Baddies of Balochistan
[Ft. the Baloch Family]
To diversify revenue streams of a business model; just model
A/N: a complete crack fic based on this post 😭✋🏽
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters and events are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning: humour, fluff, smut, implied smut, making out (?), Uzair being eternally confused and bhondu, Rehman being eternally biwipaglufied and saxyyy, Ulfat the sass kween and tidbits of Hamzair
WC : ~ 5k
Uzair Baloch was, if nothing else, profoundly unaware of the effect he had on people, men and women alike. Running a gang and serving as second-in-command to the Sher-e-Baloch did not leave the younger Baloch with a great deal of time to stand in front of mirrors and contemplate his own face. He knew, vaguely and practically, that a man in his profession needed to know such things, that he was decent-looking enough to lure a stupid politician into a trap when the situation called for it. That was the extent of his relationship with his own appearance. A tool. Occasionally useful. Nothing more.
The idea that it could be anything else had simply never occurred to him.
Which was why Uzair Baloch, the fearsome gangster, kidnapper, arms dealer, general menace to civil society, found himself standing in the middle of a photography studio in clothes that had probably cost more than two months of his salary, unsure of what to do with his hands, or his arms, or his legs, or frankly any part of his body that he had previously operated without conscious thought.
He was gangly in the way that tall men sometimes were, all limbs and angles, and the limbs in question were currently arranged in a configuration that the director described, with remarkable diplomacy, as a work in progress.
“Bhai, kandhe relax karo.”
“Relax hi toh hain.”
“Relax nahi lag rahe.”
“Phir kaise lag rahe hain?”
The director squinted.“Jaise abhi kisi ko uthwaane wale ho.”
“Woh toh main aksar karta hoon.” Uzair laughed
An uncomfortable silence fell upon the set, some people sweating nervously, the others shaking slightly as they tried to work around this dangerous gangster, joking about kidnapping people as if he were conversing about cricket scores.
“...Theek hai,” the director said weakly. “Kuch aur try karte hain.”
Instructions were being offered. Uzair was trying to follow them and tt was, by any measure, not going well.
“Thoda aur intensity do.”
Uzair stared directly into the camera.
“Perfect... ab thodi kam qatl wali intensity.”
Uzair blinked, trying to appear less threatening.
“Abhi bhi qatl wali hai.”
The photographer lowered his camera. “Janab, aapke paas do expressions ke ilawa kuch aur bhi hai? Ek qatl wala aur ek qatl se pehle wala?”
“Abe oh dehd haddi, chup chaap se photo le nahi toh expression sirf qatl waali nahi bachegi, qatl kar bhi dunga.”
The photographer looked moments away from a nervous breakdown and was considering switching his career to nature photography. “Jee, ek haath jeb mein daaliye.”
Uzair complied, although begrudgingly; he was dying for a smoke at this point, and the contour on his cheekbones made him flush more than the blush could. Since when did gangsters wear makeup ??
“Arre nahi, aise nahi.”
“Aise kya masla hai?”
“Lag raha hai jeb mein pistol chhupa rakhi hai.”
Uzair frowned, Woh toh har dafa rakhta hoon.”
“...Kya?”
The director closed his eyes in resignation. Across the studio, the makeup artist leaned toward the stylist.
“Yeh waqai model hai?”
“Nahi.”
“Toh phir?”
“Allah jaane.”
“Lekin itna pata hai,” she sighed, practically fawning, “Is aadmi ko bilkul andaaza nahi hai ke yeh kitna khoobsurat hai.”
The stylist watched Uzair run a hand absentmindedly through his hair and accidentally capture the strongest shot of the entire campaign. Cameras started clicking furiously.
“HAAN! BAS! YAHI! BILKUL YAHI!”
Uzair immediately froze.
“Kya hua?”
“Main ne kya kiya?”
“Jo bhi kiya dobara kariye!”
“Lekin mujhe khud nahi pata maine kya kiya.”
It had all started, as so many of his problems did, with something entirely outside his control.
There had been a political event. Rehman had been away in Balochistan on business, and Uzair had gone in his place, stood at the back of a hall full of people he didn't like, representing interests he only partially understood, doing his job with the quiet competence that had always been his greatest professional asset. Someone from the Karachi Times had taken a photograph. Uzair had gone home and thought nothing of it.
He could not have known that a copy of that newspaper would somehow travel from Karachi to London, land on the editorial desk of a high-end desi clothing label, and somebody there had looked at the photograph and decided that what the fashion industry desperately needed was a six-foot-something Balochi gangster with a permanent resting murder face.
