#cereza

finally got some time to draw my umbran witches (drawing game attire can be challenging with its details ;-;) and I felt so damn satisfied with how this one turned out!!

might try drawing the first game next :)

━───────⊹⊱ ❝ The Art of Almost ❞ ⊰⊹───────━

ㅤㅤㅤ══⊹⊱≼ bayonetta × lumen sage!male!reader ≽

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : eventual smut . lengthy exposition . spoilers . fight scene . out of character . oral sex ( f & m receiving ) . face-sitting . p in v . multiple orgasms . rough sex . usage of powers . squirting . aftercare . spooning . google-translated spanish . overstimulation . soft!dom!reader . edging

“Spent already?”

“You really need to work on your stamina,” her gaze trailed down the undispersed remains of an angel — Fortutido, whose animal heads had been ripped gruesomely off their bodies, the remaining head of a torso left to mutter incoherently, “a little cardio perhaps?”

“Ah! We didn’t even have time for pillowtalk,” she tsked, sighing. “Even with 3 heads, you couldn’t have remotely good uses for them? What a shame.”

As the magic circle to Inferno materialised under the remains of Fortitudo; dark, clawed hands shooting out to pull the angel into the fiery depths, Bayonetta stood confident, one hand on her hip, her form an exaggerated contrapposto, her smirk ever-present.

She adjusted her glasses, a sheen quickly passing through as the magic circle disappeared.

“Pity,”

Bayonetta didn’t bother to look at the voice, her usual smirk widening when she hears the sound of boots hitting the concrete — obviously landing from a higher ground — letting the events fold out as is, the usual routine of cat-and-mouse returning once again.

“Mind if I cut in? I assure you aftercare is my forte.” You slinked yourself around her, circling her like a snake coiling itself around its prey; drawling the innuendos out as you rested your hands on her hips, your pelvis flush against her rotund bottom, bulge slotted perfectly between the leather-clad valleys.

“You’re early again,” she taunted, allowing your hands free range over her curves, even when you settle them over her breasts or sliding between her thighs, “keep that up and no woman would call you up a second time, darling.”

You chuckled with a smirk, “Who’s to say they don’t like seeing a man so smitten with them?” Slowly, you raised your hand in front of her face, palm bared. “I know you have a taste for the pathetic,” you twisted your hand, a lollipop conjuring itself out of nowhere.

One of her gloved hands reached out and swiped the sweet treat out of your fingers, instantly plopping it into her mouth, “I don’t have time for kittens, sunshine; Mummy likes the big cats.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed. “You’ve got a rather eagre kitten chasing after you.”

Loosening your hold on her to walk in front of her, peering down into her defiant gaze. “The more you dangle the toy in front of him, the more he’ll play into your little game.”

She walked past you, the clickety-clacking of her heels pairing with the metal of her boot-guns ringing through the vast space.

“You know I like to keep my toys on edge.”

You could only scoff at her remark, all-too familiar with that sentiment, speaking in time with her when she says: “Where would the fun be otherwise?”

“Cruel as ever, Cereza.” you caught up to her, sliding your hand around her waist to lean down into her ear: “You’re lucky that toy likes a little pain.”

Then you whisked her away, just in time before a barbed bulb with sharp teeth bashed itself where the two of you stood just before.

Another angel came to ruin the party.

Bayonetta instantly started firing at the colossal being, allowing you to throw her in the air for the height advantage, “I guess justice truly is blind. Or is that just your naughty little secret, love?”

The angel gave off a grunt as a reply, one of its worm-like limbs bolting down toward her suspended person, trying to slam her into the ground.

The barrage of bullets and slashes never stopped, continuously maddening the multi-limbed creature; even moreso that you had been put into the mix.

Clashes of light & dark illuminated the air, mercilessly striking each other down until one gives out or gets dragged down to Inferno.

.˳·˖✶

A clamoring of ungodly magnitude resonated, the earth shaking when Iustitia finally came down.

“Finished so soon?” another taunt by Bayonetta, a final bullet shot straight between the baby head’s eyes, the magic circle coming to existence right under it, instantly pulling the angel down.

“Round 2 just started,” she sighed, peering disapprovingly at the collapsed heap of the disappointment of an angel. “I thought you angels had no refractory period.”

The circle dissipated just in time to let the sunset glow in its gorgeous glory.

“Must the innuendos persist?” you sheathed your blade back into its scabbard, the finely-crafted gold on the hilt glinting under the sunset’s warm glow.

“We need a little excitement, darling.” Bayonetta blew over the muzzle of her pistols, pushing the last of the smoke away. “Can’t a woman please herself?”

