#postal fanfic

[rebmeat]

12 fucking pages. my postal fanfiction is 12 fucking pages and its not finished. can't fucking wait to post it so at least people can enjoy it hopefully 🙏🏻

[transfrogwithcoolsocks]

I have been cooking up something devious recently that i getting proofread and checked (by me)

I’m writing a very self indulgent Postal fanfic thingy because i want to:3

Here is a sneak peak to it :)

I’ll be posting it on @doomsdaycounter most likely so if you want to read it check there in the next few days!!!

[w3ird0s-0rgans]

The sneak peak snippet of the video I'm making with the 'puppets'

(I'm playing out a ao3 fic for the fun of it)

(Sorry if my voice is goofy or slurred I have speech problems)

[yandepostal-fanfic]

"Happy Holidays from Postal-Chan herself, asshats."

"Say, while I'm here, should I bother that Scaly jackass, David to draw me wearing this thing from RWS' Insta?"

(Tw: Horndog nonsense)

[ratg0r3]

THAT ONE FIC IM WRITING UPDATE

ch2 but its just the lil bit i have written uh also find it on A03

The blaring sound of a cheap battery-powered alarm clock wakes me from my sleep. Rubbing my eyes and reaching blindly to the area above my head where the alarm clock goes off. Knocking the batteries out of the clock as it hits the floor. "Ah, shit…" Groaning I sit up, looking around the semi Sun lit room before looking for the clock and its batteries. Once found I place them back in the clock and set it on the end table where it was before. Standing up and making my way to the bedroom of the apartment I find Mikey sleeping with their pile of plushes. Quietly walking to the dresser I grab some clothes, not caring what it is, as long as it's clean. Once I get changed for the day I drive back to the corner store, pulling into the back parking lot. Getting out of the car and entering the store I see the tall ginger guy looking for snacks. Standing there for a moment I decide to walk up to him, seeing as it's thirty minutes before my shift. He smells strongly of a campfire as I step closer, trying to play it casual by stepping beside him and browsing the snacks. I look over at him and find he is caught up in listening to his music, he gives a quick glance at me before a face of recognition appears. Fumbling with his Walkman, he pauses his music and turns to me with a curious look. "Yeah? You're the cashier from yesterday, right?" He says as he points to me after grabbing a bag of plain chips. "Yeah, my friends call me Crust, or Rust… long story but that's my name. What about you? I never caught your name." I ask as I look up at him, his sunglasses reflecting my image back. He smirks as he goes back to browse the snacks again. "Name's Dude. Nice to meet you Rust, so… Do you have work here today again?" He says as he walks to the drink section of the store, browsing the sodas. "Yeah, just a four-hour shift though, some guy called in sick a few days back." Sighing, I grab a can of Cola for myself. "Can I talk with you after work then? You seem like one of the only people with their head screwed on right." He says before holding out his empty hand and he looks at me with a small awkward smile. Shaking his hand, I take note of the roughness before speaking up. "Sure Dude, also here, I'll pay for your stuff too, come here to the counter." I walk over to behind the counter, ringing up his items, a bag of chips, and a pack of gum along with my soda. Paying for them all then handing him the bag of his items smiling. "I'll see you later Dude."

[kittycraftt]

honestly would post Angel x Postal 1 Dude fanfics but im too scared to and never finish writing them,,,,

[blackenedsnow]

I love ur writing so much could I maybe request p1 slowly learning to love and be loved 💔

p1 dude learning to love and be loved ; headcanons

WARNING: Emotional detachment, slow emotional healing, and mental health struggles.

PAIRING: Postal (1) Dude x Reader

NOTE: Thank you so much for your kind words! This is sooo sweet and I had so much fun writing this.

At the beginning, Dude is incredibly distant.

He’s been hardened by everything going on in his head, unable to trust anyone, and it takes time before he even acknowledges your presence as something more than just another person in his life.

He avoids eye contact, rarely speaks, and his body language is closed off.

