#dolfanfic

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────WHITNEY───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The camera is vertical at first, then gets flipped sideways with a thumbprint smudge. It’s clearly shot in 240p on a burner phone, and the audio crackles.

Whitney’s standing on a rooftop overlooking Connudatus Street at night, hoodie up, chain swinging. Lynx Africa fog is literally visible around him, distorting the glow of the security light. His blonde fringe covers one eye, eyebrow ring catching the lamplight. 

He starts with a sharp grin, “My name’s Whitney, don’t forget it, ya fucking cunts. I’ve known PC since secondary school, and we’ve had a lot of fun times together. Days spent beating the shite out of each other, nights spent at the pub getting pissed, romantic blow jobs in the boys' lavatory, and don’t forget our times in River’s math class – I sure don’t.”

He crudely pats his clothed bulge and smirks wistfully. “Probably taught her everything she knows about being a slag…she’s gone down on half the town as I knew it.” 

He shifts to the side, gesturing towards the wall behind. Behind him is a graffiti heart sprayed on the wall, with his name and yours, written in your handwriting. The years have faded it, but it’s still legible.

Whitney smirks cockily at the lens, bat resting on his shoulder. “See that? She sprayed it herself. Back when she knew what was what. Always was mine. Always will be.”

He swings the bat into an industrial aircon unit. The metal bends with a clang, and he laughs, chain glinting.

“If you lot pick me, you’ll have made the best decision of your lives. Bird’s a slut, but she’s my slut. Always complicated, us two till she became my girlfriend. Not that she had a choice, anyway. But yeah, I miss the slut.”

The camera wobbles as he points the bat directly into the lens. 

“So if you don’t pick me… I’ll bash your fucking heads in.” He threatens, half-seriously.

He sprays another cloud of Lynx Africa over himself, coughs, then spits on the ground. The video ends abruptly when he smacks the phone with the bat.

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────KYLAR────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The video opens too close. Kylar’s wide green eyes glint under the harsh light of a single lamp, aided by the moonlight streaming in from the skylight above. He’s in the attic of his parents’ condemned manor on Danube Street. Wallpaper peels and mould streaks the beams. Behind him, six mismatched monitors flicker with static, old forums, CCTV feeds, and… one plays porn until he jolts, slams a key, and shuts it off. A dartboard hangs to the side of the monitors. A scattered array of photos adorns the surface. They’re blurry from the distance, but you can just make out the faces of Whitney, Robin, and even Bailey. Their faces were riddled with holes, distorted and mangled from a heavy barrage of darts. 

He fidgets, shaggy black hair falling into his face. Bandages wind round his fingers, wrists, and even the side of his jaw.

“I-I’m Kylar, and I’ve known PC since secondary school.” He starts, voice half-hushed as to avoid rousing anyone else around. “She stood up for me once against some bullies, and that was all it took. I knew then. She was the only one who saw me.”

He leans closer, whispering like the mic’s only for you. “I want you to do things to me like we used to.” 

His knee bumps the bed by accident, and an object comes into view. A stained body pillow with your likeness slips partly into the frame before he shoves it out of sight. A flush creeps over his cheeks as he continues.

“T-The coppers locked me up once. They said I kidnapped her and said it was a crime. There’s nothing wrong about bringing my beloved back to my…I mean, our home. But they didn’t see it the way we did.” He scowls before continuing with a softer tone.

“Somehow she ended up in the same prison, but we broke out together. T-That means she forgave me. T-That means she understands it wasn’t a crime.”

He pulls a dart into view and twirls it between his bandaged fingers like a pen. “Love can’t be contained. Not by bars, rules, harpies, or a strong current surrounding a prison island. Not by anyone but her. S-She knows it too.” 

He digs a crumpled photo from his pocket – a faded picture of his mother – and holds it up. The resemblance to you is undeniable. His eyes are glassy as he exclaims,  “See? It’s fate. It’s blood. It’s inescapable.”

The monitors behind him flicker harder, casting strobes of light across his manic grin.

He whispers again, barely audible. “Lock me up again. I-I’ll just crawl back to her…so cast me or else…”

The feed cuts violently after he throws the dart into Whitney’s photograph. It punctures right through his left eye.

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.

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────ROBIN────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The video opens with a harsh buzz from a bare bulb swinging above. The camera is set awkwardly on a crate; it tilts slightly, catching peeling wallpaper, a radiator hissing, and an unmade bed behind him. The TV is showing a paused video game.

