#Le Bunker

[blueberry-tenya]

PARAAAAAA QUE ES ESTO?!

YO PENSABA QUE ESTABA RE DELULU Y ESO PERO NO MAN ES INTENCIONAL

NOMAE MAS CANON QUE TU VIEJA

[melsie-sims]

Melsie's Bunker Challenge

I created this easy challenge to try and get back into Sims 4. I make no promises that this will go very far.

☢ Basic Rules

Start with 4 Sims and make sure they have no skills. I used premade townies so I had to set all of their skills to zero.

Using a 64x64 lot (or a smaller one if that's more your style), build a 4x2 basement without any doors. That is your starting bunker. Teleport your Sims inside. They are no longer allowed to be outdoors.

After painting your walls, floors and ceiling, set your simoleons to zero. You will have to earn simoleons through skilling moving forward, as your sims aren't allowed jobs.

☢ Unlocking the Bunker

Every time your Sims earn a skill level, add a single tile to your bunker. I don't count level 1 as I find it way too easy, but you can if you want to.

You must save up 5 skill levels to unlock a ladder. You cannot use these skills to also unlock tiles.

When you max a level 10 skill or two level 5 skills, you can bring in a new Sim OR unlock 10 tiles. Only choose one reward!

You can also bring in a new Sim when you max an Aspiration.

Those are the only rules. Have fun!

[shenji-yei-v2]

on this fucking day

its Amnesia the bunker 1year anniversary and my parents got stuck in airport because theres a strike in Paris. french peopl are wild today.

[keysmanydudes]

I dont really feel like drawing anything with the intention of posting it rn have a doodle that evolved from a bit

alt↓

[sesiondemadrugada]

Croupier (Mike Hodges, 1998).

[drumlincountry]

EVERY fantasy book EVERY scifi novel every starwars movie every post apocalyptic show. I ask, WTF??? The same same question EVERY time. Say it with me - WHERE’S THE FARMING?

[guilbertjj]

Fresque signée " Les belles bacantes " sur le vieux bunker

[magiefish]

She 'Le Testament du Docteur Cordelier' (1959) on my 'Amnesia: The Bunker' until I "It is very difficult to pinpoint the exact beginning of a tragedy. The tragedy has often taken root in the lives of the victims before they have even suspected its existence."

[ianxfalcon]

TIL that Henri is voiced by George Blagden. Yeah, motherfucking Grantaire.

That would make a really odd crossover. I'm down.

[viciouscyclesradio]

Event Flyer Roll Call: Sept 2023

A visual gallery of selected events in the tri-state area

[fredandrieu]

La menace invisible Max Bunker et Paolo Piffarerio

Akim n° 108

1er janvier 1964

[alien-girl-21]

KARMALAND ESTA DESAPARECIENDO! Karmaland E108 aka luzu can't catch a fucking break

[melsie-sims]

The three men all peed themselves at once and I managed to capture the moment pretty flawlessly, if I do say so myself.

Liberty wasn't far behind, she just needed to finish eating her yogurt first.

[circleofshit]

[joubliemapromesse]

CHANCE SUR NOUS : BEL ÉVÉNEMENT CONCERTS HALLOWEEN PARTY NIGHT À L'ACCUEIL FROID NUKE, AVEC WINTER FAMILY, LES CONFÉRENCES BUNKER ET LA BRASSERIE DE CLEMERY ! BIG

WINTER FAMILY

Le duo originaire de Jérusalem et Lotharingie formé par Ruth Rosenthal et Xavier Klaine développe depuis une quinzaine d’années un univers pour le moins singulier alternant brûlots punk synthétiques et oraisons droniques d’une société au bord du précipice. Nourris au métal, à la musique baroque, au théâtre pluridisciplinaire et à la culture afro-américaine, ils continuent de tracer une voie unique en défendant un discours radical et conscient de ses contradictions. Ils jouent à travers le monde dans des clubs, des galeries et des églises, une musique minimale, sombre, politique et abrasive, entre féérie, chaos et mélancolie

