rareawoman

[rareawoman]

Beautiful!

@rareawoman​

[rareawoman]

Just Like That -part 4

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!

Keep reading

[rareawoman]

Just Like That

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!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Raise your hand to tell me why you think narrative beginnings are sometimes called ‘hooks’?” The room erupts in a flurry of hands raising after you prompt your class of fourth graders. They so badly want to please you and impress their fellow classmates, as though this one question answered correctly is all the recognition they will need in life. You’re obviously pleased with the participation, but it’s the select few that decidedly don’t raise their hands that have grabbed your attention.

“Scott,” you call on the boy who had been occupied with a glue stick in his desk than the discussion around him. A few groans were heard throughout the room from the disappointment of not being called.

“I didn’t raise my hand,” he replied, as if there must have been some mistake.

You smile, moving around the classroom in an effort to gain the attention of other students by your mere proximity. “Sneak attack,” giving a small shrug and a simple answer. ‘Sneak attacks’ were your common practice—another method of keeping students engaged. However, it was never used to intentionally embarrass students. “Why do you think narrative beginnings are called ‘hooks’?” you repeat the question, tone gentle as you continue to look at the boy who was beginning to fluster. You quickly gesture towards the whole class, directing your next words to them. “If you aren’t currently sending good vibes to your classmate, then I don’t know what you’re doing!”

As if on cue, students began to wiggle their fingers in the direction of the young boy. A few called out words of encouragement. “You can’t get this question wrong. I just want to know why you think a beginning is called a ‘hook’,” your tone even softer than before, barely heard above the other students’ excitement. You’ve chosen this student for a reason. He loves to fish. His only good memories of his dad are when they fished when Scott was a tiny boy. He hates to write and if you don’t get him invested in this now—you’re a goner.

“Um,” Scott’s small smile is contagious. His body language is telling you that this is going in the right direction. “You use hooks to pull the reader in—like you pull in a fish?” he asks, punctuating his question with a laugh.

Your face contorts in comical confusion. “Are you asking me or telling me, Scott?”

“With confidence!” a couple of classmates call out, again—they know you. They know your phrases and mannerisms. They feel safe. And if you don’t teach them a damn thing the whole year, you’ll be damn sure that they at least feel safe when they are with you.

Scott’s laughter mingles with his friends, jumping from his seat, his actions matching the energy of the room. “Hooks pull readers in!” he yells out. You respond with laughter of your own, because you know he isn’t done. “And—and—you have to have the right bait. You gotta know what type of fish you want to catch…” he rattles off quickly.

To keep the energy alive (and keep the conversation about writing), you’re quick to help him out. “Just like you have to know who your audience is when you’re writing.”

“Because you don’t want to lose them with the wrong beginning!”

“Exactly! Nicely done!” Your words are lost in a sea of excited claps, laughter, and words of congratulations towards Scott. “Today, we are going to begin to write a fictional narrative about what would happen if you and your favorite fictional character met and had to solve a problem together. It’s going to take us a month or so to complete it. Right around the end of the school year. Thanks to Scott, we already know that we have to grab our readers’ attention from the very start. He’s not going to have any trouble doing that, right everyone?” The students were already chatting away about what they were going to write about, even Scott who absolutely hated to write. You marked the ‘Publication Party’ day on your class calendar amidst the chaos.

There were more efficient ways to introduce a writing assignment. There were quieter ways. Ways that likely followed a perfectly laid out plan. You spent ten extra minutes that could have been used to go over the specifics of the assignment. But, had you done that….Scott would likely not have worked so hard on his narrative about meeting Loki. And you, dear reader, would not have randomly sent his writing to the man behind the God of Mischief…

—————————————————————————

There wasn’t anything mischievous about nursing a hangover with a five o’clock wake-up call from his furry companion. It seemed Bobby hadn’t received the memo that if his owner was up past midnight, drinking gin, and arguing with his publicist for the hundredth time about ‘social media image’---it wasn’t appropriate to lick at said owner’s face after he roughly had four hours of sleep. It was rude.

A muffled groan came from beneath the pillow that Tom had somehow managed to burrow under in his intoxicated state. It was a feeble attempt to avoid this whole situation. Yet, Bobby was insistent about getting up at their normal time. “I will buy you every bone this world has to offer, Bobby. Please. Five more minutes,” he begged the dog, but with little success. Hearing Tom’s voice may have made it worse, as Bobby’s cold nose dug deeper and deeper beneath the covers to lick at his owner’s ear.

