His tongue darts out and wets Loki's lips. Well. He understands the taunt enough, he thinks, hands balling into fists and then dropping open, too aware of Clint's own breathing, a loud pulse corresponding in his own brain.
Not that that is particularly unusual. For Loki, anyway; he's somewhat used to it being drowned out by the noise of existence otherwise. Here, in Clint's mind, it's different.
There's not a solid decision between standing there and fleeing. He doesn't remember turning away from Clint. One moment he's still and the next he's in motion, surrounded by trees, trying not to make much noise, trying to push aside the sense of thrill that overtakes his fear near immediately.
Wanting to be caught is one thing. Wanting to be a good hunt is perhaps not an unrelated other thing.
It's impossible to tell how long he runs for. Hours? Minutes? Long enough for the rules of the nonreality to state that he becomes tired. Exhausted. Thirsty. His hair sticks to the side of his face, his neck. He tries to listen for the hunter but can't focus on it for very long, the need to flee becoming too pressing for him to remain motionless.
There have been close calls already.
His magic is there but inaccessible. Like a river beyond a mountain. No less true but also not helpful in the moment.
There's a ruin, or a cabin, that Loki becomes aware of. A trap, perhaps. Safer than trying to find open water, either way. There's no door, just an archway. Either he will go in and find that Clint is already there or he will go in and be followed. Trapped.
no subject
Not that that is particularly unusual. For Loki, anyway; he's somewhat used to it being drowned out by the noise of existence otherwise. Here, in Clint's mind, it's different.
There's not a solid decision between standing there and fleeing. He doesn't remember turning away from Clint. One moment he's still and the next he's in motion, surrounded by trees, trying not to make much noise, trying to push aside the sense of thrill that overtakes his fear near immediately.
Wanting to be caught is one thing. Wanting to be a good hunt is perhaps not an unrelated other thing.
It's impossible to tell how long he runs for. Hours? Minutes? Long enough for the rules of the nonreality to state that he becomes tired. Exhausted. Thirsty. His hair sticks to the side of his face, his neck. He tries to listen for the hunter but can't focus on it for very long, the need to flee becoming too pressing for him to remain motionless.
There have been close calls already.
His magic is there but inaccessible. Like a river beyond a mountain. No less true but also not helpful in the moment.
There's a ruin, or a cabin, that Loki becomes aware of. A trap, perhaps. Safer than trying to find open water, either way. There's no door, just an archway. Either he will go in and find that Clint is already there or he will go in and be followed. Trapped.
He goes inside.