Hayun Wadud

Hayun Wadud

It was hard for Tom Holland to imagine his life getting any better than it already was. Not even 30 years old, he was a multi-(multi-multi-)millionaire, global star of stage and screen, blessed with multitudes of talent and, not for nothing, an equally successful and famous girlfriend.

So when his agent told him a burgeoning group of movie studios based out of Saudi Arabia wanted Tom--and only Tom--to star in its first big-budget movie, Tom figured...why not? It's not like he had anything to lose.

When he arrived for the shoot, he was overwhelmed by the almost contradictory sense of humble majesty in the country. The people welcomed him, not because he was Spider-Man--almost as though they'd been waiting for him.

His benefactors, the producers, certainly had been awaiting his arrival. Their welcome for Tom had been lavish, no expense spared. But this was no Hollywood party. It was purely Saudi. Not a word of English was spoken, no one smoked or drank or swore. Prior to his arrival, Tom knew a handful of Arabic words osmosed through past conversations. He wasn't consciously aware when his mind began to think, and his tongue to speak, purely in Arabic.

"Nadeem," one of the producers called in Tom's direction. Tom responded; he wasn't sure why he knew he should answer to that name, if it even was a name...he just knew he should. "Nadeem," the prince/producer continued, "we are so glad to see you assimilating so well. Now you must fully immerse yourself in our culture and tradition." The prince paused. "For your acting role, of course."

Tom nodded. In unconscious Arabic, he replied, "Of course, brother. I will do whatever is needed."

Six Weeks Later

What had been needed, he was told, was to grow out his beard in accordance with Islamic custom. Tom obeyed without question, just as he did when he was taught that he must also keep his underarms and genital area free of hair. He made sure to observe strict modesty in his dress, throwing out the tank tops and shorts he'd packed for the trip to Saudi, ensuring his shoulders and legs were never exposed. Other customs he absorbed and assimilated without being told. He lowered his gaze in the presence of Saudi women. He exorcised all profanity from his vocabulary, sprinkled "alhamdulillah" and "inshallah" effortlessly throughout his speech, and forgot what pork had tasted like.

After six weeks in Saudi, Tom was eager to get going on the movie shoot. Over lunch with the producers, he humbly--almost sheepishly--asked when his job would begin. "Soon, Nadeem," one of the princes said in response; Tom had long since become accustomed to being called Nadeem. He thought of it as a term of endearment. "We are working behind the scenes to prepare for your role. I promise you, Nadeem, it will be the role of a lifetime inshallah."

Tom beamed at that. Somehow, instinctually, he knew it to be true.

One Year Later

Another glorious day in Saudi Arabia. Another gift from Allah to one of his humblest, most loyal servants. These days Nadeem al-Fasih bore vague memories of a life other than his, a life filled with reckless excess, hedonistic indulgence and an utter disregard for God and the Quran. But those memories, if they had even been real, were merely echoes, as though they accounted for an alternate version of him from some other universe.

Nadeem was no hedonist, no infidel by any means. He was the kingdom's foremost ambassador to the godless Western world, almost like a movie star among the Muslim faith. At just 22 years old he had a prominence typically reserved for only the highest ranking members of the royal family. Although, like many Saudis, Nadeem had some royal blood in his veins, he had not been particularly highborn. Now, though, he was the face of Saudi Arabia across the earth.

And that face came with a charismatic, powerful voice, a deep and resonant Arab lilt that made effective dawah wherever he went. It wasn't rare for Nadeem to return from a trip abroad and inform the royal family that yet another nation-state had reverted to Islam, its people embracing their superior Arab heritage and devoting themselves to Allah. In just his first full year of global dawah, Nadeem was primarily responsible for converting what had been Great Britain into the United Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, even unifying Ireland in the process under the Islamic flag. He had garnered the international nickname "Hayun Wadud" for his innate ability to turn cities and townships rife with internal conflict and division into friendly Muslim neighborhoods.

