---------Shaadi Mubarak---------
- Bittoo Sharma x reader (5/5)
parts - 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Note: This blog is intended for adults (18+). If you’re a minor or an ageless account, please refrain from interacting.
The month that followed was a slow, agonising slide into grayscale. The office, once vibrating with Bittoo’s loud laughter and the frantic, hopeful energy of a burgeoning empire, felt like a hollow shell. Shruti barely spoke to you, her silence a heavy, suffocating blanket of disappointment. The 'Shaadi Mubarak' spirit had evaporated; they were no longer creators of dreams, just labourers in the wedding industry. To cover the mounting debts from botched contracts and the loss of Bittoo’s vendor-negotiation magic, Shruti had been forced to sell the yellow car,the very symbol of their first big success. Every time you saw the empty spot in the driveway, the guilt clawed at your throat.
You spent your days buried in spreadsheets, your body feeling increasingly like lead. You blamed the exhaustion on the stress, the skipped meals, and the haunting memory of Bittoo’s cold departure. But then, the world literally tilted. During a tense meeting with a florist, the room's colours swirled into a sickening blur. You collapsed before you could even call Shruti’s name.
When you woke up, the sterile smell of the hospital was overwhelming. Shruti was sitting by the bed, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching a crumpled lab report. "Yn… tu pagal hai kya?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Do mahine hone ko aaye… aur tune apna dhyaan nahi rakha? Doctor keh rahe hain ki tu weak hai. Par unhone ek aur baat kahi." She paused, a tear finally escaping. "You’re pregnant, Yn. Four weeks."
The world stopped. A tiny life, a permanent bridge between you and the man you had driven away. Shruti didn't wait for your reaction. She stood up, her jaw set with a sudden, fierce determination. "Bohot ho gaya dimaag ka khel. Main abhi Bittoo ko phone kar rahi hoon. Usey dukan sambhalna hai toh sambhale, par apna bacha aur apni kismat yahan chhod ke nahi ja sakta."
On the other end of the line, in the dusty heat of Saharanpur, Bittoo listened as Shruti yelled, cried, and finally pleaded. "Bittoo, woh mar rahi hai guilt mein! Usey teri zaroorat hai… aur tere bache ko bhi. Woh tujhse pyaar karti hai, gadhe! Aa ja wapas!"
Three hours later, the doors of the ward swung open. Bittoo stood there, covered in dust from the highway, his hair disheveled. When his eyes found yours, the coldness vanished. He ran to the bedside, falling to his knees. "Yn… sach hai?" he choked out, his forehead resting against your knuckles. "Mera… hamara?"
"Bittoo, I'm so sorry," you sobbed. "Main darr gayi thi. Maine sab kharab kar diya."
"Chup! Ekdum chup!" he commanded, his voice thick with tears. He stood up and tucked a hair behind your ear, his touch possessive"Main kahin nahi ja raha aur tujhe bhi kahin jaane nahi dunga. Ab se tu aur yeh 'chhota bread-pakoda' mera zimmedari he."
The reunion didn't just heal your heart; it resuscitated Shaadi Mubarak. With Bittoo back, the business didn't just thrive , it exploded. They were no longer just planning weddings in Janakpuri; they were the kings and queens of Delhi’s elite farmhouse events. The yellow car was bought back within a month, shinier than ever. But the biggest event on the calendar wasn't for a client, it was for themselves.
The day of the wedding was a riot of colors. Bittoo had gone all out, helicopter entry, the best catering in Delhi, and enough marigolds to cover the city. As you stood in front of the mirror in your heavy red lehenga, Shruti walked in, adjusting your dupatta with a smirk.
"Dekh lo, Manager Sahiba," Shruti teased, poking your cheek. "Badi aayi thi har baat mein 'Binness rule' ka gyaan dene wali. Aaj usi partner ke saath phere le rahi he? Maine kaha tha na, Bittoo ke charm se koi nahi bach pata. Ab toh sign kar diya nh contract? Lifetime wali partnership hai yeh."
"Shruti, please," you blushed, looking at your reflection.
"Arre, sharma mat! "Shruti teased, "Bittoo bahar baraat mein aise naach raha hai jaise usne koi multi-crore ki deal sign kar li ho. Keh raha hai ki topper ko finally backbencher ne pata hi liya!"
