Oil glistens on every curve in azael helltaker, turning her skin into liquid gold. She massages it in slowly, palms sliding over nipples, down the V of her hips, between slick thighs in azael helltaker. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in azael helltaker. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of azael helltaker. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only azael helltaker could orchestrate. When she comes in azael helltaker, the oil makes her quiver look like ripples across a golden pond. Spent and glowing, she traces lazy hearts on her stomach, the final intimate signature of azael helltaker.