LES CONFÉRENCES BUNKER

Le duo originaire de Nancy est composé de Kévin Angboly (batterie, percussions, objets, voix) et Victor Remy (boîtes à rythmes, synthétiseurs, percussions, objets, voix). Leur musique, née de l’improvisation et du jeu, nous transporte à travers des scènes et des tableaux sonores intenses, explosifs et dynamiques. Une expérience sonore inédite et acérée, mêlant rythmes et bruitages pour un moment d’immersion totale. Une prochaine sortie K7 prévue sur le label Third Type Tapes accompagnera cette tournée!

BRASSERIE DE CLEMERY

Nous disposerons au bar pour cet événement des bières internationalement primées de la brasserie de Clemery, région Grand-Est, dont Victor Remy (Les Conférences Bunker) est co-fondateur. On va déguster ! On proposera également ce qu'on a habituellement en softs, bières et vins, toujours à prix responsables.

>!< événement exceptionnel à Amiens, be there >!<

PAF 4E PORTES 20H30, PREMIER LIVE 21H30 TAPANTES PARLEZ-EN / MANGEZ-EN / PARTAGEZ / VENEZ PARTAGER !

SUR PLACE, MERCI D'ADOPTER UN COMPORTEMENT RESPECTUEUX, DES PERSONNES PRÉSENTES, DES LIEUX ET DE VOUS MÊME : ON IRA DANS CE SENS LÀ

ACCUEIL FROID NUKE, 21 RUE SULY 80000 AMIENS ÉVÉNEMENT ASSOCIATIF PRIVÉ RÉSERVÉ AUX ADHÉRENT-E-S Adhésion annuelle à 2€ possible les soirs d'événements > Et parce que la vie est incertaine, vérifie ton avenir sur https://accueilfroidnuke.blogspot.com/

[syoddeye]

down the hatch / twinkie talk

141 x f!reader | ~1.7k read parts one and two tags: flashback in italics, possibly bad french (sorry french-speaking people, i tried). thoughts about fucking. a/n: i am having a ball writing this goofy story. banner by @/cafekitsune.

you miss some things from the before times. a couple are obvious—fresh food and the internet—but then there are indulgences that haunt your dreams: monster munch, memes, those talking toilets with heated seats, and fresh nails.

then there’s the annoying things you oughta not miss, but you do. mouth breathers. drunk teenagers. the librarian with a one-sided beef over your overdue charges.

it hits like an errant frisbee to the face. what the annoying things have in common. people. yeesh. you miss people. 

but you aren’t sure if the fellas staring you down are the kind of people you miss. they confer, huddling in the kitchen. eight eyeballs glued to little ol’ you, on the floor and tied to a side table. back aching from slumping against the couch. no one’s offered water or one of your twinkies. pilferers. thieves. vagrants.

all this looking gives you ideas. 

first. they’re clearly all fucking. if the shower gargling wasn’t evidence enough, they’re touchy. two of mohawk’s fingers hook through the loop of scragglebeard’s belt. dry bones’s big arm holds ballcap close. and when dry bones presented you to the other three, he got two ass slaps out of it. (you can’t blame them. apocalypse be damned, the guy is keeping himself fed.)

second. scraggle is in charge. the pecking order is like one of those shape puzzles kids play with. you’d be an idiot baby to not figure it out.

third. they’re not afraid of you—why would they be—but they’re wary. it makes you wonder how many folks are upright above ground, and by extension, how many women. you’re not stupid. even if they’re together and experts in gland-to-gland combat, you’re alone in a bunker nobody else knows about. yet, it’s been hours, and they haven’t tried anything.

under different circumstances, you’d be interested. it’s not every day the universe serves up four hunky albeit stinky men. there’s no harm in indulging in fantasy, though, especially if they’re likely to kill you. get your jollies where you can and whatnot. so, you dip your head back and close your eyes, picturing a writhing tangle of limbs and a hole buffet.

some time later, the men break.

you crack an eye, and watch the four fan out, approaching as if you’re the elephant’s foot. scraggle drags the coffee table closer and sits. his ass barely misses the puzzle.

a hiss pushes violently from between your teeth. “watch it.”

his lip quirks beneath his mussed beard. for a moment, he simply assesses. his eyes linger briefly on the jorts, before dragging a breath in through his nose.