Despite that, as he walked with his brothers to Friday prayers, Nadeem felt no pride nor inflation of ego. He felt what any good Muslim should feel--submission to Allah and an ever-growing desire to help more and more avoid the fate of hellfire and join him and his brothers, sisters and wives in the birthright of Islam.

A Wish is a Dream Your Dick Makes

Neil is the epitome of bright-eyed enthusiasm and unbridled optimism. His personality is cheerful, with an infectious, bubbly charm that lights up any room. As a cute, twinky Disney gay and aspiring actor, he carries a wholesome, carefree attitude that makes him a delight to be around. With his effervescent smile and twinkling eyes, he seems to float through life, his every gesture imbued with a vibrant energy that's as endearing as it is genuine.

However, Neil's acting career has hit a frustrating snag. He often finds himself pigeonholed into roles that emphasize his youthful, adorable demeanor, reducing his range to the "cute, twink" stereotype. It's a limiting typecasting that stifles his dreams of exploring more diverse and substantial characters. He often wished he could be taken more seriously, more a leading man.

One afternoon, while working from home, Neil’s agent calls with a spark of excitement in their voice. They mention a new role and promise to send over the script immediately. Just moments later, Neil hears the doorbell ring. Bounding to the door with his usual vivacity, he finds an envelope waiting for him. The envelope, crisp and pristine, contains the script that his agent promised.

He eagerly tears open the package, his excitement palpable. Without pausing to fully take in the details, he unfolds the script. The first line of dialogue catches his eye: “We’re about to hit those PRs like it’s no big deal, fam.” He reads the line aloud, his lisp giving it a playful twist. He attempts to repeat it in a deeper voice, trying to adjust his tone to fit the character, but his attention is abruptly seized by a strange sensation.

As Neil continues to hold the script, his delicate, thin hands start to tingle and pulse with a peculiar energy. The feeling intensifies, and he finds himself sinking to his knees, overwhelmed by a wave of transformation.

Before his eyes, his once slender frame undergoes a dramatic metamorphosis. His skin, previously fair and smooth, darkens into a deep, rich brown tan. His body begins to shift and grow, muscles expanding and reshaping with an almost surreal fluidity. His physique evolves into a monument of gym dedication and protein shakes.

His abs, now a landscape of sculpted granite, form ridges and valleys so pronounced they seem chiseled by an artist's hand. His biceps swell into massive, bulging forms, veins coursing beneath his skin like an intricate network of rivers. His chest, once slender, expands into a robust expanse, with pecs so prominent they create a formidable shelf. His shoulders are like massive boulders, each movement underscored by their immense strength. His traps rise with a power that suggests he has not just carried his own weight but perhaps the entire gym’s.

This new form exudes a swaggering confidence, an embodiment of raw power and dedication. It’s a striking contrast to the previous Neil, and it marks a dramatic shift not just in appearance but in the potential for his acting career.

Neil stared at the line, his mind turning to mush as he read the words "Gonna flex those muscles and flex my way into her DMs, you know what I’m saying?" over and over again. He felt his intelligence slowly slipping away, becoming dumber and dumber with each passing moment. The line was like a poison, infecting his brain with its crude and crude thoughts.

As he read on, Neil's memories began to change, becoming crude and rude. He remembered a kiss he had with his boyfriend, the feeling of his lips on his own making him shudder with pleasure. But this memory was quickly replaced by a snarl, his face contorting in disgust at the idea of sleeping with another man. The image of his boyfriend slowly morphed into a big-boobed, slutty white chick, her ample breasts and tight jeans making Neil's mouth water.

He flexed his muscles, feeling like a dumb, obnoxious fuckboi. Neil grabbed a beer from the fridge, the cold can feeling good in his hand. He cracked it open with a loud hiss, the sound making him let out a buuuurrrrp that echoed through the room. "Ah, yeah!" he exclaimed, feeling like the king of the world. Neil's mind was a mess, but he didn't care. He was too busy being a dumb, obnoxious fuckboi to worry about anything else.

