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You didn’t expect to find anyone in the small workroom, let alone him. The place is usually empty at this hour, quiet enough that you thought you’d slip in unnoticed, grab the small tool you left behind earlier, and slip out. Easy. Fast. Entirely uneventful.
Instead, you open the door and walk directly into the most unfair scene imaginable.
Teylan is on the floor, sitting cross-legged with his tools spread neatly around him, a half-disassembled device resting in his lap. He’s hunched forward a little, squinting at something delicate and complicated, lips purse-twitching with focus. A familiar sight—he tinkers whenever he gets restless—but today there is one detail that makes your brain detonate on impact:
His shirt is off.
Completely off.
Just tossed aside on top of a crate like it was nothing. Like he isn’t built in a way that could wake the dead. Like he isn’t quietly hiding a body that somehow straddles the perfect line between soft and sculpted—defined shoulders, gentle but undeniable muscle through his arms, the faint lines of strength that move across his chest when he shifts.
You freeze. Very literally. As if your entire nervous system just pulls the emergency brake.
He doesn’t even notice you at first. He’s too absorbed, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as he adjusts a tiny component with the tip of a metal tool. There’s a faint smear of grease along his cheek, an absent-minded streak of dark against spotless blue skin. And his tail is curled loosely behind him, twitching occasionally like he’s caught somewhere between intense thought and contentment.
Then he glances up.
And everything gets worse.
“Oh— hey!” His smile comes bright and immediate, the kind that hits you in the chest before you even have time to brace for it. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Your heart tries to exit your body.
You don’t answer. Can’t. Your mouth is open but absolutely nothing comes out because all your words have been replaced by some version of wow or holy shit or just white static.
Teylan takes your silence as casual. He lifts the piece in his hand, waving it slightly as he talks. “Look! I finally got the secondary regulator to stop sticking. It was just this little misalignment—like half a millimeter—and once I—”
His voice fades. Not because he stops talking, but because your ears just… check out. You can see his lips moving but none of it reaches you. Your brain is too busy staring at the slope of his shoulders and the way his chest expands when he takes a breath and the soft flex of his stomach when he shifts positions.
You’ve turned into a statue. A malfunctioning statue. A statue experiencing heatstroke from proximity to one, very bare, very pretty man.
It’s only when Teylan notices that you’re not reacting at all—not nodding, not smiling, not even blinking—that he pauses, his brows pulling together slowly.
“...Are you listening?”
You absolutely are not.
He sets whatever he’s holding down and leans back slightly, peering at you with growing concern. His tail stops its easy swaying. He tilts his head.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
The question should snap you back to reality. Instead it just sends your mind into a deeper spiral because he looks worried and soft and so heartbreakingly gentle about it.
Your throat makes a noise that could not possibly be classified as speech.
Teylan’s concern spikes instantly.
“Alright, that—okay, hold on.” He pushes himself to his feet in one smooth motion, brushing his hands on his thighs as he stands. The movement shows off his stomach again, smooth lines of muscle shifting beneath skin, and you have a brief, embarrassing moment where you truly think you might faint.
He takes a step toward you.
Everything inside you short-circuits.
He takes another step, and you swear the room gets smaller. He’s closer now, too close, warm and towering in that uniquely Teylan way that somehow always makes you feel safe and very, very flustered.
By the time he reaches you, your face is burning.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, gentle, coaxing. “You don’t look so good.”
That does it. The heat in your cheeks spikes, radiating across your entire face. Teylan reaches out without hesitation, hands coming up to cradle both sides of your cheeks, thumbs brushing soft circles along your cheekbones as he tries to angle your face up to his.
You cannot handle this. There is no universe where you could handle this.
“You’re really warm,” he says softly. “Like… really warm. Did you eat? Are you dehydrated? Did something happen?”
His worried rambling only makes your pulse louder in your ears. You attempt speech anyway. It fails miserably.
“N-no, I’m not—I’m not hot—I mean, I am hot—I mean YOU’RE hot—no—wait—oh my Eywa—”
You slap a hand over your face.
Teylan pauses. Blinks.
Then smiles sympathetically, because he absolutely did not understand what you just said.
“Aww,” he mumbles, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek with soft fingers. “You’re definitely not feeling good.”
You make a strangled noise.
“No, no—I’m fine—I’m—you’re—uhm—your—body—I mean PROJECT—your project—looks—good?”
You want to die.
Teylan lets out a little laugh—soft, sweet, oblivious, and slides one hand to the back of your head, the other staying on your cheek, steadying you like you’re going to faint.
“Okay, wow, you’re really out of it,” he says, voice low with worry. “C’mon, sit. You’re shaking.”