“bonjour mademoiselle. parlez-vous…english?”

it's the most god awful french. you think of muzzy. why he’s speaking to you in broken—

oh yeah.

“told ya i was gonna find ya.”

you chomped dry bones’s fingers with as much force as adrenaline could spare, momentarily freeing your mouth from the tyranny of his mean hand. “tu es un artichaut! artichaut!” 

“what the fuck is—” he swore, dodging more teeth as he wrestled you the ground. 

loud, clamoring footsteps announced the arrival of his bleary-eyed comrades. you got a look at their bewildered faces with your cheek pressed to the ground, screaming. “les nains! de jardin!” 

scraggle’s mouth hung open, eyes darting from yours to the man whose knee pressed into your shoulders. he nodded, and something struck your head. light switch, lights out.

they think you actually speak french. titters of laughter burst through your chapped lips. if panic-quoting film is enough to fool them, planning an escape will be no problem. still. maintaining the ruse long-term is not ideal. you chew your cheek, then shrug.

“yeah. i speak english."

scraggle’s eyes pinch. “then why french?”

“because i’ve watched ratatouille and amelie about a dozen times each since i got here.” you explain. “because it’s the language of love and i’m desperately in love with dry bones.”

mohawk snorts. scraggle shoots him a look over his shoulder.

“if i free you, are you going to be good?”

you bat your lashes. “what else could i be—wait, wait!” the jerk rises to his feet, lips pursed. “i’m joking, christ, did humor die with everybody else up there?”

scraggle sighs. awfully impatient for a man with nowhere else to be. “got a name?”

it takes a moment to find it. something itchy and uncomfortable sticks to the base of your throat. nobody’s said your name in months. you haven’t thought about it. it comes out more of a question than an answer.

annoyingly, scraggle repeats it, stupid easy. “are you alone? how long have you been down here?”

no point in lying. “yeah, i’m alone. it’s been three months, i think. since it happened. you gonna free me now?”

scraggle’s chin dips to his chest, studying you for a second time. the patheticness you’re trying to exude must work, because he jerks his head. “gaz, untie her.” 

ballcap—gaz, what a name—doesn’t hesitate, but his frown deepens with each step. he drops to a knee, guiding you to sit straighter to reach the cord. he doesn’t smell as bad as dry bones. probably because he got a quarter of a shower. 

“i know what you did. puzzle interloper.” you whisper into his ear.

to his credit, his nose only wrinkles.

scraggle scratches at his scalp under his hat as your bindings loosen. “did you build this place?”

“hilarious. no. technically it belonged to my neighbor. it’s mine now since he melted.”

“melted?” gaz pauses, pretty brown eyes blinking incredulously.

“yeah. you guys nearly stepped in him. he’s the hardened chunky stew outside the hatch.”

mohawk whistles, shaking his scruffy head. “thought that was sick.”

“and who was he?” scraggle asks, making room for gaz as the younger man stands.

“no idea. he told me once, the, uh, time we spoke.” you rub your wrists, thinking back to move-in day maybe six months ago. the absurdly large man openly stared and talked at you as you carried in boxes. didn’t offer to help. “i just called him ‘austria’. speaking of. do you have names? because i don’t think you’ll like the ones i made up.”

“oh, let’s hear them.”

“that’s not—”

“mohawk. scragglebeard. dry bones. you were ‘ballcap’ sixty seconds ago.”

“very creative.” mohawk sneers, though he looks more offended than anything.

“what the fuck is ‘dry bones’.”

