worth to his father, studying both journalism and business in Oxford, but even with the proper education, his father preferred to send him on the other side of the country, officially to have someone keeping an eye on the Eastern branches of the conglomerate, unofficially to get Harold off of his back and manipulate him into finding something else to do. While in Oxford, he made the acquaintance of Adeline Liddell and immediately found himself charmed with her intellect. His parents didn’t approve of his frequenting a woman whose family made a fortune in gambling and casinos but Harold figured then that he might have found the right person for him. Figured. Because it wasn’t long before things turned sour. One day, they were doing well and the next, she refused to see or speak with him. He focused his attention on what his family told him mattered, and the woman became a distant memory over the years. His family connections did their magic, and it wasn’t long before he landed a job on tv. Millions of eyes watching him sounded appealing to a young man who had been put in the spotlight by his family his whole life. The young man didn’t suspect then that this found vocation had all been carefully orchestrated by his old man and began on the sports channel, commenting football and endearing many with his natural charm and his enthusiasm for the game. In doing so, he found himself on his way to the midday news at the BBC. When his colleague at the evening news decided to put a halt in his career to focus on family, Harold simply had to ask and replace him.    

Details

Car: Tesla Series 3

Phone: iPhone Pro 14

Music Genres: Dreads a slow tempo, puts him to sleep.

Estimated Net Worth: Excluding his family’s personal fortune, he’s worth a good handful of millions.

Accent: PR

Bloodlines

Josephine Grace De La Villardière || Mother || alive

Henry Romuald Carmichael-Green || Father || alive

Evelyn Liddell || Daughter || alive

Levels

Drinking (1-10): 4 - Almost exclusively drinks wine and fine liquors, never in an excessive way

Swearing: 1

Smoking status: 0

Drugs: 0

Cooking proficiency: 6 - He likes it, when he finds time for it.

Intelligence: 8 - She is great at what she does but she seriously lacks in emotional and social intelligence.

Emotional/Social Intelligence: 4

Creativity: 3

Temper: 3

[verytelling-deactivated20230424]

She was dancing on the brink of becoming a particularly unpleasant person. She knew he was treating her with civility, ever-so-charming, there was nothing she would have expected other than that. Tuesday was sitting in the waiting room, with her arms closed so tightly around her chest, the smile on her face looked misplaced.

The inside of her mouth was still coated in the bitter aftertaste of their last meeting when she greeted him out of civility, “Mr. Carmichael, it’s so good to see you,” she smiled. “Thanks for having me on such short notice.”

Fuck the man and fuck the short notice, she thought. The last time she had seen him he was sporting that same smile, except he was not using it as a greeting card, he was using it as a joke, and she had been the punchline.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” she pointed at the chair in front of his desk.

[harry-carmichael]

What are you doing, Harry? Technically, nothing wrong, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he finally accepted to see her. He didn’t think for a moment that she was really thrilled with seeing him again. The last time they had met had ended with her being absolutely ridiculed in front of the whole UK. He had his social accounts bombarded by her fans (who knew conspiracy theorists had such a large amount of followers) but his reputation certainly hadn’t suffered one bit from it.

Sitting on the edge of his desk, he nodded along as she asked to sit on a chair. “That’s what chairs are made for, aren’t they?” Perhaps would she find here a bit of mockery. The journalist low key would not have been to surprised had she refused to use furniture the way the establishment insisted on using it, after all. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He finally asked.

Part of him was eager to hear the sort of non sense she was going to expose to him, and another part was already suffering from a terrible case of regrets. Conversing with people who were deeply convinced of holding the truth in their hands was uninspiring, which explained why he didn’t like talking with politicians.

[harry-carmichael]

camilo-whitely​:

“There’s a lot more good in the world than one might think,” Camilo concludes after giving the table another critical once-over. “The best in people usually comes out in times when need is greatest. We’ve been very lucky in that regard. Every box on that table has the potential to change someone’s life in ways you could not imagine.” He’s seen the difference it makes firsthand, oftentimes slipping some of his own earnings into the boxes before they’re sent out to new homes. His cut of the profits the fight ring yields may be meagre at best, but there’s something deeply satisfying about using Theodore’s blood money for a cause most might deem a waste.