The console is an outdated one you recognise from the orphanage.

Robin sits on a rickety chair at a fold-out table. On the table: a cloudy plastic jug of homemade lemonade and a stack of mismatched cups. He looks nervous, with short brown hair sticking up like he ran a hand through it too many times.

He tries to smile at the lens and starts earnestly, “Erm… hi. So. It’s me. Robin. I, uh… we grew up together, didn’t we? In the orphanage…you always looked out for me, but I never looked out for you properly. I wasn’t enough. But I want to try again now.” He picks up the jug and pours a glass. The lemonade looks slightly murky. He slides the cup toward the camera, as if it’s a peace offering.

“Two quid now, not one. Moving up in the world.” He says with an awkward chuckle, then takes a sip and grimaces faintly, then forces a smile.

He adjusts in his seat, clasping his hands together. “I’m still in debt to Bailey. Haven’t paid it off yet. But… maybe if I win this, I can. Maybe I can finally be good enough for her.” Offscreen, someone shouts from behind the door: “You owe me a fiver, Robin!” He flinches. Robin forces a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Anyway… yeah. That’s me. I hope you’ll consider me” He tries to wave, then knocks over the glass. The lemonade spills across the table, and the video ends with him scrambling for a rag.

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────LEIGHTON───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The footage opens in a cramped study. The walls are lined with old school photos in mismatched frames – Rows of uniforms, assemblies, and class trips. A few linger too long on your face in the crowd. The lighting is dim, yellowed, and there’s a faint smell of cigar smoke clinging to the scene.

Leighton sits in a high-backed chair, tie slightly loosened, shirt tucked too tight over his middle-aged paunch. His dark hair is greying, slicked back with an oil-sheen. A brandy snifter sweats on the desk beside him, next to a stack of papers that look untouched.

“Headmaster Leighton here. Some of you might remember me. I’ve been running the local secondary school on Oxford Street for decades. That’s where I first met her.” He drones in a sleazy tone. 

He gestures lazily at a framed photo on the wall. The lens zooms clumsily on your teenage face, circled in biro. His voice drops lower, “She was always a troublemaker. Always finding ways to break the rules. Needed… special attention.”

He swirls the brandy, chuckles softly.

“Spent more afternoons in my office than any other student. Car washes, detentions… I had to get creative. I daresay we had fun, though, didn’t we?”

He leans forward in the chair, eyes gleaming under the lamp.

“And now? Well, she’s not a schoolgirl anymore.” Leighton faintly suppresses a frown. “She’s a woman. Not my usual type, I guess, but she’s a woman I intend to guide properly this time. No more wasted potential. With me, she’d never stray.”

He smirks, then downs the whisky in a single gulp.

“Of course, I keep busy. You’ll find me at Daryl’s club or Briar’s…establishment now and then, though it’s never quite the same without her entertaining me there. I’d like to think this show will change that.”

He sits back, crossing his legs with a satisfied sigh.

“She hasn’t changed much at all. Still promising...still such a precious…pupil.” He whispers, trying to be seductive but failing flat. 

He straightens and sips his brandy before finishing. 

“You’ll find I’m the right choice. She needs discipline in her life, and with my…experience, I’m the only one suitable to provide it.’

The tape ends on an uncomfortable close-up of his leering smile before the camcorder cuts to static.

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────AVERY────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The video opens with Avery fresh from his pool, water still dripping from his dark hair onto the shoulders of his robe. The shot is set deliberately wide, catching the manicured garden and the expensive glass pool fence behind him. He has clearly hired a videographer to help him film this. He’s in his mid-40s, lean but not overly muscular. A pair of sunglasses hangs from his collar. 

The angle changes to capture Avery’s good side, zooming in when a bead of water trickles down his neck and following it onto his toned chest. 

He smiles politely, but his eyes are already sharp on the lens.

“I’m Avery. I’ve… done well for myself. Let’s leave it at that. The specifics don’t matter, not here. Suffice to say, I’ve built something lasting. A career, a reputation, a certain standing.”

He adjusts the cuff of his robe with surgical precision before continuing.

“I’ve had companions. Paid, or otherwise, that’s no secret. When you move in my circles, appearances matter, and sometimes… appearances need to be curated. But none of them were her. None of them had what she had.”