He flinches at touch, even a casual hand on his shoulder can cause him to stiffen.

He’s not used to physical affection and struggles with it, associating touch with pain or vulnerability.

You notice this and take things slow, giving him space while offering gentle reassurances that you’re there for him.

The first step to breaking through his walls happens in small ways.

You notice that he tends to neglect himself—skipping meals, isolating for days, or losing himself in his own thoughts.

You leave food for him, make sure he has a clean place to rest, or leave a blanket for him when it gets cold.

Even though he has that coat on all the time.

He doesn’t thank you at first, but you notice him slowly accepting these gestures, even if he doesn’t show it outwardly.

There are rare moments when you catch a glimpse of his vulnerability.

Maybe it’s late at night when the weight of the paranoia becomes too much, and you find him staring out into the darkness, lost in thought.

You sit next to him, offering silent company.

He doesn’t say anything, but the fact that he doesn’t push you away is progress.

Trust comes slowly for him.

The first time he starts opening up to you, it’s not in the form of deep conversation but in subtle actions—he lets you sit closer to him, or he allows himself to relax slightly in your presence.

It’s a process of him realizing that not everyone wants to hurt him, and you’re someone who’s there to help, not judge.

Dude doesn’t know how to love anymore, not in the traditional sense.

But with time, he starts showing his affection in his own way—he might fix something for you, stand by your side, or give you something meaningful to him, even if it’s small.

He’s not one for grand romantic gestures, but his love is shown in quieter ways.

If you’re having a tough day, he’ll sit beside you in silence, offering his presence rather than words.

His touch remains tentative, but over time, you notice him reaching out—a hand on yours, or resting his head on your shoulder when he feels safe enough to do so.

His biggest fear is losing the one person who has stayed by his side.

The thought terrifies him because he knows how fleeting happiness can be.

When you notice him getting more protective, it’s not out of possessiveness but fear.

He doesn’t know how to express it, but the idea of losing you is unbearable to him.

It takes time for Dude to fully accept that he deserves love.

Even after he begins to care for you, there’s still a lingering doubt in his mind—why would anyone want to be with someone like him?

But as you continue to show him patience, understanding, and unconditional support, he starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s worthy of love after all.

There’s a moment when the emotional walls he’s built start to crack.

Maybe it’s after a particularly difficult day, or when his fear catches up to him, but he finally lets his guard down in front of you.

He doesn’t say much, but he leans into your embrace, allowing himself to be vulnerable, if only for a moment.

It’s then that he realizes just how much he needs you.

Slowly but surely, Dude learns that love isn’t about perfection or being strong all the time.

It’s about support, about being there for one another, and allowing someone to care for you, even when you don’t feel like you deserve it.

You’re the person who teaches him that love can be a healing force, and while it’s not a magic fix, it’s a step towards a brighter future.

Dude may never be the most emotionally expressive person, but he’s learned how to love and be loved.

He starts to accept that it’s okay to rely on someone else, and while he may never fully leave behind his paranoia, with you by his side, he begins to find peace in the idea that love doesn’t have to hurt.

[cephalopod-celabrator]

I think it's a shame that there was never a discworld book involving Moist Von Lipwig facing the elves. Because I would pay so much money to see that. The elves are dangerous and some of them have seriously powerful magic, but for the most part they're creatures of glamour. They entrance, trick, deceive, and intimidate. But the thing is, Moist is even better at it than they are. Moist's primary skills are just his sheer audacity and charisma. The elves are creatures of stories, and Moist knows how to spin a story better than anyone. Plus, it's mentioned elves often try to use their glamour to overwhelm humans with sheer feelings of inadequacy and inferiority. And while Moist doesn't like plenty of things about himself, he's incredibly good at hiding it. As I said, he's a man with audacity. It could also draw an interesting parallel showing how elves aren't much more than he is, just magical con-artists but at least he's trying to be better now. Bonus: Adora Belle Dearheart vs the elves. She has an even more ironclad sense of self-confidence than Moist. Plus she has golems, which would likely be unaffected by both elf glamour and elf swords, and goblins which were formerly enslaved by the elves and are a vengeful people with access to a lot of iron. It would also be funny if they were hyper-sensitive to her cigar smoke or something

