❝ LOVE ON THE MOOR - BAILEY’S CASTING TAPE ❞
CHARACTERS : M!Bailey, M!Leighton, M!Remy, M!Wren, M!Avery, M!Robin, M!Kylar, M!Alex, M!Whitney, M!AnxiousGuard + F!PC
WORD COUNT : 55k+
GENRE : humour / slow-burn chaos / romance / crack
AUTHOR NOTE : An ongoing faux-celebreality dating show nobody asked for, starring Rapechester’s finest disasters. If you enjoy humour, bleak absurdism, and aggressive dairy product placement, please give it a look.
Less horny, more comedy!
SUMMARY : Locally famous but legally illiterate high-fame farmer (F!PC) signs on a reality dating show due to some undue influence from the strange purple flowers and a major misunderstanding.
One reluctant bachelorette, ten contestants, one manor on the moor, a cash prize, a ludicrous contract, and a metric tonne of Remy’s sponsored milk ads.
Trash telly meets black humour. Hilarity ensues. Is it true love or is it just the dosh?
STATUS : Recently Updated on Ao3 - Avery’s here now! | MDNI
So, without further ado, I present the casting tapes from Love on the Moor.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────BAILEY────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Shot in grainy black-and-white CCTV, like he barely lifted a finger to submit it. The timestamp flickers ominously in the corner. You recognise the angle from the CCTV camera at the orphanage doors. The camera points down at an angle too high, slightly fisheye, catching Bailey from head to waist. His figure warps just enough to look taller, broader, wrong. Despite the distortion, there’s an unmistakable bulge tucked into the waistband of his black trousers.
Bailey stands at the wrought iron orphanage gates, rolled burgundy sleeves showing off the ink of a snake curling under his forearm. His face was the same as ever, handsome in a rough way. Dark hair, partially slicked back, and day-old stubble dusting his chin. His dark eyes bore into the camera with a menacing intensity. A cigarette glows between his ringed fingers. Orphans shuffle past, eyes downcast, every one of them veering wide to avoid his reach. One glances toward the camera, and Bailey turns his head. The child bolts like a startled hare.
Bailey exhales a long plume of smoke, expression flat.
“I’m Bailey. She was my ward. A royal pain in my arse… but she was my pain.” He pauses, voice dropping a shade lower.
“Somewhere down the line… feelings grew. Not that I asked for them. Not that I wanted them. But there they were. She was trouble, but she was mine.” He admits in a begrudging tone.
He takes another drag and exhales slowly.
“She paid her debt and came out stronger. She’s proof my system works. She’s proof I work.”
As he speaks, an orphan edges too close, shuffling past to head to school. Bailey slaps a stiff, awkward pat on the kid’s head, like a man acting out a gesture he’s only seen in films. The orphan recoils, wide-eyed, and sprints offscreen. Bailey doesn’t flinch.
“And if you pick me, you’ll be proving it too.” He finishes in a flat tone. Dark eyes boring through the security camera.
He lights a fresh cigarette off the old one, exhales a fog that bleeds across the lens, head tilted back. The feed cuts to static mid-drag.