The offer had arrived within days of the photograph, and he had not known peace since. And so, as any reasonable man would do when the universe had stopped making sense, Uzair went to find the only person in the house who could reliably be counted upon to provide it — Ulfat.
Ulfat took another look over the contract, turning a page with the careful attention of someone who was absolutely not thinking about how funny this was, and then said, with great composure, "Uzi, mai toh Rehman se hamesha kehti thi dono bhai ekdum tabahi ho."
"Aap bhi na bhabhi," Uzair said, with the wounded dignity, he had come seeking sanctuary and found none. "Mai aapke paas moral support ke liye aaya tha, aur aap bhi mera mazaak uda rahi ho." He reached into his pocket and produced his third cigarette of the day. It was, by the clock on the wall, barely ten in the morning.
The cigarette did not survive long.
Ulfat reached over, plucked it clean from between his lips, and crushed it with the practiced efficiency. "Ayyyy, cigarette phenko," she said, the tone carrying tiredness as if it was sick of having this conversation with the entire Baloch household. "Dono bhaiyon ko apni sehat ki bilkul kadar nahi hai", she humphed.
"Bhabhiii —"
"Kya bhabhi bhabhi laga rakha hai." She looked at him, and this time she did not bother to fight the smile. "Allah ta'ala ne itni sundar shakal di hai ja, uska thoda istemaal kar logo ko darane ke ilawa."
Ulfat, to her credit, made a genuine effort to compose herself, straightening in her chair and smoothing her expression into something approaching professional neutrality. "Dekho," she said, with admirable steadiness. "Kitne paise de rahe hain?"
Uzair named the amount. The room went quiet.
Ulfat blinked once, then again, as if the number required a second pass to register fully. A long pause followed, during which she appeared to be conducting some silent internal arithmetic.
"...Aur tumne abhi tak contract sign nahi kiya?"
"Bhabhi!"
"Uzair, itne paise mein toh main khud model ban jaaun." She slid the contract across the desk with the air of authority leaving no open room for debate. "Sign karo."
"Lekin mujhe modelling nahi aati," he said, making one final, dignified stand.
“Tumhe kidnapping, murder, extortion aata tha pehle?” Ulfat questioned
“Uh….nahi”
“Toh….fir seekhli na?, Yeh bhi seekh loge”, Ulfat reasoned coolly
He searched for a rebuttal and found, to his apparent frustration, that none was immediately available. "Bhabhi, modelling aur kidnapping mein farq hota hai," he said at last, with great solemnity.
Ulfat picked up her pen and returned to her paperwork. "Jee haan," she said simply. "Modelling legal hoti hai."
Uzair sat there in stunned silence, baffled by the casual confidence with which his bhabhi had solved the problem. Ulfat spoke about modelling the same way she spoke about arms routes, political alliances, or extracting information from unfortunate souls through creative interrogation techniques. To her, it was simply another business decision.
He was just opening his mouth to argue when Naeem wandered into the room, grabbed the contract off the table, and began skimming through it. A second later, the haveli echoed with a shriek.
“PAANCH MILLION RUPAY?!”
Both Uzair and Ulfat winced.
“Chaachu!” Naeem gasped. “Aapne kiska qatl kiya hai itne paise ke liye?”
“Abe shaanay,” Uzair deadpanned, “qatl hi hai. Bas is baar mera qatl ho raha hai.”
"Naeem," Ulfat supplied cheerfully, "tumhare chaachu ko London ke log modelling karwana chahte hain." She was already giggling again before she finished the sentence.
Naeem looked at the contract. Then at his uncle. Then, back at the contract, his teenage mind was moving at 150 miles/ hour, doing complex mathematical calculations.
“Ek shoot ke paanch million?”
“Haan.”
“Ek hi shoot?”
“Haan.”
“Kapde pehen ke?”
“NAEEM.”
The teenager ignored him completely.“Chaachu, apna nahi toh hum logon ka soch lo!” he pleaded dramatically, dropping to his knees beside the chair. “Itne paise toh abbu ek hafte mai kamate hai jitna aap ek shoot mai kamaoge”
Uzair rubbed his temples, a headache was slowly finding its way, “Naeem...”
“Nahi, meri baat suniye.” The boy clasped his hands together. “Aapko paise nahi chahiye? Mujhe de dena. Main invest kar dunga.”
“Invest?” Uzair repeated suspiciously.
