All Bark, Even More Bite

The mage plopped down beside the tamer with the grace of someone who'd just delivered a priceless artifact. She adjusted her hold with all the delicacy of a doting older sister cradling a sleepy toddler.

"We found a stray," she said proudly, giving the floof a little bounce. His face squished into her chest again, his eyes glazing over like a monk transcending the mortal plane.

"We've talked about this, stop picking up random animals from the sidewalk." The 

The mage pouted then raised the little furball closer to the tamer's face. "Yeah, but were they as adorable as the one I'm holding onto now?"

The tamer blinked. The floof blinked back.

"...It's smiling," the tamer said flatly.

"Don't be rude," the mage huffed, stroking behind his ears. "He's just cozy."

The tamer stared a little longer, his gaze sharpening. "He's not purring. He's plotting."

The priestess giggled as she took a seat across the table. "That's what the hero said. Still took three people to stop it from biting into someone's steak though."

The rogue remained standing behind the group, arms crossed, his hood casting dramatic shadows. "I still say we keep it on a leash."

The mage turned. "He's not a beast, he's a sweet little darling who just needs a nap and a snack."

The tamer didn't respond. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in one hand, the other subtly glowing with soft magic as he activated his passive ability—the one that allowed him to communicate with lesser creatures.

"Alright, little guy," he said softly, voice barely audible beneath the buzz of the tavern. "Let's see what kind of soul you're hiding under all that fluff."

And then he heard it.

The internal monologue of something that was absolutely not a common forest creature.

["Okay. Okay okay okay okay. It's fine. This is fine. New plan. Get food. Get strong. Climb ranks. Build empire. Get revenge. Enslave the goddess. Burn the world. Eat steak."]

The tamer's eye twitched.

["Also maybe get snuggled again. But like, voluntarily. With consent. And after I rule a continent. I have standards."]

The tamer covered his mouth with one hand, either hiding a smirk or shielding himself from contagious stupidity.

["Wait, wait—what if I build a kingdom? Something cool but respectable. Like… The Fluffenreich No. Stop. Focus."]

He cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice bone-dry. "This one's gonna be fun."

The hero narrowed his eyes. "So? You can talk to it, right? What's it say?"

The tamer's mouth twitched into a thin-lipped smile. "Not much. something about food and naps."

"See?" the mage beamed, hugging it tighter.

The floof gave a little yip and a thump of his tail.

To everyone else, he looked the very picture of docility.

But the tamer leaned closer, just enough for only the floof to hear him.

"I know what you are."

The floof froze.

"And if you don't want them to know, too…"

There was a beat of silence. Then, slowly, the floof raised one tiny paw... drew it across his fuzzy neck in the universal gesture for "shut it."

The tamer chuckled under his breath, leaned back, and took a sip of his drink.

"Looks like we got ourselves a keeper"

The tamer rose from the table, cloak trailing behind him. He tilted his head toward the stairs.

"I'm going to run a few tests. Figure out what he is, what he can do."

The mage gave him a look. "Tests?"

"Gentle ones."

The floof narrowed his eyes. Suspicious.

The hero leaned back in his chair. "How are you gonna handle him alone?"

The tamer's expression didn't change. "I'll improvise."

"Right," said the rogue, already uninterested. "Just don't lose a finger."

The mage reluctantly loosened her grip. "You'd better be nice to him."

She let go.

Big mistake.

The floof hit the table with all the grace of a dropped pillow and immediately turned to scamper away—only for the tamer to flick his wrist.

A flash of silver. A blur of movement.

Click.

He was in a cage.

A cage.

Tiny, metal, and clearly summoned from some enchanted portable containment spell. Like a certain sphere for capturing little beasts...

The floof froze, blinking in stunned betrayal.

He turned.

Yipped.

Bit the bars.

Yipped again.

Paced in a circle, tail puffed up like he'd been electrocuted by indignity itself.

The party stared.

The mage gasped. "You caged him?!"

The tamer, already picking the cage up by its handle, looked entirely unfazed. "Just until we're upstairs."