“video game character. super mario, mario kart. skeletal-turtle creature.”

“quiet.” scraggle orders, glaring at you, obviously displeased with how you’ve sent his little interrogation careening off the rails. 

you drag an invisible zipper over your lips.

another long sigh. he points at each of the men, then himself. “gaz. ghost. soap. john.” 

you unzip. “what, too cool for an absurd nickname? or have you not earned one better than ‘scragglebeard’?”

for a second, you think you’ve signed your execution. sped the collapse. then your stomach grumbles loud enough to make four men wince, and that’s how you end up at the kitchen counter with a twinkie. scrag–john, gives you the short and sweet of the situation topside.

bombs. lots of them. thousands dead, possibly millions. difficult to know for sure with the dissolution or retreat of the powers at be and the general, violent distrust between survivors. long-distance communication is spotty. they’re military and emphasize that they’re special ops. you should’ve seen that coming. whatever 'special ops' means. but what raises your interest and your hackles is that they plan to use the bunker as a rendezvous point, if they can reach their friends in kastovia.

“ex-fucking-cuse me?”

“settle down.” john urges with arms crossed over his broad chest.

you jut a finger in his face, nearly touching his unkempt beard. “you broke into my home, my safe spot, and now you’re planting a flag. don’t tell me to settle down.”

“hen, i dinnae—”

“i don’t want to hear it.” you snap at soap, then reel back on john. “pull up stakes and move on.”

“mm, not gonna do that.” john lifts his chin to stare down the bridge of his nose. “first place we’ve come across with stable power. water. food.”

“don’t forget the sterling company.” ghost adds.

you want to hurl a pastry. a knife. a stick of dynamite. you couldn’t miss people, couldn’t want some around. not these dickhead invaders. john’s eyes say it all. underscore their intentions. they’re sticking around and digging in. potentially inviting more fucking soldier types underground.

all your plans to sneak out and lure them to their deaths or dismemberment eddy out of your head. you’ll need time to recalibrate and come up with a fresh strategy. sizing them up again, you chew your lip. 

gaz’s hand rests on a sidearm clipped to his belt. ghost and soap lean against one another, the former’s hand curled in the latter’s shirt like a leash. and john…

he smirks underneath his oily whiskers.

big, mean bastards. strongarming you into letting them stay. 

the fantasies of a fuck bunker dissolve. you’re definitely gonna kill them.

“fine.” you relent, ignoring the twinge of satisfaction from seeing four sets of shoulders relax. “but i have ground rules. conditions.”

john plucks a third twinkie from the box and offers it in an open palm.

“let’s hear them.”

~~

“it’s like bein’ back in th’ barracks.” soap grouses, twisting beneath the thin sheet. “it’s nae fair she gets the bigger bed.”

“it’s what was negotiated, and it’s only right to give a woman a private room.”

gaz scoffs, shucking off his shirt. “the same woman who spied on soap and me in the shower.”

“soap liked it.”

“i didnae like it, lt.”

“s’not what our old collection of tapes say.”

“the three of you, shut it, and keep your voices down.” john groans, sinking onto the edge of the firm bunk, scratching through the fur of his bare chest. “it’s either play nice now and hope she warms up, cooperates, or piss her off and live with what amounts to a rabid dog until—”

“until she needs puttin’ down.” ghost finishes, leaning against the bedroom door. still kitted out, adamant someone keeps an eye on their reluctant host.

“your words, not mine.”

“dog. more like a bloody badger. holed up underground, cushy little life. bad fuckin’ attitude.” gaz grumbles, punching the thin pillow into shape.

“four unshaved, dirty men with firearms broke into her home. did you expect her to throw a parade once we met?”

soap, propped on his side, traces a circle into the empty space beside him. “would have been nice.”

~~

next door, ear pressed to the ventilation shaft, your grin curls. grinch-like. play nice. you can do that. 

tramps. drifters. vagabonds. you will make them regret coming down the hatch.