Harry reiterates his distaste at the thought of a career change and Camilo’s smile remains. “Well, I can’t say I blame you for not jumping at the opportunity. I wouldn’t want to venture into the field of politics if you armed me to the teeth and offered me a mansion to boot.” It takes a certain kind of person to thrive in a field built on lies and the exploitation of the masses — requires a ruthlessness that Camilo simply does not possess. A ruthlessness, he’d venture to say, Harry doesn’t have in him either. August, on the other hand, seems to have been made for it. Meagan’s darling husband although he may be, Camilo can count on one hand the amount of times they’ve seen eye-to-eye on a matter. Consequently he’d stopped accepting dinner invitations from the pair long ago.

“Wonderful. And I’ll most certainly take you up on that offer for after mass if it includes coffee.” It’s been a long and strenuous week, filled with too many funerals and confessions so troubling they’ve been adding to the list of reasons he can’t sleep at night. Camilo’s never figured out how to leave the job at his front door — so far it’s proven a sisyphean task. Instead he carries shame and guilt around with him like accessories.

Noticing Harry’s gaze travelling back to the apse, Camilo uses the moment to drink the rest of his water. “Do you like it? I’m sure it isn’t as grand as what you’re used to, but it’s still quite something, no? I sit and stare at it for hours sometimes. When the light comes in at just the right angle… it’s beautiful.”

.

“If only the media could focus on that, instead of all the wrong doings of men,” but that wouldn’t sell paper or screen time. People wanted to watch the failures of others, the struggles and pain of others. That didn’t leave Harry with a lot of faith in humanity, but when he went to church, he seemed to regain some of it, if only for a few others. His conversations with Camilo also managed to do that, and that was one of the reasons that led him to visit him often enough.

 That man was kindness in the flesh, and that had the same effect on him as taking a deep breath by the sea front. His smile dimmed. The government should have been doing this, not the Church. Though the people of their congregation were generous, Harry believed that wealth should be more evenly shared, which was perhaps a bit cynical coming from someone who lived in a house with ivory walls and marble floors. “I sometimes wish I had met August before he started his career, see his evolution as a politician,” but he also wondered if he might not have been disappointed to see that the ruthlessness of that man was there from the beginning.

You didn’t get to rule a country such as theirs while acting like a lamb. Even the socialists were, wearing their best sheep skin on top of their carnivorous bodies, he had no doubt about it.

“Coffee, and no discussion of politics,” he scoffed. Because Harry and Camilo while they weren’t in disagreement about many things, most likely would clash in some aspects of politics. Harry believed that you should protect entrepreneurs, investors and the likes, as they financed the country, and he knew Camilo wouldn’t ever agree to this.

“Of course I do, it’s wonderful.” The mention of light coming from the perfect angle made him smile. “I read the other day, that even during antiquity, builders could perfectly align the entrance of buildings with the sun on the winter solstice. Do you think this is what happened here? Built to be most beautiful at a certain time of the day? Or year?” Such matters were fascinating to him.

“It might not be Saint Paul’s but it’s absolutely charming,” he directed his eyes toward Camilo and then glanced back toward the paintings. Then, clearing his throat, pressed his lips together. “I don’t want to waste any more of your time. Perhaps you have matters to attend to.”

[harry-carmichael]

warscorned​:

HOW  ODD  A  PHENOMENON  THAT  CERTAIN  THINGS  WERE  HANDED  DOWN  MERELY  OUT  OF  CIRMCUMSTANCE.   the  only  thing  sebastian’s  grandfather  had  left  him  was  hand - me - down  anger  that  befit  him  like  an  oversized  sweater.   it  gathered  in  all  the  wrong  places  and  you  could  tell  it  didn’t  quite  belong  to  him.   but  nonetheless  he  inhabited it. “  that’s  what  you  call  yourself  then  —  a  connoisseur  ?  ”   there’s  no  ill  intent,   though  it  should  be  noted  that  the  man  is  hardly  removed  from  dim  sights  skimming  the  stock  of  wine.   finally  something  knowing  tweaks  up  at  the  corner  of  his  lips  and  sebastian  looks  to  the  other  for  an  answer.   there’s  something  concurring  in  his  visage  though  baz  doesn’t  bother  to  admit  it.   “  it’s  more  of  a  status  symbol.   i  suppose  there’s  something  or  another  in  being  able  to  say  you  have  something  that  someone  else  doesn’t.  ”  not  to  mention  if  it  were  aged  older  than  both  of  them  combined.

