#dovenfluff

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.”

this reqq im not sure if youve done it b4 but basically is just the boring old bimbo reading bla bla but theyre so dumb to the point theyre oblivious to bill's (yes bill again, i cant help it) antics

--like no matter what he just cannot bag them because they brush him off like nothinggggg

theres no specific gender or race for thiss just go wildd 💕💕

⋆

bill dickey ノ

cw : just fluff , bimbo reader/ gn , bill is a loser with a crush

✦ Title: Don’t You Get It?

an : i must have this loser // bill nye the science guy

© dovenskin

Bill had been rejected before.

Sort of.

In theory.

He once got ghosted by a girl named Rachel who said Warhammer lore made her sleepy (and who probably wasn’t even a REAL girl with an answer like that). Another time, he asked a girl in his English class out and she started screaming out of pure horror. But you? You were something worse. You didn’t even reject him. You just… missed it.

Like someone throwing themselves off a building and landing in a bounce house.

You weren’t mean. You weren’t cruel. You were just… impossibly immune. Dangerously dumb in the most mind-nuking, hot-person way possible.

You floated through life powered by Fruitopia and vibes. You called manga “graphic cartoons.” You once said Donnie Darko was “like if a Hot Topic coupon was a movie.” And worst of all—worst of all—you never noticed Bill’s advances.

Like, ever.

He’d tried subtle at first.

Made fun of your taste in a way he thought came off flirtatious.

“You know those comics are written for normies, right?” he snorted, watching you flip through Witchblade.

You smiled. “Yeah. The girlie has a glowing hand. It’s cool.”

“That’s not even how the lore works.”

“What lore?”

He blinked.

You walked away, humming.

—

He spent three hours that night writing a forum post titled: “The Infantilization of Comic Culture & The Rise of Hot Airheads.”

He made sure to tag it with your username.

You never saw it. You didn’t even have a forum account.

When subtle didn’t work, he tried smart.

You were leaning on a shelf near the longboxes, biting the straw of a Yoo-hoo and reading an issue of Gen¹³ sideways.

“I brought you something,” Bill said, practically materializing next to you.

You looked up, all bright eyes and that vacant, serotonin-radiating smile.

“Oh! Is that for me?”

He handed you a bootleg DVD of Paprika.

“Satoshi Kon,” he said, like it meant something. “It’s high concept. It’s about dreams and identity fracturing under surveillance capitalism.”

You stared at it. Turned it over.

“Oh, cool. This the chair guy one?”

“….Yes?”

“I like the chair guy. He’s weird.”

You never watched it.

The DVD ended up in your tote bag, wedged between a glittery hair clip and a MyScene doll. Bill saw it fall out once when you tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Still shrink-wrapped.

He didn’t speak for the rest of the week.

—

Then he tried bold.

“You ever think about dating someone who actually gets you?” he blurted one day, sweating. You were crouched on the floor, reading Archie’s Weird Mysteries with the kind of laser-focus people usually reserved for religious texts.

You looked up, gum smacking.

“Huh?”

“Like—someone who doesn’t treat you like a moron.”

“Oh, haha, yeah. That’s why I stopped watching movies with guys.”

He blinked.

You went on, cheerfully oblivious.

“They always get handsy if you fall asleep or try to make you watch stuff with no plot. Like I get it, David Lynch, whatever. But, like, where’s the kissing?”

Bill opened his mouth. Closed it.

You patted his arm. “You’re nice, though. You’re like… a cousin to me.”

A Cousin.

A COUSIN TO YOU.

Bill left work early that day and walked home in the rain. With his head hung low. Like a tragic indie movie protagonist. Except worse. Because he wasn’t mysterious—he was damp and flannel-clad and on the verge of a bimbo-induced psychotic break.

—

He tried to get over it. He did.

Told himself you were too vapid to matter. Too shiny. Too airheaded. “A creature of pure aesthetic with the cultural taste of a Hot Pocket,” he muttered once to Jerry. Jerry nodded, like that was wise.

But then you showed up the next Thursday wearing something so uniquely you and asked, “Hey, does Batman ever die? Like actually die?”

And he was back at zero.

Hard reset.

Spiraling.

-

At some point it stopped being a crush and became a condition.

He wrote about you in his LiveJournal.

June 3rd: They don’t know who Alan Moore is. They said Watchmen was “kinda wordy.” I’m in love. Kill me.

June 10th: I offered them my Criterion copy of Seven Samurai. They asked if there was a color version. I said no. They said “Lame.” I haven’t slept since.

You weren’t even trying. That’s what destroyed him. You weren’t teasing him, weren’t playing a game—you just genuinely, blissfully didn’t care. About his film references. His anime lectures. His edgy monologues about narrative structure.

You once asked if Dune was based on Star Wars.

He actually saw God for a second.

The final straw came in late July.

You were standing near the register eating a Pop-Tart raw, Bill walked in holding two Slurpees. One blue. One red. Subtle. Intentional.