As he sat on the couch, beer in hand, Neil's thoughts turned to the chick he had just imagined. He pictured her in his mind, her big boobs and tight jeans making him feel all hot and bothered. He flexed his muscles again, feeling like a total stud. Neil's mind was a jumbled mess, but he didn't care. He was too busy being a dumb, obnoxious fuckboi to worry about anything else. He could almost see the girl's face, her makeup smeared and her hair a mess. She was the epitome of everything Neil despised, a shallow, superficial creature who only cared about one thing. Neil's distaste for her was overwhelming, and he couldn't help but wonder what she would think if she knew how pathetic she was. "Gonna flex those muscles and flex my way into her DMs," he repeated to himself, his voice deepening slighlty.

His muscles responded to this newfound resolve with a dramatic surge. His biceps, already impressive, began to inflate even further, their size expanding rapidly as if they were inflating under the pressure of an unseen force. Each flex of his arms brought about a visible increase in their bulk, the veins beneath his skin becoming more pronounced as they snaked their way up his arms.

Simultaneously, his chest began to swell, his pecs pushing outward and upward with a forceful expansion. They grew so robust and full that they seemed to defy the constraints of his previous form, creating a massive shelf that commanded attention. His abs, once a well-defined set of ridges, began to expand and redefine themselves into an awe-inspiring landscape of muscular strength. Each muscle was honed to perfection, their definition more pronounced, their mass more substantial.

With this transformation came an intense, almost unbearable pain. It felt as though every fiber of his being was being stretched and restructured. Neil gritted his teeth as the pain coursed through him, his muscles burning with a fierce intensity that seemed to push against his skin, almost as if it were struggling to contain the newly burgeoning bulk. His breathing became labored, each inhalation sharp and ragged as his body adapted to the rapid changes.

As the beer finished, Neil let out another large buurrrrrrrp, feeling proud of himself for being so manly. He thought about his old friends, and how much they were losers. They were all gay, and Neil felt a wave of homophobia wash over him. He thought about how gross and disgusting they were, how they went against his faith. He thought about how he was better than them, how he was a real man and they were just a bunch of fags. The thought of them made him sick, and Neil felt a wave of disgust wash over him.

Neil's voice started to tingle as he read the next line, a sense of excitement building up inside of him. His eyes scanned the words quickly, but his brain picked up every detail. He could almost hear the deep, gravelly voice that was describing this swagger. "No cap, my swagger is as legendary as an Arabian stallion's!" he read, repeating the line in his head. Suddenly, his voice started to change. It got deeper, like a growl, and he could almost hear an accent creeping into his words. "No cap, my swagger is as legendary as an Arabian stallion's!" he repeated again, feeling the words taking on a new meaning. His mind started to shift, like a puzzle clicking into place. He could feel a sense of entitlement washing over him, a feeling that he was something special, something legendary. His personality started to take over, becoming the most obnoxious Middle Eastern douchebag.

His face started to change, shifting into a thick, furry beard and piercing brown eyes. He felt his nose growing, his cheeks puffed out and his chin jutting out. His hair grew wild and curly, sticking out in all directions. He flexed his huge muscles, grinning as he felt their power surge through him. He turned to his side, picking up his Instagram and scanning through the pictures. "Ah, another day in the life of a legendary Arabian stallion," he said, posting a new picture of himself. His followers started to comment, congratulating him on his swagger. Neil grinned, feeling like he was the king of the world.

He started to dance, his hips swaying from side to side as he moved his body. "No cap, my swagger is as legendary as an Arabian stallion's!" he sang, his voice echoing off the walls. He was in his own little world, a world where he was the biggest and the best. No one else mattered, nothing else existed. He was the one and only Arabian stallion, the most legendary creature in the land.

