Can u write a autistic!Megan and fem!reader fic? Maybe Megan’s sick and so overwhelmed/overstimulated that it leads to a meltdown? The day ends with fluff ofc
pairing: autistic!megan skiendiel x female reader
warnings: overstimulation, megan being sick, meltdown, fluff
a/n: I’ve been posting drafts, I just finished this request, I’ve got 2-3 more I think? but I’ve been so sick the past couple days so I’ve been sluggish
The apartment is quiet in the way that only happens when Megan is sick.
Not peaceful—just muted. Like the world has been turned down a notch without anyone asking first.
Megan lies curled on her side beneath two blankets, hoodie pulled up despite the fever radiating off her skin. Her hair is damp with sweat, lashes clumped together, breathing uneven. She looks smaller like this—not weaker, just… contained. As if all her energy has been redirected inward to survive.
You sit on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against her arm.
Megan whines softly the moment you shift. “No.” She whimpers, voice thick and scratchy. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not.” You promise immediately, freezing in place. “I was just adjusting.”
Her fingers fumble blindly until they catch the hem of your shirt. She grips it with surprising strength, knuckles pale, like she’s afraid the second she lets go you’ll disappear.
You don’t comment on it. You just let her hold on.
Not because of the aches or the sore throat or even the fever—though those are miserable enough—but because sickness strips her of her tolerance. Everything becomes too much. Light hurts. Sounds echo. Textures feel wrong against her skin. And worst of all, her emotions sit right at the surface, raw and unbuffered.
She knows she gets whiny when she’s sick. She knows she cries easier. She knows she clings.
That knowledge doesn’t make it easier.
Her forehead is hot under your palm when you check her temperature again.
“Still warm.” You murmur, mostly to yourself. “But it’s come down a little.”
Megan hums weakly. She doesn’t open her eyes.
You’ve been doing this all day.
Cold cloths. Medicine at precise intervals. Dim lights. Curtains drawn just enough to let the room breathe without letting the sun stab through. You speak softly, always warning her before you touch, always giving her choices even when she’s barely coherent enough to answer.
“Do you want water or just to rest?”
“Can I check your temperature?”
Sometimes she nods. Sometimes she shakes her head. Sometimes she just squeezes your shirt harder and trusts you to understand.
Right now, her breathing stutters.
You recognize the shift instantly.
Her grip tightens, her shoulders hunching as if she’s bracing against something invisible. A small sound slips out of her throat—not quite a cry, not quite a word.
You lean closer, lowering your voice even further. “Hey. I’m here.”
Her eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused. “It’s loud.” She whispers.
The apartment is silent. But you know what she means.
“You want the fan off?” You ask.
She nods, tears already gathering. “And the— the light. It’s buzzing.”
You move immediately, carefully disentangling her fingers from your shirt only after replacing them with your wrist so she doesn’t panic. You turn off the fan, dim the lamp further until the room is bathed in soft shadow.
You’re back at her side in seconds.
She’s crying now. Quiet at first—tears sliding down into her hairline, her mouth trembling like she’s trying to hold it together and failing.
“I didn’t mean to,” She hiccups. “I’m sorry.”
Your heart cracks a little.
“Hey,” You say gently, brushing her hair back with slow, predictable movements. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re sick, overwhelmed. That’s not a failure.”
Her breathing starts to speed up anyway.
“I don’t— I can’t—” Her words tangle, frustration sharp and immediate. “It hurts. Everything hurts. And I can’t make it stop.”
You shift closer, making sure she sees you do it. “Do you want pressure or space?”
She hesitates—then sobs softly and reaches for you.
“Pressure.” She whispers.
You slide into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her too much, wrapping your arms around her in a firm, steady hold. Not tight enough to trap her—just enough to anchor.
She melts into you instantly.
Her meltdown comes fast after that, like a wave that’s been building all day finally cresting.
She cries openly now, shoulders shaking, face pressed into your chest. Her hands clutch at your shirt, your arms, anything solid. Her breathing goes uneven, hitching on sharp inhales that make your chest ache in sympathy.
You don’t tell her to calm down.
“I’ve got you.” You murmur, over and over, voice low and even. “I’m right here. You’re safe. I’m not leaving.”
She sobs harder at that, the sound breaking something open in her.
“I hate this.” She cries hoarsely. “I hate being like this. I hate that I can’t— I can’t even be alone for five minutes.”
“You don’t have to be alone.” You say immediately. “Not today. Not ever, if you don’t want to be.”
