seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Belarus
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Brazil
YOU ARE ALWAYS THE HEROIN IN MY VEINS.
Forgot to post this..
sum postal drawing scanz
plus some made immediately after learning about his height
people are getting the info on the AI POSTAL stuff SUPER wrong so to clarify
- RWS outsourced their game to a dev team that, in recent years, made two games with AI art
- RWS' own art team isn't knowledgeable on AI so it makes sense on how they didnt catch it at first
- however RWS has always been openly against AI and condemns it constantly
- despite this they were clearly scammed by the outsourced team and made to believe their art isn't AI with their only evidence being a photoshop file with over 700 layers
- the "artist" of the outsourced team AI gen'd the key art, and then just recreated it piece by piece on different layers to make it look like they made it. however it doesnt contain a sketch or any revision notes that would help to convince people that its not AI
- multiple people pointed this out to the RWS team and told them they were scammed, but some bad actors decided to accuse RWS themselves of using AI and secretly condoning it
- this is where Mike J comes in and gets incredibly defensive, mostly because people were accusing them of condoning AI, which turned into him getting mad at ANYONE calling the key art AI and now saying things like "the anti-ai mob is whats killing art more than anything" and that "anyone who accuses the art of being AI can leave the server"
- Vince Desi, of all people, comes into the server, and is the most sensible person on the team, saying "hey guys we're looking into this just as much as you and would love any evidence to either it being AI or not so we can make a proper decision"
- finally another team member comes in to say "we're still looking into it cause even our 2D artist doesnt know their way around AI so please be patient and know that we do still hate AI"
Something quick n easy to get me out of artblock
Pleasure Alley (Postal Dude III x Fem!Reader)
Fandom: Postal Games
Relationship: Postal Dude/Female Reader
Rating: 18+ / Explicit
Warnings: NSFW, violence, gun violence, implied sexual content, masturbation, toxic dynamics, manipulation, unhealthy relationship themes, anxiety, swearing
Tags: postal dude x reader, postal 3, toxic romance, insta lust , emotional tension, danger kink, chaotic energy, surreal violence, postal vibes, reader POV, no use of y/n
Word Count: 3821
Author's Notes: English is not my first language! This is my first fanfic ever posted here.
Summary: You had locked yourself inside your new apartment for days, terrified of the chaotic town where your new job had just begun. When you finally left to buy groceries at a nearby grocery store, a robbery broke out and you were taken hostage, until a tall, red-haired cop rescued you. Sort of.
The convenience store reeked of sour milk. As you walked through the aisles, you calculated the prices of everything in your cart, more out of necessity than habit; the knot in your stomach didn't help, and you kept losing track of the math.
Those three days trapped indoors had been miserable. You tried to act calm, the way adults are supposed to, even when your hands wouldn’t stop trembling whenever a sound echoed outside.
Your new life in Catharsis had started horribly. On your way home from work, an attack had erupted at city hall; an environmental extremist group was apparently behind it. The streets had turned into hell, people running, screaming, smoke rising, while you fought your way back to the cramped apartment you had rented.
From the window, you watched the streets collapse into chaos. Strangely, some residents walked around as if it were just another Tuesday. At least your new boss believed your lie about being sick so you could hide in the relative safety of your home, but you’re out of food after your lockdown.
You placed a loaf of bread in the cart and released a quiet sigh. Lately, you treated everything with unnecessary gentleness, as if being careful might somehow keep your life from falling apart. Police operations had halted to investigate the attack, which meant crime skyrocketed even more than usual.
Aside from milk, everything you needed was already in the cart. The smell in the store made it clear you’d be going lactose-free for a while. You headed to the checkout.
Recalculating the prices and checking how much you had left while waiting in line, you tried to stay optimistic. “It’s fine,” you whispered to yourself, the closest thing to a pep talk you could afford these days; money would be tight for the month. Walking to work would be great for saving a few pennies, if the crime rate didn’t make that suicidal
After paying, you were half-convinced a moth had flown out of your wallet. Muttering a defeated sigh, you gathered the bags and headed toward the exit.
A man brushed past you. You stepped aside with a polite “sorry,” but before you could look up, an arm clamped around your neck and a cold blade was pressed against your skin. Your breath froze.
Two more men stormed inside, balaclavas pulled low and pistols raised. They yelled for everyone to get on the ground, shouting over and over that they had a hostage.
Your knees trembled so hard you thought they might give out. Panic clawed at your chest, but you forced yourself to stay still, any sudden move would only make things worse. With every shout, the knife dug harder into your neck. You tried to lean away, but the man only tightened his grip, twisting your head into an awkward angle.
