#rda reader

The first thing you notice is the weightlessness— not of floating, but of absence. Your human limbs, your human lungs, the tightness of your human skin: gone. Instead, there’s a ripple of muscle beneath blue flesh, the slow flex of unfamiliar fingers curling into damp earth. Above you, the canopy parts just enough to reveal a sky bruised purple with dawn, but your eyes, your new eyes, adjust instantly, pulling details from the gloom: the fractal veins of a fern, the twitch of a six-legged insect scuttling up a vine.

A sound escapes you, not a scream, not a gasp, but something raw and involuntary, halfway between a growl and a sigh. Your throat vibrates with it. The air smells like crushed greenery and something sweeter, muskier, Tana’rìng flowers, their scent thick enough to coat your tongue. You try to sit up, but your body responds too fast, too strong; you overshoot, nearly toppling forward onto all fours. The movement is instinctive, right, as if your spine remembers a rhythm your mind hasn’t learned yet.

Something moves in the undergrowth. Your ears, longer, sharper, pivot toward the noise before you consciously register it. A shadow detaches itself from the trees: So’lek, his stripes darker than the surrounding shadows, his bow already half-drawn. He doesn’t lower it. "You breathe," he says, and the words aren’t a greeting but an accusation. His nostrils flare, testing the air between you. "But your eyes—"

You don’t understand until you reach up, brushing your own face. Wetness. Not sweat, not rain. Tears. Your human mind recoils, avatars don’t cry— but your Na’vi body doesn’t care. The salt stings where it drips into the corners of your mouth. So’lek’s gaze hardens.

"Eywa gave you breath," he spits, "But not the heart of the People." The longbow’s string creaks as he pulls it taut. "Your skin is Trr’ong, but your sorrow is human. A trick. A mockery."

Behind him, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of Tana’rìng blossoms, thick, cloying, like the memory of a home you never knew. Your fingers twitch toward the nearest stalk, but So’lek’s snarl freezes you. "You think chewing our flowers will make you one of us?" His laugh is jagged. "The RDA took my clan’s bodies. Now they send you to wear our skin like a trophy."

You swallow, tasting salt and earth. "I’m not—" The lie dies in your throat. You are a weapon, just not the kind he thinks. Your hands lift, palms open, fingers trembling. Not surrender, something worse. Pleading. "Tell me," you rasp, voice raw, "How the Trr’ong were." The bowstring slackens a fraction.

A flicker in his yellow eyes, doubt, or maybe grief. "Why?" he asks at last, but his voice cracks. You press your advantage, reckless. "Teach me." Not a demand, not even a request, you don’t wanna die by longbow today— but you need this like you need air, and maybe So’lek hears it.

His bow dips, just enough, the tension bleeding from his shoulders like poison drawn from a wound and he exhales. "You move like a blind yerik," he mutters, but lowers the bow entirely, stepping closer. His fingers, calloused, warm, press against your wrist.

"The elders of the clan taught the young members to bring warmth and love to others, as the clan was seen as a light against the darkness and that this was our responsibility." He says, his tone cold and detached like he doesn’t even want you there.

He probably doesn’t, to be fair… you can’t blame him. You don’t know how long he’s been alone out here— how long since he’s heard the laughter of the Trr’ong, the songs of the elders around the fires, the hum of the forest when it answered them.

The bowstring hums faintly as he finally lets it slacken, the sound barely audible over the whisper of leaves overhead. You notice then— really notice— the scars beneath his stripes, thin and white like old lightning, the way his fingers twitch when the wind shifts, as if expecting an attack that never comes.

"So you want to learn?" His voice is low, rough. Not angry anymore, just tired. "Then stand." He steps back, giving you space, but his posture stays coiled, ready. You push yourself up, knees wobbling, muscles burning with the effort of moving this body.

You inhale sharply, ribs expanding wider than they ever could before, lungs filling with air so rich it stings. "First week," you rasp, voice still raw. His ear flicks at that, nostrils flaring. "First week," he echoes, like it's a confession. Then, softer: "You walk like a toddler, chin up, shoulders back. You want a Trr’ong body? You stand like one."

That was the barest hint of possibility, like the first drops of rain before a storm. His hand darts out unexpectedly, pressing flat against your sternum. "Heartbeat’s wrong," he mutters, almost to himself. "Too fast, like a viperwolf caught in thorns." His palm lingers long enough for you to feel the heat radiating through his skin before pulling away as if burned.

