Hiii could you do a Jingyuan, jiaoqiu, and dan heng with fem reader who has an eating disorder who was doing really well in recovery but relapsed into old habits
The Gentle Art of Beginning Again
Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst With Happy Ending, Emotional Healing, Recovery Journey, Relapse, Supportive Characters, Slow Intimacy, Protective.
Warnings: Eating Disorder Themes, Relapse, Self-Blame, Guilt, Emotional Vulnerability, Mentions Of Food, Crying, Sensitive Topics.
You’d always admired the calm, collected presence of Jing Yuan — the “Dozing General” whose golden eyes often seemed to see far more than you wanted them to. For months, you’d been on the path of recovery, and Jing Yuan had been quietly supportive, never prying, but always making sure meals together were warm, comforting affairs where the conversation carried more weight than the food.
But lately, things had slipped. The thoughts you thought you’d buried resurfaced, whispering at you again. Your appetite waned, excuses piled up, and old habits crept back in like shadows.
Jing Yuan noticed, of course.
He always noticed.
It was during a quiet evening in his study when he finally brought it up. He was seated at his desk, a scroll unfurled, but his gaze wasn’t on the inked words. It was on you, standing by the window with your arms wrapped around yourself.
“You’ve been skipping meals again,” he said softly, not a question but a certainty.
Your chest tightened. “I’m fine. Just… not hungry.”
His eyes softened, though there was an edge of sadness in them. “Little one, you don’t have to pretend with me.” He set the scroll aside, rising from his chair. His long cape shifted around him as he crossed the room. “I’ve seen the signs. I hoped it was just stress, but… this isn’t the first time, is it?”
The lump in your throat made words nearly impossible. You tried to turn away, ashamed, but Jing Yuan’s hand came to rest lightly on your shoulder — steady, grounding.
“I thought I was doing better,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But I messed it all up again. I’m weak.”
Jing Yuan’s response was immediate, firm but gentle. “No. You are not weak.” His hand slid down to intertwine with yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Relapse doesn’t erase your progress. It doesn’t erase your strength. Recovery isn’t a straight path.”
Tears stung at your eyes, and you shook your head. “But I don’t want to disappoint you.”
That earned a soft chuckle, though there was no mockery in it. He tilted your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes gleamed, patient and unwavering.
“You could never disappoint me,” Jing Yuan said. “Do you know why?”
“…Why?”
“Because you’re still here. Still trying. That is more courageous than you realize.”
The dam inside you broke then. You crumpled into his chest, and he wrapped you in his arms, stroking your hair as you sobbed. His presence was steady, like an anchor keeping you from drifting too far into your own despair.
“I’ll sit with you,” he murmured into your hair. “Every meal, if you’ll let me. Not as your general, not as someone watching over you, but as someone who loves you. We’ll face this together. Slowly. Patiently. There’s no rush.”
For once, you let yourself believe him.
Wrapped in his arms, listening to his heartbeat, you thought maybe you didn’t have to fight this battle alone.
The warm scent of herbs and simmering broth filled Jiaoqiu’s quarters. His “nine-square grid” cauldron bubbled quietly in the corner, though his attention was elsewhere — on you, sitting silently across from him.
His eyes remained closed, as they always did now, but you knew he didn’t need sight to read you. He could hear the tremor in your breath, the restless way your fingers picked at your sleeves. He could sense the heaviness in your silence.
“You’ve been avoiding my meals,” Jiaoqiu said, his tone deceptively light, as though he were merely making conversation. His fan tapped gently against his knee. “Should I take it as an insult to my cooking?”
You flinched. “I just… I’m not hungry.”
“Not hungry,” he echoed, as if tasting the words. His fox ears flicked, his tail swaying thoughtfully. “Strange. Your body says otherwise. Your pulse is weaker than usual, and your voice lacks its usual brightness.” He tilted his head, blind eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve relapsed, haven’t you?”
The word hit harder than you expected, and your chest tightened. “…I didn’t want you to know.”
