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bill dickey ノ
cw : just fluff , hamster bill, greedy/greasy little hamster bill
✦ Title: Hamster Bill
an : idk i got the idea from looking at bill eat a hamburger in the comics, he just … looked like a hamster… (this might become a series)
© dovenskin visual
Bill had been a hamster for approximately twenty-four hours, and you were already losing your mind.
He hadn’t taken to it gracefully.
No, Bill Dickey, former self-appointed president of the Eltingville Club and walking incel manifesto, had become the angriest, chubbiest puffball you’d ever seen. Still somehow managed to look smug while chewing on cardboard. Still somehow full of hatred.
He squeaked in your direction from the corner of his plastic cage, standing on his back legs like he was about to challenge you to a Yu-Gi-Oh duel.
You cooed softly, unable to help yourself. “Aww. Look at you. You’re so mad.”
You reached down to pet his fuzzy little head. Big mistake.
His tiny teeth sunk immediately into your fingertip.
“OW—motherfucker!” you yelped, stumbling back, clutching your bleeding hand to your chest. “He bit me! He actually bit me!”
Bill just sat there, beady eyes narrowed, little hamster chest heaving with rage. There were shredded tissues all over the floor of his enclosure. One of the wheels had already been broken.
You opened the cage with one hand and grabbed him with the other, ignoring his furious chirps and flailing limbs. He was round and squishy and still trying to bite you.
You squeezed him gently—just enough to assert dominance—and hissed:
“Listen, motherfucker. I could pop you open RIGHT NOW. DO NOT bite me again.”
He froze in your grip, legs dangling. You could practically hear his pride cracking under the weight of your fingers.
Later, you placed him on the couch with a stolen fast-food cheeseburger nearly the size of his entire body. He immediately launched himself face-first into it, rage-chewing like a little demon. Crumbs smeared across his fat cheeks. His tiny paws kneaded the bread like he could actually grab it. His belly had already rounded out and he hadn’t even made it halfway through.
Jerry walked in, saw the scene—Bill, plump and pissed, buried in lettuce—and blinked.
“Uh. What’s … happening?”
You didn’t even look away from the carnage.
“His greed sickens me.”
Bill squeaked angrily, mouth full of meat.
You tossed a napkin on his head like it was a crown and sighed.
“You’re lucky I like pathetic little rodents.”
He squeaked again.
You didn’t check if it was a thank-you.
—-
Bill had gorged himself into a food coma.
He was sprawled across a chewed-up napkin on your bed like a little round corpse, stomach heaving gently, crumb trails up his snout. His fur was slightly greasy from burger oils, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He looked like a cursed Furby mid-reboot.
You watched him from your pillow, head propped up on your elbow.
“…You’re disgusting,” you murmured fondly.
He didn’t respond. Just let out a soft, snorting breath through his stupid twitchy nose. His cheeks puffed in and out. His belly rose like a mini beanbag on the brink of bursting.
You reached out with one finger and gently poked his side.
Bill jolted.
He gave a short, sharp hiss—yes, a hiss—before snapping upright like a sleep-deprived cryptid. Beady eyes glassy with rage. His little fists clenched like he wanted to duel you in Magic: The Gathering right now.
You recoiled, laughing.
“I didn’t know hamsters could hiss!”
He puffed up like a microwaved marshmallow, baring his weird little rice-sized teeth and vibrating with hatred.
“Oh my god, do it again.”
You poked him.
Another hiss. A squeaky, wheezing one this time—like a teapot full of resentment.
“Bill,” you snorted, “are you broken? Is that your only line of defense now?”
He lunged for your finger, missed, and fell sideways onto his back, kicking his legs like a flipped Roomba. You nearly cried laughing.
Still giggling, you poked his soft belly.
HISSSS!!
“Stop! I can’t breathe—oh my god, you sound like an angry balloon animal!”
He flopped dramatically onto his side, face buried in the napkin, making an annoyed clicking sound like some combination of “fuck you” and “I’m too full to deal with this.”
You finally gave him a break, scooping his little blob of a body into your hoodie pocket.
“There,” you said, patting his lumpy form. “Sleep it off, Rodent Dickey. I swear to god if you bite my chest in your sleep, I’m duct taping you to a Roomba tomorrow.”
From inside the pocket, he let out a groggy, muffled squeak.
You just smirked.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
—
You eventually took pity on the gremlin.
After stuffing himself with half a burger, throwing a tantrum over the napkin being "too scratchy," and hissing at you like a demonic guinea pig, Bill finally passed out again—this time face-first in your hoodie pocket, little back legs dangling out like a half-flushed turd.
You sighed.
"God, you're exhausting."
Carefully, you reached in and scooped him out—he twitched slightly, but didn’t wake. Just let out a sleepy little huhhnk and curled tighter into himself like a damp dinner roll.
You set to work.
An old shoebox. Two socks folded into a lumpy mattress. A square of tissue you half-heartedly fluffed up like a throw pillow. You even tucked a corner of a comic book page in there, like he needed some cursed talisman to sleep near.
Once it was done, you placed him inside gently.
He snored immediately. Loud little snorts from a too-small nose. Belly rising and falling like a bloated little balloon. His fat cheeks were still stained with ketchup.
You stared at him for a moment, elbow on the desk, chin in your hand.
“…Sigh. You’re so ugly, Bill.”
It came out more fond than it should have.
He made a soft chirp in his sleep and rolled over, kicking one stubby foot like he was trying to slap you in a dream.
You shook your head, watching his stupid fur fluff with every snore.
"Ugly little bastard," you murmured again, tucking the sock corner over his hip like a makeshift blanket. “You’re VERY lucky I have a thing for weird, mean rodents.”
From the box, Bill snored louder—like he knew you were right, and hated it.