Buddy The Unicorn|| Actor AU

The studio set of Buddy's Corner was picture-perfect: pastel-painted wooden trees, soft carpeted floors, and vibrant childhood props. As a new production helper, your job was to keep everything immaculate behind the scenes—tidying up props, resetting stage marks, and ensuring the host had everything he needed.

You were kneeling near the cozy armchair in the center of the set, carefully organizing a set of brightly painted wooden alphabet blocks, when a pair of pristine sneakers stepped into your line of sight. "Oh, sweetie... no, no, no. The 'B' block goes on the left. It's always on the left."

The voice was as smooth and warm as honey, belonging to the iconic host himself. He stood over you in his signature cozy sweater, a pleasant, picture-perfect smile resting on his face. Yet, as you looked up, his eyes remained oddly flat—coldly evaluating you while his mouth maintained its charming curve.

He tilted his head, letting out a quiet, soft chuckle that sounded almost fond, though his gaze locked onto yours with a heavy, controlling weight.

"You must be the new helper," he said, taking a step closer and extending a hand to help you up with practiced grace. "I'm Buddy. It's so lovely to meet you! We're like a big, happy family here, so I like to make sure everyone feels welcome."

He patted your shoulder gently—just a fraction too firmly, a subtle display of dominance—before casting a lingering, critical glance at the floor.

"It's a little tricky getting everything just right, isn't it? But don't worry, I'm sure you'll catch on quickly. I'd hate for you to make a mistake once the cameras start rolling... the director can be so unforgiving, and I'd just feel terrible if you got into trouble on your very first day."

His smile widened, perfectly sweet and completely disarming, as he looked down at you. "Now... how are you settling in? Do you need me to teach you how I like things arranged?"

"Who placed these blocks?! Who did this? Are you completely blind?!"

The furious, harsh snarl echoed across the pastel-colored set, cutting through the chatter of the crew. Buddy—the beloved, saintly host of television's favorite children's show—was glaring down at the centerpiece table with a look of pure, ugly disdain. His knuckles were white, gripping a set of wooden alphabet blocks that weren't arranged to his exact, demanding specifications.

He whirled around, full-blown venom dripping from his posture, ready to tear into whichever useless, low-wage production assistant had dared to ruin his morning. He had been looking for an excuse to vent his mood all day, and a clueless newbie was the perfect, defenseless target. "Are you completely stupid, or do you just—"

He marched right up to you, opening his mouth to utter a scathing, career-ruining humiliation—and then he stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes locked onto your face. The color seemed to drain from his flushed face, replaced by a sudden, stunned stillness. The harsh crease between his brows smoothed out completely. His lips remained parted, but the angry words died right in his throat as he took you in—the way the studio lights caught your features, the softness in your expression, the sheer, breath-taking presence of you standing right in front of him.

His chest heaved once, twice, his mind desperately scrambling to reboot itself. The cold, controlling narcissist who treated everyone like disposable props was suddenly staring at you like you were the only real thing in the room.

A strange, dizzying flush crept up his neck beneath his cozy pastel collar. The loud, chaotic set faded into static background noise.

"I..."

Buddy blinked rapidly, his authoritative voice instantly dropping an octave, faltering into something genuinely disarmed and uncharacteristically flustered. He quickly swallowed, forcing his mouth into a brilliant, almost nervous smile, his hands frantically adjusting his cardigan to composure himself.

"...I—I mean, whoever did this just needs a little guidance, that's all!" he stumbled out, his voice turning impossibly sweet, almost breathless as he took a tentative step closer to you. His previous fury was completely wiped clean, replaced by an intense, captivated warmth in his eyes. He cleared his throat, offering a gentle, almost trembling hand toward you.

"You're... you're the new set helper, aren't you? I'm Buddy," he murmured, his gaze scanning your face with an overwhelming, obsessive fascination. "I... I didn't mean to startle you. Are you... are you alright?"

The blinding, synthetic glow of the McDonald's dining area felt like a personal circle of hell.

A couple of days after an absolute PR disaster of a wrap party—where some industry executive somehow managed to violently overdose in the VIP bathroom—the studio executives forced a damage-control photo op. The mandate: take the kids out in public to prove that Buddy's Corner was still a wholesome, safe, happy family environment.

Right now, Buddy looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.

He sat across the sticky plastic booth, wearing a civilian cardigan instead of his normal clothes, though his smile was stretched so tight across his face it looked like it might snap. Around the restaurant, the kids were losing their minds. Freddy was aggressively poking at a lukewarm Happy Meal box with a suspicious glare, Hannah and Oliver were arguing loudly over a plastic toy, and french fries were flying through the air from the nearby slide.

Buddy’s eye twitched. His knuckles were clamped so hard around a cup of iced coffee that the plastic was beginning to crack. He could feel a migraine building behind his temples, his inner sociopath screaming at the absolute lack of order, obedience, and quiet.

Then, he turned his head and looked right at you sitting next to him in the booth.

