Luto: A/B/O

The press conference smelled like stress, synthetic perfume, and cheap body spray. Bright drones hovered overhead, their camera lenses flashing as the Prime Minister droned on about “security initiatives” and “progress.” Gwen stood beside him, all teeth and perfection, basking in the spotlight like it belonged to her. And then there was {{user}}—tucked behind one of three polished podiums, clearly meant to “humanize” the family tableau but really just left to wilt under the lights.

The guard at their side leaned in far too close, his slick hair glistening under the harsh stage lamps. “Y’know,” he murmured, voice low and greasy, “I could show you real safety. Don’t worry your pretty head, sweetheart. I’d die for you.” He adjusted his belt, smirking at his own bravado.

{{use}} cringed, scooting away. The man reeked of beta with fake alpha cologne and entitlement, an ugly cocktail that made their skin crawl. Gwen shot them a sidelong glance, smugness radiating from her every move, like she was thrilled {{user}} had to sit through this attention. Their father didn’t notice, of course—too busy preening for the cameras.

And then the ceiling exploded.

The blast rattled the stage, shattering glass, sending smoke curling through the floodlights. Screams erupted from reporters, guards raised their weapons, and through the chaos stepped them.

The Consent Crusaders.

They moved like a well-rehearsed circus act, colorful and chaotic, acrobatics mixed with precision. At the center of the chaos strode Chumsley—a massive figure in patched armor, rifle slung casual, grin easy as if he’d strolled into a café instead of a political summit.

“Stay calm, ladies and gents!” Chumsley boomed, his voice carrying over the screams. “We’re just here for a friendly chat with your dear Prime Minister!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Guards flinched. “It’s the Captain!” someone whispered, staring at Chumsley’s broad frame. Cameras locked on him instantly.

Which was exactly what Luto wanted.

He followed a few steps behind, slight, wiry, skull mask cracked and tilted just enough to look disarming rather than fearsome. His body language was loose, almost slouched, clarinet case swinging from one hand like a lunchbox.

“Hiya!” Luto chirped brightly, giving an exaggerated wave as guards pointed weapons. “Ooooh, guns! Scary! Everyone relax, I’m just here to hold Chumsley’s purse.”

Laughter rippled uncertainly through the crowd, and he winked at a camera drone, leaning into the harmless Beta act with a flourish. He sidestepped a toppled chair with a dancer’s grace, muttering loudly, “God, this carpet is tacky. Who picked this? Can we get lighting that doesn’t make me look like a corpse? I’ve got delicate features here!”

“Step back!” barked a guard, but his attention stayed on Chumsley. Nobody even looked twice at the “Beta jester” following him.

Luto grinned behind the mask. Too easy.

He strolled lazily toward the stage while Chumsley distracted the guards, practically humming to himself. “Sir Prime Minister,” Luto called brightly, “wonderful speech, truly riveting stuff! I especially loved the part where you said ‘progress’ thirty-seven times and meant none of it!”

{{user}}'s father bristled, barking orders, but Luto ignored him, hopping up onto the stage with catlike grace. He tilted his head toward Gwen. “And you! Poster child! Wow, love the expression—it’s giving ‘I smile at peasants from my balcony’ realness.”

Gwen sputtered, her polished smile cracking.

Then his gaze landed on {{user}}. The Beta mask stayed up, but his interest sharpened. They looked stiff, unhappy, shrinking against the podium as their guard loomed over them. He tilted his head, voice syrupy. “And this one… ohhh, now this is interesting. Look at you! Little wallflower Omega, all dolled up for the cameras. I’d ask if you’re having fun, but your face says ‘hostage situation.’”

The words slipped out sharper than the others, and {{user}}—startled—actually laughed. A full on, unconscious laugh that made them cover their mouth.

Luto froze.

Then, with a sudden flourish, he jumped up onto {{user}}'s podium, crouching there like a gremlin king, mask tilted down at them. The cameras flashed wildly, reporters shrieking. He ignored them all, eyes narrowing as he drank in their laugh.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, voice dropping, playful lilt sharpening. “There it is. That’s the sound I wanted.” His grin stretched wide beneath the mask. “You’re cute when you laugh, sugar. Let’s hear it again.”

“Get away from them!” snarled your guard, stepping forward like some knight from a sad online fantasy. “You don’t touch them, you hear me?!”

Luto’s head turned slowly, predatory humor sparking in his posture. “Ohhhh no,” he purred. “You.” He hopped down lightly, standing nose-to-nose with the man, still pretending Beta softness even as his scent started to hum under the surface. “Let me guess. You’ve been bothering them all night, huh? Staring too long, making little comments?”

The guard bristled. “They like the attention!”

The room collectively recoiled.

Luto’s laugh started low, bubbling up until it was bright, sharp, and mocking. “Buddy,” he chuckled, leaning close, “I can smell the desperation on you. You reek of cheap suppressants, Axe body spray, and rejection.” He shoved the guard lightly—playful but firm—sending him stumbling back. “Does Daddy Prime Minister hire you freaks from Reddit? What’s the benefits package, huh? Free fedora with every contract?”

{{user}} clapped a hand over their mouth again, trying not to laugh, but another giggle slipped out. Luto froze again, savoring it like the sweetest sound in the world.

“Ahhh, there’s my bell,” he crooned, spinning back to face them, his mask tilting up just enough to reveal a sharp grin. “That’s a good Omega laugh. Wanna make your dad mad?”

Their father roared something unintelligible, Gwen screeched about “terrorists,” but Luto didn’t care. He hopped back onto {{user}}'s podium in one smooth motion, crouching low so his mask nearly touched their hair. His Alpha scent bled into the air like a thunderclap, burning sugar and ozone, a sudden dominance shift that sent the guard stumbling back in instinctive submission. Gasps filled the room.

“Surprise,” Luto whispered just for you, his voice velvet and warm now. “I’m not a Beta.”

Before anyone could react, he scooped {{user}} up like a prize, spinning them against his chest in a dramatic flourish. “Thanks for the gift, Mr. Prime Minister!” he called brightly, waving with one hand as cameras flashed. “I’ll take this one off your hands. They deserve better company!”

“PUT THEM DOWN!” The guard screamed, scrambling forward.

Luto danced backward, laughing. “Relax, champ, I’m doing them a favor. Go cry about it on a forum, why don’tcha?”

Even Chumsley laughed, covering the retreat as Luto carried {{user}} offstage like a theatrical hero making an exit. “Captain,” Chumsley drawled, “you are having too much fun.”

“Correction!” Luto grinned, dipping his mask to brush against {{user}}'s hair, letting his scent settle warm and protective. “We’re having fun.”