Over the weeks, So’lek warms up to you more and more, teaching you more and more and more about the Trr’ong clan. How it was tradition among the Trr'ong hunters to make woven necklaces to indicate their success in becoming hunters, how they connect through Trees of Voices, how their warriors fought enemies in the air.

So’lek teaches you how to properly hunt and fight. The bow becomes an extension of your arm, the rhythm of your breath syncing with the pull of the string. He corrects your stance with sharp nudges, his touch lingering just long enough to imprint the memory of pressure before withdrawing. "Not like that," he snaps when you fumble a throw, but there’s less venom in it now, more exasperation. "Your body knows. Stop thinking."

One evening, as the moon casts silver streaks through the canopy, So’lek tosses you a bundle of dried Tana’rìng stalks. "Chew," he orders, watching your hesitation with narrowed eyes.

The first bite floods your mouth with a bitterness that makes you recoil, but beneath it, a creeping numbness spreads across your tongue like slow-spilled ink. You blink, suddenly aware of the absence of pain you hadn’t even realised was there.

So’lek watches, arms folded, expression unreadable, until the corner of his mouth twitches. "Too strong for you?" he taunts, but his voice lacks its usual edge. When you don’t rise to the bait, he exhales sharply through his nose and crouches beside you, plucking a stalk from your fingers. His knuckles brush yours, deliberate or accidental, you can’t tell, but the contact lingers like the aftertaste of the Tana’rìng.

Days blur. He starts standing closer than necessary when adjusting your grip on the bow, his breath warm against the nape of your neck. You catch him once, just once, pressing his forehead to the bark of a Tree of Voices, whispering words too low for you to hear. When he turns and finds you watching, he doesn’t snap or look away, just holds your gaze, something unspoken thickening the air between you.

The night he finally shares a meal from his own bowl, tearing the meat with his fingers and offering you the larger piece, you understand: this is his way of saying what his pride won’t let him voice. You take it, letting your fingers graze his palm, and the way his ears twitch tells you everything.

Three days later, he leads you to the glade without warning, his steps silent. The Tree of Voices looms ahead, its tendrils swaying like the hair of a drowned woman, the woodsprites swirling in lazy spirals around its trunk. So’lek stops just outside the circle of roots, his breathing shallow. "You asked," he says, voice rough, "How the Trr’ong were." He doesn’t look at you. "Eywa remembers."

You step forward, but his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist, not to stop you, but to anchor himself. His claws dig in just enough to sting. "Wait," he murmurs, and for the first time, you hear fear in his voice. Not of you, but of what comes next. The woodsprites drift toward you both, their bioluminescence casting flickering shadows across his face. One lands on his shoulder like a whisper. He shudders.

When he releases you, it’s with a push, not a pull. "Go," he says, and the word is half a plea. The roots part before you, damp and warm beneath your bare feet. Behind you, So’lek sinks to his knees, his bow clattering to the ground as the first woodsprites brush against his cheeks.

You don’t turn back. You don’t need to. You grab your queue, hesitating, before plunging it into the Tree of Voices.

The moment the connection snaps into place, the world dissolves into a torrent of sensation— not images, not sounds, but memory itself, raw and unfiltered. You taste the iron tang of blood from a hunt centuries past, feel the press of a child’s laughter against your skin, hear the thunder of ikran wings in a storm that hasn’t raged for generations.

So’lek’s presence flickers at the edge of your awareness, distant but undeniable, like a ember buried deep in ash. His grief is a living thing, coiled tight around the memories of his clan, laughter around fires, hands weaving necklaces.

The disconnection comes like waking from a dream—sudden, jarring. Your lungs burn as you gasp, muscles locking as you reel backward. So’lek’s hand catches your shoulder, his claws pricking skin, steadying you before you collapse. His breath is ragged against the nape of your neck, uneven, like he’s the one who just surfaced from drowning.

His fingers flex against your flesh, not pulling away, not drawing closer, just there, solid as the roots beneath you. A wood sprite drifts past, brushing his cheek, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows, hard, like he’s forcing down words that might choke him if spoken.

You tilt your head up and kiss him. Not gently. The way you do it is all Na’vi, teeth first, then tongue, tasting the bitterness of Tana’rìng still clinging to his lips. He stiffens, a sound caught between a snarl and a gasp vibrating against your mouth, but his hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in the strands of your queue.

