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muiitoloko · 1 month ago

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YOU WRITE SO WELL!!! I think you'll figure out who I am by the way I'm requesting this but I'm doing it anyways XD.

So crezie idea, it's wedding day. And Obadiah has tried his best to encorporate both church and gypsy wedding in one. Let's say they both planned it through and they are both happy bout it. BUT of course there is still beef on his side and the girls fam.

They lowkey banter (the family) and when they cross a line (idk which fam you choose) Obadiah fights back and protects you like the husband he is (dkfhdkfnes and or maybe... Reader is strong willed too >:D then she might get the reward XD but I see how Obadiah is the protector type... And we strive for that :3) and we just get the after wedding where reader is like "yep your getting a reward for that" IDK XD but that's an idea I have aha~ I hope it sparks something in you too 😭 you could end it here... But I think we could still request an after math where Obadiah becomes a father... I'm looking too far into this XD But please tell me you'll be doing part 5 soon :"3 (no pressure tho... I'm just really happy an author like you exist... And ghorl you SERVE! 💅)

Also I'm weak by how soft he is 😩 we strive for a smp husband 😌✊

Title: The Vow in Red

Summary: Obadiah Slope's marriage to a gypsy woman defies societal norms, blending Anglican tradition with gypsy customs in a love story that overcomes deep-seated prejudices. Together, they build a life grounded in resilience and unity.

Pairing: Mr. Obadiah Slope × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Insults.

Author's Notes: Thank you very much for your order.

First, Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth part here.

Also read on Ao3

The day of your wedding to Obadiah Slope arrived with a tension that hung thick in the air. The town of Barchester had never been so alive with whispers and speculation. The fact that Mr. Slope—a man of the Anglican faith, deeply entrenched in the church—was marrying a gypsy woman was more than just a scandal. It was a spectacle, one that had drawn the attention of nearly every resident, and despite the intimacy you had hoped for, it seemed that the entire town had packed into the church, waiting for the ceremony to unfold.

As promised, Slope had done his best to incorporate elements of your culture into the ceremony, while still remaining faithful to his Anglican beliefs. He had listened, learned, and understood what mattered most to you. One of those compromises was the color of your wedding dress. Tradition in his world called for white, a symbol of purity and virtue, but you had chosen red, the vibrant color symbolizing passion, love, and vitality in the gypsy tradition. And though it went against convention, Slope had insisted on honoring your choice.

Now, he stood at the altar, tall and thin in his dark clerical robes, a splash of red sewn into the lining as a nod to your heritage. His hazel eyes searched the crowded church, waiting for you. The murmurs in the pews were unmistakable, a mixture of judgment and curiosity as townspeople and even some of your own family whispered amongst themselves. It was clear that few in the congregation approved of the union.

As you entered the church alone, walking down the aisle in your red dress, a hushed silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of your footsteps against the stone floor. Your heart pounded in your chest, your hands trembling slightly as you took each step forward, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes on you. The air was thick with tension, and despite the warmth of the red fabric that clung to your skin, you felt a chill run through you as you passed rows of disapproving faces.

The gypsies who had once been your family, your community, sat at the back of the church, their expressions hard and unreadable. Some refused to meet your gaze, while others glared openly, their whispered insults cutting through the air like a blade. From the other side of the church, the more conservative townspeople, particularly the strict Anglicans, looked equally disdainful, their lips curled in contempt as they watched the woman who dared to marry one of their own.

"She’s bewitched him, surely," a voice hissed from the crowd, and you clenched your fists, trying to keep your composure.

"Red, like the devil’s bride," another whispered, the words sharp and biting.

You swallowed hard, your steps faltering for a moment as the weight of the judgment around you began to press down. But then you saw Obadiah, standing tall at the altar, his hazel eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. He gave you a small, reassuring nod, his presence grounding you, and you forced yourself to keep walking.

The bishop, an older man with a stern face, stood beside Obadiah, his hands clasped in front of him as he prepared to begin the ceremony. He had agreed to perform the marriage, despite his own reservations, and though he maintained an air of dignity, there was a certain stiffness to his posture that betrayed his discomfort with the situation. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and raised his voice, addressing the congregation.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to witness the union of Obadiah Slope and his bride in holy matrimony."

But the whispers continued, growing louder, more insistent, as the ceremony went on. You could hear snatches of conversation from both sides of the church—snide remarks about your heritage, accusations that you had ensnared Slope through some kind of sorcery, and worse, insults that cut deep from your own people.

