⋆˚࿔ WHEN HOUSE OF FINARFIN BECOME AN OMEGA ☀︎
( synopsis. ) The way they behave when they’re your Omega.
( tags. ) top!reader , alpha!reader , omega!character , bottom!character , omega!house of finarfin , smut , omegaverse , nest , breeding , belly bluge , mpreg , au , nsfw , etc.
( a/n. ) Well- Ugh, it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing.
Finarfin is an Omega who exudes grace and calm. His natural scent carries warm, gentle notes—soothing like the fragrance of white lilies blended with the crisp scent of morning sea breeze.
Even when he’s not in heat, as an Omega, he’s naturally sensitive and deeply attuned to your emotions—especially when you two are courting or already bonded as fëar.
On a regular day, Finarfin is the very image of serenity and nobility. His soft, gentle smile is a constant on his sweet face, and his bright eyes shine like the light of the Noldor realms in Valinor. He carries an undeniable aura of quiet strength and dignity.
Most would assume that protecting others is the Alpha’s role—but in Finarfin’s heart, he wants to care for you just as much. (This little golden puppy of a prince doesn't want to be your burden.)
So when he sees you return tired from a mission or a long journey, he’ll softly touch your shoulder or lightly hold your hand, as if to say, “You can rest now—I’ll take care of things.”
He enjoys giving you shoulder massages and staying close, knowing that his scent helps ease your stress.
Finarfin would lean on your shoulder while reading, or let you braid his silky golden hair—no guards or attendants in sight—because he treasures being cared for and loved by his mate. And he knows just how much he adores your attention.
He often communicates more with his eyes and gentle touches than with words. A brush of his fingers against the back of your hand as you pass by, or holding your hand for just a few seconds after a long day—then letting go with a warm smile. (A little moment to recharge you before facing the world again.)
During his heat, Finarfin tends to stay hidden away in his nest.
But his nest isn’t complete without a pile of your clothes—and most importantly, your scent. Without it, he becomes restless, pacing and sniffing the air for any trace of you... until he eventually finds you and brings you back to his side.
His scent, usually soft like white lilies, grows more intense—richer, deeper, like a heady wine that pulls you in. And once you're near, there's no leaving him.
The heat drains his energy, leaving him soft to the touch—his golden hair a bit tousled, cheeks flushed, and eyes half-lidded, as though wrapped in a lingering warmth only you can provide. He won’t resist or even move from the bed unless you're the one carrying him.
Where once his touch was gentle and composed, now it’s clingy and full of yearning. His instincts push him to keep you close—always.
And though he never says it aloud, he’s fond of the idea of children—maybe a little too fond.
This side of him—possessive, sweetly obsessed—only comes out during his heat.
He's quietly territorial. Even close friends or family members are not welcome near you when he’s like this. You’re his Alpha, and he won’t let anyone forget that.
If someone lingers too close, he’ll gracefully step in, standing at your side with a serene expression—but his eyes will say “I know exactly what you’re thinking, and no, you may not.”
His voice remains calm and polite, but there’s an edge to it—quietly protective.
You don’t even need to ask how intoxicating his scent becomes then.
And no matter how hard he tries to stay composed, his body betrays the warmth building under his skin, especially when you take care of him—treating him like he’s something rare and precious.
Until finally, whether it's you or him who gives in first... well.
You both know how it ends....
The scent of white lilies swelled thick in the air, delicate and pure at first—but quickly melting into a heady heat, intoxicating like rare, honey-sweet wine that belonged to one person alone.
The fragrance pouring from Finarfin’s body clung to the air like invisible silk, binding anyone who breathed it in, trapping them with him and him alone.
That tall, elegant frame trembled despite his efforts to hold himself together. His once-steady breathing had grown shallow and heavy, laced with soft, shame-tinged moans he tried—and failed—to swallow down.
His breaths came faster; those golden eyes were wide but hazy, blurred by the fever that burned through him. Every inch of his body shook under the full awakening of his omega instincts.
The moment the plea left his lips, your hands caught his shoulders and pressed him back against the cold wall. It wasn’t even a hard shove, but the force of an Alpha behind it made him gasp, a small, helpless sound breaking free.
His hips instinctively tilted toward you without needing to be told. His back curved as you touched him elsewhere, heat radiating from his body so strongly you could feel it even through the cool silk between you.
Your hand slipped beneath the long tunic he wore, gliding over taut, impossibly smooth skin until he jolted, breath catching. Your fingertips traced lazy circles at his waist before trailing lower—slow enough to make him choke on his own anticipation.
That husky, trembling voice sounded like a plea, but in truth it was surrender. Moments later, the fine fabric he wore was torn away without mercy, baring pale skin flushed pink with heat and arousal.
Your hands closed around the soft swell of his hips and lifted—and he didn’t even hesitate. Those long legs hooked around your waist with practiced ease.
When you rolled your hips against him, teasing, the beautiful omega in your arms jolted hard, clutching desperately at your neck. His lips parted, spilling out a moan so sweet and shameless it filled the bedchamber and clung to the air.
One of your hands braced at his back, pulling him in tight, while the other slid lower, toying with that aching heat between his thighs. He nearly yelped when your fingertips pressed and circled deliberately—but never pushed inside.
Those silken folds clenched greedily around your fingers, tight enough you almost doubted anything larger could fit. And when you caught the faint flicker of pain on that beautiful face, something primal in you pulled back—not out of mercy, but out of the instinct to protect what was yours.
You leaned down, voice a low growl against the delicate point of his ear, while your fingers massaged, spreading him with slow, attentive care. Every movement was calculated to claim—to press, to sink deeper, to leave him nowhere to run from your embrace.
His breath broke in ragged gasps each time you pushed deeper, from two fingers to three, then four. The slick heat of him clung desperately to you, pulsing tight around every intrusion.
The royal omega’s lashes fluttered shut, golden hair now tousled and wild, though not a shred of his beauty was lost. The rippling waves of pleasure had him writhing, and when you drove deep enough to brush that hidden place inside him, Finarfin melted entirely against you—spilling into your arms like liquid gold. His back scraped the cold stone wall, but his body burned hot enough to scorch.