“Jee.”
“Kahan?”
“Stocks,”, Naeem uttered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “aur aapke fashion stocks upar jaate dekh kar koi ache fashion label mai invest karunga, bohot ache returns milenge”
Uzair ignored the evil grin appearing on his nephew’s face, turning to Ulfat, who had another incentive ready, “Haan aur waise bhi,” Ulfat interjected, thoroughly enjoying herself, “hamari haveli mein kam az kam ek legal source of income toh hona chahiye. Sirf mere business ke sahare legal front maintain nahi kiya ja sakta.”
“Dekha?” Naeem pointed at her. “Ammi bhi keh rahi hain.”
Uzair looked at his nephew. Then at his bhabhi. Then at the contract sitting on the desk between them, representing five million rupees and what remained of his dignity.
Then he sighed. The sigh of a man accepting his fate.
“Theek hai,” he muttered. “Kar lunga.”
Naeem punched the air.
“YES!”
“Lekin,” Uzair warned, pointing a finger at him, “agar tumne ek baar bhi mera mazaak udaaya na, toh tumhe tumhari investment ke liye ek paisa nahi milega.”
Naeem immediately straightened, his voice gone completely innocent,“Main toh aapka sabse bara supporter hoon, chaachu.”
“Jhoota.”
Turning to Ulfat, Uzair added with great dignity, “Aur bhabhi, main yeh sirf aapke legal source of income mein haath bataane ke liye kar raha hoon.”
“Jo bhi kaho, Pretty Boy.” Ulfat grinned.
Uzair closed his eyes. He hated that nickname already.
“I can't wait,” Ulfat continued wickedly, “for Rehman to hear about this.”
For the first time that afternoon, genuine terror crossed Uzair Baloch's face. Because if there was one thing worse than becoming a model...It was becoming a model while Rehman was alive to make fun of him for it.
Two days later, Uzair found himself standing outside Rehman’s office with the same expression he had donned as a child when he used to be schooled by the principal.
Unfortunately, he had no choice.If he was going to London, he needed a visa. If he needed a visa, he needed political favours. If he needed political favours, he needed Rehman. And if he needed Rehman, then Allah help him.
“Bhai,” he began cautiously, stepping into the office.
Rehman glanced up from the files scattered across his desk, a cigarette permanently attached to his fingers, “Haan?”
“Mujhe ek kaam tha.”
Rehman immediately tensed, his eye brows furrouwed, whenever Uzair started a sentence with mujhe ek kaam tha, it usually meant his brother had messed up something with the shipping consignments or the gang had embroiled themselves in another mess; he could already sense the incoming headache.
“Kaisa kaam?”
“Woh... London jaana tha.”
The pen in Rehman's hand paused; he looked up now, curiosity flooding his eyes, “London?”
“Jee.”
“Kyun?”
Uzair remained silent, suddenly finding the carpet patterns of the office very interesting.
“Uzair.”
“Jee?”
“Kyun?”
The younger Baloch let out a long-suffering sigh and proceeded to explain the entire ordeal, from the newspaper photograph to the magazine contract to the studio shoot.
By the end of it, Rehman had become remarkably engrossed with his tea, constantly hiding his face behind the cup of tea, mostly because looking at Uzair directly would have caused him to laugh unrestrained.
“Bhai, hasiye mat.”
“Main nahi hans raha.”
“Jhoot.”
His shoulders were shaking, as he finally kept down the tea cup and a huge smile graced his handsome features, breaking into poorly hidden giggles.
Uzair narrowed his eyes.
“Bhai.”
“Of course, Uzair,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “Tumhein apne khwabon ka peecha karna chahiye.”
“...Mere kya?”
“Khwab.”
“Bhai.”
“Main Quetta wali shipping dekh lunga. Tum fikr mat karo.”
“Arey nahi bhai!” Uzair said immediately. “Main waise hi jaa raha tha. Kaam nipta ke wapas aa jaunga.”
“Haan haan.”
“Sach mein.”
“Bilkul.”
“Bhai!”
“Achha batao kitne paise de rahe hain?”
Uzair hesitated, “Paanch million,” he muttered the number.
Rehman's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, “PAANCH MILLION?”
“Jee.”
“Ek shoot ke?”
“Jee.”
“Aur tumhein yeh paise sirf isliye mil rahe hain kyunke tum zara se chikne lychee ho?”
“Bhai!”
“Wah beta.”
Rehman leaned back in his chair and took a thoughtful sip of tea. Then the businessman inside him awoke.
