‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…..‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀
forever ever. onyankopon.
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 16.5K, southern coded!black characters, original!blackfemreader, pouty!blackfemreader, southernbelle!blackfem reader, shy!femreader, mortician!blackfemreader, fiancè!blackfemreader, fiancè!onyankopon, firefighter!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, slightly tipsy sex!, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, pussy eating, squirting, creaming, doggy style, standing missionary, slightly submissive ony during sex? teehee, wedding!, family issues and drama, talks of religion, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。—hi, lol. so i’m not even gon’ hold you, i worked my ass off on this fic. ‘think this is probably my best wedding fic fr. seeing that it’s a little longer than any recent fic i’ve done, bear with me. blood, sweat, + tears—hours of editing, just to get this out for y’all. this is the second part to hot to go! first part, here. anyways, this is actually inspired by one of my favorite comfort films, jumping the broom. and the title is inspired by trippie redd’s song. y’all better give me love, long reviews, and long commentaries, and long comments for this one, lol ! i need you to be taking notes ! love y’all so much. this is for you.
YOU WERE THE DELINEATION OF BEAUTY. Caramel skin with a mixture of umber freckles dusted across your flushed cheeks like cinnamon, Burmese curl pattern cascading in a flip over of deep ginger tresses—you were like autumn itself—mixtures of browns, oranges, vanillas and spices being your imagery wrapped into one southern belle.
You stand before the full length mirror, honeyed gaze tracing every delicate curve and contour of your reflection. Your baby pink vintage milkmaid dress hugs every sinful dip of your body, sweetheart neckline threatening to surrender under the weight of your heavy tits, plush and begging for attention. A dainty satin bow sits at the center, tugging just enough to tease—like it knew its purpose was decoration before destruction.
Louboutin ballerina heels gleam under the light, each satin silk ribbon wrapped around your ankles like a lover’s whisper—delicate yet possessive. French tipped nails ghost over the golden charm bracelet resting on your wrist—his first gift to you—a silent testament to softness amidst all this luxury. And finally? Eyes frame kittenish lashes—long enough to cast shadows when you blink— deep, pink lips as crushed as rose petals part in quiet awe.
“Baby, yo’ phone ringin’ off the hook.”
His voice rumbles from downstairs, thick and syrupy like molasses poured over gravel—the kind of tone that settles warm in your belly before it even hits your ears.
You glide down the stairs, the satin bows at your ankles fluttering with each step like they’re trying to keep up.
And there he is.
Onyankopon—sprawled at the kitchen table like a king holding court over paperwork. Cornrows neat and tucked back, his deep umber skin is a canvas of ink—tattoos crawling up his neck, swirling along his collarbones, that one stark on his temple—a relic from another life etched in permanence.
His goatee frames full lips— reading glasses perch low on his nose. A black tee strains around his shoulders, muscles flexing as he scribbles something on paperwork while murmuring First Person Shooter by Drake that plays lowly within the back; pajama pants loose but still managing to outline just enough. Bully—his hulking Cane Corso—flops lazily at Onyankopon’s feet as he usually did.
He doesn’t even look up yet. When those heavy lidded eyes finally drag over you—they stop. A smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth as he leans back in the chair.
“Lookin’ too muhfuckin’ pretty, Mama.”
“Really?”
You playfully twist your fingers against your dress, “You like it?”
He then grunts, “You know a nigga like it.”
Bully barks approval beside him like even he knows better than to lie about perfection.
That’s when Onyankopon then rasps, “C’mere.”
You giggle as you do a slow spin for him, “You’re distracting me from my fashion show!”
You bite back a smile as he adjusts the heavy tip of his dick subtly in those pajama pants, clearing his throat hard enough for theatrics before muttering something about "Damn Louboutins gon’ get you in trouble. Should’ve never bought em’.”
But instead, he nods towards the counter where your phone buzzes again.
"Forreal’ though," he grunts through half-hearted annoyance, "’Shit soundin’ like an alarm."
Your heels click clack against the hardwood as you bounce towards him, hips swaying with each step like you’re putting on a show just for him—because let’s be real, you are.
You then bend over right in his face, your plush ass jiggling temptingly close to his lap as your manicured fingers stretch for the phone. The dress rides up just enough to give him a sinful peek of your lacey thong—your greedy ass man doesn’t even blink. He growls low in his throat at the sight—his hand flying up quick to smack your ass so hard it echoes through the kitchen.
“Onyan—!” You squeal, scrambling away from him with breathless laughter while he leans back looking way too satisfied with himself.
Still pouting playfully, you swipe answer on FaceTime—instantly greeted by Ruya's honeyed voice—“Damn, bitch. Why yo’ titties out like that?"
Kimora cuts in before Lola even gets a word out, “The Louboutins’ are eating, sis!”
Laughter and compliments flood the screen as they all gush over how soft and pretty you look. It’s positive energy from your best friends at a constant, your excitement bubbling at spending time with them. Until—
"About bouquet class? We can’t make it.”
Your smile falters, lips twisting into a pout that would make a grown man weak.
"All of you? Why?”
Ruya is the first one to speak up, “I’m busy with the baby," she says apologetically.
Kimora adds in, "My husband needs me to drive him to the airport because of some out of town business."
Lola chimes in last, “I’ve got a stomach ache, sorry babe. I can already feel the diarrhea coming on."
Your eyes narrow, disbelief creasing your face as you throw a hand on your hip.
“Reservations are in one hour—this is a private class! Y’all are really gonna leave me sitting there alone like some loser with no friends?" Your voice lilts in exasperation, the pitch climbing with every word.
Ruya’s smirk pops up on screen, her brows wiggling mischievously.
"Sorry, bookie. Maybe you can take that fine hunk of chocolate sitting behind you?"
You scoff dramatically, twisting around to glance at him still sprawled at the table like a content jungle cat—pen between his fingers now paused mid air as he watches this unfold with quiet amusement.
“Oh please,” you dismiss, “He would hate sipping wine and listening to me yap about stupid shit while arranging peonies.”
Onyankopon smacks his lips from his seat, leaning back enough for his chair to creak under his weight.
“Lawd, twist my arm harder next time. A nigga would rather do anythin’ else than spend time with his woman, huh?”
Ruya smirks, “See? Problem solved."
"Text us pictures of him holding baby’s breath’s!”
Lola chimes in last, “And don't forget pictures of you in that pretty outfit!”
You open your mouth to protest, but they all evil cackle and hang up before you can even get a word out. A heavy sigh blows through your lips as you dramatically roll your eyes heavenward—traitors.
Defeated, you shuffle over to Onyankopon and plop right into his lap, legs dangling off the side as he barely flinches beneath your weight.
Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout, “You don't have to go if you don't want to.”
“A nigga would go to hell an’ back if that meant bein’ somewhere wit’ you.”
You giggle when his lips playfully suck a kiss into the soft skin of your throat—his way of leaving an invisible claim, a sense of love. Always.
“If you behave today,” you whisper mischievously into his ear, fingers curling in the back of his braids, “Maybe you’ll get to pull the string on my dress later.”
That does it.
His whole body tenses under yours before he suddenly snarls, lunging for you like a beast unleashed—hands gripping your waist as he stands abruptly from the chair with you still clinging to him. You shriek laugh his name as Bully takes off down the hallway, gravity betraying the both of you and—BAM!
You hit the floor in a tangled mess of limbs and laughter.