The cashier sobbed while one thug barked orders at her. You heard the frantic clatter of cash being shoved into a bag. Each whimper from the other hostages earned another threat, another promise that someone’s head would be blown off.
The man restraining you shouted at the one grabbing the money.
“Hurry the fuck up!”
The other thug snapped back. Their curses ricocheted off the aisles. With each shout in your ear, your body seemed to shrink further, trembling, cold, desperate for the terror to end.
And then it did, not in the best way.
A sudden, brutal burst of pain exploded through your nerves. It felt like a hundred needles stabbing in and out of your skin, a lightning bolt ripping straight down your spine. The taser wasn’t meant for you, but the current hit you anyway through the man holding you.
Your legs buckled. You collapsed to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Through the blur, his grip finally slipped away. In the edge of your vision, the robber who’d been using you as a shield staggered, helpless, and then three gunshots cracked through the store.
A red-haired cop in sunglasses rushed in, lowering his weapon. He crouched beside you, and through the trembling haze, you stared back at him, chest heaving.
He… he was handsome. The ginger goatee, the broad shoulders, hell, even the curses he muttered when a bullet grazed him made him weirdly attractive. His voice was something else too, raspy but surprisingly smooth.
God. Not exactly the moment to be thinking about that, but focusing on him was better than panicking and peeing yourself in the middle of the store.
Still, one question cut through the static in your head: why tase a man holding a hostage? Why not wait for backup?
From the way he moved, he looked more like a seasoned gunman than a trained officer.
The other robber screamed at the redhead to back off or he’d kill the remaining hostages. The threat worked, he stepped back, and the thugs dragged everyone deeper into the aisles, hostages sobbing and begging to be let go.
Leaning against the wall, the redhead peeked around the corner, reassessing the situation. Your mind drifted again, straight to him. His eyes were a dark, cutting green.
Your gaze traveled down to his uniform, searching for a name tag.
All you found was: “Dude Jr.”
Really?
He must have felt your stare. His head tilted just slightly, and a slow, amused smile curved his mouth. With the sunglasses hiding his eyes, you couldn’t tell what he was looking at, but the possibility alone sent heat crawling under your skin.
Your eyes lingered on each other longer than they should have. Then red and blue lights washed across the windows as backup finally arrived. Officers poured out of their cars, forming a barricade. Relief escaped in a shaky breath, your hand instinctively pressing against your chest.
Then the redhead moved.
He crossed the distance fast, boots thudding against the tile, and without hesitation slid an arm beneath your shoulders, lifting you out of the line of fire. He carried you past the barricade and set you down behind it as if you weighed nothing.
Another officer intercepted you immediately, firing off questions, number of robbers, their positions, how many hostages. Your answers came out uneven and breathless, but you gave him everything you remembered. Eventually he nodded, jotted your information for later, and waved you off.
The thought of going home, to your tiny apartment, a hot shower, and collapsing into bed, felt like heaven.
“I couldn’t help noticing some… ogling, citizen.”
An arm hooked loosely around your neck. Dude.
"I-I was just looking at my surroundings..."
The excuse tumbled out before you could catch it. Mortification burned through you. Had he noticed everything?
"Your surroundings, heh?"
Of course he had. His low, cynical laugh made your stomach flip. A short scoff followed.
"Want to know more about your _surroundings_?"
Before you could respond, he steered you toward a narrow alley, his hand clamped around your waist, too firm, sending your pulse straight to your throat. Interested? Amused? Or just bored? You genuinely couldn’t tell.
He leaned in, breath brushing your skin, warm and tainted with gunpowder and cigarettes. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but you could feel him staring.
Sizing you up. Maybe admiring.Maybe judging.
“What was so interesting about my face, sweetheart?” he asked, tone playful with something sharp underneath. His thumb traced slow circles against your waist.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. The silence makes him grin. Dude dipped his head, voice dropping to a rough whisper at your ear:
“Cat got your tongue? Or are you just used to being so helpless?” He chuckled, not kindly, not cruelly either. Just… Entertained.
His grip tightened for half a second, like he was testing how easily you froze, before pulling back just enough to tilt your chin between two fingers.
"Or maybe it’s just me. Happens to people." His smile widens. "Usually right before they faint… or start crying."
He drew back slightly, smirking now, one eyebrow raised behind the shades.
“Don’t worry, doll.” His hand gave your waist a quick squeeze before letting go. “I’m real dangerous up close. You? Not so much. Save the hero worship for someone who carries mints instead of spare ammo.”
