The Quinn household in Derry was a chaotic shrine to bad taste, its living room a patchwork of mismatched furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a dozen different skips. A threadbare plaid sofa sagged under the weight of years, flanked by a wobbly coffee table littered with empty beer cans and a half-eaten packet of crisps. An old TV flickered in the corner, spewing static over a late-night infomercial, while the faint, acrid whiff of burnt toast clung to the air like a stubborn ghost. It was Saturday night, and the usual suspects were gathered for their weekly card game, a ritual of cheap lager and cheaper banter.
Gerry, a burly man with a face like a slapped arse, slammed his cards down on the table, his voice booming over the static. “I’m tellin’ ye, Joe, if I catch ye cheatin’ one more bloody time, I’ll shove them cards so far up yer—”
“Oh, dry yer eyes, Gerry,” Joe cut in, his wiry frame leaning back in a creaky armchair, a smirk playing on his weathered lips. “Ye’ve been losin’ since the day ye were born. No amount of whingin’ is gonna change that.”
Pastor Rob, perched stiffly on a stool with a Bible clutched to his chest like a life preserver, cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, can we not keep this civil? The Lord frowns upon such—”
“Spare us the sermon, Padre,” Gerry growled, rolling his eyes as he swigged from a can of lager. “Ye’re only here ‘cause ye’ve got nowhere else to be on a Saturday night.”
In the corner, James hovered like a nervous shadow, his lanky frame pressed against the peeling wallpaper as if he could disappear into it. He wasn’t part of the game—never had been—just a reluctant observer dragged along by familial obligation. He muttered under his breath, “This lot’ll be the death of me,” while pretending to be engrossed in the static on the TV.
Their squabbling was cut short by a sudden, thunderous knock at the door, so sharp it rattled the empty cans on the table. Gerry heaved himself up with a grunt, muttering, “Bloody interruptions. If it’s them eejits from next door again, I swear—”
He swung the door open, and the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. There, framed in the dim light of the hallway, stood Zane—a vision of pure, unapologetic charisma. He was a walking contradiction: a gay himbo with the body of a Greek god and the devil’s own smile, blindingly white against his tanned skin. A skintight tank top hugged every sculpted inch of his torso, leaving little to the imagination, and his presence sucked the air from the room like a vacuum.
“Well, hello there, lads,” Zane purred, his voice a low, honeyed drawl as he strutted in without waiting for an invitation. “I’m Zane, your friendly neighborhood self-help guru, passing through to fix your boring little lives.” He punctuated the statement with a sultry wink that could’ve melted steel.
Joe bristled instantly, his scrawny arms crossing over his chest as he muttered, “Pretty boys with no brains. Just what we need.” But his eyes betrayed him, darting to Zane’s biceps as the man casually stretched, the muscles flexing like they had a personal vendetta against gravity.
“Oi, ye daft eejit, who do ye think ye are, struttin’ in here like ye own the place?” Gerry barked, though his gruff tone faltered as Zane’s gaze locked onto him, those piercing eyes glinting with mischief.
“Oh, darlin’, I’m just here to help,” Zane replied, his smirk widening as he pulled a shiny pocket watch from his pocket, letting it dangle from his fingers like a forbidden fruit. “Why don’t we all… relax for a wee bit?” His voice dropped to a velvety purr, each word dripping with suggestion as the watch began to sway gently back and forth.
Gerry scoffed, his meaty hands on his hips. “Relax, my arse. I’ve half a mind to throw ye out on yer—” But the words died in his throat as his eyes latched onto the watch, the rhythmic swing pulling him in like a tide. His shoulders slumped, his protests growing fainter with each passing second.
Pastor Rob clutched his Bible tighter, his knuckles whitening as he stammered, “This… this is the devil’s work! I’ll not be swayed by—by such trickery!” But Zane’s suggestive chuckle, low and warm, sent a flush creeping up the pastor’s neck, staining his cheeks crimson.
“Trickery?” Zane echoed, his tone mock-offended as he sauntered closer to Rob, the watch still swaying. “I’m just offerin’ a little peace of mind, Padre. Surely even a man of God can appreciate… release.” The word hung in the air, heavy with innuendo, and Rob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
James, still glued to the corner, muttered to himself, “This is proper weird, innit?” But his wide eyes kept sneaking glances at Zane’s chiseled jawline, sharp enough to cut glass, and the way his tank top strained against his chest with every breath.
Zane’s voice wove through the room like a seductive spell, smooth and commanding. “That’s it, lads. Just let go of all that silly straight nonsense. No need to fight what feels… right.” The watch swayed rhythmically, a metronome of temptation, and one by one, the men succumbed. Gerry’s scowl softened into a blank stare, Joe’s muttering faded into silence, and Pastor Rob’s grip on his Bible slackened as his expression went slack.
Zane’s grin widened, wicked delight dancing in his eyes as he surveyed his handiwork. Then, his attention shifted to James, who froze under the weight of that gaze. Zane sauntered over, his movements predatory yet effortless, and leaned in close, his breath hot against James’s ear. “And you, sweetheart,” he whispered, “you’re the perfect little prize for my new recruits.”
James squirmed, his voice cracking as he stammered, “W-what’re ye on about? I’m not— I don’t—” But the words stumbled over themselves, useless against the heat of Zane’s proximity.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, Zane broke the trance, and the other men’s eyes snapped open, now glinting with a newfound, hungry intensity. Their gazes fixed on James, pinning him in place like a deer caught in headlights. Gerry’s heavy stare, Joe’s sly smirk, and even Pastor Rob’s conflicted, burning look—they all circled him with an unfamiliar edge.
“What in the actual feck is happenin’?” James blurted, his voice climbing an octave as he backed further into the corner, his hands flailing uselessly.
Zane laughed, a rich, rolling sound that filled the room as he clapped James on the shoulder, the touch lingering just a second too long. “Oh, darlin’, you’re in for a wild night ahead. Trust me.”
Lounging back on the sagging plaid sofa like a king on a throne, Zane watched with amusement as the men began to circle James like sharks, their rewired desires bubbling to the surface with no sign of resistance. The air crackled with tension, thick and electric, as the hypnotist’s grin promised chaos yet to come.
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