[etonzolo]

The other page i did from @coloringwithhermits by @bucket-of-cheese!! I started this traditionally & then added extra rendering in Krita (alts under the cut :)

[overcaffeinated-gamer]

this thing is going to have so many tws and cws, but it will be glorious

WIP below

10/17/97: Moving to "Paradise" was a tragic mistake.  People here are... sick.  I hear gunshots, screams after dark.  Now the phone calls, sayin' I'm being thrown outta this house.  My house.  Wearing kevlar vest and carrying a sidearm at all times now...

With shaking hands, he closed the old diary, tucking it in the pocket of his old work jeans.  Winter had come to Paradise, Arizona, and with it an unusually high snowfall count, not just for this time of year, but for the area in general.  It was not even Halloween yet, and already people were breaking out the big boots and heavy coats.

What was the old saying about “cold days in Hell”?  It kept repeating in his head, like a mantra, his mother’s voice being the one to speak it.

It’ll be a cold day in Hell when… when…

Fuck, he couldn’t remember.  Well, that was fair enough.  It had been quite a while since his parents had passed away.  No use crying over spilled milk.

His thoughts were a thousand miles away when she knocked on the door to their bedroom, worry shimmering in her tired, reddened eyes.  “Sweetheart…?  Dinner’s getting cold.  Come on,” her hand reached out for him, shaking just as violently as his. Needing his support.  Needing him to come with her… just… needing him.  “I made your favorite.”

A brief moment of silence passed between the two, but it felt like it would drag them into Hell together.

“…they’re going to take the house,” he growled, his voice rougher than it had ever been during their marriage.  She sighed, shaking her head, her hand retreating.

“I’m working on it,” she said, stepping into the darkened bedroom, sitting beside him on their bed.  She leaned on his bicep, and he, for all his faults, wrapped his arm around her shoulders.  “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.  It’ll all be fine…” her voice cracked, and her hand raised to her mouth as tears threatened to fall.

in the midst of all life's bullshit, i'm sitting here, grading papers and writing lessons, wondering if anyone would try and "cancel" me (which would be hysterical since i don't do SHIT) for writing lore-accurate postal fanfics (which would include several ableist slurs and less than savory depictions of a feeeeew ethnic groups for the sake of satire).

if i don't focus on my "haha, man go postal" hyperfixation, i may just lose my mind in the current state of the world

[rebmeat]

my essay for my art school application : 1 page

the postal fanfiction I've been writing for 3 days : 7 pages + 1 page of paragraphs i removed

[transfrogwithcoolsocks]

My Postal fic is now on AO3!!

Yippee!!

You can find it here!!

[nor3gertz]

hello other p2xp3 freaks can i hear a HELL YEEEAAAAHHHH 👂👂👂🔊🔊🔊

[rikaluver]

Joy Ride - Postal Dude x AFAB Reader

Genre - Smut

This is an old fic of mine, you can find it on AO3 but I don't know where since it was on my old account...Anyways, enjoy!!

The heat hits you like a wave. The sun beats down relentlessly from a cloudless sky, casting everything in a harsh, unyielding light. The gas station is a low-slung building, its faded yellow and red paint peeling in the desert sun.

You get closer and spot a tall man in a tattered black trench coat loitering near the pumps. He’s got a scruffy goatee and a wild look in his eye, and he seems to be muttering to himself as he paces back and forth.

Freak, you think to yourself. 

You push open the door, and a blast of cool air washes over you, providing a welcome respite from the scorching desert heat. It’s dimly lit inside, with rows of shelves stocked with snacks, drinks, and other random shit. There’s one other customer inside—an older man. He’s standing by idly, not looking at anything or buying anything. It’s like he’s not even there. 