The ceremony was a blur of laughter and marigolds. When Bittoo tied the mangalsutra around your neck, he leaned in, his voice a low vibration that only you could hear. "Ab toh bhag ke dikha, Manager Sahiba. Ab toh license mil gaya hai mujhe tere dimaag ko thoda rest dene ka."
The room was thick with the scent of crushed tuberoses and the lingering heat of a Delhi summer night, but inside these four walls, the only atmosphere that mattered was the heavy, territorial tension radiating from Bittoo. He didn't just walk you into the room; he maneuvered you, his hand a permanent fixture on the small of your back, guiding you with a silent, simmering authority that told you the playful groom from the mandap had been replaced by a man who had waited far too long to reclaim what was his. The moment the heavy teak door clicked shut, the silence was deafening, broken only by the rustle of your heavy silk lehenga and the ragged edge of his breathing.
He didn't give you a chance to move toward the mirror or reach for the heavy jewellery that weighed you down. Instead, he crowded your space, backing you against the door until the wood pressed into your spine. His hands came up, not to gently stroke your face, but to frame it with a possessive grip, his thumbs digging slightly into your cheeks to tilt your face up to his. "Ab bol na, Topper," he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet rasp that sent shivers racing down your arms. "Badi 'Binness Rules' wali bani phirti thi... ab kahan gaya tera woh logic? Aaj toh tu sirf meri hai, aur main tera saara rules nikaal ke rahunga."
Before you could even draw a breath to respond, his mouth crashed onto yours. It wasn't a tentative or sweet kiss; it was a desperate, hungry demand. He kissed you like a man starving, his tongue sweeping past your lips to claim every corner of your mouth with a fierce, punishing heat. One hand tangled deep into your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp into his mouth, while the other slid down your back, hauling your hips flush against his until there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between you. "Bohat tadpaya hai tune mujhe," he growled against your lips, his breath hot and frantic. "Itne mahine jo main mara hoon na... uska hisaab ek ek pal karke loonga aaj."
His hands, calloused and burning, began the slow, torturous process of navigating the hooks of your blouse. Every time his fingertips brushed your bare skin, you felt a jolt of pure electricity. He didn't just undress you; he marked you. His lips left the safety of your mouth to trail a path of fire down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck with a sharp, possessive nip that you knew would leave a dark bloom by morning. "Yeh nishaan dekh kar kal jab tu taiyaar hogi na, tab tujhe yaad aayega ki Bittoo Sharma se panga lene ka anjaam kya hota hai," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. He moved lower, his kisses becoming more frantic and heavy, his hands mapping the curve of your waist as if memorizing every inch of the territory he had almost lost.
When he finally lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and he carried you to the bed without breaking the searing contact of his lips on your skin. Bittoo’s grip was unyielding, his large hands pinning your wrists against the pillows as he claimed the mattress like a king reclaiming a lost throne. His hunger was primal, stripped of all the playful banter of the wedding day. His mouth moved from the heated, pulsing skin of your neck to the heavy, aching swell of your breasts with a desperate, starved intensity. He took them with a raw, rhythmic suction, his hands bruisingly firm as they kneaded your soft flesh, as if trying to memorise your shape through his palms. When a sharp jolt of sensitised pain flared through you, you gasped, your body arching in a frantic, instinctive attempt to push him away, but he only tightened his hold. He ignored your whimpers, his teeth grazing your skin to leave dark, possessive marks, ensuring every inch of you felt the weight of his absolute reclamation.
"Chup," he growled against your damp skin, his voice thick with a dark, territorial heat. "Abhi toh shuruat hai, Topper. Maine kaha tha na? Ek-ek pal ka hisaab loonga. Tu sirf meri hai, aur aaj main tujhe bata ke rahunga ki tu kiski bandi hai." He surged against you again, his mouth returning to its frantic, punishing worship, leaving you breathless under the sheer force of his obsession. Slowly, he released your wrists only to let his hands roam downward, his fingers hooking firmly into the waistband of your underwear. With a slow, relentless force, he tugged them down, his touch heavy and possessive, leaving you paralysed as he stripped away the final barrier between you.