He gently, insistently guides you toward the crates along the wall, his hand steady at the curve of your waist, warm fingers wrapping around your arm as if to keep you upright. He moves with the kind of unthinking protectiveness that makes your chest ache and your legs feel suspiciously unsteady.
He urges you to sit, then crouches in front of you immediately, knees brushing yours, hands still hovering around your face and shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll topple forward.
He searches your expression, eyes flitting across every detail of your face.
“You look awful.”
“Teylan.”
“I mean—not like—not like bad-awful, more like… sick-awful.” He fumbles. “Like you’re about to pass out-awful.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your heated face. “I’m not sick.”
He doesn’t buy it even a little. He gently pulls your hands down from your face and takes them into his, checking the temperature of your palms, turning them over, brushing his thumbs over your knuckles.
“I dunno,” he murmurs. “Your hands are warm too.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, and it’s not convincing in the slightest.
He hums, low and doubtful, and leans in closer. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that you can see the tiny freckles dusting the bridge of his nose. His tail flicks behind him, restless and anxious.
“Look at me.”
You do. Barely. Through a haze of embarrassment.
“What happened? You walked in and just… froze. Did something scare you?”
Yes, you want to say. Your abs scared me. Your shoulders scared me. Your everything-with-no-shirt-on scared me.
But you can’t say that. You physically, spiritually cannot.
So you stammer instead, tripping over the first excuse your brain coughs up.
“I just—I—got dizzy.”
He nods immediately, completely convinced. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”
It does NOT make sense.
He presses the back of his hand to your forehead again, brows knitting together. “Still warm. And your pupils are kinda huge.”
They are huge because you haven’t looked away from his chest in ten minutes, but thank the Great Mother, he does not connect these dots.
He shifts even closer. One hand rests at your shoulder, the other slides behind you to steady your back, his touch warm and grounding. He smells faintly of metal, sweat, and for some reason something floral-y.
“You should lie down,” he says gently. “Or drink something. I can get water. Or get Ri’nela. Or both.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do.” His tone softens even more. “I don’t want you fainting on me.”
Your blush flares so hard it feels like another fever spike. Teylan’s eyes widen at the sight.
“Whoa—okay, yeah, that’s not normal. Are you sure you’re not sick?”
“I’M NOT SICK.”
It comes out far too loud.
He startles slightly, then laughs—soft and apologetic. “Okay, okay. You’re not sick. But you’re definitely… something.”
“Something,” you echo miserably.
He tilts his head. “Yeah. Kind of woozy. Kinda flushed. Kinda… wobbly.”
“I’m not wobbly—”
He places a hand on your knee. Just to steady you. Just to prove his point.
You immediately wobble.
Teylan gives you a look so smug and gentle it’s almost criminal. “Uh-huh.”
Mortification rolls through you like a tidal wave. You drop your face into your hands again, and he laughs softly before easing your wrists apart, wanting to see you.
He cups your cheeks again, palms warm, thumbs soothing along your skin. “Hey. Don’t hide. It’s okay to not feel good.”
You make another undignified noise.
He mistakes it for distress.
“Hey, hey…” His voice drops, soft as a whisper, full of worry and fondness. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
You want to scream into the floor.
Instead you let him hold your face, because resisting is impossible, because his touch is gentle in that way that unravels every tense thing inside you. His fingertips skim along your jaw, checking for anything—heat, tension, anything that might explain the way you’re acting.
He sighs softly when he finds nothing physically wrong.
“Maybe you just overworked yourself,” he murmurs. “You’ve been busy lately. And you never rest when you should. So your body just… hit its limit.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Sure. That’s it.”
“That happens,” he continues, completely unaware he’s killing you softly. His voice becomes a low ramble, soft and trying to soothe you. “You push yourself too hard, and then something small hits you wrong and boom—your whole system gets thrown out of balance.”
He keeps talking, and talking, and talking—because he’s nervous, because he cares, because he never knows what to do with his hands when he worries, so he just keeps touching you gently, brushing your hair back, stroking your cheek, squeezing your shoulder.
Each little touch is another blow to your sanity.
“You should lie down,” he decides eventually, helping you stand as if you’re fragile. His hands stay at your waist even after you’re steady, warm and careful. “I’ll get water. And something cool for your face. And maybe Ri’nela just to check—”
“I don’t need Ri’nela,” you insist, panicked.
He pauses. Then smiles softly. “Okay. Just me, then.”
The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip. They really, really shouldn’t.
But they do.