“Hmmm.”
Uzair immediately recognised that sound. It was the same sound Rehman made before entering highly profitable criminal ventures.
“Bhai?”
“Main Jamali se baat karta hoon.”
“Visa ke liye?”
“Haan”, he paused for a moment,”par isme mere liye kya hai, tumhara mai visa agent ke kaam ke liye commission kya milegi?”, Rehman demanded, a sly smile appearing on his dangerous face.
“Uhhh…..commission bhai”, Uzair nervously laughed, scratching his head, trying to come up with ridiculous ideas but none seemed to hold up to his brother’s standards.
“Acha chalo mai bat deta hoon, mai kuch toh commission lunga”, Rehman stated firmly,” Har successful organisation ko diverse revenue streams ki zaroorat hoti hai.”
Uzair stared, slowly watching the cogs turn in his brother’s brain as he laid out an elaborate business plan as if they didn’t run an illegal arms business.
“Bhai, main modelling ki baat kar raha hoon.”
“Main bhi.”
“Mai bhi apne gang ke business model ko expand krne ki soch raha tha”, Rehman teased, “tere hisse se 20 taka commission.”
“BHAI.”, Uzair protested. Both father and son moved like their brains were in sync. One was asking for investment funds and the other for commission, “20 % taka ???”
“Family discount samjho.”
“Main mehnat karun, photo khichwaun, aur paise aap le jao?”
“Aakhir itne saalon se tujhe paala posa hai,” Rehman replied smoothly. “Kuch toh ROI milna chahiye.”
Rehman ignored him completely.
Truthfully, he had spent years thinking about expanding the gang's business portfolio. Every few months, he would sit down and consider new ventures, some legal, most illegal. This particular opportunity, however, had landed in his lap completely uninvited.
It was unconventional. Ridiculous, even. But money was money.
And if international fashion houses were willing to pay five million rupees to put his ridiculously idiotic (yet lovable) younger brother in expensive clothes and photograph him looking angry...
Well.
Who was Rehman Baloch to stand in the way of entrepreneurship?
“Ja London,” he declared. “Gang ke financial future ka sawaal hai.”
“Saath mein Hamza ko bhi le jaana,” Rehman added. “Kya pata usse bhi pasand kar lein.”
“Bhai par Hamza ky—-”, Uzair protested, almost blushing at Hamza’s mention.
“Qasam se, kabhi kabhi lagta hai main gundo ko paal raha hoon ya rajkumaron ko.”
Uzair finally stood up, shaking his head, “Haan haan, uda lijiye mazaak, par yaad rakhiye ga, mere good looks ki wajah se aap apna revenue stream expand kar rahe hain.”
Then Rehman slowly leaned back in his chair, assessing the various ways in which he would be allowed to bury his younger sibling, “Dekho zara.”
“Kya?”
“Do din modelling ka contract kya mil gaya, attitude dekho Pretty Boy ka.”
“Bhai... wait, what?” Uzair froze. “Aapko uske baare mein kaise pata? Wait...” His eyes widened in horror. “Bhabhi ne aapse iss baare mein pehle hi zikr krli?”
“Haan toh aur kya?” Rehman flashed a crooked smile. “Mere aur tere bhabhi ke beech koi raaz nahi chhupta. Teri modelling ka bhi nahi.”
“Toh aap bas acting kar rahe the?” Uzair trailed off, the realisation slowly setting in. “Aur mujhse 20% commission bhi le liya?”
Rehman let out a small laugh, butting his cigarette now, “Haan. Ab kahan gaya attitude?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Beta, aise thodi Sher-e-Baloch ban gaya tha.”
“This is emotional manipulation, bhai.”
“Chal foot yahan se,” Rehman snorted. “Bada aaya emotional manipulation ka chacha.”
“Haan haan, theek hai,” Uzair replied, heading toward the door. “Call mat karna mujhe jab London se koi samaan chahiye hoga. Aur aapke Marlboro ke liye toh bilkul nahi.”
The smirk had barely left his face when the rest of his sentence was cut off by a half-finished cigarette hurtling toward his head. Uzair narrowly dodged it.
“QATL KI KOSHISH!”
“Abhi dikhata hoon qatl ki koshish!”
Laughing, Uzair practically sprinted out of the office before his brother could find something heavier to throw at him.
Behind him, Rehman shook his head and reached for the contract again. Five million rupees. For photographs. Perhaps crime really was the wrong industry after all. Maybe he should give it a shot, or was he too old? Ulfat always told him that he looked too handsome for his own good. A slow grin spread across his face.