The floof, now rattling the bars like a prisoner staging a riot, yipped something that to the tamer's ears translated as:

"YOU TREACHEROUS MONK-LOOKING PIECE OF–"

"Shh," the tamer muttered calmly as he walked up the stairs. "You bit a guy over a steak. This is a time-out."

"TIME-OUT?! YOU THINK THIS IS A GAME? RELEASE ME, WRETCH! I AM A KING! A GOD! I AM FLUFF INCARNATE!"

To everyone else downstairs, it sounded like a long string of angry chirps, squeaky growls, and a high-pitched huff.

The mage cupped her hands over her mouth, horrified. "Poor guy, he must be mad."

The rogue just took a sip of his drink. "He already was."

Upstairs, the tamer set the cage down on a table in the corner of his rented room. The noise stopped.

The creature inside stared at him, chest rising with dramatic furry rage, ears flat, tail flicking like a metronome of murder.

"You done?" the tamer asked casually.

A long pause.

Then the floof slowly stood up inside the cage, wobbled, and raised one tiny paw.

Dragged it across his throat.

The tamer smirked. "You're adorable when you threaten me."

The floof responded with a dignified yip that, if translated, probably would've violated tavern etiquette.

The tamer sat down, steepled his fingers, and said:

"Alright, little guy. Let's talk."

The cage hit the table with a metallic clink.

The floof sat motionless for a moment. Silent.

Then, with all the slow defiance of a mafioso awaiting his cappuccino, he turned, leaned his back casually against the bars, one stubby paw propped behind his head like a makeshift pillow.

He scoffed.

Spit outside the cage.

"Well, isn't this cozy," he muttered.

The tamer raised an eyebrow.

The floof side-eyed him with cold judgment and said, "And why would I want anything to do with a shut-in beast-talker who probably names his squirrels and doesn't know what sunlight tastes like?"

The tamer blinked once. Slowly. Then leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

"Is that so."

"I've seen grass stains with more charisma."

The tamer's eye twitched.

The floof went on, resting both paws behind his head now, legs crossed like he owned the place. "I could keep talking all day, you introverted edgelord, so state your business and make it quick. "

That did it.

The tamer reached forward and shook the cage.

The floof bounced violently off the bars—ping ping ping!—before slamming into the side and sticking there like a disgruntled stress ball.

A beat.

A slow slide down the bars.

A twitch.

And then he pointed one paw straight at the tamer and growled:

"WHAT WAS THAT FOR?! You wanna dance, cage-boy? I'll turn your eyebrows into coasters."

The tamer narrowed his eyes. "You done being a gremlin?"

The furball smirked, licking a paw smugly. "Define done."

Another pause.

Then the tamer sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Look. You're clearly not just a beast. And I could rat you out to the others. But instead, I'm offering you something."

That caught the furball's ear.

He didn't speak. But he sat up.

The tamer leaned forward.

"You've got power. I can feel it. And you've got a mouth on you—which tells me you're not dumb, well probably. So how about this?"

He opened his palm.

"You work with us. Keep your secret. No leash, no collar, no 'here, boy.' Just steak. Shelter. Somewhere to plot your little fur-covered world domination arc."

The furball blinked. Tilted his head. Then narrowed his eyes.

"…How rare is the steak?"

The tamer smiled. "You tell me, oh wise and glorious fluff overlord."

A long pause.

Then the floof sighed like a warlord agreeing to a treaty written in crayon.

"Fine," he muttered. "But I want medium rare, no bones, a side of garlic mashed, and nobody touches my ears without permission."

"Deal," said the tamer, unlocking the cage.

The door creaked open.

And the little beast strutted out like he hadn't just been ping-ponged across his own jail. Tail swishing. Head held high. Fur slightly frazzled from the earlier cage-shaking incident, but he pretended not to notice.

He took one step, two steps, then turned back to the tamer, who was watching with an unreadable calm.

The floof squinted. Suspicious.

"…Alright," he muttered. "You've got yourself a deal."