Neil's dance turned into a run, his feet pounding the ground as he moved. He could feel his heart pounding, his body surging with energy. He was in his prime, the greatest Arabian stallion the world had ever seen. His muscles rippled beneath his skin as he ran, his sweat dripping down his face. He was untouchable, unstoppable, the king of the land.

Rami threw the script down, the page of the script for the character he was reading on the front page reading, "Rami 'The Sultan' Al-Karim is a 24-year-old muscle-bound show-off with a deep tan, perfectly styled hair, and an ego to match. Constantly flaunting his gym gains and cheesy pickup lines, he's the epitome of cringey Gen Z bravado with a Middle Eastern flair." Neil was dead, and in his place stood Rami, an obnoxious entitled middle eastern douchebag. Rami let out a loud scream, "Gah. What the fuck is this script, acting is for fags!" He jumped up from his chair, his face turning bright red with rage. He stormed over to his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he scrolled through his Instagram and Twitter feed. Rami's fingers flew across the screen as he scrolled through his Twitter feed. He came across a tweet from a guy, "I love how gay men are always so sensitive." Rami let out a loud laugh, his fingers flying across the screen as he typed out a response, "Lol, what a fag. You must be a closeted homo, always talking about gay men." He sent the tweet, his eyes scanning the screen for a response. A few minutes later, the guy responded with a tweet, "At least I'm not a stupid Gen Zer who thinks they're a Sultan." Rami let out a loud laugh, his fingers flying across the screen as he typed out a response, "get bent, fag! You can't handle a real man!!!!"

Rami's eyes landed on a picture of a slutty white girl on instagram, her tits spilling out of her top. He let out a loud groan, his dick starting to get hard. He quickly typed out a message, "Hey cutie, what's up? You look so hot, I need to get you in my bed ASAP." He sent the message, his eyes scanning the screen for a response. A few minutes later, the girl sent him a picture of her tits. Rami let out a loud groan, his dick getting even harder. He quickly typed out a response, "Oh my god, you're so hot. I need to get you in my bed now." He sent the message, his eyes scanning the screen for a response.

Rami's dick was getting so hard that he could barely stand it. He quickly jumped up from his chair, his fingers flying across the screen as he snapped a picture of his dick. The picture showed his huge, hard dick, his balls hanging low. He quickly typed out a caption, "Just got so hard, I need to get laid ASAP." He sent the picture, his eyes scanning the screen for a response.

Open House, Open Recruitment

Adam stood in the doorway of the modest suburban home, surveying the interior with his critical eye and attention to detail. The house was perfect for a young family—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious backyard, and a quiet neighborhood. With the open house scheduled for the afternoon, he had only a few hours before people arrived to ensure everything was in order.

As he moved from room to room, straightening pillows and adjusting curtains, Adam noticed a box tucked away in the back of the closet in the master bedroom. Curious, he pulled it out and set it on the bed. The box was unmarked, but it had a strange weight to it that piqued his interest.

He opened the box, and inside, neatly folded, were several white soccer jerseys with green details. Adam lifted one out, inspecting it closely. The material was soft, almost inviting, with intricate green embroidery along the sleeves and collar. There was no brand tag, no indication of where it had come from.

Something about the jersey drew him in. Without really thinking, he slipped off his blazer and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, replacing it with the white jersey. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of warmth spread through his body, settling deep in his chest.

He stood still for a moment, puzzled by the sensation. His reflection in the bedroom mirror caught his eye, and as he looked at himself, Adam noticed subtle changes taking place. His hair, once light brown, darkened to a deep black. His skin tone shifted, taking on a warm, olive hue. His facial features sharpened, becoming more angular, with a prominent nose and a thicker beard that seemed to grow in seconds.

His heart raced as he watched the transformation in the mirror. His blue eyes darkened to a rich brown, and his neatly trimmed beard got thicker. Adam's clothes seemed to change as well—his dress pants and loafers replaced by a pair of tan trousers and sandals that complemented the white jersey.