You snickered, “That I cannot disagree with.”

With slow steps you stopped just behind the confident witch, pressed into her behind once again. And again she smirked.

“Are you an adrenaline junkie or a sadist, darling? Anytime we meet in these circumstances, you always seem so happy to see me.” She plopped the unfinished lolly back between her lips, and you knew her tongue was surely swirling around the glossy orb, the way she would around the head of your cock — a warmup, you’d call it.

“Happy’s a nice way to put it,” you spun her around, taking your time so you could admire the way the black hugged her figure like a second skin; stopping her once she’s looking right into your darkened gaze.

The next few moments were a silent battle of wills. Bayonetta had the advantage with her shiny, pink tongue still dancing tantalisingly around the slowly shrinking sweet, now moving it exactly the way she knew would make you cum in an instant.

She wins.

Your lips are on hers the second her lips part from the lollipop, a magic circle spawning right behind her, pushing the both of you in from the force of your weight onto hers.

Through the circle, Bayonetta finds her back settled on plush sheets, your hulking figure between her thick thighs.

The kiss continued, teeth and tongue added into the mix; so did your strained hips grinding into the seam between her folds. And as that friction intensified, the seam dug deeper into her perky clit, letting her moans spill into your mouth.

You ate every single one of them, the only form of communication happening between you two being the symphony of fucked-out sounds and every stutter of one’s hips into the other’s — the room practically fanning itself with how hot your intertwined bodies made the atmosphere fog up.

Like feral animals, the heat consumed your consciences, allowing the tension to pile up forthwith until sanity ripped at the seams and lust burst through.

The black of her catsuit pulled off her form, coming together and into the summoning circle above her as she chanted and muttered under her breath.

Had you been completely unraveled yourself, you would’ve been none the wiser. Fortunately, your sanity was still intact — barely — and when one of her familiars from Inferno was about to come out the other side of the circle, you cast a portal yourself and sent it back down Inferno, enveloping the familiar and her magic circle in a protective shield in case it formed enough to resist being pushed back.

Warbled screams were muffled by the force field, shrinking itself and the circle down as it slowly dissipated. And once it fully did, you looked back down at Bayonetta’s flushed form, the gaze in her eyes distracted but longing.

She climaxed.

Instead of teasing her further, you leant down to embrace her in place of your usual teasing, shushing gently into her ear and whispering sweet nothings — all attempts at bringing her back from her own Paradiso.

Your frequent skirmishes with her had let you see every little reaction she was willing to give. Perhaps you hadn’t discovered each and every single one of them, but this reaction of hers you knew.

Her eyes looked lost and distracted but reminiscent. Egging her on at this state would fall onto deaf ears, any touch would be lost on her; so trying to continue your game of poorly-disguised innuendos and teasing touches would prove no advantage nor instigation into the heat you both had amassed.

The only thing to do was to draw her out of the headspace, and the only way to do that was to coax her slowly out of it; like a gentle caress, or the leisurely song of a snakecharmer’s pungi.

And soon enough, her breaths started to quicken, a sign that she was slowly coming out of it and back into the moment.

“¿Has vuelto a mí, cerezita?” you kept leaving gentle pecks onto her reddened skin, the cool feel of your lips like little snowflakes falling gently onto her impassioned epidermis. “Estoy aquí. Vuelve a mí.”

“Mhm…” a slight hum came from her lips, faint but enough to assure you that she was back into your arms.

You pulled her closer into your arms, slipping your thigh between her legs to further comfort her with your presence, “Can my girl keep going?”

“Backing out already, darling?”

You smirked. She’s back.

“Why don’t you prove that, doll?” You left a faint bite on the nape of her neck, shooting a spike of adrenaline into her system.

With ease, she slipped out of your arms and onto her knees, sliding her fingers onto the fabric of your pants.

No words needed to be said; you sat up and lifted your hips, letting her pull the constraining garments off you and throwing them aside.

Each article gone served as a declaration: the more that came off, the harder you two would go. The slower they came off, the longer the nights would stretch. The more rips accumulated, the more cruel the sessions would turn out.

Soon enough, her hands started stroking up and down the length of your cock; hard, leaking, and at the verge of bursting. The swell of your scrotum was no better, twitching periodically whenever she’d squeeze or scrape her nails onto a vein.

Her tongue would lick any stray bead of precum up — off the side of your cock, from your sack, or from the inside of your thighs; but never swirling over the tip of your cock or digging into the slit where it gathered.