“  got  lost  looking  for  the  bathroom,  ”  it’s  a  brazen  lie,  and  it  would  be  foolish  if  they  hadn’t  both  realized  —  sebastian  was  snooping.  “  the  prime  minister’s  security  detail  aren’t  aloud  to  lounge  if  you  could  believe  it.  ”  there’s  a  half  attempt  at  being  jovial,  if  one  could  believe  baz  had  a  funny  bone  to  begin  with.   “  though  if  you’re  not  too  busy  entertaining,  maybe  you  could  give  me  a  tour  of  the  premises  —  for  security  purposes,  of  course.  ”

.

"Oh, absolutely not. Quite the opposite, really."  He could tell the difference between cheap and expensive, but it was personal taste that got him comparing between different wines worth a monthly salary. “I was simply saying that after a certain price tag, the common folks, me included, can’t tell the different,” but it was chic to take oenology classes and pretend that you could find hints of cherry, smell a bit of oak wood or that the chromatic quality of the wine was unmatched. He found all the pretenses incredibly boring, but he hadn’t made many attempts to bring excitement into his life.

“The bathroom’s up-” Harry cut himself off. Getting lost was one thing, but he was under the impression that the other had been down here for a bit already. “Mmh, if I had known he’d show up with his entire entourage, I would have asked the cook to make a few plates more,” he gave him a sympathetic grimace, sitting down on a crate of champagne bottles. “If you’re hungry, I’m sure I could have her fix you a sandwich or something simple,” but when the other revealed that he’d rather have a tour, Harry simply smiled.

He lived in an old house, one he bought because of its proximity to Kensington Palace, and for its large garden. Those were rare, in central London. “I’d be delighted to improve the security of our Prime Minister,” he scoffed and stood up. “I’m guessing you already had a good view of the wine cave,” and grabbing the bottle he came down here for, he led the way out. “We might want to use the lift to get to the first floor. That’ll keep us from walking right by the Finleys,” Harry wasn’t convinced they’d appreciate their host going for a stroll with their employee. “How long have you been working for them? Do you like it?” Though he was not at work, it was hard to resist the urge to interview someone new, and someone as interesting as a man who’d managed to climb the ladder to those spheres of government.

[meganebw]

[harry-carmichael]

lunacassidy​:

“It’s how I see it. No one seems to care about us much most of the time. Girls are out there busting their asses day in and day out and…” Luna heard her tone, she saw the look on his face and, loath as she was to admit it, she’d promised to try harder. Ugh, swallowing her pride was always the most bitter tasting shit in the world, “Sorry, I shouldn’t be rude to you it’s not your fault.”

But wasn’t it? Couldn’t she easily blame this man who probably didn’t want this in his news any more than anyone else. She knew this place was more ‘classy’ than the tabloids but their team wasn’t exactly trash to be peddled. She was proud of how far the Arsenal WFC had come and… she guessed for the men, too. She had pride in her team because they were just that: HER team.

Luna crossed, still feeling a bit awkward trying to look professional (and also be sober, if we’re honest), to find the seat she was offered. A moment was spent sat as casually as she could, before she shifted and crossed one leg over the other, posture a little straighter; she was representing not just herself, after all.

“That should be fine. You’re not going to go too personal on this, I assume? I’ve had some dark times in my past and I’d rather not parade them around. I can talk about my history in the sport in the uh… vague, but I really want to focus on what we’ve been doing recently in the now.” Luna was trying to handle PR, this couldn’t turn out well, could it?

.