His lips were seized, tasted, claimed, while the sweetness between his thighs was worked until his mind shattered, spinning far away to some distant mountaintop. It didn’t take long before the gorgeous omega in your arms tensed and broke, spilling his nectar until it dripped down to the floor.
You bit hard into the side of his neck, leaving a mark deep enough to last for days, the sharp spike of your own scent flooding the room in the moment you claimed him fully. Finarfin’s hoarse, broken moans rang in the chamber like a hymn wrung from the depths of his heart and instincts. He was yours now.
He buried his flushed face in the crook of your neck, lingering there for a long breath. Then, a soft, petulant little sound escaped him, followed by upturned golden eyes and a question that left a strange, heated knot in your gut.
“Hnnh… why did you only use your fingers…?”
Finrod is an omega with an incredibly cheerful personality—so much so that you can sense his kindness from the very first moment you meet him. He's effortlessly charming to people of all genders, and his scent is uniquely memorable: a blend of fresh pine and soft lavender, wrapped up with a touch of sweet baby powder—so comforting you’d want to cuddle him all the time.
He’s the type who refuses to let being an omega define his path in life. He never sees himself as lesser—in fact, he takes pride in his ability to care for others and bring people together. He doesn’t enjoy being the center of attention… unless it’s your attention.
This golden retriever of a man loves being your focus. He enjoys the way you care about him and appreciates the respect you’ve always shown him in the relationship. His warm smile gives you the kind of comfort that makes everything feel like it’s going to be okay. His omega instincts drive him to create a “safe space” for everyone around him.
The more you spoil him, treat him like a princess, the happier he gets.
Finrod is incredibly perceptive of your emotions—just a change in your expression or tone is enough for him to sense how you’re feeling. (The most doting wife vibes—)
He’s an optimist at heart. When problems arise, he’s the type to take your hand and tackle them together. A truly well-rounded omega—he sings beautifully, plays music effortlessly, and could probably run an entire kingdom if he wanted to.
He finds joy in the little things he does to take care of you—like draping a blanket over your shoulders or making you a warm cup of tea late at night. Though he seems confident, deep down he worries about becoming a burden to you.
He’s not one to openly lean on you, but in his heart, he knows that if things ever turned for the worse, you’d be his safe haven. He trusts that you’d protect him—but he wants to protect you, too. That’s why he’s always subtly scanning your surroundings, watching over you in his own quiet way.
When he feels emotionally vulnerable, he often takes a walk alone in nature to clear his mind. Or sometimes, he just makes a sad little face to draw your attention—so you’ll come over and cuddle him immediately. “Hold me–”
He loves music deeply. Sometimes he’ll play the harp for you before bed—or hum the most beautiful songs of Arda while you rest with your head in his lap.
He doesn’t always say he needs you out loud, but you’ll notice. He’ll stand just a little closer than usual, or his touch will linger longer—gentler, clingier.
Before his body goes into heat, Finrod will start to feel restless and reluctant to leave you. He will start to feel itchy and hot from time to time. His eyes will start to glow hotter than usual, and his gaze will unconsciously increase for longer periods of time.
His signature scent of pine and lavender will mingle with his adorable baby powder scent, it will become so strong that you can feel it even in a very large hall. He will always look for you, like a safety center and the only answer to his instincts at that moment.
His body will be warmer than usual, his skin is surprisingly sensitive to the touch, just your touch on his shoulder will make him shiver, needless to say his physical desires are very high, his omega instincts are at the ceiling, and they are very difficult to control. The eyes he looks at you during this time will have both trust and invitation hidden in them.
Sometimes he will speak more direct and open (vulgar and obscene) words because his Omega instincts completely cover up his normal shyness.“Wanna fuck me?” “No? But I want you to do it right here-”
The air around him will be filled with his scent, as if he is constantly flirting with you, requiring you to exercise extreme patience and control yourself. Finrod will have a high sexual desire and will need you to bury yourself inside him, filling him up all the time.
He's not really a nester, but he's attached to you. He has constant abdominal pain and tends to wear very little or no clothing when he's with you. Regardless, he'll always build a nest when it's time for heat, and whose bedroom will he choose? Yours! Whenever he brings his stuff, his family and friends will be dying to find him.
Extremely jealous, if there is any other smell on you, you will be ready to cry tears.“Don’t you love me anymore?”
Eventually, when he can't take it anymore, he'll humiliate you. Don't worry, remember, this is an elf fighting a pack of wolves with his bare hands.
You step into your private room. Everything looks the same as every day, but as you push open the door, the already lingering scent of lavender, pine, and baby powder hits you hard. Tonight, it's stronger than ever, as if inviting something inside you to awaken.
Finrod sat waiting on the edge of the bed, his golden amber hair falling down to cover his cheek, his once calm eyes now sparkling with an unmistakable heat. He stood up slowly and walked towards you, his tall figure moving cautiously but irresistibly.
"I've been waiting for you." His voice was low, a mix of confession and request.
His hand found your wrist, the warmth from his skin instantly flowing into yours, causing your heart to race as your alpha instincts were being aroused violently. You looked deep into his eyes, seeing trust and yearning, not just physical need, but a surrender of his whole being to you.
You take a step towards him, and he retreats, even if it's just a step, his broad back coming to a halt as it collides with the bedpost. His breath comes in short gasps, especially when you raise your hand to touch his face, your fingertips tracing the hot skin.
“Your scent… is so strong tonight,” you said in a low voice, as if it were both a warning and a compliment to him at the same time.
Finrod closed his eyes slightly, trying to control his instincts, but then his body leaned towards you without a second thought, his slender hands gripping your robes tightly, causing them to ride up. His breath hitched as you leaned in close enough for him to hear his heart beating in his chest.
"Stay with me. . Don't go anywhere."
His voice was trembling and hoarse with overwhelm. The dim lamplight cast shadows over Finrod's long, flowing blond hair. He was above you, his tall, slender figure leaning down to place a slender, white hand on your chest.
His sky-like eyes stared down at you with determination and yearning. The sweet, pine-like scent was so strong it almost made you lose consciousness.
He moves his hips slowly, letting the heat inside of him engulf you bit by bit. A low moan escapes his throat as he thrusts all the way in. Finrod closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as if he's going to memorize every second of this feeling.
