thanks for the delightful follow up story with Eli!!
was not expecting that so thanks my dear!!
cant wait to get wifed up and breed by Eli. knowing him and reader he can probably just ask reader to write their name on a dotted line cause he wants to see how reader writes their name. unknowingly its a marriage certificate that reader just signed
Eli could throw a wedding and reader wouldnt even know it was their wedding
# pairings: yandere cowboy farmer x himbo / bimbo reader
# synopsis: you thought it was a themed town event—turned out it was your actual wedding, and you’re the only one who doesn’t know.
# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI
# notes: likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!
you were just trying to be nice.
eli had just lifted an entire hay bale one-handed, sweat glistening on his neck like something out of a steamy calendar you definitely used to own. and you, being the supportive little ray of sparkles you are, clapped your hands and sighed dramatically:
“ugh, if i ever get married, it better be to a man like you.”
eli, wiping his brow, gave you a long look. “noted.”
you assumed that was the end of it.
here you were. you thought it was a theme party.
in your defense, eli did say, “put on somethin’ white, we got somethin’ to take care of in town,” and you assumed it was, like, a cow blessing or maybe a fancy farmer's market opening. so you slipped into your cutest white outfit, added a little flower crown (for aesthetic), and hopped into his truck like the sunshiney disaster you are.
then suddenly, you're standing in front of a judge—well, a guy named judge, who runs the bait shop and also officiates weddings “for a decent price and a six-pack” with a clipboard, there’s a weird amount of flowers for a paperwork situation, and eli’s wearing his “nice” flannel—the one without any holes or bloodstains. you’re handed a bouquet (free souvenir?), and the next thing you know, eli’s staring deep into your eyes with a suspiciously intense expression. eli’s in a clean shirt (which should’ve been a red flag), and the dogs are all lined up like tiny groomsmen.
“do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
you gasp, hands to your chest. “omg! is this, like, a rehearsal for someone else’s wedding?! wait—can i be the flower kid?? i love throwing things.”
eli just grunts. “you already said yes, darlin’.”
“i did? oh my god, that’s so real of me. i love participating!”
one of the wedding guests—miss patty from the feed store, who’s been suspiciously invested in your love life since you first tripped into town—leans over mid-ceremony and whispers, “you make such a pretty spouse, sugar. eli's been talkin’ about this day for months.”
you beam, cheeks warm. “aw, he’s such a good actor! this bit is so convincing.”
she stares at you for a long beat, lips parted like she’s buffering, then just sighs and pats your hand. “bless your heart.”
you’re not sure what that means, but it feels supportive, so you flash her a glittery thumbs-up and accidentally toss your bouquet into the arms of old man jenkins, who tears up and proposes to the nearest scarecrow.
another guest, some old guy named larry—who may or may not have wandered in from a fishing trip—leans over to your seat during the “ceremony” and whispers, “you know you’re gettin’ married, right?”
you blink. “ohmygosh! someone is?! who?!”
larry just stares. then points. at you.
you wave cheerily. “congrats to them!!”
eli wraps his arm tighter around your waist.
“….,” larry stares, and takes another sip from his thermos.
aunt marlene—who, as far as you know, is not your aunt but insists you call her that—dabs at her eyes with a floral handkerchief. “i told eli it’d happen fast once he found the one,” she sniffs, elbowing the guy next to her. “told ya, didn’t i? didn’t i say that sunshine baby was gonna domesticate that man like a barn cat?”
“yeah, but i didn’t think it’d happen on a thursday,” the guy mutters, holding a beer can with congratulations scrawled across it in sharpie. “also, did they even know this was their wedding?”
meanwhile, three farmhands who lived further down of town are placing bets on whether you’ll realize you’re married before the honeymoon ends. one’s already lost five bucks after you asked, “wait, why’s everyone taking pictures? is this, like, a photo op for the local tourism board?”
the mayor—who doubles as the postman and moonlights as the town santa—gives eli a proud slap on the back and mutters, “good catch. real sparkly. like marryin’ a magpie with a skincare routine.”
you curtsy at someone who cheers too loud, accidentally tripping over a goat in a bowtie (whose attendance no one seems to question), and turn to eli with wide eyes. “omg, this is the fanciest rehearsal i’ve ever seen! are those sparklers?!”
eli just pulls you closer, hiding a smirk in your hair. “sure is, darlin’. now kiss your groom.”
you do. because you’re very into commitment-based improv, apparently. eli pulls you in for a kiss that feels suspiciously long for a rehearsal, but hey—you’re in too deep to ask questions. probably some kind of local tradition. small towns are quirky. you just assumed this was one of those weird, hay-scented rituals everyone smiled through and never explained.
currently, you’re in eli’s truck, barefoot, frosting-sticky, and blissfully unaware that you just legally tied the knot in front of a man who can bench press a goat and apparently organize a wedding with the same deadpan efficiency he uses to fix a tractor.
you were licking the frosting off your fingers from the super realistic wedding-themed cupcakes (you even snagged two extras, because free food is your love language), while eli drives with one hand on the wheel and one resting heavy on your thigh.