“If you refuse to appear in the news,” puff piece or not, “I don’t see how that’s going to change,” he paused, and though he smiled, it lacked the warmth he reserved to those dear to him. Quite frankly, it wasn’t much of a smile, but rather something akin to a grimace. Of all people who worked their ass off, footballers weren’t the ones who deserved the most the attention, if you asked him. Farmers were working harder, as were factory workers, and for a salary way below these women, and way, way below these men. “If we want to give the platform to those who deserve it the most, then let me completely remove politicians and entertainers from our screens,” he retorted, leaning into his seat.

“One step at a time,” he agreed. “You’re paving the way for the future,” she was. The more women’s sports were put in display, the more people would consider them, and the more they’d get coverage. It was inevitable. A long wait, but inevitable.

He picked up his notes, Lydia’s notes. She’d done her research, and highlighted all the important elements regarding the Arsenal coach, the good and the bad. “I thought you didn’t want this to be  a puff piece,” his eyebrow quirked up, and hints of amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. “We’re not going to turn it into a juicy trial. This isn’t the sort of channel we are,” still, he hope she understood that he couldn’t just highlight all the good without mentioning her background. “It’s not a portrait of you, but I’ll ask where you get all that will to fight, because that’s what comes out the most from my notes. You’re a fighter, on the pitch and now on the bench.” He looked her in the eyes. “We have to exploit that. People assume women’s football is less technical, and less brutal. Maybe it’s time we show people it’s not?”

[harry-carmichael]

camilo-whitely​:

“I heard that as well.” A nice thought. Considerate, given the social and political climate, yet nevertheless an empty promise until put into practice. Camilo had wanted for nothing and known neither hunger nor cold as a child, but he’s seen enough of the suffering such things cause to understand how tired people are of politicians and their narratives. It’s naive, perhaps, to hold out hope that this time things will be different. Luis is a good man with a good heart, but neither kindness nor virtue will be enough to take down the creature that is conservative greed. August is an unforgiving king seated very comfortably upon a throne painted with blood, guarded on all sides by thorns and bank accounts.

Appreciative of the respect Harry displays in the face of God, Camilo quietly moves to close the church doors before rejoining his visitor by the donations table. It’s already piled high with contributions from well-meaning neighbours and patrons alike, but he finds little joy in collecting them. It’s never enough. Zavi would have given the rags off her back to clothe every last child where all Camilo has to offer is guilt fuelled penance.

“I think you’d do quite well.” Dipping his hands into his pockets, Camilo’s smile gradually becomes more genuine. “Meagan would… well. She wouldn’t be happy, if she ever is.” No happier than a pet poodle protecting its favourite cushion in the sun. “And she quite possibly might come after you with a spoon. But I think there are also a lot of people who’d be quite content to support you, if you ever change your mind.” Harry has a good face for politics, as he does for TV; charismatic, handsome — one of them, in every sense of the word. He’d be popular in most constituencies for all the reasons Luis isn’t.

“Please. You show up at my doorstep with six boxes worth of donations and think I won’t sit here and listen to your stories all day long? I listen to people for a living, and I’ve heard far more boring than anything you have to say.” A pause follows before Camilo eventually settles on: “I’ve been well, thank you.” Consistently sleepless nights and uphill battles against old urges don’t necessarily constitute as ‘well’, but those are matters for other ears. “Can I expect to see you here next Sunday? I know this isn’t your usual haunt, but they say change is good for the soul.”

.

“People have been quite generous,” he noted. He wasn’t sure this was a lot or not, but it was a relief to see that he hadn’t been the only one contributing to the community lately. With a smile more genuine than those he put on behind the camera, the journalist sat against the edge of the table.

"I suppose I have quite the platform for it, but..." If he had one of the most recognizable faces in the country, he liked enjoying a sense of anonymity when he wasn't working and politicians were always pushing an agenda, minding their public image. He'd know, he was the one watching and commenting on them. The thought of Meagan assaulting him with a spoon brought genuine laughter out of him, and with a sigh, he tried to blow the idea away. Maybe he'd do a good job, and he certainly knew how to make himself heard. "I wouldn't dwell too much on that thought," and now he was doing the exact opposite of that. He'd always wanted to do great things, but he'd only just gotten what had been his dream job for year: the evening news, and he couldn't just leave so soon, right?

"I'm glad," Camilo seemed tired, but he kept the observation to himself. It was one of these things people didn't like to see pointed out.