“Alright! I’m up! I’m up!” hair flopped in all sorts of directions as he emerged from his cocoon. “We’ll take a walk and then go back to bed,” but even as he was saying it, he knew it to be a lie. He never could be one of those people who could just fall back asleep after padding around. When he was awake, he was awake—despite wishing with all of his might to catch a few more winks.

Hangover aside, the morning operated much the same. A quick pop outside for Bobby, before all of London was up for the day. Coffee. Two cups. Aspirin (not part of the typical routine, but decidedly required to survive today). Large glass of water. Then, to properly take Bobby on a walk more so to clear his own head than for his companion. Ballcap, glasses, and his comfortable attire were not noteworthy in his opinion—yet, he was fully prepared to force a smile if the paparazzi were out and about.

If they had been out, Tom wouldn't have noticed. The beautiful thing about walks is that you can lose yourself so wholly in the moment. A jog would have done the trick as well with the blood pumping, heart racing, the general feeling of being wildly alive and near the brink of death with each stride—though the thought alone of a jog this morning made him want to groan. Naturally, his thoughts found the way to the argument from the night before. His social media presence. Was it as active as his publicist would have liked? No. This wasn’t a new topic of conversation, but for whatever reason, Luke chose last night to put his foot down. Especially in this down time between projects, Tom had to keep in the public eye. No, not in the sense of the world knowing his every move—Where was he having dinner? Who was he eating with? Who was he sleeping with? The works. Taking to Twitter or Instagram with a picture of Bobby or the current album he was listening to would not be a complete invasion of privacy.

Luke was never going to understand though. While the publicist may have been in the public eye, he had never known what it was like to have every word scrutinized, to have his hand placement on a friend’s shoulder be the subject of countless blog posts, to read about his own break-ups in painstakingly dramatized articles… The world had never held him under a magnifying glass in an effort to see everything that was wrong with him.

And Tom told him as much. Hence, the hangover. For he never would have been so blatantly frustrated by the suggestion or as honest in his views had he not been two drinks in (the lightweight) while Luke had come by for a visit. At a certain point, Luke knew better than to argue with Tom after drink number two. Tom so rarely drank, that when he did, he would end up regretting everything that was said by the following day. It had simply been a combination of jet lag and a welcome home bottle of gin.

By the end of the walk, Tom was indeed regretting the argument from the night before. It wasn’t that he had a change of heart, but he didn’t like being cross with anyone. Did that stop him from getting angry? Of course not—but it was quite difficult to hold that level of bitterness in his heart.

Upon returning home, he set about preparing breakfast for himself and a new bowl of food for Bobby–proving that he wasn’t going to crawl back to bed like both man and canine suspected from the start. After taking a quick shower and sliding into something equally as comfortable as his earlier outfit, he forced down a piece of toast and another glass of water.

It wasn’t until he settled down at his computer to answer a few emails that he realized that Instagram was opened in one of his tabs. A disgruntled roll of the eye was all he could muster in terms of frustration, having used up most of it the night before. Of course, staring back at him was a picture of Bobby’s smiling face.

10,567 likes

twhiddleston A picture is worth a thousand words.

6 hours ago

Lovely. Just lovely. Tom’s immediate reaction was to start clicking around to look into how to change his password. It wasn’t as though Luke hadn’t posted pictures before on Tom’s behalf, but this certainly wasn’t going to be a constant–especially pictures of his, albeit adorable, pup. Throughout his search, he seemed to stumble upon the messages. What a rabbit hole that turned out to be… Most of the newest messages were about Bobby and how cute he was—which he had to agree with like a proud parent.

He was just about to click out of the messages when a new one appeared.

cgfan0820

Greetings! Not sure if Tom will actually see this—seems unlikely given how busy he likely is…

cgfan0820

Damn. Unlikely and likely so close in the same sentence. I could have figured out a better word. Or you know, not have sent that first message.

Tom had to give a chuckle as he watched the real time struggle this person was seemingly having with his or herself. He had half the mind to respond back, but the little messaging system said they were still typing—so, he politely stayed quiet.

cgfan0820

I really hope he doesn’t actually read these. Can you paint me in some sort of decent light–if/when you relay this? Or don’t relay. At least not this part.

He felt bad for laughing at this stranger’s self-depreciation. There was an endearing sense to it all though and a confidence that managed to peek its way through. Why allow others to see you stumble, if you were not confident that you would rise again? Alright, Tom. A little too deep for a simple message.

cgfan0820

Can you please show him this?