“Ah. . I can feel it. . It’s all over.”
His voice trembled slightly, but his delicate body didn't stop moving. He slowly lifted himself up until you almost fell off, then pressed down hard until the sound of flesh hitting flesh was heard.PuffHis flat stomach bulged slightly beneath the palm he held. The burning sensation in his lower abdomen made him move even faster, as if he wanted to feel it again and again.
You reached up to grip his hips tightly, but he used his own strength to press you down and began to ride continuously, the pace quickening little by little from slow and deep to hard and fast. Your golden hair fluttered with the thrusts, your golden eyes blurred with burning desire and omega instincts.
You felt every bit of the heat surrounding you tighten as if it was trying to squeeze you out of your sanity. The person who caused it all smiled faintly, a smile that was both proud and provocative, before leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“I control tonight. . . and you won’t stop until I’m satisfied.”
“A-ahh…” He groaned hoarsely as his thrusts intensified, shaking the bed. Finrod reached down and rubbed the bulge on his stomach. His flat stomach bulged out with every thrust.
His fingertips pressed down as if to remind you that you were the only one there. He looked up at you with eyes that made you almost suffocate at his beauty.
“Look… here hgnn-you are inside me.”
His hips slammed up and down without stopping. He quickened his pace until the bed shook and the sheets were wrinkled to the point where there was almost no smoothness left. The pounding sound became more frequent and his high-pitched moans were loud and uncontrollable.
“O—only you. Ahh!” Finrod bit his lip, not just to stifle his moans, but to let you know how alluring he looked.
Every time he thrust all the way in, you could feel his insides eagerly welcoming you, the muscles inside squeezing tighter and tighter. You knew he was close to his limit when one of his hands pressed harder against your stomach.
Until you are stimulated to release every drop deep inside, the wild and savage instinctInside you and him, the rhythm became the same, both hands pressing his hips down, the muscles inside squeezing continuously as if they were squeezing every last drop from you. He milked you over and over again, as if he was trying to keep it all to the brim.
Finrod thrusts in one last time, all the way down. A short, shrill moan breaks from his throat. Finrod's high-pitched groan blends with the pounding in the closed room. You watch him endlessly. The noble omega is dominating you, all restraint gone, his slender body trembling, his eyes hazy.
Heat welled up inside him, a faint smile appearing on his flushed face. His thighs were limp like liquid, but his hands still pressed against your chest. He lifted his head, let out a moan of pleasure, and then lowered his head to you.
The kissing sounds were so filthy that you forgot how to stop. When you pulled away, the other person's dazed gaze and beautiful, defiled body made you want to worship him. With all your love, you were ready to stop to let him rest, but...
“No—I’m not satisfied yet,” he said, moving up and riding you again.
And before you could come to your senses, he started moving again, slower, but deep and firm, as if he would continue until dawn.
Angrod is an Omega—but not the kind you’d expect.
He’s sharp-edged and unyielding, the kind of person who speaks plainly, and walks like he doesn’t owe the world a damn thing. He’s the sort of Omega people don’t dare to mock… or underestimate. And maybe that’s why he stands out—so different from what you thought you knew.
He doesn’t ask to be protected. Doesn’t flutter. Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he watches. Quietly. Closely. And only when he’s sure—absolutely sure—does he let you in.
He carries himself with a kind of quiet pride. Stubborn to the bone. And gods forbid anyone look at him like he’s fragile. He’d rather bite his tongue off than play the delicate card.
But the truth is: his instincts are there. Strong, deep, unmistakably Omega. He just keeps them tucked beneath that steady, storm-gray silence.
And his scent? It tells stories even when he doesn’t.
Warm woodsmoke. Hearthfire in winter. And just beneath that, the wildflowers of spring—fresh and fleeting. When jealousy coils in his chest, the smoke rises—thick, unmistakable. You can feel his displeasure before he ever speaks.
But when he feels safe… when you’re the reason he’s at ease?
That’s when the wildflowers bloom.
Soft. Gentle. Healing in a way words could never be.
He’s not the sweet-talker type.
You’ll never hear grand declarations from him.
Instead, it’s the little things.
He oils your blade. Packs your gear. Sits beside your bed when you’re sick (well—if you’re mortal. Elves and Ainur get a pass).
Angrod’s way of saying “I care” is through presence. Through action.
Through a quiet hand on your shoulder.
Through fingers brushing yours as if to say: You’re not alone.
On the days when the weight of the world breaks your back, he won’t offer flowery comfort.
He’ll just take your hand. Lead you to a patch of quiet. A garden. The shade of an old tree. The hush of a stream.
And he’ll let the silence speak for both of you.
There’s a part of him that bristles—just a little—at being claimed or controlled.
But if he’s honest? He likes knowing you’re strong. Steady.
That if things go wrong, he can fall back and you’ll still be standing.
He may be an Omega, but he’s also a warrior of the Noldor.
A noble. He’s not here to be saved.
But he will choose you, every time he needs to feel safe.
Especially when the world is watching.
Especially in rooms full of tension and strategy and sharp smiles. Because he knows—you will always be his shield.
He trusts you like he trusts the stars: utterly, completely.
And when the darkness creeps in—when the dreams go sour—he won’t wake you. He’ll just reach for you. Fold himself into your arms. Like maybe, if he’s close enough, nothing bad can reach him.
Sometimes, he lets you lead. Sometimes, he argues—just enough to make sure you hear him.
He doesn’t care about status or roles or who’s “meant” to do what.
To him, trust is sacred. Loyalty is everything. And love—real love—is the kind that holds its shape when everything else falls apart.
Angrod, when he's in heat, will tear apart your laundry basket just to build himself a makeshift nest.
He curls up inside it like it’s the only place in the world that feels safe—burrowed deep in fabric that smells like you—and refuses to leave unless absolutely necessary.
His scent becomes thick and sweet, so potent that even without touching him, even without stepping too close, you can feel it as an Alpha. It clings to the air, heavy with need. Through the fëa bond, he’s always calling for you, soft whimpers echoing across the thread between your souls.
His cheeks flush easily. The tips of his ears too—rosy and hot to the touch. And his breathing? Always a little fast, always a little unsteady, like he’s been running or dreaming too hard.