“It’s not a lollipop, sweetheart,” your fingers threaded through her silky locks; the tension in your hand clear. An even clearer debate of: let her continue or make her stop. “You can’t just— mmggh~ fuck—”

To say her mouth was heavenly was a grave blasphemy. Neither Purgatorio nor Inferno could define her salacious charm & ungodly sultriness. Her experience would classify her as one from Inferno; but the experience you gained was nothing short of divine, as if you were being pulled up into the ethereal realm full of joy & goodness.

She made it a point to tease not just the shaft. Like you taught her, she took her time indulging in your heavy sack, the skin twitching even under just her gaze.

From the way she so intently stared at your manhood in its entirety, one could only presume her eagreness to hop right onto it. But with the added slow descent of her gaze to your family jewels, it convinced you to believe that she wanted more than just your girth inside her. And perhaps even a step further from that.

“You can’t just lick around and– and— agh~”

Your struggles were simply met with a smirk on her cherry-kissed lips, the pigment smearing outside the borders of the soft flesh, a sheen smearing down her chin; a likely heady mix of her drool, your precum, and the viscous glitter from her gloss.

It was no help that whenever she’d stop at a certain fraction on your length, red branded your veiny, bulging member like a ruler and a challenge.

Clearly.

Even when she’d taken two-thirds, she didn’t stop there. Even when the head of your cock presses into the roof of her mouth. You couldn’t tell whether she was playing games with you or truly struggling to take the girth of your drenched cock.

Worst part was when she’d come up for air. Instead of stroking quickly to keep the pace, she’d retrieve the lollipop from between her cleavage to drag over parts of your shaft. Especially the bulging veins.

To keep the sticky sheen, she’d plop the sweet into her mouth to warm it up. Once she deemed it was ready, she’d drag it around. Your tip, the veins, the folds in your scrotum or even your inner thighs, she knew what she was doing.

Then she’d slip the stick back between her sweat-slicked breasts where it’d wait its time before inevitably coming back out to lather your heated skin in the sugary sweet treat.

And between each ‘sugarcoating’, she’d swirl her tongue over the glimmering trails to — as she’d say — “clean the mess up”.

Easy for her to say.

Each droplet of slaver that dissolved the sweet streaks from the candy felt more surreal. The coat of sugar somehow padded your oversensitive skin, almost preparing you for the real thing. But because of its persistence, her tongue would press harder; her lips would close tighter; the suction stronger to rid the ‘coating’.

Your translucent precum didn’t help either. In fact, it simply added another layer which made the ravenette try even harder.

“I’m close,” you breathed out with difficulty. Her constant tormenting of slamming your cock as hard and as deep as she could into her throat punched out the air in your lungs every time you felt the back of her throat or whenever her lips made contact with your pelvis.

When your hips started moving into her mouth, she made no effort to tease or stop you. As much as you were desperate, she was too. Her mind blanked, the only thing flickering under her clouded thoughts was simply to indulge and make good on her own fixation.

So when you burst, “Fuck—!!” flooding her oesophagus with your thick, heavy, bountiful load & painting the inside of her maw completely white, her sense returned to her (though the swallowing was reflexive) and you were thankful for her not prolonging the overstimulation.

After the last globs of your release ebbed away, and the twitching of your oversensitive phallus died down; only then did she pull off. A wet pop resonated through the room, whatever she couldn’t swallow dripping out of her and onto the stone floor, your cock thinly coated in your semen and her drool.

A few minutes of ragged panting managed to cover any reflective or metallic surface in fog, droplets of condensation trailing their way down — like your gaze as you helped the enchantress off her knees; not failing to notice the puddle she’d managed to amass right where she was.

Once you settled her back onto the bed, you slipped a pillow under her hips, her hips instantly relaxing into the plush object.

Pulling back, you admired the sight in front of you. Her legs spread, her hair falling down her back like a river of black ink, the slight tremble in her figure as a trail of her own precum made its way out of her and stopped over the bulge of her engorged, swollen clit.

Unbeknownst to you, your gaze had zeroed in on her, letting only the sounds her puffy pussy made seep into your conscience.

You swore you could hear the flutters of her cunt, the wetness squelching with every passing second, and as if it had a mind of its own, you swore you heard every time a new droplet of stream of her slick pushed itself out of her cavern.

You didn’t even realise it when you’d lick a flat stripe up her folds, latching onto her vaginal opening, licking and sucking up the slick straight from the source.

You were so lost in her sweet, wet pussy that you failed to notice her grabbing onto your discarded cloak to bring it into her arms; needing some comfort and definitely needing an anchor to hold her down because if it were possible, she was sure that she’d have ascended to Purgatorio from just your mouth.