He paused.

Tilted his head.

"Now what?"

The tamer blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what now? You said I work with you—doing what, exactly? You want me to juggle? Hunt truffles? Bite ankles in sync with dramatic music? What part of your discount hero party itinerary needs a sarcastic sentient throw pillow?"

The tamer folded his arms. "You've got combat potential. I saw that energy burst. That wasn't normal."

The floof shrugged. "I was panicking. And hungry. That combo brings out the beast in anyone."

"Well, get used to it," the tamer said, already turning to open the door. "You'll be fighting."

"Fighting?" he yipped, trailing behind him with a dumbfounded expression. "I just got here, man! I haven't even figured out how to clean myself without looking weird!"

"You'll manage."

"Against what, exactly?"

The tamer opened the door, and the sounds of the tavern below wafted up—laughter, clinking mugs, and faint whispers of rumors about beasts in the east and bounty quests posted by desperate villagers.

The tamer glanced over his shoulder.

"Whatever we're paid to fight."

The floof stopped cold.

He blinked.

"…Wait," he said, putting one paw to his forehead like a man realizing he'd been drafted into a war while napping. "You're telling me I just signed myself up for mercenary work… as a pet mascot… for a party with unresolved fashion choices?"

The tamer smirked.

"You're smarter than you look."

The floof slumped forward, dragging his paws dramatically as he followed.

"Great. I should've just gone with the lizard demon reincarnation package like a normal isekai protagonist. But nooo, I had to say 'most powerful being.' Now I'm a portable plushie with taxes."

The two of them descended from the upper floor—well, one walked, and the other… lounged.

The floof was draped across the tamer's shoulder like some kind of fuzzy shoulder cape, limbs lazily hanging, eyes half-lidded in either boredom or smug superiority. He looked like a tired noble being carried through a town he was too rich to care about.

"Y'know," he said casually, "for someone who threatened to put me in a cage, you make a decent armchair Sir Shut-In."

"Get off," the tamer muttered, making no real attempt to shake him loose.

"Nah. I'd nap"

They reached the bottom of the stairs and scanned the room.

No heroes.

No mage, no rogue, no priestess.

Just a few locals nursing pints, a bard in the corner tuning his lute with the energy of a man who regrets his entire career, and the barkeep cleaning glasses like they were personal grudges.

"…Where's the party?" the floof asked, poking his head up like a meerkat.

"They probably took a quick commission," the tamer replied flatly. "Something about collecting fifty dandelions for an herbalist or something."

There was a pause.

A snort.

A snicker.

Then a full, wheezy little cackle from the fuzzball, his whole body quaking on the tamer's shoulder.

"F-Fifty dandelions?!" he choked. "Is this the early game tutorial?! Oh my goddess, I missed the world's lamest fetch quest!"

"Shut it."

"They left you behind for flowers!" He tried to hold a laugh.

"Shut. It."

But before the argument could really get legs—and stubby ones at that—the tavern door creaked open.

Three men walked in.

Leather armor. Smug sneers. That perfect blend of "we think we're cool" and "our combined IQ is under 90."

You could practically smell the plot-device villainy.

"Oi!" barked the one in front, all stubble and unearned confidence. "We're parched. Gimme somethin' strong."

The barkeep gave a look. "You paying this time?"

The thug laughed.

"Nah, this one's on the house. Right, lads?"

The others chuckled, pounding fists on the counter.

The barkeep sighed. "No pay, no drink."

The air shifted. Not enough to scare seasoned adventurers, but just enough to trigger the instinctual "this might get stupid" warning.

The lead thug leaned in, baring yellowed teeth. "You really wanna make us angry, old man?"

From the shoulder, the furball tilted his head.

"Oh no," he whispered mock-dramatically, "Generic Tavern Thugs™️. Who could've predicted this?"

The tamer groaned.

"Don't."

"I mean, it's like the world downloaded the Starter Pack of Villainy: Bald, angry, broke, and smelling like pickled failure—"

"Do. Not."

But it was too late.

The thugs turned.