"Traitor."

"Shame to the gypsies."

Your heart sank, and though you tried to focus on the ceremony, the words gnawed at you, each one like a stone being placed on your chest, making it harder to breathe. You glanced at Obadiah, hoping for comfort, and though he stood strong, you could see the flicker of anger in his hazel eyes. He had heard the insults too.

The bishop tried to carry on, raising his voice to be heard over the growing murmurs. "Marriage is a sacred institution in the eyes of God, a bond—"

"She doesn’t belong here," a voice from the crowd cut through the bishop’s words.

"Neither does he," came another, this time from the gypsy side of the church.

Obadiah’s jaw tightened, his thin lips pressing into a hard line as the insults continued. His gaze flicked to you, and he saw the discomfort, the hurt, the way your shoulders had tensed as the judgment of both worlds crashed down around you.

Finally, he’d had enough.

"Silence!" Obadiah’s baritone voice boomed through the church, commanding attention. The room fell still, the air heavy with the weight of his authority. His hazel eyes swept across the congregation, a mixture of anger and disappointment flashing in them as he took in the faces of those who had come not to celebrate, but to condemn.

"This is a house of God," he said, his voice firm and unwavering, echoing through the vaulted ceilings. "And you dare to bring such vile hatred into it? Shame on all of you."

A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd, and Obadiah took a step forward, his gaze sharp and unyielding as he addressed both the townspeople and the gypsies alike. "You judge us, not for the love we share, but for your own prejudices, your own fears. You speak of purity and faith, and yet you come here, into this sacred place, to spew your poison. Have you forgotten the teachings of Christ? Have you forgotten the commandment to love thy neighbor?"

There was a murmur of unease in the crowd, but no one dared to interrupt him. Obadiah turned to the gypsies at the back of the church, his gaze softening just slightly as he spoke to them.

"And you," he said, his voice quieter but no less resolute. "You accuse her of betraying her people, yet you are the ones who have turned your backs on her. She has not abandoned her roots—she carries them with her, proudly, into this marriage. I have done everything in my power to honor her heritage, just as she has respected mine. But you refuse to see that. You refuse to see the love between us."

He paused, his chest heaving slightly as he took a deep breath, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "We are here today to join in holy matrimony, not to be torn apart by your hate. If you cannot find it in your hearts to support us, then leave. But I will not allow this to continue."

For a moment, the church was silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You could feel the tension easing slightly, the hateful whispers dying down as the crowd absorbed what he had said. Slowly, you reached for his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as you took his in yours.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Obadiah turned to you, his eyes softening as he looked down at you, his grip firm and reassuring. "I won’t let them hurt you," he murmured, his voice full of quiet determination. "Not now, not ever."

The bishop, clearly unsettled by the confrontation, cleared his throat and adjusted his vestments before continuing the ceremony, his voice more subdued but resolute. "As we continue this sacred union, let us remember that love, in all its forms, is a gift from God."

The rest of the ceremony moved forward, and though the tension remained in the air, the whispers had all but stopped. As the bishop spoke, he made room for elements of both Anglican tradition and the gypsy customs you had grown up with—simple gestures that acknowledged both sides of your identity. At one point, Slope held out his hand, and you tied a red ribbon around it, symbolizing the binding of your lives together in the gypsy way. And though the red dress had drawn disdain, it was a proud symbol of who you were.

When the ceremony finally concluded, and the bishop pronounced you husband and wife, Obadiah leaned down to kiss you, the gesture tender yet full of the fierce love and protection he had promised.

As you turned to face the congregation together, his hand firmly in yours, you saw the mixture of emotions in the crowd—some faces still hardened with disapproval, others softened with something resembling acceptance. But none of it mattered. You had each other, and you had faced the world together.

And that, you knew, was enough.

The wedding party was in full swing, the air alive with the hum of lively conversation and the vibrant energy of celebration. Beneath the canopy of stars, lanterns hung from tree branches, casting a soft, warm glow over the gathering. The sounds of laughter and the strumming of a guitar filled the night air, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of joy and relief wash over you. The worst of the day—the judgment, the whispers—was behind you now, and in this moment, you were simply a bride, celebrating with the man you loved.