He kisses you back, fierce and desperate, like he’s trying to carve his name into your skin with his teeth. The impact of your bodies hitting the ground is muffled by the thick moss, your spine arching as his weight presses you deeper into the damp earth. His tail lashes against your thigh, restless, electric, as his hands map the ridges of your ribs, not gently, not reverently, but like he’s memorising the shape of something he expects to lose.

Above you, the tendrils of the Tree of Voices sway, their luminescent tips brushing against So’lek’s shoulders like curious fingers. A wood sprite drifts down, hovering between your faces for a breathless second before alighting on his cheekbone, its glow casting fractured shadows across his face. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away; he just exhales, sharp, through his nose, and the sprite dissolves into motes of light, scattering like embers in the wind.

Your claws dig into his hips, blunt pressure through the fabric of his loincloth, and he growls, low, approving, before nipping at your lower lip hard enough to sting. The pain is fleeting, washed away by the sudden heat of his tongue against yours, the taste of him sharp, wild. His knee slots between yours, rough bark scraping your thigh as he pins you, not to hurt, not to dominate, but because he can’t bear the space between you anymore.

The friction burns, too much fabric, too many layers, and with a frustrated hiss, So’lek fists a hand in your loincloth, yanking it up and out of the way. You follow suit, your fingers clumsy with urgency, the knot at his hip coming undone beneath your nails. His skin is fever-hot beneath your palms, the muscles of his abdomen tensing as you drag your queue toward his, the neural tendrils trembling in anticipation.

The moment your queues connect, the world fractures, not into the vastness of Eywa’s memories this time, but into something intimate, private, the raw of So’lek’s thoughts bleeding into yours. There’s no separation, no hesitation; his desire coils around yours like a vine seeking sunlight, his breath hitching as you push, not just physically, but into him, your shared pleasure echoing between your linked minds.

So’lek’s hips jerk against yours, his forehead pressed to your collarbone, his exhale ragged against your skin. The bond thrums between you, alive, hungry, and when he finally lifts his head, his pupils are blown wide, his lips parted around a sound that’s half your name, half a prayer.

You arch beneath him, fingers threading through his braids, pulling him down until his teeth graze your neck. He growls, low and visceral, the vibration sinking into your bones, and then he pushes. The stretch burns, not painfully, but intensely, like the first pull of a bowstring after years of disuse. Your whimper is swallowed by his mouth as he claims it, his tongue mimicking the slow, relentless press of his hips.

His hands find yours, pinning them to the land beside your head, his nails pricking your wrists just enough to sting, not a warning, but a promise. The rhythm he sets is brutal, unrelenting, a pace that feels less like mating and more like claiming, like he’s carving his presence into the very marrow of your bones. His teeth scrape your shoulder, not biting, not yet, but the threat of it lingers in the hitch of his breath, in the way his hips snap forward with a precision that steals the air from your lungs.

All you can focus on is the heat of him, the way his stripes glisten under the dappled moonlight, the way his tail lashes against your thigh like a whip. His queue nearly trembles where it’s entwined with yours, the connection amplifying every sensation, the scrape of his teeth, the drag of his claws, the way his breath hitches when you clench around him, as if he’s feeling it twice over.

A wood sprite drifts too close, drawn by the intensity of your shared energy, and So’lek snarls, swatting it away with a flick of his wrist. The gesture is possessive, almost feral, and it sends a thrill down your spine as he adjusts his grip on your hips, claws pricking skin. There’s no finesse now, no measured rhythm, just the raw, driving force of his body slamming into yours, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of flesh and the ragged hitch of his breath. His teeth find the curve of your shoulder, not biting, not yet, but the threat of it lingers in the way his lips pull back in a silent snarl.

So’lek’s tail lashes against your thigh, the rough brush of its tip leaving streaks of heat in its wake, and you arch into him, meeting each brutal push with a roll of your hips. His queue tightens around yours, the neural connection humming with unchecked hunger, and you feel it, the moment he teeters on the edge, his control unraveling like a frayed bowstring.

His hands slide from your hips to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, the pads of his fingers pressing into the rapid flutter of your pulse. It’s a wordless claim, a silent demand for surrender, and you bare your teeth in answer, nails raking down the ridges of his spine. The sound he makes is half-growl, half-moan, vibrations rumbling through his chest and into yours as his pace stutters, losing its rhythm.