"Next Sunday?" Harry smiled. He wouldn't have wanted to impose his presence here, but if the other invited him, he wasn't going to spare too much time pretending to reflect on it. Harry appreciated Camilo, but there was something that kept him from being to demonstrative about it. Hard to tell precisely what it was... "I would be delighted. Perhaps we could get brunch before or after mass?" He added, looking away from the other to pay attention once again, to the piece of art behind the altar.

[harry-carmichael]

warscorned​:

HE’S  LIKE  A  HOUSECAT:   VERY  IMPORTANT  WITH  LITTLE  TO  DO  BESIDE  NAB  UP  ALL  THE  RATS  THAT  CROSS  HIS  PATH.   sebastian  perhaps  would  have  rather  tucked  himself  beneath  a  couch  while  he  awaited  the  charade  portion  of  the  dinner  party,   much  rather  he  finds  himself  left  to  his  own  devices  for  the  first  time  that  night.   consider  this  unpromted  wandering  as  a  house  sweep  for  safety’s  sake.   “  my  apologies  sir,  ”   sebastian  means  to  add  that  he  was  too  busy  marveling  to  notice  the  other  had  joined  him  where  he  certainly  shouldn’t  have  ventured.

there’s  a  note  of  humor  found  in  the  unawareness  of  all  the  benefits  of  subtle  airation  —   you  can  afford  to  indulge  wine  anyway  please  when  you  have  a  cave  scaled  with  bottles  of  it.   “  you’ve  got  quite  the  collection,  i  suppose  no  grenache  is  too  expensive.  ”   there’s  something  coaxed  beneat  the  half - compliment:  niceties  weren’t  particularly  within  his  paygrade,   not  from  within  this  social  sphere  for  that  matter.   

.

"Some of it belonged to my grand father. When he passed, we found crates of Ruinart dating back to 1926 in his cave,” there were worst things to stumble upon, for certain, and Harry couldn’t help but flex about it any chance he got. One day, it would undoubtedly end up with him getting robbed of it all, but the temptation was too great.

“Some bottles are too expensive. You pay for the brand, and after a certain price tag, it takes a true connoisseur to tell the difference between a bottle worth ten thousands and one worth twice or ten times that,” and he was humble enough (ha !) to admit that he was not as refined as that. “It’s ridiculous, if you ask me. Rarity isn’t always a sign of quality,” but it often was, and he participated happily to this charade.

“How did you end up in here?” He finally asked the question that was his initial thought upon seeing him in his wine cave. “I agree that waiting around while people have dinner is not really interesting, but maybe you’d prefer to lounge in the library or the living room?” He understood wishing to be lonely, or secluded. He often felt this way himself.

[harry-carmichael]

lunacassidy​:

Did she want to be there? Fuck no. Was she showing up because it was important to her girls? Ugh, fuck yes. The problem with coaching a winning team was you ended up getting news coverage. She knew that not everyone was as invested in the WFC as they were the men’s but she knew full well that on a slow news week they’d latch onto anything positive in these kinds of times. So there she sat, surly and annoyed but… at least she was there.

She’d put on something akin to nice clothing, actually looking quite dapper even if she couldn’t afford actual couture and some of the things she wore were blatant knock-offs, it said something that she could afford the knock-offs in her position. She felt silly having bothered to dress for this, but it seemed important and now she loathed herself for the act of caring so much. The war was already brewing in her veins and in her head.

She’d been waiting what felt like ages, about to blow a gasket — literally a hairsbreadth from standing up and stomping out like a petulant child — when the man himself emerged and she lofted a brow. The anger was replaced by confusion. Don’t these people usually have others to fetch for them? Whatever, at least he was here.

“Yeah, I’m the coach of the Arsenal Women’s FC. There was something about needing some interview shots of me for a puff piece.” They probably hadn’t said puff piece, but Luna wasn’t one to mince her words; she knew why she was there and she knew it mattered zero to most people.

If it seemed like she didn’t want to be there, it’s because she didn’t and she had limits to what she’d pretend for the sake of her girls.