As you looked out over the crowd, you noticed Slope standing awkwardly to the side, watching as the guests began to pair off and dance to the lively tune being played by the band—a song from your people, filled with the rhythm and passion of your heritage. You chuckled softly to yourself, knowing that dancing was certainly not something Obadiah Slope was accustomed to. But tonight, with everything you had been through together, you wanted to see him let go of the rigid formality he often carried like a cloak.

With a playful smile, you approached him, reaching out to take his hand. He looked down at you, a mixture of amusement and uncertainty flickering in his hazel eyes.

"I don’t dance," Obadiah said, his voice a low murmur, though there was no real protest in his tone.

"You do tonight," you replied with a grin, tugging him gently toward the open space where others were already swaying to the music. "It’s our wedding, after all. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your bride, would you?"

Obadiah sighed dramatically, though his lips quirked into a smile. "I suppose I don’t have much of a choice," he muttered, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes as he allowed you to pull him into the dance.

As the music picked up in tempo, you began to sway to the beat, your hips moving in time with the lively rhythm. Obadiah, bless him, did his best to follow your lead, though his movements were stiff and uncertain at first. His tall, thin frame seemed out of place amidst the fluid, energetic steps of the dance, but you couldn’t help but laugh as he gamely tried to keep up. His hands held yours tightly, his hazel eyes focused intently on not tripping over his own feet.

"You’re doing great," you teased, leaning in closer as the two of you spun around, the world around you blurring as you moved together. "Maybe I’ll make a dancer out of you yet."

Obadiah gave you a mock-glare, though the smile tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed his amusement. "If I trip and fall flat on my face, you’ll be the one to blame," he warned, though there was a warmth in his voice that told you he was enjoying himself more than he let on.

As the music played on, Obadiah began to loosen up, his movements becoming less rigid and more in sync with yours. The awkwardness that had marked the beginning of the dance began to melt away, replaced by a certain rhythm and grace that surprised even him. You could see the moment he began to let go of his self-consciousness, his body moving more freely as he allowed himself to be swept up in the joy of the night.

You beamed up at him, your heart swelling with affection as you watched him adapt to the lively tune, his lips curving into a genuine smile. This was a side of Obadiah you didn’t often see—unguarded, relaxed, even playful. And as he twirled you around under the stars, his laughter mingling with yours, you realized just how much he had given up for you. Not just his reputation, but pieces of himself—the control, the rigidity—to meet you in your world.

As the song reached its crescendo, you leaned into him, your breath warm against his ear as you whispered, "Thank you for standing up for me today, in the church. I know it wasn’t easy."

Obadiah’s movements faltered for a brief second, his hazel eyes meeting yours as he slowed the dance, drawing you in closer. "I’d do it again," he said softly, his baritone voice rumbling through his chest. "I won’t let anyone—gypsy or townsperson—speak ill of you. Not while I’m around."

Your heart swelled at his words, the fierce protectiveness in his tone filling you with warmth. You smiled up at him, your hand tightening on his as you said, "You deserve a reward for that, you know."

Slope raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. "A reward, you say?" he murmured, his voice dipping into that rich, teasing tone that always made your pulse quicken. "And what sort of reward might that be?"

You grinned, feeling a rush of excitement and anticipation as you leaned up on your tiptoes, your lips brushing against his ear. "You’ll find out tonight," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin.

Slope’s eyes darkened with desire, his hand tightening around your waist as he pulled you even closer. "Now you’ve got me curious," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’ll hold you to that."

You chuckled softly, your lips grazing his as you pressed a quick, teasing kiss to his mouth. "I’m counting on it."

As the two of you continued to dance, the world around you seemed to fade away. The stars above, the laughter and music, even the whispers of the guests—they all blurred into the background as you lost yourself in the moment, in the warmth of his arms and the promise of what the night would bring.

And as the dance came to an end, you knew without a doubt that Obadiah Slope, despite his flaws and his past, was the man you wanted by your side—for tonight, for tomorrow, and for every day after.

Three years had passed since your wedding to Mr. Slope, and the life you had built together, despite the trials and whispers, had blossomed into something warm, stable, and full of love. The small house you shared, tucked away from the center of Barchester, was filled with the scent of herbs and freshly baked bread, a reflection of the balance you had found between your gypsy heritage and Slope's Anglican world. The house was a peaceful sanctuary, where the laughter of your two-year-old daughter, bright and infectious, filled the air daily.