A police radio crackled somewhere nearby. Dude didn’t bother looking, but you did. Reality returned with a cold drop in your stomach.
"Now scram," he said with mock irritation, shooing you like a stray dog. "Go home, lock the door… or don’t. Whatever makes the nightmares hit faster."
He winked and started to turn.
You weren’t ready to let him walk away, not yet. Even after this whole obnoxious, unsettling display. God, his voice, his grip, that strange heat under all the danger… you didn’t step back.
Noticing, Dude flicked his radio off with a lazy movement.
"Well well." His smirk stretches wider. "A little clingy, aren’t we?"
He closed the distance again, close enough that your pulse stumbled.
"Careful," he murmurs, playful tone but a smile that doesn’t reach his voice.
He cups your face briefly, the tips of his fingers brushing your hair just enough to make you freeze.
"You got a boyfriend, sweetheart?"
“No… I just moved here.”
"Oh-ho! Fresh meat in Catharsis?" Dude barks a laugh, loud, abrupt, almost manic. A nearby cop glances over; Dude doesn’t even pretend to care.
"Bad luck, dollface" He leans closer, and taps your chest with one grimy finger. "This town chews up nice people"
He pauses… Then grins like he’s just remembered a private joke no sane person would laugh at.
"...But since you’re single? And clearly appreciate authority…" His thumb swipes down at your hipbone through your clothes "—how 'bout I show you the real Catharsis?”
Behind him, sirens wail like dying animals. Somewhere, glass shatters.
"So..." He adjusts his belt slowly, deliberately. "You in?”
You think for a second, it was definitely no good, but the forming wetness between your legs asks for more. Adjusting the purse on your shoulder, feeling excitement bubbling in your belly, you nod.
"Smart girl" Dude says, flashes a crooked grin as he grabs your wrist, firm, unapologetic. "Hope you're into danger, cheap whiskey, and the occasional explosion."
He yanks you forward just as a police radio crackles: "All units, be advised: possible arson at the mayor's summer home—"
Before you can react, he drags you down a side alley. Garbage cans overflow. A single neon sign flickers above a boarded-up bar.
Inside, the air reeks of old beer and sweat. The room is packed with people you know you shouldn’t be anywhere near. Your cute clothes feel painfully out of place. Dude, though, fits here perfectly. He leads you to a booth in the back and drops into one side.
“Sit.”
There’s a harsh undercurrent to the word, an order, not a suggestion. Something in your chest tightens. This should not be this attractive. Dude catches your stare and licks his teeth like he’s savoring it.
"Oh, you’re stuck now," he says with a dark chuckle, dragging your chair closer. His knee knocks against yours.
As he leans back, the dim light catches on the details of his uniform, and that’s when it hits you, how wrong it looks here. The fabric is scuffed, buttons mismatched, sleeves rolled haphazardly as if he put it on in a hurry… or didn’t care at all. Then you see the pins on his collar: a yellow smiley face and a small metal cross. Definitely not regulation. Definitely not standard for any officer who’s supposed to be on duty.
Dude orders two shots. Minutes later, a waitress slams two glasses of something that smells like gasoline and regret. He downs his in one gulp without blinking, eyes never leaving you.
“...You’re gonna sit still there all night?” He lifts an eyebrow at your untouched drink. His boot nudges your leg under the table, just enough to jolt you.
“Not exactly the kind of place I expected to find a cop,” you say, keeping your tone light.
He scoffs, then admits, “I’ve always had a thing for a little blasphemy.” His grin widens as he leans close to your ear.
“So… what brought a hot piece like you to this shithole city?”
“Nothing extraordinary…” you reply, picking up the shot glass. “Got a promotion to manage inventory and storage. Rent’s cheap, that’s all.”
You roll the glass between your fingers, watching the liquor shift.
“Job upgrade, huh?” He watches the glass, but he’s studying you instead, the outfit, your manicured nails, the soft makeup. “You always dress like that?” he asks, still grinning, leaning closer until the space between you nearly disappears.
You nod. Cute clothes and soft colors have always been your comfort. Today’s look is simple; the Arizona heat didn’t let you wear your favorite sweater with the frilly socks.
“Oh yeah. You’re definitely out of place.”
Dude chuckles, a dry sound that fits the gritty atmosphere. His eyes roam over you again, taking in every delicate detail.
“You look like a porcelain doll dragged outta a flower field. Too sweet. Too soft.” He slings an arm over your shoulder, the contrast between you and him almost jarring “Sweetheart, this town’s gonna eat you alive.”