Then another thought occurred to him. If Uzair was getting five million...
How much would he get? After all, between the two of them, Rehman was clearly the better-looking brother (Uzair would certainly debate that). The grin widened. Somewhere in the haveli, Ulfat sneezed. And for reasons she couldn't explain, she suddenly felt very concerned.
The first shoot had been titled Raw & Unfiltered, which the creative director had intended as a statement on authenticity, rugged masculinity, and natural charisma.
Unfortunately, the public had interpreted it as a personal invitation to show their debauchery. Within hours, the comments section resembled a crime scene.
My panties just flew off
Excuse me, who is he, and why are my panties wet
Raw & Unfiltered? The real question is, does HE like it raw and unfiltered?
Respectfully, bark bark.
I support women's rights, but more importantly, women's wrongs.
I'm straight, but I’d like him to set my back straight
Hamza had pulled him into a corner, showing a terrified Uzair the filth that gathered under the comment section. Uzair almost shrieked, as if he had witnessed an unspeakable crime,his hand trembling as his eyes travelled from one audacious comment to the other, “Yeh maine kya kardiye hamze?” Uzair heaved, “Yeh mujhe zinda kyu khaare hai?”
Hamza rubbed his back protectively, calming down the poor man, “koi nahi khote, woh kabhi nahi choo sakte tujhe par tune sabki tharak jagadi”, Hamza muttered, a small laugh escaping him “......par sirf mai tujhe le skta hoon…..raw and unfiltered”, Hamza whispered, a wolfish grin appearing on his tanned, handsome face as Uzair slowly went from a traumatised man to a blushing schoolgirl.
Hamza pinned him to the wall and kissed him stupid; “Hmmm, Hamzey, koi dekh lega”, Uzair moaned into the kiss, “Saale abhi tereko sharam ki padhi hai”, Hamza growled, his hands roaming everywhere across Uzair's lithe frame, the phone slipped from Uzair’s hand, he reached for Hamza’s mane, kissing him back with equal fervour.
They had been dating fucking each other ever since the night of the celebration of one of Rehman's many famous kills, alcohol had inhibited their pre frontal cortex and they had landed in bed clumsily, Hamza fucking the daylights out of Uzair and since then they had fallen into a dangerous pattern of fucking and making out all around the Haveli and the factory, the thrill of getting caught driving their desires which were now bordering near confessing their feelings that their stupid hearts harboured and couldn't hold in any longer.
Before long, Uzair had somehow become the fashion industry's favourite brooding mystery man, much to his own confusion and everyone else's delight, and nobody enjoyed the development more than Ulfat.
She religiously collected every cover shoot, editorial spread, and interview featuring him, carefully preserving them in the cosy library as though they were priceless historical documents rather than photographs of a gangster brooding aggressively.
Much to the ever-growing annoyance of Rehman, who couldn’t read anything in peace without being bombarded with his brother’s face in every nook and corner, he walked into the room one afternoon and found yet another magazine featuring his younger brother's smoldering face occupying prime shelf space.
“Ulfat.”
“Hmmm?”
“Yeh kya hai?”
“Magazine.”
“Woh mujhe bhi nazar aa raha hai.”
“Phir?”
“Har jagah Uzair hi kyun laga hua hai?”
“Areh,” she looked up from her book, “bacha itna acha kaam kar raha hai. Uski nishani toh honi chahiye ghar mein.”
“Bacha tees saal ka hai.”
“Hamare liye toh bacha hi hai…….uski nishani toh honi chahiye ghar mein.”
“Library hai yeh ya Uzair Baloch fan club?”
“Aapko jalan ho rahi hai?”
“Bilkul nahi.”
“Achha?”
“Bilkul nahi.”
The fact that Rehman immediately moved one magazine face down suggested otherwise.
The situation only worsened when Uzair discovered precisely how much the arrangement annoyed Rehman, at which point it stopped being a side effect and became the entire point.
Every new magazine cover found its way into the library within twenty-four hours of publication. This was not accidental. This was a coordinated operation with a clear chain of command, reliable logistics, and the quiet institutional support of Ulfat, who only demanded discount coupons in bulk in exchange for prolonging Rehman’s visual suffering.
“Allah ki qasam,” Rehman muttered one afternoon, stopping in front of the latest display of Ralph Lauren, “main library mein padhne aata hoon ya iss namoone ki aankhon mein doobne?”
