I have a beau arlen request! I was thinking the cowboy hat rule that if a cowboy gives you his hat, you’ll ride that cowboy, SO what if Beau meets Y/N in a bar with those mechanical bulls and beau places his hat on Y/N’s head before riding the bull? I have a thing for cowboys, and it would be so cute, please and thank you!
Hat Rule
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Pairings; Beau Arlen x reader
Genre/Warnings; Romance, Contemporary, Smut, Slow Burn, Enemies-to-Lovers Vibes, Strangers-to-Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Public Kink, Mechanical Bull, Truck Sex, Minimal Dialogue, Rough/Physical, Hat Fetish, Clothes-On Sex, Heat/Desire, Dom-Sub Dynamics, Alcohol Use
Summary: if a cowboy places his hat on someone’s head, it signals a strong sexual or romantic interest, implying that the wearer is expected to reciprocate his desire.
2258 words
The music is loud enough to drown out most thoughts, but not enough to hide the sound of boots scuffing across wood floors and laughter spilling from tables. Y/N had only come to this place because her friends thought it would be funny to watch drunk cowboys fall off a mechanical bull. So far, she wasn’t impressed. Every ride ended the same—three jerks, a face-first tumble, cheers from the crowd.
She’s nursing her drink when she feels a presence beside her. Tall, broad-shouldered, smelling faintly of leather and cedar. She doesn’t look right away, but when she does, the sight makes her pause: a man in a worn button-down, sleeves rolled, jaw set like stone. And the hat—perfectly tilted, shadowing eyes that are still sharp enough to catch hers.
“Evenin’,” he drawls, voice slow, like honey poured over gravel.
She quirks a brow. “Sheriff, you look like you’re casing the joint instead of enjoying it.”
His lips twitch. “Old habits die hard.” He doesn’t explain how she knew, and she doesn’t ask.
Before she can tease him more, a voice rings out across the bar. Someone recognizes him—calls him by name, dares him to ride the bull. There’s a chorus of whistles and hollers.
He sighs, tips his head like he’s already regretting this, then glances back at Y/N. For a long second, he studies her, like he’s deciding something.
“Guess I’ll need someone to keep my hat safe.”
And before she can reply, his hand is already lifting the brim off his head. He sets it carefully on hers, the crown heavy, smelling faintly of dust and sweat and cologne. His thumb brushes the brim, tapping it lightly, and his eyes lock on hers.
“Keep it warm for me ’til we’re done here,” he says, quiet but full of promise.
The friends at her table go wide-eyed, one even coughs into their drink, but Beau’s already walking toward the bull. She feels the weight of the hat like it’s burning, every laugh and cheer around her blurring into static as she watches him climb into the saddle like he’s done it all his life.
The operator must’ve seen the way the bar perked up when Beau stepped into the ring, because he doesn’t start the bull easy. It jerks hard to the left, then snaps right, but Beau moves with it—one hand gripping the rope, the other loose in the air, steady as a heartbeat.
Y/N’s friends are whispering behind her, but she barely hears them over her pulse. The sight of him—hatless now, hair a little mussed, forearm flexing with every shift—is magnetic in a way that should be illegal.
Someone near the fence mutters, “Ain’t his first rodeo,” and they’re right. He doesn’t ride like a drunk idiot trying to impress strangers—he rides like muscle memory, like instinct, like he was built for it.
The bull bucks forward violently, then twists. A lesser man would’ve face-planted by now, but Beau leans back, expression carved in calm concentration. His jaw clenches, boots dig in, thighs tightening around the saddle in a way that makes heat curl low in Y/N’s stomach.
She adjusts the brim of his hat where it sits on her head, as if it’ll help her think straight. It doesn’t.
Another swing, another snap of motion. He holds firm, hips rolling with the rhythm of the machine like he’s not just riding it—he’s working with it. His shirt pulls tight across his back as he shifts, revealing the kind of strength you can’t fake.
Someone near the bar counts out loud—eight… nine… ten—and the operator finally cuts the power. The bull slows. Beau stays seated until it’s fully still, then swings his leg over and drops down light as a man half his size.
There’s applause, some cheers, even a whistle or two. But he doesn’t acknowledge any of it.
His eyes find Y/N like he’d never lost track of her.
He walks back with unhurried confidence, running a hand through his hair as he approaches. The closer he gets, the hotter her skin feels under the brim of that damn hat.
He stops in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her chin to hold his gaze.
His hand comes up—fingers brushing the edge of the brim, slow, deliberate. But he doesn’t take it back.
“Told you I’d come for it,” he says, voice low, edged with something that lands deep in her stomach.
And he still hasn't removed the hat from her head.
Beau didn’t stop once he reached her. His hand brushed the front of the hat still sitting on her head, like he was checking that she’d kept her promise, then he dipped his head close enough for his breath to skim her cheek.
“You’re leavin’ with me.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t offer one—just downed the rest of her drink and followed him out without looking back at her friends.
The night air was warm, humming with music bleeding from the bar, but it didn’t matter. Beau had her by the hand before the door even shut behind them, and his stride was long, purposeful, leading her across the gravel lot toward an old black pickup parked under a busted streetlight.
Beau swung into the truck with the same effortless confidence he carried everywhere, the weight of his presence filling the cab before the engine even turned over. Y/N followed, hips brushing his as she climbed in, dress still slightly rucked from their hurried exit at the bar. The hat sat firmly on her head, tipping slightly with each movement, a silent dare he didn’t bother acknowledging.
The drive was a blur. Every red light, every bump in the road, only added to the tension; hands gripping, thighs squeezing. By the time they reached her place, they were both slick with heat, unsteady from the urgency that had taken over.