You make your way to the back of the store, grabbing a few snacks and some beer (a lot of it). There isn’t much to do around in this ghost town; you spend most of your time getting drunk or high. As you return to the store's front, you notice a display of souvenirs near the register. Postcards with the Grand Canyon, refrigerator magnets, random shit with the state flag plastered on it, you name it. 

The cashier appears disconnected, staring blankly ahead and barely acknowledging your presence. As rude as it is, you snap your fingers before him to get his attention. He blinks slowly and looks at you vacantly before scanning your items. He’s moving in slow motions as if operating on autopilot. 

You don’t bother to make small talk; you know he’ll give one-word responses, not registering your words. It’s always the same with the people in Paradise. They’re like zombies. 

You finish paying and gathering your belongings, though you can’t help but feel a bit of unease. 

You feel the warm sun on your skin and the desert air in your lungs the moment you step outside. You shield your eyes from the sun's rays, waiting for your eyes to adjust. 

The people in this town stick around one place, and you rarely see them anywhere else, so when you see the guy there when you entered, smoking, it’s not a surprise. You know everyone’s face (not that there are many people, to begin with), but you can’t recognize this guy. You’re unsure if you’ve ever seen him outside, and you’d undoubtedly remember him considering his height (he’s got to be 6’5” at least).

He spots you after a while and quickly stubs his cigarette out before walking up to you. 

“You’re not one of the contaminated ones, I can tell.”

“Jesus, dude, what?”

A manic grin spreads across his face, “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?”

You take a step back, feeling a bit uneasy. The man in front of you seems like he’s on something. And, unlike everybody else in the town, you can’t tell what his next move will be.

“There’s something in the air infecting everyone in Paradise. You and I are the only uninfected people left in this town.”

You scoff and push past him, making your way back home. You were right to think he was a freak when you first saw him. As animated as he may be, he’s still one of the crazy people around here. 

Are you the only one with a functioning brain around?

The man grabs your shoulder and turns you around effortlessly, griping you too firmly. Not only was he abnormally tall, but he was also abnormally strong. 

“I know. I know what you’re thinking—you think I’m one of them, right? Different but still crazy, yeah?” His eyes flicker between you and whatever’s behind you (you know there’s nothing and no one behind you). The look in his eyes is one of a man on the edge, teetering between madness and despair. “You can trust me, though. I thought the same when I saw you,” he punctuates each word, his grip tightening.

You feel a sharp jolt of pain through your muscles; the shit he’s saying goes in one ear and out the other. You need him to let go. The pressure is intense, and it feels like his fingers are digging deep into your flesh, leaving a mark you can feel long after he’s released his hold.  

“Yeahyeahyeah, you’re right, now let me go!” Your voice comes out more desperate than you’d like it to.

Realizing that he may have been too forceful, the man quickly lets go of your shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, a note of concern in his deep voice. “You’re willing to hear me out though, right?”

You nod, rubbing your shoulder to soothe the soreness, not considering what you just agreed to. And before you know it, the man’s taking you to his house. He introduces himself as Postal Dude. You’re not sure why he’s using a fake name if, apparently, you two are the only ordinary people around.

As you approach his home, you see it’s in disarray, with broken furniture and discarded items strewed outside. It seems The Dude has been living in survival mode, making do with whatever he can salvage. 

It’s no wonder you’ve never seen him around.

Once inside, Postal Dude leads you to a small, makeshift living room with only a few small lamps providing light, a worn-out couch, and a rickety table that needs to be flipped back up. You sit on the couch (the only “clean” place) and look at his living conditions.  The walls are bare, and the floors are made of old, creaky wood planks that groan at any pressure applied. Stacks of newspapers, empty beer bottles, and discarded food wrappers are piled up in the room's corners. There are a few personal touches here and there, a well-arranged collection of….weapons on a nearby shelf, an old game console (he doesn’t have a TV), and porno magazines! How homely!