The way he looks at you changes too.
There’s always this desperate softness in his gaze—like you’re the only thing anchoring him, like he’s waiting for you to do something, anything. He stays far closer than usual, sitting pressed against your side, leaning into your shoulder, or just climbing into your lap without a word and curling in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And when he speaks, his voice dips lower. Softer. Warmer.
His eyes are always damp.
During heat, he becomes something quieter. Gentler.
Vulnerable in a way he would never show outside of this.
He gets jealous more easily than usual—more sensitive too.
If you laugh a little too long with someone else, or lean in too close during a conversation, he notices. Oh, he notices. And his eyes—sharp and glittering—say it before his mouth does:
“You spent too long talking to them today. I didn’t like it.”
And suddenly, he’s closer than before. Closer than necessary. Like his presence alone is a declaration:
Mine. Don’t touch.
If you leave the room, even just for a moment, he gets restless. He looks for you the second you're gone.
And underneath it all—his body stays damp and overheated, already slipping into that strange, submissive behavior that only shows up during this part of the cycle. The way he reaches for you. The way he needs you, wordlessly.
He’s not particularly obsessed with the idea of little elflings running around. Not yet.
But… if it happens? He wouldn’t mind. Not one bit.
In the stillness of midnight above the frost-chilled earth, the flame of an oil lamp trembled within the linen tent. A faint ribbon of smoke mingled with the heat—thick, heady—of a hunger burning in the air.
One scent was the dense, metallic heat of an Alpha, like molten steel newly drawn from the forge. The other, the intoxicating sweetness of an Omega in heat—fragrant as the first bloom of a wildflower calling every bee to its heart.
Angrod knelt in the center of the bed, grey eyes clouded with feverish heat, teetering at the edge of consciousness. Strands of pale gold hair clung to cheeks flushed as though kissed by flame.
His chest heaved beneath sweat-soaked linen, each breath short and quick, his body trembling like a warrior fresh from battle—though this war was waged within the fortress of his own flesh.
You stepped toward him with a measured, unhurried tread. The weight of your gaze and scent drew a slight retreat from him, though his legs did not move; they were rooted as firmly as a tree bending under the wind but never uprooted.
His eyes met yours, the last flickers of battlefield pride drowned swiftly in longing, surrender swallowing the once-proud Noldorin lord whole.
Your fingertip touched his chin, lifting gently so he looked at you fully. The heat of your skin spilled through that single contact, shattering his focus. His eyes quivered like ice atop a river, breaking under the first warmth of spring.
Your lips found the hollow of his neck—soft, but with undeniable pressure. His breath caught in his throat. “Ah—”
Teeth grazed the thin skin over his gland, and his body jerked instantly. His back arched, tendons standing in sharp relief, pale hands clutching your arm in a desperate grip to anchor himself.
Your voice, low and rough, vibrated against his skin as your mouth pressed closer, drinking in his scent with something close to intoxication. Your dominant presence wrapped heavier around him, like a shadow pressing over every breath he took.
Your hand traveled down the pale line of his thigh, fingers squeezing, kneading slowly. Your right hand slid beneath to raise it, forcing the long leg to bend and open. His body shivered; his hips twitched instinctively, long ears flicking as though to hide the flush burning from within.
When you leaned forward to loom over him, your weight pushed him down into the not-so-soft bedding. Your scent cloaked him like a heavy blanket with no seam to escape. Every breath he drew was a breath of submission.
“Ah—haa…” His moans broke apart, matching the erratic drumbeat of his heart.
His cloak slipped from his shoulders under your pull, revealing skin lit with a sheen of sweat. Beneath, muscle twitched like a plucked harpstring. He squeezed his eyes shut when your teeth bit into the slope of his shoulder, a louder sobbing sound spilling from him.
You pressed him fully onto his back, his hair fanning like gold around his head. Your mouth claimed his, deep and all-consuming. Breath and sound tangled together into one melody—the music of absolute surrender.
Both his hands clutched your shoulders, pulling himself upward, lips parted in pleading for a kiss hot enough to soothe the ache. The tension climbing his body sent tingles down to those spread thighs, trying—and failing—to close.
“D-don’t… ah—don’t torment me…”
“I’ll take you until there’s no hollow left in your body or your heart.”
Your words, whispered hot against his ear, made him writhe restlessly. He could barely remember the proud stance he once held on the battlefield—now there was only emptiness waiting for you to fill.
You pinned his hips with your palm, nose buried against his neck, inhaling the sweetness until it almost made you dizzy.
His body jolted when your fangs sank into the gland; the sharp sting tangled with pleasure, flooding him until he didn’t know whether to moan or bite it back—though the sound came anyway. His lashes trembled, grey eyes shut tight.
His voice rasped, melting into your heat. Shaking hands clung to your shirt as if to keep you from leaving, even though every touch drove him closer to breaking.
Your mouth wandered lower, kissing along the rise and fall of his chest, biting and sucking until red marks bloomed on that pale canvas—proof that he belonged to you alone. Every nip made him flinch, hips rising instinctively, moans slipping free without hope of restraint.
Your other hand hooked under his knee, lifting the long leg to rest over your hip—a pose of total offering. Angrod’s face flushed to the tips of his ears; he turned his gaze aside, but his body yielded without protest, thigh muscles taut with tension and raw anticipation.
The lamp flame wavered in a draft of winter air slipping between the tent seams, but the cold never reached the small world between you.
And then—you pressed your lips to his once more before driving forward in a single deep, unyielding thrust. The soft channel clenched tight, aching and stretched, half pain, half shock.
He writhed in your arms, scratching at your back for release. You were not gentle—he was no fragile doll, and you knew deep down he craved being controlled.
Angrod was like fine silk under your hands, worked and kneaded without pause. Beneath you, he yielded like water surrendering to the waves again and again. Sweat trailed down his throat to his chest, glimmering under the golden light.
Each of your movements drew an unthinking response from his hips; the muscles inside gripped you as though trying to memorize your shape. His moans shifted from short and choppy to hoarse and broken.
His voice fractured when you changed rhythm, striking harder, deeper, until the headboard rattled. The force made his eyes fly open before they squeezed shut again, pleasure flooding his mind. Toes curled helplessly in the air.