He kicked away his own clothes with a jagged, trembling impatience, his movements raw and fueled by months of hollow nights. As he stood over you for a heartbeat, the sheer intensity of his gaze was enough to pin you to the mattress, more effective than any physical weight. A cold shiver raced down your spine as his eyes raked over your nakedness, dark and predatory. Without even laying a finger on you yet, his silent, territorial stare made it clear you were trapped. He hovered over you again, a heavy, scorching weight that finally anchored you to the bed. He framed your face with his large palms, caressing your cheeks with a devotion that felt almost holy before kissing you breathlessly. "Ab se… sirf meri he tu," he vowed against your mouth, a gravelly promise. "Kahin nahi jaane doonga ab."
With a sudden shift, he parted your legs and wrapped them tightly around his waist, locking you to him so there was no possibility of retreat. While one hand remained pinned beside your head, his other hand wandered down, busy and impatient as he guided himself against your entrance. He lowered himself slowly, watching your expression with a dark focus, before inserting himself with a single, firm surge of force. The sensation made you gasp, your breath hitching in a throat tight with emotion. It was deeper, more intense than anything you remembered , a physical manifestation of all the months of longing. You felt incredibly tight, every nerve ending screaming under the pressure of him. Your fingers fisted the soft silk of the bedsheets so tightly that your knuckles turned white. As he began to move, a single tear escaped, tracking a path down your cheeks , not from pain, but from the insane pleasure of being whole again. Bittoo let out a low, guttural groan, leaning down to catch that tear with his lips.
He moved within you with a calculated, maddening rhythm , alternating between firm, deep thrusts and an agonizingly slow pace that teased you toward the edge. He reached up, gripping the ornate headboard with white-knuckled intensity, his movements becoming powerful and relentless. The pleasure was so sharp that a broken scream escaped your lips. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with a dark, territorial pride. "Aur chillao," he commanded, his voice a gravelly growl. "Mujhe sunna hai… batao mujhe, tum kiski ho?" Driven to the brink, you locked your legs around his waist, your nails digging deep into his back. "Sirf… sirf tumhari, Bittoo," you sobbed. "Sirf tumhari hoon main."
Just as the waves of your climax began to crest, he suddenly withdrew. The abrupt emptiness left you wide-eyed and gasping, your body trembling with unfinished lightning. You reached out blindly, fingers clutching at his shoulders to pull him back, but he caught your wrists, pinning them again as he hovered over you, dark and triumphant. "Tsk… itni jaldi bhi kya hai?" he murmured, a predatory smirk tugging at his lips. "Tune mujhe bohot tadpaya hai, Topper. Ab meri baari hai."
"Bittoo… please!" you whimpered, your hips arching instinctively in search of his warmth. "Mujhse aur sabar nahi ho raha… please."
"Tadap," he whispered, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. "Tujhe mujhse mangna padega. Bol, kya chahiye tujhe?"
"Tum chahiye… tumhare siva mujhe aur kuch nahi chahiye," you pleaded, your voice breaking as the heavy, agonizing emptiness between your bodies felt like a physical ache. "Please, Bittoo… I love you."
At those words, the predatory hardness in his gaze finally fractured into a thousand shimmering pieces. His eyes softened, glassing over with a raw, vulnerable moisture as a triumphant yet tender smile touched his lips. He looked down at you as if you were the only thing in the world that held any truth. "Aur ek baar bol," he whispered, his voice thick and choked. "Dobara bol, kulfi. Mere liye."
"I love you, Bittoo," you choked out, your own eyes overflowing as you reached up. Your fingers trembled, caressing his damp cheeks and pulling him down to press a soft, lingering kiss against his lips , a kiss that carried the weight of every apology since the day he left. Bittoo let out a shaky, jagged breath against your mouth, his soul finally finding its anchor. With a fluid, dominant grace, he shifted, softly flipping you over until your chest pressed into the cool, smooth silk of the bedsheets. The vulnerability of the position made your breath hitch, your back arching instinctively as you felt the searing heat of his frame hovering over you. His hands, large and warm, began to caress your bottom with a firm, possessive reverence, mapping the curves he had dreamt of for months. His knees were firmly planted on the mattress, framing your hips with a solid, unshakeable strength that made escape impossible.
