#nelacar

No Nelacar Malyn went insane because he wanted to cheat death and play god

Selfcest & Cloning Ft Nelacar

It was a particular fantasy, One you couldn't imagine many being able to physically replicate, but he’d disclosed it to you nonetheless. The idea that - despite how romantic it may seem - no one really knew one's body better than one’s self. He loved everything about you, every form of sex and love-making was absolute bliss, but it was still different from what he experienced himself on those nights when you were gone saving the world. He’d gotten warm just thinking about it, some kind of alternate form, a conjuration, perhaps, that knew him, just as he did - that knew all those little places that made him squirm, that could reach, that could press just right at the perfect speed with the perfect pressure. He’d gotten so riled up just talking about it, you couldn’t help fuck him there and then.

You wanted it to be real for him - you knew, if anyone could achieve such a feat, it was your wonderful star mage. And so, with lots of emotional and physical encouragement, he did. He had. He was doing so.

His skin had always been so beautiful, golden and gleaming, especially in the starlight, and here it was doubled, pressed against one another, golden hands tentatively gliding across it. Goosebumps rose in their wake, muscles clenching beneath the skin as they explored, familiarising themselves with a body well known. 

Their lips pressed to one another's - to their own - teeth knocking gently together as both went to bite the others lips, a gentle, breathy laugh following shortly. Both knew what they wanted, but neither knew who should receive, who should give, creating a strange unsurety. Hands were easy, each knew where they wanted to be touched, where to pinch and soothe and squeeze. Lips were easy too, outside of a regular kiss, dipping to kiss at his favoured side of the neck, marks scattered as they took turns to litter the other with bruises and bites. 

Golden, leaking cocks rubbed against each other, pressed between warm bodies, twitching in anticipation. He gripped his cock, forehead pressing against his own, a familiar hand rubbing up and down his shaft, flicking at the wrist before pressing his thumb into the tip. He bit his lips, hands simultaneously stilling to stave off that quickly approaching release. It would seem the situation was just as stimulating as the actions themselves.

Familiar eyes gazed at each other as hands stroked to the base, thumb and forefinger circling, gripping tightly in a ring as they rubbed the lengths together, hips cantering ever-so-slightly. He’d had centuries to learn the intricacies of his own pleasure, knew that the prominent vein at the underside was so sensitive when partnered with an oncoming release. So they thrust,veins encouraged and pressed together as seeping tips lubricated the skin, soft and slick. 

He moaned - they moaned - breathing into each other's mouths tongues pressed together as they finally, frantically pumped one anothers cock, muscles clenching in tandem as they coated themselves in cum. One another cum, technically their own.

I'm replaying the Skyrim quest "The Black Star," and I find myself wondering why Azura, who can see the future, would direct her intended champion to a person who presumably opposes her goals.

If she can direct you to Winterhold, she could also have directed you to Ilinalta's Deep, and skipped Nelacar entirely. So why give him the chance to steer you toward turning the Star black?

We can all guess the metagame reasons, but in-universe, was she testing her would-be champion?

Did she WANT the Dragonborn to wield the Black Star - in which case, why not tell you so when you bring it to her?

It is, apart from Dagur’s meadhouse, the most prosperous establishment in Winterhold.

“Enthir,” she says to the soft creak of the door, not looking up from polishing the counter—she knows her first customer of the day by the way he stamps his boots on her worn rug. Behind her, just south of the moldstain shaped like a bird, a leak in the ceiling drips snowmelt into a pail. “My supplier won’t be back until the thaw, but if you let me know what you’d like me to order in—”

Her customer, cold-flushed and unshaven, silences her with a frantic flick of the hand. He glances left and right. Then he nods and leans so far over the counter that Birna, adopting a look of polite interest, can count the sparse hairs on his chin.

“I need—I need a cauldron,” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes. “A silver cauldron. Now, listen, it has to be silver, because hydrofluoric acid eats through most other substances. And I need three pear flasks, and a box of twelve or so test tubes, and a hatchet—”