Your hand brushed away the sweat at his temple, thumb grazing his parted lips before slipping between them to tease the trembling tongue. He sucked greedily, like a cub unwilling to let go.
His body tightened more and more, legs clinging to your hips; the grip within told you the peak was near. Still, you drove him harder, until he let out a sharp, helpless cry.
His hands clawed at the bedding, wrinkling it as if it could anchor him through the storm. In that moment, force, speed, and depth merged, and his body seized in a long shudder.
His voice cracked into the same rhythm as your own harsh breathing, heat flooding through him until his hips locked, release tearing through both body and soul.
Angrod’s body bore your marks—bites, bruises, crimson imprints from your fingers. His voice broke again when the warm spill inside left him dizzy and spent.
You stayed above him, weight pressing into his trembling, sweat-slick body. His grey eyes tried to focus on you, already glazed with the gleam of total surrender. The steel-hard pride of a Noldorin warrior lay in ruins, leaving only an Omega breathing in time with you.
After this, you’d have to take care of him… and find a convincing excuse for his brothers about what happened tonight.
Aegnor is an omega who shares some similarities with Angrod—but he's far more reserved. Quiet, gentle, and soft-spoken, he carries a calm presence that feels like the warmth of an older brother.
There's a quiet strength within him, and he treats others with sincere respect.
His scent is like fresh mountain air, subtly laced with the delicate sweetness of freesia. It’s the kind of fragrance that instantly puts people at ease just by being near him.
Aegnor craves gentle closeness. He tends to follow his alpha everywhere, not out of dependence, but out of quiet devotion. He’s not the type who enjoys fighting or solving things through brute force.
Around others, he can be a little shy—but when he’s with his mate, he opens up completely. His affection is tender, often expressed through soft whispers or bashful gestures meant just for you.
His voice turns quiet and velvety when he speaks (especially to you). He loves cuddles, loves nestling into your arms. When he holds you, it’s with soft but steady hands—warmth both physical and emotional. He cherishes those moments so deeply that the moment he’s hugged, he’ll close his eyes and snuggle up like a cat seeking comfort.
Aegnor is thoughtful, attentive, and incredibly observant. He’ll remember how you like your drinks, notice that you prefer silence when deep in thought, and instantly pick up on subtle shifts in your mood—especially when you're irritated or stressed.
His way of showing love may be simple, but it’s layered with meaning. When he longs for comfort, he’ll gently lean against your shoulder or rest his hand over your chest. He tends to hide a shy smile whenever you compliment him or hold him close.
As an omega, Aegnor has a natural gift for reading emotions. When his alpha feels uncertain or shaken—perhaps after a battle or during tough times—he’ll quietly press against you and whisper, “I’m here now. It’s okay.”
He’s the kind of partner who leaves you little things: your favorite flower, a home-cooked meal when you’re buried in work, or tiny surprises to make your day a little brighter.
When you’re away or tied up with work, and he’s alone in bed, he’ll curl up hugging your pillow, imagining your embrace. Sometimes, he secretly keeps little drawings or gifts you’ve given him tucked safely away.
He enjoys peaceful walks in the forest or stargazing with you. Cooking together, helping out with small events—he loves the little things.
At home, he’ll light candles, arrange flowers, and make the space feel warm and inviting. (Honestly, he’s so sweet to his partner that the rest of the household might just be clenching their fists.)
Aegnor had a quiet, vulnerable streak—one that surfaced only with his mate. He hated when anyone stood too close to you, or dared to look at you… and worse still, when you gave someone else too much of your attention.
Whenever that happened, he’d sidle up beside you, pressing close until his scent wrapped around you, his voice slipping into a soft, pleading murmur: “Don’t look at anyone else.”
He’d hold on to your clothes under the excuse of washing them, but the truth was he was building a nest. Always, your shawl went in the very center, like the heart of it.
When his heat came, his scent turned so sweet and potent it nearly unraveled your self-control. He became impossibly clingy, his gaze dark with a mix of need and irritation—heat made his body far too sensitive to touch.
He was too shy to say, “Will you come lie in my nest?”—but oh, he would ask. And if you agreed, joy would spark through him so bright he’d tug you in with more strength than he meant to, curling around you all day and all night without moving an inch.
Aegnor might try to act like he was in control, but sooner or later, he’d let out your name in a breathless moan and pull you tight against him. Alone in a room with you, he could hardly let you out of his reach, asking for your help again and again until the night was gone.
After making love during his heat, he refused to let you go. His arms would stay locked around you, his face buried against your chest, letting your scent smother the last trace of heat from him before he drifted into sleep—as if afraid that the moment he let go, you might vanish.
In this time, he was consumed with the physical—clinging, teasing, craving every ounce of you. He loved to have your scent clinging to him, to wear your bites and marks like a banner for all to see: proof that he was taken.
There was something in the way your scent overlayed his, the way your teeth claimed his skin, that made him feel truly safe—truly yours. He loved when you took him through the night, giving him your full attention until one of you finally collapsed from exhaustion.
The veil of night was torn open by the flicker of the hearth. Orange firelight traced the bare slope of Aegnor’s shoulder, gilding it like molten gold fresh from the crucible.
The tall, lithe figure sat braced on the edge of your desk, back curved just enough to invite. His wrists were held firm in your grasp, your scent thick in the air like warm fog, swallowing his thoughts until nothing was left but raw instinct and hunger.
His breath shortened as your fingertips trailed along the line of his pale, smooth neck, sending a shiver that made him tilt his head, baring skin for your touch. Your warm breath skimmed across that offered place before your fangs sank into the rise between shoulder and throat.
The low sound rumbled from his chest. It wasn’t pain—it was the brand he craved. His bright blue eyes fluttered shut in willing submission, welcoming the mark that made him yours.
He edged closer, inhaling deeply to fill his lungs with the scent he adored. The sheer Alpha weight of it coaxed him to press his face against your chest, his breath brushing your skin in a steady rhythm, as if trying to absorb the scent into his very heart.
It mingled with the drumming of your heartbeat—an unshakable rhythm anchoring him here, with no chance of retreat.