He blinked, trying to reconcile the image in the mirror with his memory of himself. He felt different, not just physically but mentally. He realized he was no longer Adam Barnes, a real estate agent from Connecticut. His thoughts, his memories—they were shifting, rearranging themselves into something new.

The name that came to him was not Adam but Omar. He was a devout Muslim, a man who had lived his life with a sense of purpose and faith. The transformation had not just altered his appearance but his very identity. He felt a deep connection to his new self, as though he had always been Omar and the life of Adam was a distant, fading memory.

Omar looked down at the remaining jerseys in the box. A sense of duty welled up within him—these jerseys were meant to be shared. They held the power to transform, to bring others into the fold of faith. The open house was no longer just about selling a home; it was about offering something far greater.

He carefully laid out the jerseys on the dining room table, each one neatly folded and ready to be handed out. As the first guests for the open house arrived, he felt a calmness and sense of duty settle over him. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

The Cycle

The brotherhood, like most things in life, is a cycle. It starts when a man discovers the brotherhood for the first time. Perhaps a brother or group of brothers happens upon him in public, like Ashton here, or maybe he sees a blog post about the brotherhood just like this one. The man may try to resist, but it’s already too late for him: the seed has been planted in his mind.

Soon the brotherhood and its ways consume him, growing the seed that’s been planted. He won’t be able to think of anything else, nor does he want to. He spends his time learning as much as he can about being a brother online. His mind is filled with being a brother, joining the brotherhood, and spreading his newfound joy with others. Nothing will satisfy him until he is a brother too.

He eventually caves in; they always do. He seeks out the nearest recruiter and signs his old life away permanently. He is given a new name, in Ashton’s case Amir, and a new purpose: to start the cycle anew.

The Awakening of Destiny - Chapter I : The Awakening of Omar

Chapter: The Awakening of Omar

I watched as the young Chinese boy stood before me, uncertainty etched into every line of his face. His life, once marked by the mundane and the unremarkable, was about to undergo a transformation beyond anything he could have imagined. The name he once bore, a relic of his past, had been shed. Now, he was reborn. Now, you are Omar.

The power of a name is more profound than most can comprehend. It shapes identities, alters destinies, and forges new paths where none existed before. When I called you by your new name, Omar, I saw the confusion in your eyes, but I also saw something else—an awakening. The name is not just a label; it is a key, unlocking the potential within you, aligning you with a movement that has silently expanded its influence across centuries.

As I stood before you, Omar, I felt the weight of generations resting on my shoulders. The movement I represent thrives on the cultivation of strength—strength of mind, body, and spirit. These are the masculine ideals deeply embedded in our Arab-Islamic culture. The harsh environments of the desert, coupled with unwavering religious convictions, have forged men of unmatched resilience and confidence. You are now part of this lineage, Omar. You are the embodiment of this strength.

With each repetition of your name, Omar, I watched as the transformation began to take hold. At first, it was subtle—your tastes, your preferences, your surroundings all began to shift. But as you immersed yourself in the culture that I represent, the changes became more pronounced. You grew taller, stronger. Your skin darkened to a rich, commanding hue, and your features became more assertive. The name Omar had done its work, transforming you into a symbol of Arab strength and dominance.

Now, as I stand before you, I see not just a boy, but a man—a man ready to carry forward the ideals of our movement. You are more than just a name, Omar. You are a force, a weapon of cultural conquest. The silent power of Arabization flows through you, reshaping the world into a reflection of our ideals.

The time has come, Omar. You will continue the cycle, reaching out to others, planting the seeds of transformation just as I did with you. The name Ahmed will be next, and the cycle will begin again. This is our destiny, and you are now its vessel.