He didn’t waste a second. As soon as the car was turned off, he grabbed her waist, pulling her onto his lap. Her hands braced against his shoulders, then the door, as she straddled him, shoving her dress higher. The car smelled faintly of leather and sweat, tension thick as their bodies pressed together, friction sparking with every impatient movement.
Beau’s hands were everywhere—gripping, holding, teasing—but never gentle. A sharp slap landed on her ass, making her gasp, arching against him. Another hit, harder this time, and she met him with the same urgency, pressing her body harder against him. Her ass hit the steering wheel, the pressure of it driving her movements, the confined space amplifying every shift, every grind, every shudder between them.
Minimal words passed—low groans, sharp inhales, the occasional curse—but the heat spoke louder than language ever could. He held her hips steady as she moved against him, rocking, grinding, and shivering with each jolt, the spanking punctuating the rhythm, keeping her exactly where he wanted.
She felt him, felt the press of him against her, and sank down onto his lap in one desperate push. The breath punched out of both of them. His head thunked against the seat, jaw tight, hands gripping her hips so hard she’d feel bruises bloom later. No talking—just a muttered curse that died against her throat when she started to move.
It was messy from the start. The wheel dug into her ass but she didn’t stop. Her palms flattened against his chest for balance as she ground down on him, using him, breath catching every time he jerked his hips up to meet her. He didn’t guide her—just held on and let her take what she wanted.
She leaned in closer, and his hand shot up to pull the top of her dress down. Her breasts spilled free, flushed and bouncing with every movement. The sight of them, framed by his shirt and his hands, dragged a low sound from him—too raw to swallow back. He got a palm around one, thumb brushing over a hardened peak, and she shuddered hard enough the hat almost slid off.
He caught the brim with one hand and tapped it back into place, eyes dark and hungry. That was the only moment of pause she got—then she was moving again, faster, using his shoulders for leverage. The windows fogged quick, glass smearing with heat and breath.
His hands clamped onto her ass, dragging her down to take him deeper, hips snapping up in a rhythm that rattled the seat. She grabbed the head rest behind his head to brace herself, fingers white-knuckled as she rode him hard enough the truck rocked.
Every breath came out ragged. The slap of bodies, the creak of leather, the muffled thud of her back against the steering wheel—it was all sharp and fast and unrestrained. Sweat beaded at his temples, his jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed on her like she was something he’d been starving for.
The hat stayed on her head the whole time. Even when her head fell back and she gasped his name, even when his hand slid up her spine and yanked her down against him, even when the truck windows went fully opaque with steam and breath.
They didn’t stop until she went limp against his chest, dress askew, skin flushed and damp. He was still buried inside her, jeans low, one hand splayed across her back like he wasn’t ready to let her go. Her breasts were pressed against his shirt, breath shaky against his neck.
Bonus: (another version of this)
Beau didn’t stop once he reached her. His hand brushed the front of the hat still sitting on her head, like he was checking that she’d kept her promise, then he dipped his head close enough for his breath to skim her cheek.
“You’re leavin’ with me.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t offer one—just downed the rest of her drink and followed him out without looking back at her friends.
The night air was warm, humming with music bleeding from the bar, but it didn’t matter. Beau had her by the hand before the door even shut behind them, and his stride was long, purposeful, leading her across the gravel lot toward an old black pickup parked under a busted streetlight.
He opened the passenger door, but the second she climbed in, he was there too—slamming it shut and closing the space between them before she could catch her breath.
His mouth crashed into hers hard enough to steal the air from her lungs. No hesitation, no testing the waters—just hunger, all heat and teeth and need. She grabbed at his shirt, hauling him closer, the brim of his hat dipping low over her eyes as he kissed her like he’d been waiting all night.
He groaned against her lips when she tugged him in deeper, his hands already shoving her dress up, bunching the fabric around her hips with rough impatience. The truck creaked with the movement, his body crowding into the narrow space between the seats.
Her back hit the door, the window rattling behind her as he wedged a knee between her thighs and dragged her against him. She could feel how hard he was even through his jeans, and he didn’t bother hiding it—one hand braced beside her head, the other already at his belt.
She yanked at his waistband, and he got the hint fast—shoving his jeans down just enough, breath harsh and uneven as he pressed his forehead to hers.
“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes dark, voice low enough to vibrate through her. “You got no idea what you started wearin’ my hat like that.”
She smirked, breathless. “You put it on me.”
“That’s the problem.”
He didn’t give her time to answer. He grabbed under her thighs and shifted her higher in the seat, her dress riding up fully as he settled between her legs. The truck was dark, hot, too small and just right. The horn gave a soft honk when her hand smacked the steering wheel to brace herself, but neither of them stopped.
His mouth found her neck, biting at the skin just below her ear, one hand gripping her thigh so tight she’d feel it tomorrow. When he finally pushed into place, she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
There was nothing slow about it—not the way his hips snapped forward, not the way she met him just as hard. Every thrust jolted the truck, the windows fogging, breaths breaking into ragged sounds that filled the vehicle.
He kept one hand on her leg, the other buried in the seat beside her head, muscles tight, jaw clenched like he was holding back and failing at it. Her head tipped back, hat still perfectly in place, brim knocking the headrest with every movement.
“Look at me,” he growled, and she did—and fuck, the way he looked at her should’ve been illegal. Possessive, hungry, like she’d signed something the second that hat touched her head.
She moaned his name, and that was it—he slammed his mouth over hers again, swallowing the sound as his rhythm turned rougher, deeper, the kind of ruthlessness that came from weeks of pent-up want channeled into one reckless night in a truck.
By the time it was over, the windows were hazed over, her dress was still bunched around her hips, his jeans shoved low on his thighs, and her breathing was a shaky mess against his cheek.
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