rare a woman.

Tom Hiddleston x teacher!reader

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Words: 2.5K

Summary: What happens when Tom is forced to have a stronger social media presence? How does he respond when teacher!reader sends him a message with one of her student’s writing assignments about Loki?

A/N: This was so much fun to write! As always, you all have been lovely. Feel free to send messages, say hi–all the things! I love interacting with you all and it keeps me motivated to continue the story!

Tom Hiddleston x teacher!reader

Parts: Part 1

Words: 2.9K

Summary: What happens when Tom is forced to have a stronger social media presence? How does he respond when teacher!reader sends him a message with one of her student's writing assignments about Loki?

A/N: This is my first attempt at anything remotely like this at all. I haven't written a fanfic since I was in high school and that has been quite a long time ago. I have to thank @lov3nerdstuff for inspiring me, answering all of my ridiculous writing questions, and really just being an awesome example around these parts. Go check out their stuff!

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OUTLANDER ⇢ 1x01

HAPPY CASTIVERSARY CAITRIONA BALFE AS CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP RANDALL FRASER(Sept.11,2013-present)

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

“Take your bloody gun,” she muttered through clenched teeth, shoving it against his chest. She kept the other’s. Chapman’s. She didn’t add the fact that she was dangerously close to whacking him upside the head with it.

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

“Take your bloody gun,” she muttered through clenched teeth, shoving it against his chest. She kept the other’s. Chapman’s. She didn’t add the fact that she was dangerously close to whacking him upside the head with it.

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

“Take your bloody gun,” she muttered through clenched teeth, shoving it against his chest. She kept the other’s. Chapman’s. She didn’t add the fact that she was dangerously close to whacking him upside the head with it.

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

“Take your bloody gun,” she muttered through clenched teeth, shoving it against his chest. She kept the other’s. Chapman’s. She didn’t add the fact that she was dangerously close to whacking him upside the head with it.

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

“Take your bloody gun,” she muttered through clenched teeth, shoving it against his chest. She kept the other’s. Chapman’s. She didn’t add the fact that she was dangerously close to whacking him upside the head with it.

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?

“Take your bloody gun,” she muttered through clenched teeth, shoving it against his chest. She kept the other’s. Chapman’s. She didn’t add the fact that she was dangerously close to whacking him upside the head with it.

The last thing Claire Randall remembered before her throbbing headache woke her was the deafening roar that accompanied each step she took towards the stones. The stones. A quick celebratory trip to Inverness with her husband, marking the end of the second World War was supposed to act as a second honeymoon of sorts. A reacquainting of minds and bodies. Now, as blue eyes focused on her new surroundings, it was evident she was no longer in Scotland. 

The humidity made her shift cream dress cling to her skin. Once tamed curls growing wilder by the minute. A childhood of travel made it easy to determine she was atop a similar hill to those of Craigh na Dun, but surrounded by jungle. Easy identification did not equate to easy comprehension. 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Chr—,”but she was cut short by a piercing cry as something—was it a bird?–lurched from the sky, diving towards the woman. A scream in return, but only once she was bolting down the hill, as fast as her legs could take her. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to take chase after Claire. Her uncle was likely rolling in his grave to know that his niece, who knew better than to run away from a beast, signaling their predatory behavior, would take off at first sighting.

But he was dead. And Claire did not plan to be anytime soon. 

Running faster and faster down the hill, she saw a group of people making their way seemingly out of the jungle. “A gun! A gun! Does anyone have a gun?” she called out, a fire burning in her chest or was that fear in the pit of her belly?