Her crying softens into hiccups.
You rock her gently, slow and rhythmic, the way you know helps regulate her breathing. You breathe deeply on purpose, letting her match you when she’s able.
In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
Her body gradually follows the pattern. Minutes pass like this. Maybe more. You don’t check the time. Eventually, her grip loosens just a little.
“I thought you were going to leave.” She whispers, exhausted and embarrassed. “When you stood up.”
“I should’ve told you.” You admit softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll warn you next time.”
She nods, eyes still shut. “Okay.”
Her fever has made her skin hypersensitive, so you’re careful—your hand resting flat between her shoulder blades, not moving unless she needs it.
“I’m staying.” You add. “Even if I do need to leave the room, I’ll tell you first. And I’ll come right back.”
Her breathing evens out completely this time.
Silence settles again, this time gentler.
After a while, she shifts, nose brushing against your collarbone. “My head still hurts.”
“I know.” You say quietly. “You want another cold cloth, or do you want me to just stay like this?”
She thinks, actually thinks, which tells you the worst has passed.
You stay while the fever ebbs and flows. While she dozes and wakes and dozes again. While she whines softly when her throat hurts and presses her face into your neck like you’re the only solid thing in the world.
When you eventually have to get up for water, you warn her first.
She still tears up, but she doesn’t spiral. You’re back before the tears can fully fall.
Later, as evening settles in, she looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “Thank you for not getting mad.”
You smile softly, brushing her thumb with yours. “Why would I?”
“Other people do.” She says quietly. “They say I’m dramatic when I’m sick.”
“Well,” You reply, steady and certain, “They don’t get to decide that. I know you. And I know this is hard.”
Her lips tremble, but this time, she smiles too.
She curls closer, tucking herself against you like she fits there perfectly. “I love you.” She whispers, voice rough but sincere.
You kiss her forehead, lingering despite the heat. “I love you too. Get some rest. I’ve got you.”
And for the first time all day, Megan sleeps—deep, safe, and held.
You don’t move right away.
You stay exactly where you are, one arm around Megan, the other resting against her back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Her face is relaxed now, the tension finally eased from her brow, lips parted slightly as she sleeps.
She looks peaceful in a way she hadn’t all day.
A quiet knock sounds at the bedroom door.
You stiffen instinctively—but it’s gentle. Careful. Like whoever’s on the other side already knows not to disrupt the calm.
You whisper, barely audible, “Come in.”
Sophia peeks inside first, dark hair pulled back, expression already soft when she sees Megan curled against you. In her hands is a bowl of soup, steam curling faintly upward, and a spoon tucked neatly against the rim.
She mouths, Is she asleep?
Sophia exhales quietly, relief obvious. She steps inside with the same care she uses on tour when someone’s overwhelmed—every movement deliberate, grounded.
“She had a rough one, huh?” Sophia whispers.
“Yeah.” You murmur back. “Fever spiked earlier. Sensory overload. She needed… a lot of reassurance.”
Sophia nods like she expected nothing less. She sets the soup down on the nightstand with a soft clink, then pulls a chair over and sits, folding her hands in her lap.
“You did good.” She says quietly. “She always calms fastest with you.”
You smile faintly. “She just needed someone to stay.”
Sophia glances at Megan again, her expression impossibly gentle. “She hates feeling out of control. Being sick makes everything louder for her.”
Sophia reaches out, not touching Megan, just adjusting the blanket where it’s slipped down her shoulder. “I made her favorite. Well. As close as I could without upsetting her stomach.”
You glance at the bowl. “She’ll love that.”
Sophia chuckles softly. “She always does. Even when she pretends she doesn’t.”
Megan shifts slightly in her sleep, brow furrowing for just a moment. You instinctively tighten your hold, murmuring softly against her hair. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Her face smooths out again.
Sophia watches the exchange with a fond smile. “Yeah.” She murmurs. “You’re her safe place.”
You feel warmth bloom in your chest at that.
“I’ll leave it here for when she wakes.” Sophia says, standing quietly. “If she needs anything, anything at all, text me.”
Sophia pauses at the door, glancing back one last time. “Tell her I love her.”
The door closes softly behind her.
You settle back against the pillows, Megan still tucked securely against you, one of her hands curled loosely into your sleeve. The room is warm, quiet, and dim—exactly how she needs it. Soon, when she wakes, there will be soup. For now, there’s just this. And it’s enough.