Jiaoqiu leaned forward, resting his folded fan against his chin. Though he couldn’t see, his presence was piercing, as if he were gazing straight into your soul. “I know more than you think, my dear. The battlefield taught me to hear the things people don’t say aloud. But I had hoped… for your sake, that I was wrong.”
You swallowed hard, guilt burning in your throat. “I was doing so well. And then… I just slipped. And now it feels like all that effort meant nothing.”
Jiaoqiu reached across the table, his hand seeking yours with practiced grace. When his fingers found you, he squeezed gently, grounding you. “Do you think healing happens in a straight line? That the heart, or the body, is so simple?”
“I just… I feel like a failure,” you admitted, your voice breaking.
His hand tightened, his usually serene expression hardening. “Listen to me,” Jiaoqiu said, his tone firmer now, carrying the quiet authority of someone who had seen countless lives slip through his fingers. “You are not a failure. You are human. And humans stumble. That does not erase the path you’ve walked, nor the progress you’ve made.”
Tears welled in your eyes as you whispered, “But I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “Burden? My dear, I poisoned myself once, knowing full well it would damage my sight, simply to weaken an enemy. And you think your struggle is more of a burden than that?” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You are precious to me. If your heart falters, I will steady it. If your body weakens, I will nourish it. That is not a burden — it is a choice I make willingly.”
You broke then, leaning forward to press your forehead against the back of his hand, your shoulders trembling. He set his fan aside and used his free hand to stroke your hair gently, his fingers brushing your scalp with tender precision.
“Let me cook for you again,” he murmured. “Not as a healer, not as a counselor, but as someone who wants to remind you of the warmth food can bring. Not the fear.”
“…And if I can’t finish it?” you whispered.
“Then I will finish it for you,” he replied without hesitation, a smile in his voice. “We will not measure your worth in empty plates. Only in your presence beside me.”
The weight on your chest eased, just a little. With Jiaoqiu’s warmth wrapping around your trembling heart, you thought maybe you could try again.
Dan Heng was quiet. Too quiet.
You’d known he wasn’t one for words, but lately, the silence had become heavier, lingering between you like a weight. You knew why: he’d noticed the changes in you. The skipped meals. The excuses. The way your clothes fit differently again.
He noticed everything.
It wasn’t until one late night aboard the Astral Express that the silence finally cracked. You found him in the archive room, seated cross-legged with a datapad, his spear resting nearby. The blue glow from the screens illuminated his sharp features, but his eyes flicked up the moment you entered.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.
You froze. “…I wasn’t hungry.”
His expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered, heavy and searching. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
The air grew thick. You shifted uncomfortably, hugging yourself. “I… I relapsed, Dan Heng. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to think less of me.”
He set the datapad aside, standing slowly. His movements were deliberate, calm, but there was an intensity in his eyes as he stepped closer.
“I would never think less of you,” he said firmly. “But hiding it from me… that hurts more than you know.”
Your breath hitched. “I didn’t want to burden you. You already carry so much — your past, your battles. I didn’t want to add to it.”
Dan Heng’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked almost pained. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “Do you think so little of me? That I would see you as a burden? After everything…”
The guilt crushed you. Tears pricked your eyes, and you shook your head desperately. “No, I just— I thought I was strong enough to handle it on my own. And I wasn’t.”
He exhaled slowly, as if releasing some of his own ghosts. Then, with surprising gentleness, he reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that slipped free. His touch was hesitant, careful, but grounding.
“Strength isn’t doing everything alone,” Dan Heng murmured. “Strength is knowing when to let someone stand beside you.”
Your lip trembled, and you leaned into his touch, unable to stop the sob that broke free. He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a hold that was protective, almost desperate.
“You don’t have to explain,” he whispered into your hair. “You don’t have to justify anything. Just… let me be here. With you.”
You clung to him, your body shaking, and for once, Dan Heng let himself hold you tightly, as though he could shield you from the thoughts that plagued you.
When your sobs quieted, he tilted your chin up, his eyes steady on yours. “We’ll take it one step at a time. If it’s too much, we’ll slow down. If you falter, I’ll remind you of how far you’ve come. But don’t shut me out again. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
And for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope.