The leader narrowed his eyes at the talking... thing.

"What the hell is that?"

The floof sat up straight and puffed out his chest.

"I am an enigma wrapped in fluff, powered by spite and sarcasm. You got a problem with that baldie?"

Even with incoherent barks and yips, somehow the thug felt like this overgrown cotton ball was insulting him.

There was a long silence.

The lead thug swaggered closer, eyes glinting with cruel amusement as he loomed over the tamer and his lounging shoulder fluff.

"Ohoho, what do we have here?" he grinned, already extending a hand. "Your little puppy, brat?"

The tamer, arms crossed, sighed. "I wouldn't."

But that only egged them on.

The thug reached out, fingers poking at the floof's cheeks with all the tact of a drunk toddler. "Awww, it's adorable! Look at this! So small, so soft—pinchy pinchy—like a plush toy! Who's a good little b—"

CHOMP.

The room froze.

The tamer didn't even blink. Just muttered, "Told you."

"AAAAAAAAAAGGHHHHHH!!"

The thug thrashed, screaming in raw, undignified horror as the furball clung to his hand like a facehugger with boundary issues.

"GET IT OFF!! WHAT IS THIS—WHAT THE HELL—WHY WON'T THIS STUPID RAG LET GO?!"

The floof's eyes gleamed like twin black stars as he bit down harder with impossibly tiny, terrifying teeth. His voice was muffled, but his tone was pure war criminal.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I not being cute enough for you now, jackass?!"

The other two thugs panicked.

One reached for the beast tamer, pointing wildly. "Call it off! CALL IT OFF!"

The tamer just shrugged. "He's a free citizen."

"IT'S EATING RICK'S HAND!"

"That's between Rick and the gods now."

With one final yank, the furball flung himself off, sending the thug crashing backward into a table, knocking over mugs and pride alike. The man curled up on the floor, cradling his mauled hand and wailing like a man whose tax return bit back.

The floof landed gracefully—well, as gracefully as a round creature with stumpy legs could manage—and shook himself off.

Then he puffed out his chest, turned to the remaining two thugs, and bared his fangs.

"You want a piece next?" he growled in pure adorable menace. "I got enough bite to go around. Come on. Be the next idiot."

The tavern was dead silent.

The two remaining thugs stared at the tamer.

He gave them a look that said, Please. I dare you.

They backed away slowly. One grabbed the sobbing Rick. The other left coins on the counter.

"For the drink," he whispered to the barkeep.

And then they were gone.

Silence lingered for another moment before the floof, now licking Rick-blood off his paw, turned to the tamer.

"See? I am useful."

The tamer rubbed his temples.

The tavern slowly came back to life, a cautious ripple of murmurs breaking the stunned silence. The barkeep blinked down at the coins left behind, then at the dented table, and then finally at the tiny furball licking his paw like he hadn't just gone full piranha on someone's hand.

The beast tamer sighed.

A long, weary sigh.

He walked over, crouched down to eye level with the floof, and stared at him—hard.

"…Not even an hour," he muttered. "Not even one hour since we met, and already you've started a scene, caused screaming, and given me a public relations nightmare."

The floof just yawned and licked between his claws. "They started it."

"You bit him."

"He pinched me."

"You bit him like a cursed bear trap."

"Should've asked first. There was no consent."

The tamer dragged a hand down his face.

"I swear to the gods, you're going to give me grey hair. If I survive the week with you, I'm commissioning a statue in my honor for services to patience."

But then, softer—barely audible—he added with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "...Still. That was one clean chomp."

The floof puffed up a little, smug.

"Damn right it was."

The tamer stood and turned toward the bar. "You're lucky I do appreciate a little poetic justice. Just don't make it a habit. We get kicked out of one more tavern, and you're sleeping in a ditch."

"No promises," the floof muttered as he followed, still strutting like he'd just won a duel instead of nearly gotten punted out a window.

The barkeep raised an eyebrow as they approached. "Is your pet always like that?"

The tamer didn't even slow his stride. "Worse."