Fingers curled tight in your shirt hem, his body trembled with rising desire. A hoarse plea slipped from him—“Again… more…”—because for Aegnor, nothing felt as safe or as searing as being surrounded by your scent and your bite.
You leaned down, strands of your hair falling to brush his pale cheek. A kiss grazed his throat—light, fleeting—before you bit down again. Your sharp teeth pierced that flawless skin and he gasped, “Ah—” breath shuddering.
The faint taste of blood touched your tongue, strangely sweet, like the one who bore it. His shoulder muscle twitched under the mix of bliss and ache, the fresh bite glowing red with heat, pulsing with his heartbeat.
You dragged your nose along the mark, inhaling deep, as though pressing your scent into every fiber of him. Aegnor unconsciously leaned in, his breath catching, hand sliding from your cloak to your thigh. A low, pleading hum reached you—asking you to bite again, to drown him in your scent until nothing of him remained untouched.
“Not on the desk,” you said, voice firm. His lips drew into an adorably petulant pout, but he didn’t protest—not when his mind was hazy with satisfaction from the scent you kept lavishing over him.
You gripped his waist and turned him down onto the thick rug. His golden hair spilled around his head like a halo. His gaze trembled when you lowered yourself again—this time, not stopping at his throat, but leaving a trail of bites along his shoulder, chest, and lower still. Your scent poured heavy around him until every breath was surrender.
He writhed beneath you, sweat beading on his pale skin like morning dew on flower petals—only far hotter. His stomach muscles jumped with each fresh bite, every mark a declaration that could never be erased.
Your scent hung in the air so thick it felt it might drip like syrup; his lungs filled only with you.
Your hands locked on his hips, holding him still. Hot breath ghosted over his flat stomach before your mouth traveled lower, tongue brushing deliberately against damp skin.
A ragged moan—“Ah—mmh”—slipped from him, tangled with sharp, short breaths as though he might lose them entirely.
His hands gripped your hair for balance, but the pull was trembling, almost letting go. Your teeth scraped the soft skin of his inner thigh, your scent hitting him so hard his golden eyes went hazy. His body locked tight before shaking apart, his mouth shaping your name with a deep, breaking moan.
In that moment, Aegnor shattered—body and soul collapsing, breath quick and eyes vacant but flooded with love. Your scent coated every inch of him, your bites forming a mapped path of possession.
Nothing of him remained untouched; he was entirely yours.
Sweet wetness spilled shamefully from between his legs, the tender petals clenching, begging to be claimed by something of you. The craftsman’s hand rose to cover his flushed face, but before he could think, his legs were lifted easily over your shoulders.
Your lips curved in fond amusement as you bent to claim his stubborn mouth in a kiss so deep he had no air that wasn’t given by you. Only when you had tasted him to your fill did you let him go.
Fingers parted those slick petals in a slow tease before you pushed in, driving deep until your bodies met as one. You raised your head to meet his gaze; his eyes were glazed, rimmed with tears, but lit with surrender from the depths of his soul.
Aegnor trembled, a broken moan spilling from his throat as you kissed and bit the old marks again until they burned red, the mix of teeth and tongue leaving trails of saliva and sweat over his skin.
His hands slipped weakly from your hair, his body loosening as though sliding into darkness.
Your rhythm softened, slowed, when you saw the body in your arms turning limp—pliable as dough kneaded past its limit. Those bright eyes drooped, seconds away from sleep.
And then he sprawled out on the rug, utterly spent, breath evening out, limbs slack as if his spirit had been drawn from him—leaving only the scent and the bites branded over every inch of him.
Proof you had devoured him whole in body and soul… even though you’d barely begun.
Galadriel is an Omega with a scent that’s delicately floral, like moonlit blossoms mingled with warm, woody notes. It carries a serene undertone—something akin to moonlight reflected on a quiet stream.
Though she is an Omega, she is by no means weak or dependent. As one of the most powerful Elves to have ever lived, she bears the "Power of the Ruler" and has long used it to protect Lothlórien. Still, within the Alpha–Omega dynamic, there lies a quiet gentleness in her—a longing for emotional refuge from her destined Alpha mate.
Everyone knows of her gift—the ability to perceive the thoughts and intentions of others. It’s rare that anyone can keep their feelings hidden from her gaze.
Galadriel does not open her heart easily. But if she senses your scent and the protective strength within you, she may begin to reveal her vulnerabilities—like her deep-seated fear of losing everything to war.
Your relationship with her is not one of control, but of balance—an equal partnership. You stand beside her as she rules, and she, in turn, offers you warmth and unwavering faith.
Her voice is soft yet commanding—like a quiet order and a gentle comfort woven into one. When she speaks to you, the one she trusts, her tone becomes more tender and sincere. She may call your name softly, or speak words she wouldn't share with anyone else.
Her speech is often rich with symbolism and layered meaning. Yet in the intimacy of your private conversations, she may let slip warm, simple truths—plain-spoken words that carry surprising depth.
She doesn't rely on others easily, but once trust is built, she allows you small acts of care—a silent signal that you've become someone close to her heart.
She rarely shows strong outward emotions. She doesn’t laugh loudly, but will offer you a soft, warm smile—the kind she reserves only for those she loves.
Galadriel values wisdom and deep analysis over brute strength. She sees beyond the present, always thinking of the far-reaching consequences of today’s choices.
In times of crisis, she remains composed and quick to plan, yet will turn to you for counsel—especially if your strength may tip the scales.
She believes that your bond represents a perfect balance—“wisdom and strength in harmony.”
During moments of rest, she enjoys quiet time in the gardens of Lothlórien—listening to the gentle sound of flowing water or soft music. She’ll hold your hand as she reads ancient poetry aloud, or sit with you in silence, contemplating the stars like a philosopher lost in thought.
Her expression is almost always serene—her emotions perfectly restrained. But her eyes always tell the truth. When she’s happy, her eyes shimmer like starlight.
She has a deep instinct to care for those she loves. She’ll quietly check if you’re tired, make sure you get enough rest, and never pressure you into anything that unsettles you. Instead, she offers guidance born of millennia of wisdom.