Before he had a chance to reread over the messages, several images popped up. At first, he was concerned about what the pictures contained–given how he knew people could behave on the internet, especially when there were no repercussions for such behavior. Upon further inspection though—it looked like a child's handwriting. These were pictures of a book of some sort. There were illustrations of Loki (the horns gave it away, but the grin sold it) alongside a smaller person. Based on the label that said in all caps SCOTT, Tom took it to be the main character. It was absolutely adorable. Page after page–some easier to read than others. After thirteen pictures of writing and illustrations depicting an adventure between Loki and Scott–and from what Tom gathered, they saved the world, he found himself checking to see the new message that had been sent.

cgfan0820

Scott has never been so proud. Writing doesn’t come easily to him. He gets trapped in his mind—like we all do at times. He finished it though because I promised I would try to have Loki read it. Tell Tom thank you for inspiring one of my kids.

It was then that Tom realized his cheeks ached. The low throb that occurs after an extended period of smiling. He read over the pictures three or four more times, understanding more and more with each repeated read. Of course it wasn’t the first time he had received a card or letter written by a child. This was by far the most extensive and proved to be a little trickier when it was through pictures. Nevertheless, it was Tom that was left feeling inspired, which was exactly the reason he felt compelled to respond.

twhiddleston

Please tell Scott that his work rivals that of many of the greats. Not only am I impressed with his use of metaphors (particularly ‘Loki was kayos’---I assume chaos?) but also his use of punctuation to make a point. Was that seven or eight exclamation points on page 2, sentence four?

Before he had time to close the browser, the typing sign appeared once more from the user. That polite nagging in the back of his still pounding mind forced him to stay glued in his spot. Read the message and then change the password. He would send an equally polite goodbye and be done with Instagram.

cgfan0820

You assume correctly! I cared more about the metaphor than the spelling. You should have seen the rough draft though. There were at least seventeen exclamation points. Now I have to know, did you read it with the enthusiasm of seven exclamation points? Was Scott’s punctuation in vain?

He had been caught. When he had read the story, it was all in his head and more focused on deciphering everything rather than reading it with conviction. The fact that this messenger was so quick to point out his obvious mistake amused him.

twhiddleston

I’ll have to come clean. I did not read it with as much enthusiasm as was warranted.

cgfan0820

Then, you didn’t do your job as a reader. Scott did his job as a writer. What do you have to say for yourself?

A chuckle awoke Bobby from his mid-morning nap, as Tom shifted in his seat to start his reply. He literally knew nothing about the messenger and yet the phrase ‘what do you have to say for yourself’ made him curious about the person behind the screen. That was wildly inappropriate though, especially if he was going to end this conversation shortly and his presence on social media.

twhiddleston

I apologize profusely. I don’t wish to lay blame on poor Scott, but the penmanship was making it a tad difficult to distinguish between exclamation and lowercase l’s.

cgfan0820

Do you run across a lot of lowercase l’s at the end of sentences? Is that a common practice in the UK?

twhiddleston

You make a brilliant point. I apologize once more.

There was a lingering pause as he waited for the messenger to begin typing once more. After five minutes had passed, however, he felt as though he may have lost his audience. This was the perfect time to end the conversation and carry on with the rest of his day. Yet…

twhiddleston

I take it, you’re not from the UK?

What was he doing? That was his chance to leave as politely as possible. Yet, here he was continuing a conversation with a complete stranger. Well, perhaps not a complete stranger. This person had children, based on the ‘my kids’ comment. Obviously cared about writing….and encouraged it wholeheartedly.

cgfan0820

Never been there before in my life. Southern woman here–minus the accent. I guess I should specify the United States?

twhiddleston

Really? You must be absolutely exhausted. It has to be–what? One? Two in the morning over there?

cgfan0820

Ding. Ding. Professional development day for the school district tomorrow. I don’t have to quite be on point as usual. My kids would call me out if I looked tired.

More and more puzzle pieces were being given to him about the messenger. She was a teacher. Her kids were her students. At that realization, something tugged at Tom’s heart. He had ‘nieces’ and ‘nephews’---children of coworkers and friends. Although he loved them dearly, he had never referred to them as his children. Yet, this woman did it so freely and with such ease that she had likely done it countless times before. Not only did she seem at ease talking about ‘her kids’, but she seemed at ease talking to him.