It was late afternoon, and you stood by the window in the kitchen, preparing a light meal as you waited for Obadiah to return from his trip to the city hospital. He had gone to offer pastoral support to the patients, a duty that had become increasingly important to him over the years. His dedication to his work had only deepened, but so had his love for his family. You smiled to yourself, thinking of how gentle and patient he was with your daughter, even after the longest of days.

Your daughter, Emily, sat in her high chair at the kitchen table, babbling happily to herself. Her chubby hands clapped together as she kicked her legs, her bright eyes following your every movement. She was dressed in the colorful clothes you insisted on her wearing—a small nod to your gypsy roots. Today, she wore a vibrant red dress with embroidered flowers, and a ribbon tied loosely in her wild curls.

Just as you were about to call her over for her afternoon snack, the front door opened with a creak, and you heard the familiar sound of Obadiah’s steady footsteps in the hallway. You turned, a smile already forming on your lips, and when he entered the kitchen, his tall, thin frame silhouetted in the doorway, you felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.

"Obadiah," you greeted softly, crossing the room to meet him. He leaned down, his hazel eyes crinkling with affection as he pressed a kiss to your lips. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer for a moment, as though he had missed you more than the short hours apart should have allowed.

"How was the hospital?" you asked, your voice gentle as you pulled away slightly to look up at him. "Were you able to speak with the patients?"

"It went well," he replied in his deep baritone, his voice carrying the weight of the day's work but with a softness reserved only for you. "I was able to spend time with a few of the patients. There was an elderly woman—Mrs. Pickering—who had been feeling very alone. I think our conversation brought her some comfort. It’s a blessing to be able to help them, even in small ways."

His eyes softened as he spoke, and you could see the sincerity in his expression. Obadiah had changed so much over the years—his once sharp ambition had mellowed, replaced by a genuine desire to help those in need. He had found his calling not in the politics of the church but in the quiet, meaningful moments of connection with his parishioners.

Before you could respond, a joyful squeal broke through the conversation. Emily, having spotted her father, clapped her hands enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Papa!" she babbled, her tiny voice full of delight as she squirmed in her high chair, reaching her chubby arms toward him.

Obadiah’s serious demeanor melted instantly, and his face broke into a broad smile as he turned to his little girl. "There’s my beautiful Emily," he said, his voice warm and playful as he crossed the room to her. He bent down to her level, his long fingers brushing a stray curl away from her forehead before he kissed her cheek, making her giggle.

"Dressed in red again, I see," he added with a teasing glance at you, though his tone held no real reproach. "Always the brightest one in the room, aren’t you, my little flower?"

You smiled, watching the interaction between father and daughter with a sense of quiet contentment. Obadiah lifted Emily out of her high chair, holding her in his arms as she babbled happily, her tiny hands patting his chest. The vibrant red of her dress, the colors you had insisted on keeping alive in your family, contrasted beautifully against the somber tones of his clerical robes. It was a perfect picture of the life you had built together—a blend of traditions, love, and compromise.

"She loves those colors," you said with a chuckle, stepping closer to join them. "Just like her mother."

Obadiah smiled, shifting Emily to his hip as he looked at you with a soft expression. "And I love them both," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. "I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Emily giggled again, clapping her hands as if agreeing with her father’s words, her bright eyes sparkling with mischief. "Papa!" she repeated, tugging at his collar with one hand while pointing at the window with the other.

Obadiah laughed, the sound deep and full of joy, as he turned to look out the window. "What is it, my love?" he asked, his voice still laced with amusement. "Do you want to go outside and play before dinner?"

Emily squealed in response, kicking her legs excitedly as she wriggled in his arms, clearly eager to be let loose in the garden.

"I think that’s a yes," you said with a grin, moving to take the tray of biscuits you had prepared off the counter. "But first, let’s have a little snack, shall we?"

Obadiah set Emily back in her high chair, and the three of you settled around the table, sharing the simple meal as the golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the kitchen window. The house was filled with the quiet sounds of family—laughter, the soft murmur of conversation, and the occasional babble from Emily as she enjoyed her biscuit.

As you watched Obadiah gently wipe crumbs from Emily’s cheek, his hazel eyes full of love for the little girl he adored, you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the life you had built together. Despite the challenges, despite the whispers and the judgment from both sides, you had created something beautiful. Something real.

And as you sat there, surrounded by the people you loved most, you knew that no matter what the future held, you and Obadiah would face it together—side by side, just as you always had.

#alan rickman x reader #obadiah slope x reader #mr obadiah slope #alan rickman

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