She often locks eyes with you—especially before a parting. When you leave for a mission, she will watch you until you disappear from sight, and—unknown to you—send her most trusted warriors to guard you from afar.
She shares her visions of the future with you without holding back, placing complete trust in you… and hoping, with all her heart, that you’ll never break it.
When the pull of her Omega instincts grew stronger, Galadriel’s scent deepened—sweet, intoxicating, laced with something warm and alluring, like night-blooming flowers twined with precious incense. She might not show it openly, but her bonded mate would sense it at once.
She wanted to be close—closer than usual. Gentle, quietly needy, she sought the steady anchor of her Alpha more and more.
In those moments, she revealed a side no one else had ever seen: a fear of being abandoned, a yearning to belong to you wholly—body and fëa alike.
The eyes that so often held the weight of command softened into something tender and pleading. Her hand might drift unconsciously toward you, clutching at your sleeve, or slipping shyly into your palm.
Her normally cool blue gaze grew hazy, her breath quickened, lips pressed tight as desire consumed her until she could scarcely stand. She was no longer the wrathful queen—but an Omega trembling beneath you.
The hushed moans that escaped her lips sounded like some ancient hymn never heard by mortal ears. Her skin glowed pale as moonlight, and the marks you left upon her throat gleamed brighter than any crown of gold.
By morning she wore again her calm, regal composure. Yet you knew. Every time she looked away, cheeks flushed, while that sweet Omega scent lingered in the air, undeniable. Galadriel, exalted among the Elves, had surrendered herself to you entirely.
Silver moonlight spilled over the waters of Lórien, glittering like glass dust scattered through the forest. Galadriel stood at the balcony of the high tower of Caras Galadhon, her long golden hair swept wild by the night breeze.
But tonight it was not only the beauty of nature that made her body tremble—it was the season when her blood and Omega’s instinct blazed like fire.
Her heart beat fast, her usually calm blue eyes grown hazy. She bit her lip, trying to restrain herself, but the sweetness of her scent seeped out, saturating the chamber until her fated Alpha stepped inside.
Your gaze found her at once, the commanding confidence of an Alpha radiating outward, shaking the proud defenses she had always held high. She tried to stand straight, to speak in her usual steady tone, but inside her belly the heat roared like an untamed flame.
A soft sob escaped as you drew nearer. Her knees betrayed her, buckling so she leaned against the cold stone wall to keep from collapsing.
You stepped closer, your scent enveloping her like a heavy shadow that consumed all else. She shivered the moment she felt it—raw, primal gravity. Your eyes bore into her, and hers, bright as stars, wavered, pleading without words.
“Don’t…” Her voice trembled, but it was not a true refusal. It was temptation. It was secret supplication.
You cupped her chin, tilting her face up, and your mouth claimed hers with arrogant possession. The Omega’s sweetness thickened in the air with every tremor of her moans.
Your fingers traced her throat, leaving trails of claimed territory. She bit her lip to smother her voice, but at last it spilled free—a sound like an ancient hymn never heard by mortal ears.
Your pace was rough, consuming. She whimpered, pressed against the chill stone, her body trapped between cold wall and blazing heat. She gasped when your teeth sank into her neck, red blooming on pale skin like a jewel under moonlight.
Her body pressed into you, helpless. The hands that once carried the rod of command shook, clutching your clothes as though they were her only anchor. Her regal composure melted away, leaving only an Omega burning in body and soul.
She whispered it, voice hoarse—and that single word carried more power than any invocation she had ever spoken. It was surrender in its purest form.
Your arms caged her firmly, holding her fast against the wall. Her breath came quick, her chest rising and falling. She lifted her face again for your touch, no resistance left, only the blazing submission of a moth to flame.
Your scent drowned her, swallowed her until she was lost. She arched as you claimed her, sharp sting melting into waves of bliss. Her cry was soft but thick with need, with boundless desire.
Every thrust echoed off the stone walls, the slap of flesh resounding through the tower.
She shut her eyes, sweat beading on her temples and throat, moonlight spilling over her body like a cloak of silver. The high lady of the Elves now trembled, undone beneath you, every sound from her lips a poem never written.
When you drove deeper still, until you filled her to the hilt, she threw back her head with a cry, as if praying heaven and earth alike bear witness. Her voice carried through the chamber like music.
In the dimness of the tower, Galadriel’s shaking breath mingled with the force of your possession, a ritual greater than any hymn.
Each time she closed her eyes, letting her cries spill like verses trembling through the hall, you knew—it was not only her body, but her entire spirit that she had given into your keeping.
Orodreth remains the composed, gentle-hearted prince we know from the original, but in this version, his Omega instincts shine through more clearly.
He has a strong desire to create safe, cozy spaces—his own little sanctuary. He loves setting up a warm, quiet corner in a room where he can retreat or where you can feel at peace together.
He carries a distinct scent—like the crisp air of an early spring morning after rain, blended with the soft, floral notes of gardenias. It’s the kind of scent that soothes and subtly draws you in, comforting without being overwhelming.
On the outside, Orodreth appears calm, reserved, and more understated compared to his more dazzling Finwëan kin. But as an Omega, he possesses a certain sensitivity—an intuitive awareness of emotions and the atmosphere around him.
He’s not one for confrontation or fierce competition; instead, he’s gifted in listening and quietly bringing peace to those around him.
Though he may seem delicate, make no mistake—he’s a dignified Omega, with the blood of the House of Noldor flowing strong and proud in his veins.
He prefers logic and diplomacy over open conflict, but when you’re nearby, he feels grounded and safe. And while he naturally avoids drama, if anyone threatens you or someone close to him, his instinct to protect kicks in full force.
His way of protecting isn’t always through brute strength—it’s through careful planning, thoughtful diplomacy, or even placing himself in harm’s way if he must.
He isn’t overly shy, but he does show signs of being a “safe space” type of Omega. For example, he might set up a cozy corner for you, or make sure there’s a blanket ready before you travel—just in case.
When you’re close, you’ll notice him visibly relax. Your scent has a calming effect on him.
If you're away on a mission for a while, he’ll write to you often, choosing his words with warmth and care. Sometimes he’ll even scent the letter faintly with his own to help ease your distance.
And if you're gone too long, he might get restless—trying to reach out, or slipping something with his scent into your belongings for you to carry.