"A puff piece. Is that how they put it?” Did this look like the Sun’s editorial floor? If they had an editorial line at all. He didn’t consider trash to be journalism, but apparently, the people disagreed and those kitchen rags sold very easily. If that didn’t tell him all he needed to know about the common folk... “I would rather say they want to put the spotlight on your team,” he didn’t spare her a smile, already jaded by her attitude. This was going to be lots of fun, wasn’t it? “Arsenal’s having a good year, and this time, it’s not just the ladies making it to the Top 4.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t have Majano instead, but perhaps the Spanish coach wanted nothing to do with them. The press had been harsh with him after all, with his 8th and 5th place in the Premiere League those past two years. Anyhow, the guy wasn’t there, she was and was displaying the sort of attitude he’d expect from her male counterpart.

Though he obviously didn’t do puff pieces, he didn’t feel the need to say it. He didn’t need to convince her of his professionalism, he just had to show it.

If he didn’t watch women’s football, and if he cheered for a different team, Harold had done his research, and she’d change her mind on him, he’d make sure of that. “Why don’t you take a seat and we can agree on how the interview will go ?” He offered, stepping behind his desk and grabbing a BBC issued notepad from it. He would type it later into his computer, but for now, paper would do. He preferred it this way. “I’ll begin by giving our viewers an overview of your career, and then we’ll start talking about this 22/23 season. That’s alright?”

[harry-carmichael]

camilo-whitely​:

“No donation is ever too much,” Camilo offers through the last exhale of cigarette smoke before he bins the stub and grabs a box, appraisingly checking its contents. Most of the items seem to be in pretty good condition — something that isn’t always a given when it comes to donations. “Honestly, don’t worry about that. Especially not stationery. Believe it or not but there are local kids who have to go to school without any pens or books because their parents can barely afford to put food on the table. Anything you bring will be sent out to a good home. It’s a good thing that you’re doing here.”

With the box secured and a second stacked on top, Camilo leads the way up the stairs and into the church. It’s empty save for the two of them, footsteps echoing through the large vaulted space. “You get used to the noise after a while. Here, you can put the rest of the boxes on this table. I’ll sort through everything later.”

Stepping back to let Harry unload, Camilo offers a guarded smile. He still isn’t quite sure what to make of Harry. Acts of generosity like this typically come with a hidden cost. “You know, it’s rare that we have bigshots such as yourself bringing stuff by in person. Usually it’s the assistant, or the assistant’s assistant.” The big names only ever show up when there’s potential for a PR stunt, entourage loaded with cameras and makeup and piles of useless crap Camilo has to throw out the moment they’re gone. “So thank you. For as long as we can’t rely on the government to help these families, it’s nice that private people are doing their part. I know you’re not a politician, but if you ever decide on a career change, you have my vote.”

.

“Oh I’m well aware, and I figured it was better these went to you,” a pause, “or well, those in need, than ending up catching dust on one of our greedy writers.” You know the type. Hoarders, keeping things “just in case” and turning their house into a landfill. Not that he knew anyone like that, or had ever since such a thing in person, but he watched enough documentaries and BBC clips on the matter to know they existed and that they were middle class, very middle class.

“I heard the mayor’s doing something about lunch at schools,” he’d made a segment about it. Feeding all the kids of London every noon, on tax payer money. It was genius, because even the conservatives couldn’t criticize it. Truth be told, he couldn’t wait to hear Meagan and August’s opinion on the matter.

Even with his boxes in his hands, Harry does a small genuflection as he enters the church. Years, decades of church-going had made that move automatic. When he looks back up, it’s to fulfill his ritual of examining the room, peering at the stained glass windows and admiring the way the sun shines through it. Although this wasn’t St James’, he loved the aesthetic of this place : the tiled floor, this mural in the nave, though what had him coming here was the priest, who was a lot more interesting to listen to than the aging decrepit bishops of his neighborhood.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, and I already ask too much of Lydia,” that was an understatement, but he tried to keep her out of his hair as much as possible, with all those rumors about her and his predecessor, partly to protect her, partly because he wondered if some of it was perhaps true. Either way, she’d been the one hand picking everything Camilo would find in those boxes. “Me? In politics?” He scoffed. “Well I’d love to hear Meagan’s opinion on the matter. She’d try to gouge my eyes out, wouldn’t she?” He laughed some more and set the box down on a table, as instructed. “And heh, I’m afraid I’m not enough of a good liar for that, and I only just got the job I’ve been wanting for a bit,” he continued, before pressing his lips together. “Anyway, I don’t wish to bore you with my stories. How have you been doing?”