After Uzair was declared as the brand ambassador for Levi's Pakistan, which, according to him, did not mean much other than getting discounted jean apparel, which he did not mind, word got out, as it always did, and the residents of Lyari began sharing their stories about Uzair and the Baloch gang, the other side of his reality.
When the news got out that Uzair was a full-time gangster and only a part-time model, he blew up even more, especially with the girls and media alike who were now hounding Lyari, carrying out investigative journalism.
Stories about the brutality of gang wars spread across the world of journalism, showering doubt and suspicion over the supposedly handsome and uptil now innocent Balochi hunk.
But then the residents of Lyari fiercely defended their Baloch boys, sharing and writing of anecdotes where the Baloch brothers had time and again proved to be more than kind and benevolent to the populace of Lyari and goes without mentioning that they lost count of the amount of times they had been safeguarded from the clutches of the rival gangs.
Soon, unbeknownst to Uzair, Vogue had reached out to Rehman as well, proposing a joint feature on the Baloch brothers. When the older man casually mentioned it over tea one evening, Uzair sat frozen in his chair, staring at him with an expression of profound betrayal.
“Aapko kitna dere hai ?” he demanded suspiciously.
“10 million”, Rehman mentioned with casual ease, ignoring the obvious shell-shocked expression of his younger brother, sipping in some more tea.
“Bhench-.......modelling main krta hoon, famous main hoon, aur double aapko pay kar rahe hai???”.
“Skill issue”.Rehman huffed, thoroughly enjoying Uzair growing through 5 stages of grief,” Par mujhe yeh sab mai koi dischaspi nahi hai, yeh sab natak tumhare layak hain”.
Truthfully, the magazine had offered him a substantially larger fee partly because they knew convincing Rehman Baloch to participate in a fashion shoot would require financial motivation bordering on bribery, and partly because of the stature he carried both within Balochistan and beyond.
Rehman himself, however, cared very little for the distinction. In fact, his first instinct had been to refuse the offer outright.
While Uzair spent his days stumbling into international modelling contracts through sheer accident, Rehman spent his contemplating political strategy, rebel alliances, funding networks, and the perpetual headache that came with attempting to work towards freeing Balochistan.
Vogue covers ranked somewhere below shipping paperwork and slightly above shooting traitorous gang members in terms of importance.
But unfortunately for Rehman, Uzair launched into a full-fledged PR presentation, being the unofficial, terribly unpaid marketing intern for the gang, that insufferable clown’s power had always been optics, and motherufcker had never left an opportunity to weaponise it, whether by deploying puppy eyes or playing the younger brother card.
Immediately launching in his soft yet gravelly tone, “Bhai, aap samajh nahi rahe.”
“Main bohot achi tarah samajh raha hoon.”
“Nahi, aap strategic angle miss kar rahe hain.”
“Kya matlab ?”, Rehman now leaned forward, quirked by Uzar’s frantic persuasion.
Uzair dramatically snatched the contract off the table and began gesturing with it as though he were presenting the decapitated head of Arshad Pappu, “Bhai, sochiye. An international cover. Laakhon log dekhenge. Hamari baat sunenge. Hamare maqsad ke baare mein padhenge. Balochistan ko coverage milegi. Sympathy milegi. International circles mein discussion hoga. Hum soft power build kar sakte hain.”
Rehman stared at Uzair as if the latter had grown 4 heads, and simultaneously hooked himself to cocaine, “Tu mujhe keh rahe ho ke main siyasat sexy poses dekar badal doon?”
“Haan bhai”, Uzair banged his palm on the table gleefully
“Saale kitna peeka aaya hai tu idhar”
Undeterred, Uzair leaned forward, “Bhai, humein bas kuch aise you know brooding poses dene hain”, vaguely gesturing towards his own body in weird choreographies, “handsome lagna hai, aadhi duniya ki larkiyon toh aise hee khtam ho jaegi-”
“Unke khtam hone se pehle teri bhabhi mujhe khtam kr degi”, Rehman cut him off. The image seemed so real in his head that he visibly shuddered.
Rehman continued, a slow blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, almost shy, “Mera jism bas uske nazron ke liye hain, aur mujhe yeh baat qubool krne mai k—-----”
“OK OK YA YA YA AY”, Uzair visibly cringed, covering his ears, mumbling incoherent words, “ please don’t discuss your sex lives here, mere paas shareer main aur bleach lagane ki capacity nahi hai.”