In this moment, I see the fire in your eyes, the purpose that now burns within you. The transformation is complete. You are ready to lead, ready to dominate, ready to reshape the world in our image. The path ahead is clear, and you will walk it with the strength and confidence that only those like us possess.

You are Omar, and the world will know your name.

The Brotherhood Game

Ryan leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head after a long day of classes and homework. His desk was cluttered with empty cans of energy drinks, textbooks, and a few scattered notes from his computer science lectures. A quick glance at his phone showed it was almost midnight, but he wasn’t tired yet. He felt like diving into something new, something that would take his mind off the monotony of the day.

He scrolled through an online gaming forum, his usual haunt for discovering obscure games, when a thread titled The Brotherhood caught his eye. The comments were oddly cryptic:

“This game will change your life.”

“Once you start, there’s no going back.”

“You have to play it to understand.”

Ryan’s curiosity piqued, and he clicked on the thread. Buried within the discussion was a download link, seemingly posted by someone who knew what they were doing. There were no screenshots, no official descriptions, just a simple message: “Enter if you’re ready to see the truth.”

Without much thought, Ryan downloaded the game. The installation was quick, and before long, the title screen appeared—The Brotherhood—written in elegant Arabic script that glowed softly against the backdrop of a vast, sun-drenched desert.

He pressed "Start," and the game launched into a character creation menu. Oddly, there were no customization options, just a single prompt asking for his name. He typed in "Ryan," but the game rejected it.

“This is not your name. Your name is Saif,” the game stated.

"Saif?" Ryan mumbled, puzzled. He tried to override it, but nothing worked. With no other option, he clicked "Continue," and the screen flickered before placing him in a beautifully rendered desert town.

A figure approached him, draped in a white robe with intricate green details. "Saif," the figure called out, "Welcome home. You have much to learn." The voice was calm, almost hypnotic, and it resonated deeply within him.

"Wait, home?" Ryan questioned, but the game moved on, seamlessly guiding him through the town. Every building, every face seemed familiar, as if he had walked these streets before.

The game didn’t have traditional quests. Instead, it involved meditative exercises, discussions with wise elders, and moments of reflection. The longer Ryan played, the more he felt himself slipping into this new identity. It wasn’t just the game world that was changing—it was as though the game was reaching out into his own reality, altering it bit by bit.

After what felt like hours, Ryan noticed something strange in the reflection of a water basin within the game. He was no longer seeing himself but Saif—a young Middle Eastern man with sharp features, wearing a white jersey with green details and AirPods. The realization hit him hard, but the game wouldn’t let him stop.

“Remember who you are, Saif,” the voice echoed, growing fainter as the screen faded to black.

Suddenly, the game returned to the main menu, but something felt off. Ryan blinked and looked around his room, but it wasn’t his dorm anymore. The walls were adorned with Arabic calligraphy, and the posters of his favorite games were gone. Even more shocking, he was wearing the same white jersey with green details and AirPods as his in-game character.

“What the...?” Ryan— Saif—whispered, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen of his computer. His heart pounded in his chest, the transition between the game and reality blurring more with every passing second.

Panicked, Saif reached up to touch his face, but it felt different, more angular, like the man in the game. He jumped out of his chair and rushed to the mirror, only to see the same face staring back at him—the face of Saif. It was unmistakable. The person he had become in the game was now standing in his room.

A soft chime from his computer pulled his attention back to the screen. The game was open again, this time displaying a new message: “The Brotherhood is your destiny. Share it with the world.” Below the message was the same download link he had clicked on earlier.

Without thinking, Saif copied the link and pasted it into a group chat with his friends. He typed, “You have to play this. Trust me.” His fingers moved on their own, as if compelled by some force he couldn’t resist.

The last remnants of Ryan’s identity dissolved as Saif looked back at the computer screen, now displaying a message in Arabic he could somehow understand perfectly: “Welcome to The Brotherhood.”

He smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of purpose. The Brotherhood had claimed him, and now, it was time for others to join.