He doesn’t sit down with you. He, instead, walks over to the window, peering out anxiously through the blinds. His posture is tense, and you can tell he’s on edge. Jesus, you can practically see the fear and anxiety emanating from him, and you wonder what he’s looking for. You assume the “infection” must make him paranoid and attentive, always looking for potential threats. 

“You okay?” you ask cautiously. 

After a few moments, he turns back to you, his expression still serious. “We need to be careful,” his voice is low and urgent.

“Uh, yeah, for sure,” you fiddle with your bag. Maybe drinking might get him to calm down (and break the silence). You take out a can of beer, you’re shocked the thing’s still cold, and hold it out to him. “Want one?”

He doesn’t reply but walks back to the couch and grabs the beer you’re offering. You watch as he cracks open a can and chugs it down like it's nothing; he lets out a satisfied sigh and sits down next to you. He seems more at ease. He grabs another from the bag, cracks it open, only taking a sip this time, and begins to ramble about the supposed infection. His tone is urgent; his words spill out quickly as if he's been waiting for someone to talk to about this for a long time.

“It's crazy out there, you know,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “People are turning into these—these things. I don’t even know what to call them.”

You nod, taking in his words. It’s clear now that Postal Dude is fucking mental. But hey, he’s the most exciting thing around town and will have an actual conversation with you, so you decide to humor him.

"Have you seen them?"

“Yeah, all over the place, they’re slow but fuckin’ insane. If I ever let one catch me, I probably wouldn’t be here to help you. You’ve seen them too.”

“I have?”

"Yeah, back at the gas station. Two of them." He drinks the rest of his beer and goes on a tangent about…stages and stuff…to explain the ones you encountered. You give up on trying to keep track a couple of words in, and the guy talks for what feels like forever. You start chugging beers with him to cope with the total bullshit he's spewing. Nothing he's saying makes sense. You're surprised you didn't see any comic books about aliens invading Earth lying around. His imagination is way too active. Or he's delusional. He's mistaking everyday citizens who work tirelessly for people infected and trying to kill him. It's safe to say you don't believe a single word coming out of his mouth. Though, you're having fun listening to him talk. 

The Dude’s voice is deep and gravelly; he speaks in a low, measured tone, as if every word is carefully chosen for maximum impact. Even when he’s slurring his words right now, you like it. When he finally finishes his deviation, you realize how much you miss hearing him talk. 

His voice isn’t the only thing you like about him. A middle-aged man with a rugged appearance isn’t exactly who you’d go after, but his looks are eye-catching. His hair’s unkept and greasy, falling in messy strands around his face. His deep-set green eyes draw you in. In fact, he’s one of the few good-looking men in Paradise. Or you’d assume you never paid attention to looks (or sanity). Dick size was the only thing that mattered.

And speaking of dick size…

“So…what do I do?”

He slurs something you presume to be a ‘what?’

“About them going mad and attacking me, what do I do about that?” 

“Fight back.” You know the question’s stupid, and so does he, chuckling a little under his breath. “If you'd let me, I don’t mind showing you a thing or two.”

He explains some basic self-defense techniques, stuff you already know. The more he talks, the more excited you get. Something about his voice hits you hard, deep in your gut. It might be the alcohol. Who cares what it is, though?

You lean in closer, catching his lips with yours in a slow kiss. He returns the kiss in a far less passive fashion. He doesn't wait for you to acclimatize to his kiss's more aggressive tempo, brushing his tongue over your lip eagerly. The subtle taste of alcohol lingers on his lips. When he opens his mouth, and his tongue meets yours, the citrusy, bitter flavor is intensified tenfold. You groan, pushing further into the kiss. Postal Dude seems more than pleased to indulge you, playing along with your lead while his hands wander and grope at whatever’s most readily available. Down they go, over your back and shoulders to cup your ass, twisting around to knead and stroke your thighs and hips. It's as if he can't decide which part of you was the most enticing.