He glances off camera for a beat, jaw tightening, then looks back with a well-practised smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I made a mistake once when I was… disappointed. I thought I was doing the right thing, handing her to the police. She belonged with me, not rotting in a cell. I regret that. Deeply. But it taught me something. Other… prospects just don’t compare. Other companions just don’t hold the same promise. I won’t waste my time trying to replace her again.”

He steps closer, voice softening. For a brief moment, his expression slips into something honest.

“She’s saved me from myself before, and I was too foolish to value it. I took her for granted, and for that mistake I’ve paid the penance.”

Then the mask slides neatly back into place as he continues, “She was meant to be on my arm. She deserves a stage bigger than a stodgy little farm. With me, she could be seen, admired as the wife of a man who matters. That’s what she was always meant to be.”

He exhales, forcing a polite laugh, the sound perfectly rehearsed.

“If you cast me, you’ll be giving us both another chance to do this properly. This time, I’ll make sure she doesn’t slip away again.”

The video ends on his thin smile, the pool lights behind him shimmering like a stage he thinks you belong on.

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────A L E X────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The video opens on Alex standing in the middle of his farmyard. His red hair glints in the sunlight, skin browned from long hours outdoors, freckles dusting his arms and face. He’s broad-shouldered, wearing a faded red chequered work shirt with the sleeves rolled, mud on his boots. Behind him, pigs squeal faintly from their pen, and a rooster crows off-key.

He glances at the phone, then scratches the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed.

“Feels a bit daft making a tape, if I’m honest. I see her every day. Work together, run the farm. Don’t reckon I need to explain much more than that.”

He pauses, shifts his weight, eyes flicking briefly off-camera to where his whisky bottle is half-hidden behind a feed bucket. He doesn’t acknowledge it, just clears his throat.

“I love her. I didn’t at first, but I grew to love her. I’m sure everyone else sending in a tape is trying to play games or chase some nonsense. With me, it’s just… simple. Real. We’ve already built something together. Stronger than any of them could give her. I don’t need the prize money…just her”

He folds his arms, squinting into the sun. There’s a quiet sincerity in the way he says it, no frills, just that farmer’s stubborn conviction.

“I want her to see me as more than just a business partner.”

Then from off-screen, a farm hand’s voice cuts in, faint but distinct. “Alex? Did you feed the pigs yet?”

Alex grimaces, flushes, then sighs. He turns back to the camera.

“See? That’s us. Real life. Pigs first, then everything else. But yeah, pick me for the show. I’ll show her I’m the right guy.”

He reaches for the phone to shut it off, thumb fumbling with the screen. The last frame is his handsome, freckled face, too close, brow furrowed, before it cuts to black.

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. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────R E M Y────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The camera opens with a sweeping shot of Remy’s manor: all sprawling pastures, white-fenced fields, and cows grazing in the distance. The riding school is in session, and the lens lingers just long enough to catch glimpses of branded milk crates stacked neatly against the barn.

The camera jerks suddenly, and now Remy appears. Seated proudly atop a gleaming centaur, reins in one hand, a glass bottle of his branded milk in the other. His pale brown hair gleams in the sunlight, riding gear pristine. The centaur trots elegantly across the lawn, hooves clopping in cinematic rhythm.

Remy begins smoothly, “Remy of Remy’s Farm. You know the name. You’ve tasted the milk. There’s no competition.”

He tilts the bottle to the camera. “Remy’s Farm: A Milk for Every Taste” gleams in gold letters. He takes a long, theatrical sip, his aristocratic tones clipping into the room.

Smiling fondly, he continues, “I remember when she was part of our… herd. A brief chapter, but a meaningful one. Some bonds are not easily broken, no matter how one tries to run from them.”

He shifts slightly in the saddle. The centaur flicks its tail.

“She and Alex have their…hobby farm, but I have grander ambitions. He gestures behind him towards his sweeping farmlands, “This is greatness. With her beside me, we wouldn’t just be partners. We’d be a dynasty.”

The centaur circles dramatically, Remy finishing his pitch with another long swig from the bottle, gilded label glinting in the sunlight. 

“She already knows what I can provide. The rest of the world will soon know as well.” He finishes with a smile that does not reach his eyes. 

The tape ends abruptly when the centaur huffs into the camera, steam fogging the lens.