She buried her face into the thick material, inhaling your familiar musk like her life depended on it. And when you picked up the pace or brought her closer to new heights, she’d grip onto the cloak (and your tongue) tighter and tighter; her brows furrowed so deep.

Meanwhile, you devoured her. She was soft, warm, sweet. A little gummy too; which made you nibble on those parts or tongue it down in hope of it softening. The sounds you both made were never short of deviant. Anytime your chin, lips, or tongue (even teeth) would graze or catch onto her puffy clit, she’d keen & tremble, spurts of her release filling your mouth.

And to her? It felt thousands— even millions of times worse. Every time she’d nearly reached a high, she’d slip into Witch Time in hopes of calming herself down enough or to brace for the impact. But with her nerves on end, she did nothing but — in fact — worsen the experience, letting her feel you a thousand times more than usual. And before long, she’d managed to keep you both in Witch Time through her multiple orgasms, finding your devoted devouring of her shame as addicting as it is detrimental.

Time blurred into itself and though it felt like a second to you when you snapped back into reality, the same couldn’t be said for Bayonetta.

With a line of drool connecting the tip of your tongue to her swollen entrance, she disabled Witch Time and sank further into the comfort of the bed.

Your eyes gazed over her, miffed by what had happened to the point where the entire lower half of the bed was essentially drenched and dripping. They were a mix of cold and warm, colder in certain areas and warmer the closer it was to her legs.

It would be common sense to assume that it was from multiple orgasms but how could it explain the space it drenched?

She squirted.

The thought clicked into your mind. And from the looks of it, she did it more than once; some clearly more violent than others.

You crawled atop her and gently pushed her cheek to look back at you. “Still with me?”

Your hold was gentle, attentive, ready to stop should she even shake her head at the question.

But she didn’t.

With her remaining strength in her arms, she pushed herself up to put her lips onto yours, sending you both into a slow, soft dance of swollen lips and breathy sounds.

“Do you still want to keep going?” you murmured between kisses, rubbing up and down her hip as part apology and part comfort.

“How could I refuse such a gentleman?” you chuckled. You knew she was trying to put up a front. Her body was clearly worn out but you knew that she didn’t want you to hold back either.

But you were not a forceful man. What’s the fun of putting your bed partner into situations they can’t save themselves from? Or pushing them to the edge of a cliff they don’t wish to dive off of? For whatever reason, you made a mental note to be gentle. Because even if Bayonetta was worn out; she still needed your cock inside her. So, you gently spread her folds apart with your index & middle finger; watching and listening closely for any indicators that things needed to stop right then and there.

You were awarded a shaky whimper and a breathy exhale. The former was her nerves fraying at the edges, but the latter came from her satisfaction, a comforted one. She could still go for more.

After a few strokes to your impossibly hard cock, you placed it against her entrance, spreading her open, “Ready?” It took a few moments for her to collect herself. Luckily, you were patient. You stayed there, waiting for any confirmation. And when she gave a weak nod, you slid the tip in, letting her ride the overstimulation out. Her hips bucked into the pillow still under her as she further buries her face into your bunched-up & slightly wet cloak.

It was a long and arduous process. You could barely slip an inch in when she’d start clenching and fluttering almost maniacally. Or when she’d start thrashing or screaming. Sometimes you had to hold part of her down and comfort her with sweet nothing whispered into her ear, kneading her flesh, pulling out slightly to not overwhelm her.

Any time she’d nearly fall over the edge, you had to stop. You had no intention of edging her but if she did hit that peak each time, she’d have long been unconscious or taken even longer to accept your intrusion.

Once all of it went inside her, you let out a ragged breath, relieved and needy. Somehow she was even tighter due to the strain on her body. You’d think she’d have moulded herself to be a perfect fit for you but miraculously? Her body always knew what you both wanted. Even if it was at the cost of sanity, neither of you could say no to these skirmishes.

Inside her gummy walls, your fat tip somehow always kisses that spongy spot inside her with way too much ease. The pressure was torment and pure sin, any movement — back or forth — would not free her from the sensations as, somehow, the head of your cock would still be digging into her sweet spot.

Her needy cunt continued to expel her juices in weak spurts, coating your already slick cock in more than enough lubrication. It allowed you to thrust easier but you’d save that for later.

You opted for slow, shallow grinds, your sticky tip putting even more pressure into her g-spot, every push of your hips taunting her to go over the edge once again.

Every shlick, squelch, schlerp, echoed through the room. Had the fluffy sheets not been soft enough for Bayonetta’s head to sink into, the room would sound of a solo concerto and you wouldn’t be able to figure out whether the solo instrument here was her every wail, whimper & whine; or perhaps every wet sound her sweet, sore cunt had to offer.