When was the last time a stranger had been able to do that? When had he been at ease with a stranger? Yes, he knew how to put on the smile, the charm—he knew how to be Tom Hiddleston. When was the last time he was able to simply be Tom?

cgfan0820

I have to ask…Who am I speaking to?

-------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading!

[rareawoman]

‘shut up’ but like flirtatiously.

[rareawoman]

#claire ;; face

[rareawoman]

OUTLANDER ⇢ 1x01

[It was a Tuesday afternoon. Six months after the end of the war.]

#claire ;; face

[rareawoman]

Caitriona Balfe as Diane Lester in Money Monster (2016, Dir. Jodie Foster)

[rareawoman]

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

“Hard to believe this was 8 years ago … but not hard to feel grateful .. for the incredible role; the wonderful people I’ve been able to work with both cast and crew and the amazing fandom that has embraced us and spurred us onward year after year. Thank you Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall Fraser for all you’ve given me. “—CMB(Sept.11,2020)

#claire ;; face

[rareawoman]

Her initial reaction is to become outraged again. Had she not made herself clear in what she was trying to accomplish? But truthfully, she enjoyed the calm in this little moment. Not wanting it to end, her tone held more softness than it had this entire time. “I can’t go, James,” she reminded him softly. “I have to try to find my way back. I’ll be alright.”

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

“Ha! Frank was more inclined to teach me history than anything involving my elbow and a man’s ribs,” shaking her head at the grimace Frank would likely sport if he had seen her do that. “No,” her smile turning into something more reminiscent. “No—my uncle raised me. We spent my childhood traveling. He very much wanted me to feel safe no matter where I was—either with my words or with my fists.” Another quick laugh, noticing James’s continued rubbing. “Seems I wouldn’t have disappointed him.”

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

A roll of her eyes, mainly at that grin of his. Did he always so easily get his way with a smile like that? The answer didn’t really matter as she found herself melting ever so slightly. “Claire Randall,” repeating her name as she extended her hand. “You’re right. You were a wanker,” a term not commonly used by her, forcing a laugh from her lips. A low stinging finally resonating from her elbow, giving it a light rub. “I really did get you good, didn’t I?”

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

And for whatever reason, seeing him be a bit human causes her to relax. Coupled with his turn of phrase, similar to what she says when utterly frustrated, Claire finds herself relaxing a bit. “You’ve chosen quite a few wrong words,” matter of factly as she watches him recover from the blow. For a long moment, she contemplates what to say next and finally agrees on—- “Are you alright?”

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

The gesture was small and entirely innocent, but that didn’t mean James’s placement of his hand didn’t startle her. Out of sheer reflex, she found herself lifting her elbow and jamming it right into his ribs. Had she meant to? Of course not. Was she upset that it happened? Not really. “I am not under your command.”

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

A scoff, lacking any sort of humor. “I have no intention of dying, but I doubt Chapman did either. Neither you nor anyone else in that group were able to save him,” stepping over roots and pushing back branches with each push forward. “Scared or not, I have to try.”

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

“Back to where I first remember waking up. There has to be something there. Some clue as to how I got here,” she’s already panting, half from her pace and partially from her frustration. Over the last several hours, her dress has gone from pale cream to something more resembling tan, hair curling like wild, and all together more like she had in the war. Surrounded by chaos and forced to maintain some sense of logic.

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

And she would love to see him try to stop her. Between his inching closer and the hand on her shoulder, Claire was caught between emotion and logic. To her core, she was a logical person. Emotion didn’t often drive her decision making, but it did cause her to say or do things she didn’t entirely mean. She was far too stubborn to admit that though.

“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.

“I’m heading back.” Though she didn’t know much, somehow or another, she made her way to this island. There has to be a way back home.

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.

[rareawoman]

No, it was certainly rage that she was experiencing now. As soon as his finger pressed into her chest, she saw red. Nothing but red. Her whole body lurched forward. “Touch me one more time and so help me, I will use your own damn gun on you!” she shouted, mere inches from his face.

At that particular moment, however, it became painfully evident to the other members of the group that someone needed to intervene. Another young man placed a hand on either person’s shoulder, whispering but still loud enough to be heard over the two. “Do you guys want to wake up everything that wants to kill us in this jungle?” Claire’s words may have stopped, but she didn’t move away—only continued to stare down the towering man.

starter for @highpricedtracker​

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?

As she approached the group, their eyes were huge at the sight of the beast and a sense of panic spread over their faces. Claire’s legs could not stop their motion, colliding with the very person seemingly leading the group. The force was so strong, it knocked the breath right out of her.