After some time, he wraps his hands around your waist and hoists you onto his thigh. You only now realize how tall he is; you guessed he was 6’5” at first, but he’s humongous. So is the tent in his pants!

Your hands trail down between the two of you and unbutton his trousers, and at the sight of his undergarments, you sort of raise an eyebrow. You brush your fingers against the tip of his crotch, and he lets out a hitched breath against your lips.

“You got a condom?” He pulls away from your lips and trails kisses on your collarbone.

You whimper slightly at the contact, “no…is that a deal breaker for you?”

He sighs and mumbles a “yeah” against your shoulder.

“Hey, it’s fine, man,” you shuffle him off your shoulder a bit. When he looks up at you, you raise your hand to his face, cupping his neck and rubbing your thumb under his jaw. “If you won’t fuck me without a condom, I’m down with giving you head or a handjob.”

Postal Dude considers it for a brief second before his face bores the dejected expression it did a minute ago. 

“Orrr…” you trail off.

“Or?”

“Or I could ride your thigh while you jerk off.” 

That’s an idea that sticks with him. He’s not comfortable letting anyone around his junk. If he’s ever had anyone around his junk, that is.

You watch as he takes himself out of his boxers. You gawk at the sheer size of his dick before taking it all in. It suits a man his height.

You're somewhat grateful neither of you had condoms on you; there's no way you could fit that all in you. Well, maybe you could, but you'd end up in the hospital.

Words can't express how badly you'd love to touch it (whore). But alas, you can't. Gotta respect boundaries.

As he begins touching himself, you find yourself (metaphorically) drooling at the sight. It's, like, really hot. He pants and lets out soft whines occasionally, and you eat up every part of it. After a bit, you realize you're just staring at him and not fulfilling your end of the deal (plus, you're horny as fuck, and you have to take care of that too). You start your movements on his thigh, nice and slow. You let yourself enjoy how good it feels to grind against him, albeit embarrassing. His eyes are on you, and you can't tell if he's judging you or what, but he's undoubtedly enjoying it if the way he thrusts up into his hand is any indication. 

It's humiliating. 

It's exciting.

With a slight struggle, you wrap your arms around his neck and get closer for a quick peck on the lips. 

The “supposed” peck quickly turns to making out, and one of your hands rests on his head, not keeping him there, just finding a more comfortable position. Without realizing it, your fingers run through his ginger hair, and he whines into your mouth, leaning further into the kiss. 

You pet him some more, and his hips buck into his hand each time, giving you more pleasure. It’s embarrassing for him but extremely arousing for you. 

After a while, you pick up the pace against his thigh. You vibrate as he fucks his hand, admiring how you look. It’s disgusting but oh-so intoxicating. You pant into each other, verging on each other's climaxes. The Dude cums first with a breathless grunt, and you follow, wetting his thigh. 

[signofthefloss]

i love the one who made the DID Dude fic on ao3 & doodled smth inspired to it... urmmm i think its @consumed-by-fandom who wrote it!! Might draw some scenes from it cuz its soooo cool /pos

[hotvintagepoll]

Just wanted to come thank you (yet again lol) for running this blog and these polls! It is such a fun space and I've also learned so much. I watched Fancy Pants the other night and in the first few scenes I was like WHO is this strange little guy I can't stop watching and I looked him up and it was scrungle Eric Blore! I'd never heard of him before the scrungle polls so it was fun to see a new-to-me scrungle out in the wild lol. (Btw I wasn't a huge fan of the movie - maybe worth it if you're a Bob Hope and/or Lucille Ball diehard, but warning for some very yikes racism.)

I keep noticing scrungles in movies now too thanks to the polls! I was watching Bednobs and Broomsticks last night (how had I forgotten that joy is stored in the Bednobs and Broomsticks) and was getting a huge kick out of scrungly David Tomlinson scrungling all over the place. (Shoutout to fellow scrungles Sam Jaffe, Bruce Forsyth, Tessie O'Shea, and Roddy McDowall, who are also getting a kick out of being silly in tiny bit parts.)