His grin sharpens as his gaze drifts from your ankles upward, lingering on your waistband for a beat too long.
"You ever been robbed at gunpoint?" he asks suddenly, tone casual. "...Or fucked in an alley?”
The last part makes your scalp prickle. He moves closer, more handsy now, tilting his head toward the back door. So close to the table you two sat down, he fucking predicted that.
Dude's grin goes feral at your late realization, like he just won the lottery.
"Yeah, that's the look I was waitin’ for," he growls, fingers tightening around your wrist as his other hand slides up your thigh under the table. His thumb presses into soft skin hard enough to leave a mark.
"That backdoor?" He nods toward it with a tilt of his head, voice dropping to gravel. "It leads to an alley where people disappear every night… Wanna be one of 'em?"
Behind him, glass shatters. Someone screams. Dude doesn’t blink. His boot kicks open the booth bench beside him, invitation or threat, you’re not sure.
You follow his lead, a mix of fear and desire twisting your stomach. Dude holds the door open for you, waiting until you’re outside before anything else.
Then he shoves you against the wall with a thud, hands all over you.
Dude’s mouth crashes into yours before you can gasp, all teeth, nicotine and cheap whiskey, his hands picking at your cute top like it offended him. He cups your breast, pinching your hard nipple, earning a sharp gasp.
"Fuckin’ adorable," he snarls against your lips, grinding his hips into yours so you feel exactly how not adorable this is gonna get. His knee forces its way between your thighs as his hand fists in your hair, yanking just enough for tears to prick.
The shift in his posture is sudden, his body crowding yours, his height swallowing the space around you. He’s too tall. Dude pins you to the wall, holding you up with his leg so he doesn’t have to crouch.
Somewhere behind the dumpsters, a rat scurries away from the violent sound of a belt unbuckling.
You moan softly when he kisses you again, clinging to his shoulder for balance. His mouth trails down your neck; your soft cries only spur him on.
Dude groans at every whimper, like they’re the best sounds he’s heard all week. His grip in your hair tightens as he lifts you higher, keeping his thigh between yours so you stay open for him.
"Shhh" he mocks, biting down on your lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "Ain’t nobody comin’ to save ya now."
You lean in, desire overriding sense, desperate for his mouth again. Dude laughs when he feels you melt. His hands drop to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise before hauling you higher.
"Goddamn," he rasps, grinding against you so you feel every filthy inch through his clothes. "Knew there was a freak under all that pastel shit."
He kisses you again, no pretense now, while his free hand yanks at your shorts button like it’s already in the way(It is).Somewhere behind the bar, a gunshot rings out.
He doesn’t even flinch. Too busy making sure you feel every second of this disaster coming for ya.
The bar’s back door slams open with a loud bang. Bartender screams at Dude and at you, demanding payment for the shots.
"You’ve got to be shittin’ me," Dude snarls, hands tightening around your thighs. He shoots a murderous glare at the bartender. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of sumthin'?"
“Do whatever shit you want, asshole. Pay me before a bullet goes through your fucked-up brain.”
Dude clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed. He reluctantly lets go of you, but only after a final, rough squeeze of your ass. With a dramatic sigh, like the universe personally inconvenienced him, he turns to pay.
"How much?" he snaps, digging a crumpled wad of old bills from his pocket and peeling off several.
The bartender takes the money and storms back inside. Dude turns back to you just as his walkie-talkie crackles to life, someone calling specifically for him. He ignores it at first, still palming your thigh, debating dragging you right back against the wall.
But then: "Dude, we got a Code 5 at City Hall, repeat, Code 5!"
He exhales sharply, leaning in one last time, voice rough in your ear:
"Fuck. Duty calls."
He nips your earlobe hard enough to make you yelp, then steps back with that feral grin.
"You? Stay right here so I can find ya when this shit’s over."
Your eyes widen, pulse punching the inside of your throat. Stay here? In this alley, with gunshots echoing and strangers sprinting past like the world’s ending? No. Staying feels as bad as moving, maybe worse. But wandering alone through a neighborhood you don’t even recognize feels like begging for disaster. Every option is bad, but staying is impossible.
"“I just… I need to get home"
He studies your face, grip tightening on your wrists. Something in your expression, fear, desperation, makes him loosen slightly. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and shoves you toward the street instead of the wall.
"Fine. Go home." He jerks his thumb toward the dim sidewalks and distant sirens."But if I see ya again tonight?" That grin comes back. "You better be wearin' less fucking fabric."