[harry-carmichael]

@warscorned​

"I’ll get the Chateauneuf du Pape, why don’t you two go take a walk in the garden? With winter being so warm, it’s stunning,” besides, he needed a breather. He loved the Finleys dearly, he did, but even he had his limits. Stepping out of the living room, he headed down the stairs that led to the wine cave. His house originally had a cellar, but he thought it a shame to use it for something so trivial as a man cave, like the previous owner did. He rolled his eyes at the memory, and frowned as he realized the lights were on. Did he leave those on or... “Oh. Did you get lost?” There stood the Prime Minister’s bodyguard, looking at the bottles on the shelves.

Deciding to be not too unpleasant, he approached him slowly, and offered him a polite smile while he picked up the bottle and headed toward his collection of decanters. “I used to think those were useless, but it really does make a huge difference,” he commented.

[harry-carmichael]

airiblackwood​:

☆ﾟ*·ﾟLIFTING HER HEAD, Airi smiled brightly up at him. She took a moment, just getting lost in his eyes, because who was even allowed to have eyes like that? He was absolutely gorgeous. This might not be as easy of an interview as she’d like. No one informed her that this man looked like this. Holding on tightly to her camera, she took a deep breath and stood up. She followed him into his office, lookin around, taking everything in. “Hi! I’m Airi Blackwood. I’m here to photograph your office and complete the expose on you. I want this to be as simple as possible, and very relaxed, if that’s okay with you? This is all about you.”

.

"From the Times, right?” He nodded along and motioned her inside his office, stepping in after her. “Did they offer you something to drink already?” He inquired, then, not waiting for a reply, took a look around his office, like it hadn’t been cleaned up by his assistant for the occasion. The BBC had clear instructions regarding the state of their offices, and so, not a single sheet was out of its folder, not a thing out of place, aside from the notepad in front of his leather seat, or the iPad sitting on top of binders.

He took a seat, and closed the notepad, glancing up from it and toward her. “Do you want to do the expose first or the photographs?”

[harry-carmichael]

Closed starter @camilo-whitely​ St Alban’s

  “I wasn’t sure how much was too much, but...” He raised his hand to shut the trunk to his electric car, turning around to pick up one of the few boxes of stationery he’d brought here. It was better those went to charity than ended up in the trash, right? Surely people from the parish would be happy to snatch boxes of pens, document sorters, folders and binders for a dime or even for free. Harry was not raised poor, by any mean, but he’d always seen his family give back to those who needed it the most. It was one of those things that were easy, because it made sense. “They were throwing it all away, and that didn’t seem right,” so of course he had Lydia spend the afternoon picking out what could be of interest to others. He’d let her pick up whatever she needed for herself as well. Considering what the BBC paid him, Harry knew she mustn’t have taken home a big salary. Maybe what? 4k a month? What a nightmare.

Straightening the lapels of his double breasted suit jacket, the journalist looked up as the bells began ringing. “I still don’t understand how you don’t get tinnitus from that.”

[harry-carmichael]

where: broadcasting house, London when: whenever between 11am and 5pm - maybe they have an appointment, maybe they’re meeting for lunch, whatever you like <3  whom: open for interactions ( capping at 3)

"Who was on schedule next?” Harold called out through the open door, only to find silence. Lovely. Had he sent Lydia onto some chore again? She was efficient, but he also had heard how close she was to his predecessor, and let’s be quite honest, he wasn’t really a fan of that man. The only reason he got the evening news spot so late was this guy after all.

There was still no one replying, and he finally took it upon himself to go fetch his next appointment from the waiting room. Glancing around, his eyes finally settled onto a face, which he greeted with his signature smile. “Ah, there you are. Come on in.” 

[arutai]

Matt Bomer by Taylor Jewell

[gentleman-26-deactivated2025081]