Whatever it was, you conducted this piece, moving in ways that would make both her and her body sing.

Faster thrusts. Slower grinds.

You went back and forth: opposite forces, aligning ones, all pacing her properly to go through the three movements (or perhaps more) typical of a concerto, following the pace and form religiously.

.˳·˖✶

One orgasm after the other, it was unclear whether the puddle of cream where you were joined was hers or yours. Or at least, whose release it mostly consisted of.

Where it was more transparent and lacking in viscosity, it was clear that it was the liquid that came from aggravating the skene glands. But when it came to the actual white liquid, it was impossible to tell. Every shift, grind, and thrust sloshed and bonded the liquid particles together to form into one intoxicating concoction (should anyone decide to take a whiff or drink it up).

It was unclear, however, just how long and intense this specific meet-up of yours was. Not only was the bed contaminated, but practically every conceivable surface in the room you were both in. Some parts were still slick with your releases, but even under those puddles, there were dry patches that laid under them that may or may not have returned to their liquid state when more was piled onto it.

The smell of sex permeated the air; humid and perhaps even fogged.

Despite the slower pace you took as Bayonetta had her legs bracketing each side of your head, the heat never diminished.

Your every groan was swallowed by her glistening cunt, the sound of her shame somehow louder than yours. Not that either of you could tell. Bayonetta’s hand weakly held onto the sweat-streaked strands of your hair, moving it in a circular motion — trying to guide it, clearly — with her hips firmly planted onto your lips. The unwilling bucking of her hips kept coming and going, dependent on where your tongue hit or where your lips latched onto.

At this point, her lower body was completely numb, so even if her body was attempting to fight against her will or if it was screaming at her to stop, she just couldn’t feel it. Even the heaviness of her limbs was no longer tangible. All that was left was the tightening in her core when she was reaching yet another peak. And as mind-breaking as every orgasm was, they were the only thing that convinced her mind and body that she was still alive.

One hand held onto her thigh while the other pushed against her stomach, you attempted to try and help her stay seated upright. Whenever she was nearing another peak and after she let the edge crash down onto her, her body would go slack (and the weakness would increase with every climax) so it was the only way to avoid her falling flat on her face or hitting her head onto any hard surface; your mind splitting to task yourself with keeping her up and cleaning your combined releases out of her sore, overworked cunt — with the help of her releases pushing the old out and replacing them with the new.

Still, her body couldn’t keep giving and eventually, the tank ran out.

Her breathing was an odd mix of laboured and shallow, and her mind somehow blank but not light. It didn’t even register when you slid her off your face and onto her back. Nor did it register when you walked away from the bed.

She was lost in nothingness, her pupils dilated like she was under some sort of influence. Somehow, her vision was blurred and it made no difference when you took her glasses and placed it aside. She couldn’t feel as you replaced the sheets or gently cleaned her up, being particularly careful between her thighs and her chest.

With a softness completely unlike the intense events that only ended moments ago, you took the time to wipe the sweat off her feverish skin and even muttered incantations under your breath, allowing your hand to hover-drag over her body, magic circles made of light appearing over bruises, bite marks, and any blemishes that required healing; the sight of the burst blood vessels closing back together both settling relief into your conscience and poking at your ego.

You’d have much preferred to see her skin marred with the proof of your bodies tangled together but you knew better than that. And you refused to be the reason why she might have gotten killed in action or sustained injuries unlike her flawless record.

Then you heard light snoring from her, shifting your focus from her body to her face, a smile appearing on your face after spotting the serene expression on her face, deep in sleep.

You had intended to help her drink water to replenish her body but you couldn’t afford to disrupt her well-earned rest so you let her slumber, slipping behind her — throwing the new blanket over both your figures — and wrapping your arms around the small curve of her waist burying your nose into her neck, slowly sliding your thigh between hers — but not pressing into her core — to reduce pressure on her sensitive parts. Then you took one last glance at the pitcher and glass of water on the bedside table, making a mental note to help her rehydrate whenever she wakes up.

A final peck to her skin and you held her close, falling prey to the sweet lull of slumber, a negligible quirk of your lips coming at the thought that this was definitely not the last time you two would lay together.

© MOROSENTHAL ꒷꒦︶ ๋ 2026 ꒷꒦︶꒷ : : DO NOT use, plagiarise, copy, steal, repost, feed to ai for training, etc. for any of my works. layouts & themes are credited to me, do not copy or take inspiration from those either.