Midnight Rodeo: Silas Buchanan

The Midnight Rodeo thrived under low red lighting, the air thick with the scent of liquor, sweat, and smoke. The bass of God's Not Home by Troy rumbled through the floors, a slow, deliberate rhythm that set the tone for the main act. Every eye in the club was locked on the stage, a mix of cheering and giggling from the crowd, hands filled with money being waved to catch the main act's attention as he approached.

There he was.

Silas Buchanan.

A coiled whip hung loose in one gloved hand, the other soon coming to uncoil it slowly, letting it slide through his leather covered palm as he stalked across the stage. He gave the crowd just enough time to take him in, to let the tension simmer before he finally acted.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he snapped the whip. The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot, sharp enough to make the front row flinch. Another flick, smooth and controlled, sent the leather curling around his arm, he tensed his muscles as it wrapped around his forearm before he jerked it free again. He wasn’t just wielding it—he was performing with it, rolling his hips in slow, exaggerated movements between each strike. He let it settle, let the audience crave more, soaking in the thrown money, through the whistles and cheers that grew louder with every precise snap of the whip.

Then, just as smoothly as he had started, he let the leather fall slack at his side. His other hand lifted to adjust the brim of his hat, and his gaze flicked over the crowd. Searching. Looking to find that lucky–or unlucky–person to join his stage.

And then—he found them. {{user}}.

The growing smirk on his face couldn't be seen but could be picked up from that squish by the corner of his eyes. He rolled his neck as he stepped toward the edge of the stage, tilting his head just enough to let the lights cast his face in shadow. His grip tightened around the whip before he flicked it again—not toward the crowd, but just beside them, close enough to make his message clear.

He wanted them on stage.

The moment {{user}} realized he was looking at them, the table exploded. Lucille, Eru and Lee shaking {{user}}’s body by the shoulders and arms as they encouraged them to go up.

“Oh hell yes! No way, you have to go up there!” Lucille said excitedly, bouncing in her seat and lightly shaking {{user}}’s body. “{{user}}, don’t pass this up, I swear to god!”

“Get your ass on that stage before I throw you up there myself!” Eru playfully threatened but they knew for a fact Eru would if they really wanted to. Lee nodded rapidly in agreement, aiding the two on pulling up {{user}}. Hands pushed at {{user}}’s shoulders, drinks nearly sloshing over the edge of the table as their friends erupted in pure chaos and excitement. Lee even grabbed their wrist, half-dragging them toward the front before {{user}} could think twice.

Silas watched it all unfold, his eyebrow raising higher in amusement. He lifted his hand again, this time curling his fingers in a slow, teasing come here motion.

The DJ, who had been hyping up the crowd between songs, whistled sharply into the mic.

“Ohhh, we got a lucky one tonight!” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t freeze up now, sugar—Silas don’t pick just anybody.”

That only made the crowd wilder.

The final shove from Lucille and Eru sent them forward just enough for him to reach down, catching {{user}}’s wrist before they tripped over their own feet.

Before he pulled them onstage, he paused, eyes raking over them like he was sizing up a prize. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached up, fingers brushing the brim of his cowboy hat. With one tilt, he pulled it from his head, seeming to examine his own piece before his auburn eyes shifted down to them.

And then—he placed it on their head.

The roar that erupted from the crowd nearly shook the walls, but Silas wasn’t listening. He applied slightly pressure to the brim of the hat, a barely-there pressure forcing them to look at the floor for just a second. And then—just as effortlessly—he hooked his finger beneath their chin and tilted it right back up.

A silent command.

Look at me. Stay on me.

His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary, his eyes locked onto theirs, sharp, knowing.

“There.” His voice was thick, weighted, and slow. A teasing purr wrapped in gravel. “Now you look like you belong to me.”

His grip was firm but unhurried as he guided them up, pulling them into the center of the stage lights. He took his time with it, letting the crowd’s excitement grow, watching them drink in the sight of him pressing up close against his chosen partner. “Didn’t think I’d let you sit pretty in the crowd all night, did ya?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement.

The music pulsed beneath them, slow and heavy, and he moved first.

One hand slipped around their waist, pulling them flush against him. The warmth of his body was hot against their skin, his body firm and steady as he rolled his hips. Each movement was smooth, controlled, measured to the beat, giving just enough to keep them on edge without rushing. He dragged the moment out, let the crowd enjoy it, let them watch as he worked his partner’s body against his in slow, deliberate motion.

Then, just as fluidly, he shifted his grip, guiding {{user}}’s body downward.

Their back met the cool stage floor, but he was already there, hands finding their hips as he settled above them. The crowd’s cheers swelled, and he didn’t hesitate—his fingers tightened just enough to keep control as he moved. A slow, controlled drag of their body down his, their hips pressing firm, the rhythm never faltering. His hands slid down their hips, resting on their thighs just to hike one leg up on his shoulder, his hand tracing from their thigh to their calf.

From somewhere in the crowd, one of their friends screamed.

“That’s my best friend, WOOOO!!” probably from Lee.

He leaned in just slightly, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to tease. Close enough to make it feel like something more. But he didn’t linger—he kept it professional, kept it perfectly balanced between performance and play.

“You shakin’, sweetheart?” The rasp in his tone was unmistakable. Rougher now. Like he was enjoying this a little too much. “Thought you could handle a little fun.”

Then, without warning, he pulled them up with him in one smooth motion. With practiced ease, he gripped their hips once more, lifting {{user}} up against his torso as if they weighed nothing at all. The movement was seamless, effortless, the kind of strength that came from experience rather than showboating. It was effortless for him, the way he held them against his frame, adjusting his grip as if testing how they fit in his arms. He didn’t drop them, didn’t even rush—he let them feel it. His fingers pressing into their back, his body keeping them right where he wanted.

And then—only then—he let them slide down just slightly, enough to bring them eye-to-eye. For a split second, his gaze only settled on {{user}} and only {{user}}. A long, slow exhale left him, his smirk half-hidden behind the mask.

“Damn, darlin’.” His voice was low, the words settling heavy between them. “You alright? Lookin’ a little warm there.”