FERAL XIAO — a beast who was never meant to be seen, and yet you found him . . .
gender neutral reader / feral xiao x reader / emotionally scarred / aggressive trauma response / desperate under the surface / he says he’ll kill you but you’re the only one who’s ever spoken gently to him / turning him soft
masterlist | intro post | carrd . . .
a/n: been searching for a fic like this about xiao for so long, so I decided to just make it myself!! I think it's perfect with his lore. (btw dw!! part two of my last post is coming after this)
Ruins bore no name here. Time had long since scoured the stonework bare, ivy veining over toppled columns like bloodless threads on a withered corpse. What lingered of the ancient structure slumbered beneath the cliffs of Minlin, swallowed by bramble and a fog thick as mourning veils. Locals spoke of it in hushed tones, whispers of madness, of vanished travelers, of the god who once ruled here and went mad beneath the weight of his divinity. Even so, your footsteps carried you forward.
Wind stirred the trees restless, circling like breath from something snoring just out of sight. The lantern in your grasp flickered at your hip, casting unsteady shadows across the moss streaked walls. You hadn’t meant to stray this far from the trail, but the pull had been undeniable; an invisible string winding into your chest, plucking something deep behind your ribs. It wasn’t a voice. It was a hum, thrumming low against your heartbeat, and it asked only that you listen.
Soon, the corridor narrowed. Then came a breath, a sound so low and guttural that it was almost animalistic. Beyond the final archway, the air shifted, heavy with the scent of rust and ancient stone. When your fingers brushed the wall, dust fell away to reveal carvings: clawed talons, coiling beasts, a sigil wrapped in iron chains. Something had lived here, or died here, perhaps both.
The corridor opened into a cavern, hush settling over it, broken only by the slow drip of water and the soft glow of fungi clinging to the ceiling like scattered stars. Below, a shallow pool mirrored the pale light, sending ripples over iron bars sunken deep into the floor. Behind them, hunched in the furthest corner, was a man. Or what was left of one.
At first glance, you took him for a beast. Too lean, too sharp, limbs curled tight, hair falling in tangled, sage-dark knots across his face. Thick shackles clasped around his wrists, wrought from iron that shimmered with faint sigils. Seals, still active, still pulsing with containment. A muzzle was plastered over his mouth, forged from the same cursed metal. He didn’t move, but the weight of his gaze struck all the same, piercing the dark like a blade sliding clean between ribs.
A growl vibrated from his chest, ragged and low, somewhere between warning and wound. You startled, but didn’t back away. There was no true malice in the sound. Only pain. When he finally raised his head, you saw the color of his eyes—gold, but not the gentle hue of fireflies or autumn fields. Starless gold, fierce and ancient, the kind that remembered ruin, the kind that burned without warmth.
“Leave.” His voice scraped like gravel, coarse from disuse. “Go now. Before—” He choked on the words as his body shuddered, then lunged just far enough for the chains to snap taut and yank him backward. The force dragged him to his knees, spine arched, breath torn in broken bursts. Still, you did not flinch.
His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, sweat glinting despite the chill. “I said go,” he snarled. The muzzle warped his words, saliva stringing at its edges. You took a step closer.
His entire frame recoiled like a wounded thing. He thrashed, slamming his shoulder against the bars, wild with panic. But in the midst of the fury, you saw something else. Not rage, not madness, but fear. His hands trembled where they met the ground, not from wrath, but restraint. And that tremor said more than any growl ever could.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said gently.
“I will,” he grounded out through clenched teeth. “That’s what I do. That’s what he made me do. I—” His words faltered, voice cracking like splintering ice. “I don’t get to choose.”
“I believe you,” you whispered. “That you don’t want to.”
No reply came, just the rasp of breath and the soft clink of chains. But as you studied him, you began to see more than just shadow and weaponry. A jawline, high cheekbones half obscured by matted hair, the silver web of scars across his collarbone, thin and branching like frost on a window. He had once been something else. Someone else.
“You should hate me,” he said at last, voice hollow. “They all do. They scream when they see me. Or they don’t get the chance.”
His head jerked, disbelief lighting his face like a spark. Anger, sorrow, and something else flashed in his eyes. “You should,” he said, almost a plea. “You have to.”
“What’s your name?” you asked.
The question hit him like a blow. “That’s not—names don’t—” A swallow. “I don’t have a name. Not anymore.”
“Then I’ll give you one.”
“No.” His voice broke. “No. Don’t. Don’t make me something I’m not.”
You knelt by the bars, closer now than anyone had dared in what felt like centuries. The space between you was thin, filled only with breath and stillness. “Then I’ll come back tomorrow, and maybe the day after that.”
His head whipped up. “Don’t.”
“You’re stupid,” he spat. “Naive. You think kindness will undo what I am? What he made me into?”
Your hand rested just inches from the rusted bars. “No,” you said. “But maybe it will remind you that you were more, once, and can be again.” A silence thicker than smoke settled between you. Then you stood, his breath caught, and you turned away.