This version of Orodreth forms deep emotional bonds. You’ll hear things like, "You’re feeling uneasy again...?" or simply, "I miss youuu..."
He’s deeply observant and nurturing—like a mother hen, honestly. His instincts make him notice the smallest things: a tired expression, a slight change in your tone, or a subtle shift in your scent. He’ll quietly respond, maybe by making your favorite tea or gently encouraging you to rest.
On rainy days, he’ll invite you to sit near the fire, muttering softly that he’s worried you’ll catch a chill, before draping a blanket over your shoulders. He often keeps your favorite snack or drink tucked away in his bag—not that he’ll admit he packed it just for you.
He’ll just say, "Ah, just happened to have it." (He absolutely planned it.)
He’ll quietly set aside books he knows you’re interested in, so you get to read them before anyone else.
He loves soft, affectionate touches—a brush of the hand, a gentle touch on the shoulder, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. He’s not into dramatic displays of affection in public, but in private, he instinctively leans into your presence without even realizing it.
He cherishes quiet talks in peaceful places—like your room late at night, or out on the balcony under the stars. Those moments help him feel close and safe.
When you ask for his opinion, he answers with sincerity, always taking your thoughts to heart. If you move closer, he’ll look up at you and offer a small, meaningful smile—one that speaks more than words ever could.
He has a quiet kind of clinginess. When you’re busy, he’ll watch you with soft eyes, patiently waiting for you to turn your attention to him. He won’t say it outright, but the look in his eyes holds all the longing and trust he can’t put into words.
He often uses little excuses—like, "It’s chilly today," just to get closer or wrap you in a blanket. Or he’ll say, "Mind if I borrow your cloak for a bit?" when really, he just wants to be wrapped in your scent.
He tried to hide it from everyone, but the cloying sweetness of his scent betrayed him—Orodreth was in heat. He grew shy, hesitant to meet your eyes, yet with every step he drifted closer, unable to stop himself from gravitating toward you.
When you moved to lead him to the safety of a private room, he resisted at first, voice low: “I… I can handle it.” But his body trembled, and you could feel the strain in him as he fought against his instincts.
At last, he folded, burying his face in your neck, inhaling the Alpha scent that unraveled his resolve. His breath shook, warm against your skin, and instinct guided him where his words could not. It was the beginning—the first time.
Afterward, with the barrier broken, he softened. Around others he seemed calm, composed, but alone with you his need became clear.
He begged for your lips on his gland, each kiss drawing unintentional, broken moans. He liked your hand brushing over the back of his own, or pressing his face into your shoulder where your scent was strongest.
He hated to let you go—no, truthfully, he refused to let you go. His simplest trick was to dress in thin, revealing clothes, easy to slip from his body, and then drape himself over your arm or curl into your lap.
His skin flushed hot, his breath always quick, desperate for your kisses scattered over his body. He wanted you to claim him, to hold him entirely.
On the outside he looked fragile, delicate as a blossom—but in your arms, he burned, revealing a passion fiercer than he ever believed he possessed. His slim body shivered every time you took him, and the deeper your mark pressed into him, the more wholly he became yours.
Beneath the vaulted stone of Nargothrond, the night carried no harp-song, no gentle verse, but the sound of ragged breaths and trembling cries. The silence that once shielded the prince now bound him in chains of desire he could no longer escape.
Orodreth lay sprawled across emerald silk, restless, whimpering as waves of heat tore through him. His body blazed like fire; he bit down on the edge of his robe to swallow his voice, but his scent betrayed him, spilling heavy into the chamber.
His cheeks flushed crimson, his breath shallow, faltering like a bird cornered. Every pulse of heat drew soft cries from him, eyes blurred with tears as slender fingers knotted the silk sheets.
Then—the stone door groaned open. The Alpha’s scent flooded in like a storm. His heart leapt violently, body jerking as you stepped inside. He looked up, caught like a trembling creature in a snare, lips still parted with the echo of a moan.
“Orodreth.” Your voice carried through the hall like a judgment from Mandos himself.
His mouth closed tight, struggling to form words, but the cloying sweetness betrayed him utterly, pulling you closer like poisonous perfume. He shut his eyes, tears threatening.
“I… I beg your pardon, please don’t—” But his plea vanished beneath a kiss that crushed his lips until they burned.
His mouth opened helplessly, yielding to the heat you forced on him. The world blurred white, his body writhing beneath yours, unable to deny.
Iron-strong arms pinned his wrists above his head. His emerald robe slipped away, baring pale skin that gleamed ivory under the flickering lamplight.
His body arched, torn between pain and pleasure, when your mouth traced down his throat and your teeth sank into tender flesh until blood welled. Sweet scent mingled with iron and your Alpha’s weight, flooding the air.
“Can you hide from your Alpha any longer?” Your whisper broke him. His body trembled violently.
“Please… please be gentle with me,” he sobbed, but his hips betrayed him, arching up to meet your touch.
You pulled back just to drink him in, sculpted beauty drowned in sin, then lowered to taste the scent pooling between his thighs. His rose-petaled flesh clenched hungrily around emptiness, and when your mouth descended, both hands gripped and kneaded the softness of his ass while your tongue delved to savor him.
His sobs shook him as you feasted, his hands shredding the sheets, his mind lost to the heat blazing in his body.
Your tongue moved like a weapon, stirring sweetness that poured like honey from the comb until he screamed, “Ahhh!”
“More—” The plea broke on his lips, stoking your instincts fiercer still.
The heady sweetness suffused the room. You drove deeper, until his fingers knotted in your hair, pulling, pushing, helpless.
“No… I—I can’t—!” His denial shattered into a ragged cry as his body betrayed him, the tender depths clutching tight, spilling sweetness that you drank to the last drop.
You teased the trembling petals, then rose between his thighs, scattering kisses across his pale skin. His voice broke in sobs and moans, fingers clawing the sheets.
“P-please… come inside me…”
Tears streaked his cheeks, but a hazy smile curled his lips.
“Don’t stop—fill me again,” he begged, shame and yearning tangled into one.
“I want… I want your blood and flesh in my womb.”
dividers ➵ @.leilakittya @glykerniaz