"Ab dekhna, main tujhe kaise sambhalta hoon," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your nape. He lowered himself, his body a heavy, protective shroud, and entered you again with a slow, deliberate softness that felt more intense than any force. He didn't just fill the void; he claimed it. His right hand remained braced beside your head, his knuckles white against the bed, while his other hand reached around your side, finding your breast and claiming it with a tight, possessive grip. He held you there, his fingers digging into your soft skin as if to remind you that every part of you was under his command. As he began to move, the rhythm was no longer a punishment but a slow-burning devotion. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin in a series of heated, worshipful nips. Every thrust was deep and steady, his hand on your breast tightening with every surge, grounding you both to the bed. He held you with such fierce, suffocating intensity that it felt as though he were trying to merge your two heartbeats into one. In the quiet of the room, the only sound was his ragged breath in your ear and the creak of the bed, a steady rhythm that proved you were completely and forever his.
The room was silent now, save for the frantic ticking of the wall clock and the heavy, synchronized thrum of two hearts gradually finding their rhythm again. After what felt like an eternity of feverish motion, a blurring sequence of positions where Bittoo had moved with a relentless, desperate hunger to reclaim every hidden corner of your soul, the storm finally broke. He had pushed you both to the absolute brink, his strength unyielding as he sought to erase the months of grayscale distance with the sheer heat of his skin. Finally, spent and trembling, he collapsed onto the damp sheets beside you, his breath coming in jagged, shallow hitches that rattled against the quiet of the new house.
But even in his exhaustion, his possessiveness didn't waver for a second. With a low, guttural sound of contentment, he reached out and hauled you toward him, his muscles straining as he tucked your limp, pliant body into his side. He didn't just want you near; he wanted you fused to him. Your head was pressed firmly against his broad, sweat-slicked chest, the rhythmic thud-thud of his heart acting as a grounding drumbeat against your ear. His skin was scorching, a lingering testament to the fire he had just put you through, and the scent of sandalwood and raw, honest exertion clung to you both like a second skin.
His hand, large and calloused, found its way to the crown of your head, his fingers threading through your tangled hair with a reverence that felt almost like a prayer. He began to stroke your hair softly, his touch a sharp contrast to the bruising intensity of the hours before. Between the slow, rhythmic caresses, he leaned down, pressing his lips to the top of your head again and again. Each kiss was lingering and firm, a silent, repetitive confirmation that you weren't a dream, that the "Topper" who had almost slipped through his fingers was back in his arms where she belonged. "Yahin hai na tu?" he whispered against your hair, his voice a broken, gravelly thread of sound. "Kahin nahi ja rahi ab… pakka na?"
As he held you, his other hand began a slow, deliberate journey. It left the heavy, sensitized swell of your breast, where his thumb had been tracing possessive circles, and slid downward with agonizing slowness. His palm trailed over your ribs, feeling the frantic rise and fall of your lungs, until it finally came to rest over the gentle, barely-there curve of your belly. His hand was so warm it felt like it was glowing, his fingers spreading wide to cover as much of you as possible.
This was the bridge, the tiny, growing life that had finally forced the walls down. His hand remained there, heavy and protective, as he felt the warmth of your skin beneath his palm. The man who had spent the night marking you as his own now seemed to soften at the edges, his touch turning devotional as he acknowledged the blessing of both your loves blooming within you. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated peace, his grip on you tightening just a fraction more. In that dark, quiet room, with his hand on your stomach and your breath mingling with his, the world outside-the business, the debts, the wedding industry- simply ceased to exist. There was only the weight of his body, the heat of the bed, and the profound, silent realization that the past had been replaced by a much older, much more permanent law: you were his, he was yours, and the rest of your life together had only just begun.
"Waise, Topper… tune toh kaha tha ki kaam ke beech romance nahi hona chahiye," he teased, his hand resting protectively over your stomach. "Ab dekh, shaadi bhi ho gayi, bacha bhi aane wala hai, aur binness bhi top pe hai. Iska logic hai tere paas?"
Hiding your face in his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. "Nahi hai, Bittoo. Tum jeet gaye."
"Jeet toh hum dono ki hai," he whispered, kissing your forehead. "Shaadi Mubarak ho, Manager Sahiba. Kyunki hamari baraat toh ab zindagi bhar chalegi.
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