Assembling his courage for the second time this day, “Dekho bhai aisa kuch nahi hoga, bhabhi ko maalum hai aap hamare zameen ke liye kar rahe ho, aur waise bhi yeh avtar mai dekhar mai kayde ke saath keh skta hoon bhabhi aapko ek naye perspective se dekhegi”, Uzair rambled off, wiggling his eyebrows playfully, giving a vague, suggestive implication.
Rehman's eyes narrowed.
“Uzair.”
“Jee?”
“Apni agli baat bohot soch samajh kar kehna.”
Uzair immediately realised he had wandered into a minefield. He gulped and straightened up, instantly finding the glass of whiskey placed in front of him very intriguing.
“Main chup ho jaata hoon.”
“Behtar hoga.”
Eventually, Rehman reluctantly acquiesced, as Uzair again emotionally manipulated him into doing this for their zameen and log. To be honest Rehman almost always folded to Uzair’s demands, he didn’t know whether it was a kink in his armour or just his beating heart needing Uzair’s wants to be fulfilled before it could circulate more blood
Everytime his brother pleaded for something, he saw an expression of the 6 year old baby Uzair who had come under his care, shivering, cold and with big brown eyes, silently asking for warmth and since then he did not have the heart to say no and neither did he have it now.
Sigh. Maybe he was really growing to be a softie, as Ulfat had mentioned.
So here they were, the Baloch brothers, posing for the front page of Vogue Arabia, the cover splashed with, “Joining with Us Today, the Baddies of Balochistan.”
They did a short piece, explaining what they do, why they do it, very conveniently leaving out the fact that they got another consignment of illegal arms yesterday or they were ordered to carry out a political assassination today or some fucker was definitely gonna die tomorrow in their factory for ratting out on them.
Then expanded diligently upon the love for their land which drives them everyday often resulting in them narrowly escaping death on many occasions.
Rehman, despite the baddie tag being imposed on him, insisted the only baddie in the family is his gorgeous wife, Ulfat.
While Rehman raved about being a proud joru ka gulam and the joy and blessings of fatherhood, Uzair did a small session on how he started with Rehman, his childhood, when he was taken in by Rehman after the Pathaan Gang murdered his parents.
How Rehman raised him, even when Rehman was himself a teenager, it was unconventional, but it was the closest he had come to having another parent, at which Rehman’s makeup needed a bit of touch-up since some stupid tears had conveniently left his eyes.
Discussions continued on brotherhood and the pains and sufferings of an elder sibling, earning Rehman a betrayed glare, followed by Uzair’s inevitable rant about the constant, albeit affectionate, bullying he faced at the hands of Rehman.
And the frequent squibbles and quarrels they had every day, much to the annoyance and constant source of headaches for Ulfat, which inevitably softened into brotherly love at the end of the day, Rehman had stated with utmost ease, casually ruffling the younger Baloch’s hair with paternal warmth.
It was to no one’s surprise that the shoot blew up, garnering thirst and empathy alike.
On one hand, people supported and empathized with the Balochi cause, on the other hand, it was completely and entirely unhinged because not one but two brothers, equally lethal and sexy with their smouldering stares, had caused the collective orgasmic explosion amongst their female fan following.
Especially Rehman, something to do with older men, loyal husband, and emotionally available father......., it had seemed, which had garnered judgmental stares and thorough critical analysis from sociologists about the concerning rise in internal orientalism trapping young women into loving rugged, morally grey men in the absence of soft masculine figures in mainstream media.
While Uzair had, through repeated exposure, gradually developed an immunity to the psychological damage inflicted by the internet's increasingly lustful comment sections, Rehman refused to engage with them altogether. He did not read them, did not acknowledge them, and most certainly did not click on them. Firstly, he valued what remained of his sanity. Secondly, and far more importantly, he valued his life for his jaan maybe the most beautiful woman to have graced this planet but she was undeniably terrifying making him tremble out of fear (or was it raging desire?), he hadn't quite figured that out.
The house had been overjoyed, Naeem had personally framed the cover shoot in five rooms, while Fazial was constantly bombarded with requests to distribute free magazines at school.
Meanwhile, Ulfat had gone quite the day she had gotten her hands on the magazine. The blush rose to her cheeks with as much speech as wet heat rushed to her core.
Her husband had never looked so edible, sure he had looked handsome before, maybe even hot (maybe ? hell, he looked like a piece of meat every day), but that was besides the point. Right now, she felt like a predator wanting to pounce upon the prey.