The radio crackles again, urgent and grainy, officers shouting over each other.
“Wait— hold on” Your voice shakes but stays steady enough. “I don’t know this area… Please, just tell me how to get back to the convenience store.”
Dude turns, clearly annoyed. He sighs, rubbing his temples like the universe keeps testing him, then sees an opportunity.
"You got a phone, princess? Or did you forget that in your pastel-colored closet too?"
He holds out a hand. When you hesitate, he rolls his eyes.
"Gimme. Or you can try your luck walkin' back through an urban war zone.”
You quickly get out of your wallet one business card. Your number and name in cream letters. Dude pockets the card with a sarcastic snort. "Cute"
"Go that way. Second left. Keep walkin' till you hit a stop sign. That's the store." Without waiting for a response, he shoves you forward. "And whatever you do, don't leave the main road, you'll get mugged or worse before the next street. Now scat”
You nod and sprint back home: scared, sweaty, groceries lost, arousal still lingering. You barely make it inside before collapsing against the door, heart pounding. His smell, gunpowder, smoke, him, clings to your clothes and skin.
Sliding down the door, heels still on, purse dangling… You laugh once, nervous, dizzy.
Dude’s got your number.
Dude...
A shower, dinner, preparing for bed… none of it washes him off.
By the time your fingers slip between your thighs, your clit is already throbbing. Soft moans fill the room, the memory of his grip, his voice, his thigh between yours, the kisses, everything pours back into your body at once.
You imagine him between your legs first, grinning, taunting, talking too much. Then your mind drags you beneath his weight, the press of his body holding you down, the question flickering: would he even bother taking off his clothes? Each fantasy coils tighter and tighter inside you, but your fingers fall short. The orgasm is thin, disappointing, leaving behind nothing but hunger. You need him.
Sleep is a mess, and morning crawls in with his hands still ghosting over your skin. Wednesday was like that; Thursday was like that; Friday, the same, days folding into each other under the same dull ache.
You kept your phone on the table, screen up. Each time it dims, you check it again, hoping for an unknown number. Waiting for him to call, that tiny hope lingering he’d remember you.
Days kept going, alarms, emails, shifts, but you weren’t really in any of it. Part of you is still under those fluorescent lights with his voice in your ear and a shot glass between your fingers. You couldn’t call him. He'd never given you a number to reach him.
By Saturday, even your thoughts are tired. Wandering around the mall turns into a way to avoid sitting at home with a silent phone. You pick up a few groceries; the total stings, your wallet ends up lighter. The weekend is painfully boring.
Monday: you organize the Krotchy doll shelves before work begins. Employees are late, another terrorist attack delaying traffic, and you help where you can.
The mall was nearly empty, just another Monday. You tidy spreadsheets, talk to suppliers. Every now and then, you hoped to hear Dude's voice when you answered the phone. It 's never him.
Your office light, harsh and hospital-white, makes the day even duller. After a stressful call, you decide to take an early lunch.
You sit in the empty food court eating something unhealthy, not caring. Then your phone rings. After answering. A rough chuckle fills your ear, low, rumbling, sending a wave of heat through you.
"Hey, sweetheart…"
Dude 's voice. Deeper over the phone. Darker. And that tone, unmistakably cocky. Like he's just waiting to catch you off-guard again.
As much as i love the DIDude hc and all that comes with it, i hate that it usually ends up in people woobifying the shit out of 97 dude and making redux dude evil af for no reason, and people completely forgetting the demon. Cmon guys we could utilize p2 for this so well.
Also while im yapping, rws is insultingly bad at writing dude these days. I honestly wish theyd sell off the postal IP to another studio that will give postal the care it deserves. Angel, despite being THE MAIN CHARACTER of f&w feels sidelined and hollow. And what do you MEAN dude ruined her face? As far as ive seen SHE HAS ONE TINY SCAR. Make her a fucking shotgun victim. Give her a mask. Or make her Show the carnage of her face to show dude what he did. AND DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE CULT ITS SUCH BULLSHIT ITS SO HORRIBLY WRITTEN. f&w doesnt feel like a postal game at all nor does it feel set in the postal universe imo.
On that topic. Postal as a franchise fucking hates women and poc. I love postal but you can tell the creators are right wing white men in the mainline games. And the fandom is like if rws had blue hair.
-
>:3
I dont go here but I made my best friend a postal 3 dude keychain for Christmas to fill her selfshipper heart,,, dont tell her yet shh I still have to wait til her other stuff comes in to give it to her,,,