You looked up.

“Oh my god! You got me one?”

He smiled, smug. “Yeah. I remembered your favorite.”

You sipped it.

“Mmm… this is wrong. I like the blue and red together. Like when they mix and get all sludgy. Can I pour this into yours?”

He blinked. “What?”

You had already done it.

The sacred Slurpee merge.

Like it meant nothing.

He didn’t speak for five minutes. He just stared at the cup, mourning the symbolism that only he had built up in his mind

That night he started a draft of a zine called “Too Dumb to Love Me: The Decline of the Modern Crush”. He drew a caricature of you on the front. You had sparkles around your head and were saying “What’s a criterion?” in bubble letters.

He never finished it.

He couldn’t.

may u pls do a bill x reader with reader whos just as much as of an asshole as he is -- like they dont put up with his attitude, ignore him, block him whenever they feel like it, and force bill into pathetic actions for her forgiveness?? 💗💗

⋆

bill dickeyノ

cw : no warnings just bill being bill // bill x gn reader with feminine qualities

✦ Title: Let Him Suffer

an: yess!! omg i’ve prayed for a bill request and thank uu!! xoxo

© dovenskin

Bill was always mouthing off.

That was nothing new. You’d gotten used to the endless stream of smug corrections, petty gatekeeping, and the incel-core commentary that tumbled out of his mouth anytime he felt challenged—so, constantly. He was basically a walking online reporter with a superiority complex and the emotional regulation of a wet sock.

The two of you were in a thing, sure—one of those “off and on, don’t ask questions” relationships that was somehow real and a joke at the same time. Not that Bill would ever call it a relationship without choking on the word or throwing up sarcastic air quotes like they were part of his mutant power set.

“Yeah, my ‘partner’,” he’d grunt at Pete or Jerry. “Don’t get used to it. Casual arrangement.”

And yet the second you wore a tank top out without checking in? He got possessive like you were his limited-edition signed ‘The Joker’ poster

You’d shown up to Free Comic Book Day dressed as a vampire hunter —tight leather, stylized thigh straps, and detailed sigils you’d painted by hand. Weeks of work. And before you could even enjoy the look, Bill peered at you from behind a stack of longboxes and barked:

“That skirt is two inches too short for any functional loadout. You look like a slut. And I’m pretty sure those sigils are a bad rip-off of the Bloodlines expansion. Try harder next time.”

You blinked once. Then turned and walked away.

Bill Dickey had never met anyone who could silence him with a look. He hated it. Hated how you rolled your eyes during his continuity rants. Hated how you blocked his number every time he called you a “poser bitch” for having an opinion that didn’t match his. Hated how you always came back when you felt like it—like his tantrums meant less than nothing.

He called you sensitive when you called him out for saying “female-led media is inherently weaker.” You laughed in his face and walked off.

He told Pete and Josh that the only reason you kept winning at Magic was because he “let you win to keep the peace.” You threw your drink in the trash and left mid-game.

And when he told Jerry—fucking Jerry—that your art wasn’t real fanwork because your posts got “thirst likes from brain-dead coomers”? You were sitting right there.

He looked you dead in the eye and said it.

And you? You stood up without a word, grabbed your bag, and left.

He didn’t follow. Not then

But that night? The spiral began.

First, texts:

““You know I was kidding.”

“Fine. Act like a bitch.”

“C’mon, don’t be so emotional. You females are always so emotional over nothing. Pick a new struggle.”

Blocked.

A day passed.

Then two.

On the third morning, you opened your curtains to find Bill Dickey in your front yard with a busted Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to a messenger bag, fumbling with wires like he’d tried and failed to play something from your favorite album—pathetic and obvious.

You opened the door an inch.

“I’m sorry, alright?” he shouted. “I’m not good at this relationship shit! I said stuff I didn’t mean! C’mon… s—sweetheart…” He hesitated like the pet name burned his tongue. “I brought the speaker!”

You slammed the door without saying a word.

Over the next week, he sent more emails than an ILOVEYOU virus

Subject: “Just read this???”

Subject: “I messed up—okay??”

Subject: “Say something. Anything.”

Subject: “I’ll delete the forum post about your ‘Bloodlines’ sigils. Please.”

He lurked outside the comic shop during your usual visits,flannel flared up, pacing like he knew he wasn’t welcome but refused to leave. You walked past him without flinching.

One night, as you stepped over the curb, he trailed after you.

“Okay—okay, I get it. I was a dick! But I miss you. I like you, alright? I—fuck—I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”

You didn’t even turn around.

Behind you, Bill stood frozen on the sidewalk, red-faced and hunched over like he’d just been hit by a boss fight cutscene. His backpack slipped down his shoulder. His mouth hung open, useless.

“…Please,” he called out. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

But that wasn’t your problem.

Because it was never about whether he liked you. It was about whether he respected you. And Bill Dickey?

He didn’t deserve shit.

Let him suffer.