“that was so fun,” you say, leaning your head back with a content sigh. “do they do fake weddings like that every year or just during cow fair season?”
eli makes a sound that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. “just once,” he says, voice low. “one’s all i needed.”
“awww,” you beam, patting his big calloused hand like he’s being sentimental about something quaint. “you’re so cute when you talk in riddles.”
he doesn’t respond—eli just gives your thigh a little squeeze, eyes fixed on the road like he’s already planning your anniversary.
back at the farmhouse, he opens the passenger door for you like a gentleman, scoops you up bridal-style (you squeal and giggle like it’s a game), and carries you straight through the front door.
“eli!” you gasp dramatically, “you’re not supposed to carry me over the threshold unless we’re married!”
you get home and kick off your sparkly flats at the door, humming a little tune as eli trails behind you with the lazy, content look of a man who just won the lottery and plans to never give the ticket back. you're still talking about the party.
“did you see how cute the tiny hay bale centerpieces were? oh! and the old lady who gave me a fake bouquet? i wanted to ask where she got it but then i got distracted by the free lemonade.”
eli’s setting down the cupcakes and muttering something like “weren’t nothin fake ‘bout that bouquet” under his breath.
you wander into the kitchen and immediately throw open cabinets like you live here—which, you do now—fishing for your favorite mug. you find it (“glitter is a neutral”) and start making hot cocoa, because nothing says “happy pretend wedding day” like a sugar high. you even hum as you stir, spoon clinking against the ceramic like background music.
eli watches you like he always does—quiet, unreadable, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway. his eyes track every move you make like he's committing it all to memory.
“you want some cocoa?” you ask over your shoulder, tossing mini marshmallows into the cup with chaotic precision.
“you sure? you like marshmallows.”
you make him a cup and hand it over with both hands like you're presenting a sacred gift. eli takes it, his massive hands dwarfing the mug, and you don’t notice the way he looks at you like you're made of glass and starlight.
you just bounce back over to the couch, throw a blanket over both of you, and snuggle into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“this fake marriage thing’s kinda fun,” you murmur sleepily.
eli lets out a low chuckle. “y’think so?”
“yeah,” you yawn. “it’s nice.”
he leans down and presses a slow, rough kiss to your temple.
“good,” he says, smiling into your hair. “get used to it.”
you spend the rest of the day gushing about how sweet it was that eli invited you to help out with a wedding.
eli just nods along, wears the ring, and installs a new “mr. & mx.” sign above the door of the farmhouse like it’s always been there.
not when he starts calling you his “spouse”
not when people in town congratulate you and you respond with “for what? oh my god, did i win something??”
not even when you start sleeping in his bed every night and he’s kissing your forehead you’re just living your best life, accidentally married, completely oblivious.
eli? he’s the happiest man on earth. and god help the poor soul who ever tries to tell you the truth—because eli’s already buried one of those.
later that week, you find eli outside fixing the porch steps—shirt off, jaw set, hands calloused and strong as ever. you wander over with a juice box (because hydration is important) and plop down next to him, watching like it’s your favorite TV show.
“you’re like, really good at this,” you say helpfully, sipping loudly through the straw. “you ever thought of doing it professionally?”
eli doesn’t even look up. “fixin’ my own porch?”
“yeah, like… i dunno. husband things.”
he pauses. “that what you think this is?”
you nod. “definitely. hammering stuff. fixing things. putting up curtains. classic husband activities.”
eli huffs a soft laugh through his nose, tosses the hammer aside, and wipes his hands on a rag. “guess i’ll keep doin’ 'em then.”
by the end of the week, there’s a new coat rack with your initials carved into it, your toothbrush is mysteriously replaced with a fancy electric one (“eli, are we rich now?”), and your favorite hoodie keeps showing up freshly washed and folded on your bed.
he mows the lawn before you can ask, changes the porch light when it flickers, and even rewires the bathroom fan after you complained it “sounded like a haunted kazoo.”
you clap like a proud toddler every time, completely convinced you’re just a very lucky guest on this charming little farmstay.
“i swear, if i ever get married for real,” you sigh one night, leaning back on the couch with your feet in his lap, “i want someone just like you. handy, grumpy, and weirdly good at foot rubs.”
eli’s hand stills for a second.
“you already did,” he mutters.
“nothin’. lemme know if i missed a toe.”
you don’t think twice about it. you just hum and sip your cocoa, completely oblivious to the fact that you are, in fact, a whole-ass spouse.
eli’s rough hands knead your tired feet with surprising tenderness, his gruff voice low beside you. the quiet warmth between you is comfortable, like the hum of the farmhouse settling in for the night. after a few minutes, he shifts, stands up, and grabs his toolbox without breaking the calm mood.
“i’ll get that squeaky hinge fixed,” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen. you stay on the couch, watching him move around the room with that same steady, no-nonsense energy—taking care of the little things like he always does, whether it’s your feet or the house.
eli’s quietly fixing a dent in the kitchen table and mumbling about adding extra shelves for your “crazy collection of glitter jars.” he grumbles something about “spoiling you rotten” but you catch the faintest hint of a smile anyway.