“Wait,” he said, but too softly for you to hear. The word broke apart behind his teeth, something like a sob, or maybe it was only the wind through the cracks in the stone. He pressed his forehead to the ground once you were gone.
Prayed you would never return.
It began again with footsteps. Softer this time—not the cautious tread of a stranger stumbling through forgotten ruins, but the quiet return of someone who remembered the way. They came like the first stirrings of spring through wintered trees, patient and inevitable, brushing against the silence with the grace of thawing snow.
He remained still in his chains. The memory of your voice lingered like the sweetness of a forgotten lullaby, one he had not permitted himself to dream of. Dreams were dangerous things, after all. He knew this better than anyone.
When you appeared at the entrance of his prison once more, light wrapped around your figure like a misplaced sunbeam breaking into a tomb. In your arms, a cloth bundle was cradled against your chest, tied with a ribbon the color of old blood. Red—like orders barked through gritted teeth, like shackles that seared his skin, like the stains on his conscience. Yet somehow, in your hands, the color seemed gentler. Like the ribbon of a child’s gift, not a soldier’s command.
“I brought you something,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “It’s not much.
He didn’t look at you. If he stayed still long enough, maybe you would vanish like all the other foolish ghosts who thought they could reach him. Maybe you'd realize what he was and leave him to rot among the stones and silence. But you were already kneeling, already unwrapping the bundle with fingers as careful as if you were handling something sacred. From the folds emerged a small wooden container, simple and worn. Steam curled from its seams.
“It’s Almond Tofu. My favourite. I thought you might like it too.”
He bared his teeth, slow and deliberate, the muzzle pressing against his cheekbones with the motion. “I told you to stay away.”
“And I told you I don’t listen very well,” you replied, calm as though he hadn’t just threatened to maim you.
“I could tear your eyes from your skull.”
“If you wanted to, you would’ve done it already.”
You stood, walked past the shattered threshold of his cage, ignoring his previous words. As though you weren’t walking into the belly of a creature who had once been made to devour dreams and leave behind husks. The metal of the muzzle clicked faintly as Xiao’s breath hitched, chains groaning beneath the sudden tension in his limbs.
He said nothing as you sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed the boundary of his karmic debt. And then, without asking, you reached toward the clasp of the muzzle that had seared skin and spirit alike. He flinched, not from fear, but from disbelief.
Your fingers brushed the iron like it was no more dangerous than a breeze on stone. With a soft click, the clasp gave way. The muzzle slipped free and fell to the ground with a hollow sound that echoed louder than it should have. Xiao blinked. The air against his lips felt strange, wind against skin that hadn’t felt the sun in years. He said nothing, but the silence was no longer sharp.
You lifted a spoonful of the tofu, steam curling from the trembling surface. “Here.”
“I don’t eat human food,” he muttered, though his gaze followed the spoon with the reluctant intensity of a starving animal who refused to beg.
“Then pretend. Just one bite.”
He stared at you like you were made of thorns and light. Then, without breaking the stare, he leaned forward and took the bite. The taste bloomed on his tongue like a long buried memory, soft, sweet, subtle as snowfall. It was nothing like the raw meat the god used to feed him between commands. It was gentle, kind. As if food could carry emotion and this one had been made by someone who’d never once tasted cruelty. His brows drew together.
“Well?” you asked. Another beat of silence.
“...More.” A smile tugged at your lips, and you didn’t hide it.
The second bite came easier. Then the third. And by the fifth, he was sitting straighter, eyes no longer wary, but puzzled. He couldn’t understand why something so simple had shaken the dust off a corner of his soul he thought had died centuries ago. And when the last bite was gone, he looked at the empty container with the quiet devastation of someone realizing a miracle had a limit.
He looked at you then, truly looked, and hated that something in his chest gave way when he did.
You began to talk. Not of this prison or the god whose voice still echoed in his bones, but of the world beyond these walls. You painted it with your words, each one a brushstroke: ships that floated among clouds, skies blooming with lanterns during moonlit festivals, gardens that glowed like constellations, and markets alive with the scent of dumplings and the sound of laughter.
He didn’t interrupt. Not once. His eyes remained fixed on your face, as if the movement of your lips could become a lifeline. He drank in every word like a man parched, terrified to ask for more.
When you told him about the wind on the Jade Chamber’s terraces, his fingers twitched.
When you spoke of honey lotus pastries, his mouth parted ever so slightly, as though tasting them from memory he never had.
And when you said, barely above a whisper, “I’ll take you there one day,” he turned his head from you.
“You wont,” he said, but the words no longer bled bitterness. They sounded tired, soft.
He didn’t stop you when you placed the empty tofu dish beside his chains, didn’t growl when you stood, brushing dirt from your knees. Didn’t speak when you turned to leave, but his eyes clung to your back. When the echo of your footsteps began to fade into the cavern, his voice cracked into the silence.
“...Bring more tofu.” It was the first time in four hundred years he had asked for anything.
The chains didn’t feel quite as heavy that night.
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