As soon as Rehman had gotten home that evening, he had rushed to Ulfat wanting to share the latest luxuries he had indulged in, splurging a chunk of his fee for her (he could really be a fashion diva at times), but before he could utter a word, he was kissed hard and dragged like a mop to the bedroom.
Rehman only stepped out of the bedroom the next morning, Ulfat wanted to appreciate him for the cover shoot, and she did it in ways which had resulted in exhaustion seeping into his bones, his very existence swallowed as Ulfat’s pussy had engulfed him for hours and hours last night, milking him dry for everything he had to offer in all the positions the Kamasutra had demonstrated.
Sometimes he thought were they even a middle-aged couple for two people who regularly lost control like horny teenagers with no impulse.
As he entered the kitchen, clutching his lower back, godamn, he was getting too old for these adventurous positions. The woman responsible for it was peacefully enjoying her slumber after breaking his back. If this was her reaction, he would commit to more shoots, he thought, smirking like an idiot, even if it meant returning home only to not have any functioning muscles the next day, it was acceptable to him. His mind wandered off to last night’s hedonistic activities……..
“Fuck meri jaan, tum joh qatliana nazar se dekh rahe the, I got so wet”, Ulfat whimpered as she rose, in all her naked glory, sinking on his cock, eliciting a loud moan from him. He threw his head back into the pillows, feeling her warm pussy swallowing his thick shaft. She rocked her hips, slowly gaining rhythm. Rehman looked up and groaned.
He took in the goddess riding him, her breasts lurching violently as he rammed his cock from below, her gorgeous hair flying with the movements, sweet cries escaping from her swollen, red lips, parted. “Fuck Ulfat, if I knew how you pussy cries for my smouldering stares, I would've shot a million covers to fuck your pretty pussy”, Rehman growled, his hands gripped her hips tightly, as he rose, taking her nipples in his mouth, his tongue swirling around her soft breasts, leaving dark bites across the valley of her chest.
“Tu aur kijiye na shouhar saab, aur har baar yehi nateeja hoga“, Ulfat muttered in a sultry tone, kissing him while pushing him down on the bed, her hands splayed on his chest as she continued to ride him fervently. Rehman almost came at her words.
He flipped her on her knees, snaking an arm around her, his fingers quickly finding her engorged folds, and rubbing her pearl as he rutted into her from behind, the slick sounds of their sweat-laden bodies mixed with the filthy squelching sounds of his girthy length dragging through the walls of her dripping cunt echoed across the walls of their room.
Ulfat came hard, tightly spasming around his throbbing cock, her screams muffled by his palm, “shhh meri jaan, poore haveli jaan legi ki tum mujhe kitne junoon se leri thi”, he whispered evilly, fucking her through her orgasm, a guttural moan escaped him as he painted her walls white and filled her to the brim with his hot load.
His thoughts got rudely interrupted as Uzair walked into the kitchen and saw Rehman massaging his back and neck muscles, and an unmistakable shade of red splattered on his cheeks. He immediately broke into a laugh, “Kyu bhai dikh gaya na bhabhi ko naya perspective”, Uzair teased, narrowly avoiding the saucer Rehman hurled at him.
“Aapka bhi pyaar dikhane ka tareeka ajeeb hai bhai, baaki log gale lagte hai aur aap mujhe maarne par tule rehte”, Uzair chided.
“Yaha se nikal iske phele ki mai teri aur Hamza ki poll kholdu sabke samney”
“Meri aur Ham—--”, the words got stuck in Uzair's throat, “AAPKO KAISE PAATA HUM DONO KE BAARE MAI”, Uzair immediately halted realizing what he had just said, “MATLAB HUM DONO KE BEECH KUCH NAHI HAI”, Uzair tried to backpedal, poorly trying to recover his lost dignity.
“abey lodu mere daftar ke samney tum dono ko makeout krne se fursat mile toh fir mujhe samjha dena”, Rehman muttered, shaking his head, as he walked off.
Ulfat had told him about catching Hamza and Uzair together, and for a moment Rehman had been so stunned that he simply sat there staring at her, wondering if she was hallucinating or was it him, his closest aides having the hots for each other ?? can he have one normal day without experiencing a heart attack ? But then an amused expression dawned on him as his mind had started racing with endless possibilities to blackmail Uzair.
God Bless Ulfat, and her constant stream of gossip and entertainment. Maybe he did have some strength left in him to go for another round.
Fin
I just did this for shits and giggles 😭
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