Teylan walks you out of the workshop slowly, one hand at your back, the other loosely curled around your wrist, keeping you close, guiding you like he’s guarding something precious. Your heartbeat refuses to calm. Your cheeks refuse to cool.
He’s still talking. “Next time you feel weird, tell me sooner, okay? Don’t just stand there like you got hit by a stun blast.”
You choke on a breath. “I didn’t—”
“You totally did,” he says, smiling at you with unshakeable certainty. “I mean, you walked in, looked at me, and your brain just shut off.”
You nearly trip.
He catches you before you fall, arms looping around you instinctively, warm and steady and strong enough to make your head spin for reasons you will take to the grave.
“See?” he murmurs, both hands sliding to your waist again. “Wobbly.”
“Teylan, for the last time—”
“You’re sick.” He says it so conclusively it’s pointless to argue.
He squeezes your side gently, ushering you toward the shade outside the doorway, his expression softening with tender worry you don’t deserve.
“And I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, brushing your hair back again. “So just… lean on me, okay?”
You make a noise you absolutely did not authorize, and Teylan shifts to steady you; hands warm at your waist, adjusting, and you accidentally brush straight against his abs.
A solid, warm, sculpted line of muscle.
Your entire soul leaves your body.
You squeal. Out loud.
Teylan actually jumps. “Wha—hey?! What happened? Did something bite you—?”
He moves too fast in his confusion, and you step back at the exact same time he steps forward. Your heel catches on nothing, his foot catches on yours, and there’s a very brief, very mutual moment of oh no before the two of you tip.
You crash into him chest-first—well, face-first—burying your nose directly into the center of his stupid perfect stupid unfair abs.
Which would have been humiliating enough.
Except the impact is just hard enough that your nose pops.
Warmth drips instantly. Your eyes water.
Teylan freezes, arms hovering around you like he's afraid to touch you wrong.
“…Did you just— get a nosebleed?? From FALLING??”
You do not answer. You cannot answer. You are face-down in the reason you have a nosebleed.
Teylan gently—carefully—lifts you by the shoulders, holding your head back with one hand while his other tries to cup under your chin to check the damage. He looks horrified. Deeply horrified.
“Oh my—Great Mother—you really ARE sick.” His voice cracks in genuine distress. “You’re bleeding! Okay, no, no, that’s it, you’re not walking anywhere alone ever again.”
You whimper weakly.
He thinks it’s from pain.
He pulls you closer anyway—warm arms wrapping around you, one hand already tilting your head back against his shoulder, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades to “calm you down.”
first time writing teylan ... caked you got me hooked.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
- so very respectful!! When he asked to court you he made sure to do it privately, yet all of his displays of affection are in public. He may not necessarily be so cuddly, but he treats you so special compared to others that from one glance people would know that you're his. The way his eyes linger on your body, the way his pupils dilate anytime he hears your name mentioned, and how anytime you're facing each other he brings his hand up to slowly trace the bioluminescent freckles on your skin; they say it all.
- He tries to stay away from getting you courting gifts that can be weapons, but it was the first thing he gave you when you two met! Instead, he'll gift you keychains that you can attach to your weapons or on your ikran's harness.
-All the years he spent training up until he met the Resistance led him to perfect his craftsmanship as well as his patience. He always gives you the most wonderfully crafted gifts that reflect you and your interests. When you're upset he always knows what to do to help you feel better! He's so levelheaded it's rare you two get into arguments, he's perfect for you!
Teylan
- Either you would have to approach him or he'd ask in the heat of the moment. Under any other circumstance he will 100% try to bury his feelings. Despite him being so shy with his feelings he can't help but get clingy and touchy with you. He'll constantly rest his head on your shoulder, have his arms wrapped around your waist, anything.
-He feels so disconnected from his Na'vi ways that he's unsure if you really want to be with HIM out of everyone. He'll try not to say anything but sometimes his mind gets ahead of him. Moments like those are when he's really glad to have you. He enjoys the way your arms wrap around his torso, grounding him, reminding him that he is worth it and he is Na'vi.
-He's so thoughtful, most of the gifts he gives you are a reflection of you both as people, yet they're all something of use to you. He tries to be more "Na'vi" by collecting pretty shells and beads to weave into a necklace or armband for you; more traditional gifts. However, his specialty is more tech focused: upgrading SID, haggling with others to gift you better gear, his favorite one though is the upgraded comm system. He made it after one of your particularly long missions; a better network so he won't cut out all the time. He even managed to find an empty channel that way he can say all the sappy loving stuff to you<3
- He really does love you a lot and he's so grateful for you. He tries to be more adventurous, so he can go out on missions with you. But right now, he's fine with riding your ikrans side by side together.