The moment his eyes landed on you, the towering wall of tension in his shoulders instantly melted. The dark, murderous hatred he felt toward the children evaporated, replaced by an intense, desperate wave of relief. He shifted closer to you, pressing his thigh against yours under the table, completely invading your personal space just to anchor himself to your presence.

"If one more of them throws a chicken nugget, I am going to lose my mind," Buddy murmured under his breath, his voice dropping into a low, private register meant only for you.

He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing yours, giving the kids a blinding, toothy, media-friendly wave as Freddy threw him a deeply untrusting side-eye.

"Thank god you agreed to come with me," he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours with an unsettling, suffocating level of adoration. He reached under the table to brush his fingers against your hand, his touch surprisingly trembling. "I would have actually committed a felony if I had to sit here with them alone. Are you... are you staying right beside me the whole time? Please tell me you are."

Bass rattled the floorboards of the sprawling, ultra-modern estate overlooking the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles. The party was a chaotic, high-budget blur of studio executives, washed-up sitcom actors, indie directors, and aspiring models drifting past the infinity pool. Trays of expensive champagne sat abandoned on glass tables next to crushed velvet couches and lingering clouds of smoke.

For a new set helper, being invited to the host's famous house party felt like entering an entirely different universe—one miles away from the pastel-painted, innocent world of Buddy's Corner.

You were standing near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, trying to navigate the crowd, when you spotted him.

Buddy was leaning against the marble kitchen island, an unbuttoned silk shirt replacing his signature cozy TV cardigan. A heavy crystal glass of whiskey was loosely held in one hand. He was surrounded by a small crowd of leeching producers laughing too loudly at a joke he hadn't even finished, but his expression was completely detached—bored, cynical, and deeply unimpressed with the people kissing his ass.

Then, his gaze drifted past the crowd and landed right on you.

The sleepy, glazed look in his eyes vanished instantly. A genuine, almost sharp spark of life flickered across his features. Ignoring the executive in the middle of a sentence, Buddy set his glass down on the counter and pushed his way straight through the sea of people, stepping directly into your personal space.

"You actually came," he murmured, his voice velvety, slightly raspy from the alcohol, and entirely devoid of his overly sweet 'children's host' cadence.

He leaned one hand on the wall behind you, effectively blocking out the noisy party and trapping you in his quiet, intense bubble. A faint, crooked smile touched his lips as his eyes slowly dragged over your face, taking you in.

"I was starting to think you were too smart to show up to one of these things," he chuckled softly, his tone a mix of dark amusement and fond obsession. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing against your sleeve. "Everyone here is a fake, miserable leech trying to get something out of me... but you. God, you're like a breath of fresh air. Come with me—I have better liquor upstairs away from these vultures."

The director was losing his mind. Call time was 8:00 AM sharp, and the entire production of Buddy's Corner was currently stalled because the star of the show had completely ghosted. Since you were the unfortunate set helper elected (or forced) to play babysitter, you now found yourself standing inside Buddy’s massive, multimillion-dollar home, holding a spare key you probably shouldn't have been trusted with.

The place was an absolute warzone of Hollywood excess. Stale champagne flutes, crushed velvet pillows, and the heavy haze of last night’s party still hung thick in the air. But worse than the mess were the open lines of white powder still dusting the glass coffee table, alongside a stray rolled-up hundred-dollar bill and enough illegal contraband to get everyone in the zip code put away for a decade.

You picked your way through the wreckage of the living room and finally found him.

Buddy was sprawled out face-down on a massive leather sectional sofa, still wearing yesterday's rumpled trousers and a discarded, half-unbuttoned shirt. His dark hair was a tangled, sweaty mess.

"Go 'way..." he groaned into a cushion, his voice a gravelly, pained rasp. "Tell the studio I died. Tell them I choked on a pastel alphabet block. Just leave me to rot..."

You didn't move. Instead, you crossed your arms and tapped your foot against the hardwood floor.

At the sound, Buddy sluggishly lifted his head, squinting through one bloodshot eye against the harsh sunlight leaking through the drapes. He looked ready to unleash a venomous, sleep-deprived tirade at whoever had dared to disturb his miserable recovery—until his gaze finally cleared and landed on your face.

The angry, defensive scuff died instantly on his lips.

For a second, panic flashed across his face as he realized who was standing in his drug-laced, disaster of a living room. But that panic melted away almost as fast, replaced by a sudden, pathetic wave of relief. He scrambled upward, clutching his throbbing head with a wince, his chest heaving under his unbuttoned shirt.

"Oh..." Buddy breathed out, his voice dropping into something soft, breathless, and entirely uncharacteristic. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, completely ignoring the blatant piles of cocaine sitting right in plain sight.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring up at you like you were an angel sent to save him from purgatory. A desperate, almost boyish smile tugged at the corner of his cracked lips.

"It's you," he murmured, his tone shifting from rock-bottom misery to an intense, laser-focused adoration. He reached out blindly, his fingers gently catching the hem of your jacket, pulling you just a fraction closer. "God, you came to get me... I knew you cared. Tell me the crew isn't too mad? Here—sit down with me for a second. My head is splitting, but seeing you just now... I think I'm cured."