#code: dados | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ssa-dado · 3 months ago

Note

i’m actually convinced that hotch is secretly a huge gossip. what if that’s the thing that gets him and fleabag reader to start talking? maybe it’s about one of the other pool dads ? hotch actually knows him cause his kid goes to school with jack and it’s something real scandalous. idk i just need to have hotch being nosey and spilling tea.

Pinot Grigio

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man mutual pining Summary: It’s a party. You’re the help. He’s the Hotchner. He shows up to the gala in jeans, insults a politician for you, then stands around long enough to overshare a bunch of gossip you didn’t ask for (meaning: casually reveals he’s been tracking your poolside admirers like a repressed Victorian husband.) Warnings: Explicit sexual language! (not graphic, it's all in reader's head and meant as a joke... for herself, apparently), alcohol use, age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, classism, mysogeny, unhealthy coping mechanisms (wine, gossip, Hotchner) Word Count: 4.2k Dado's Corner: This prompt was so juicy and triggered my brain just right, I had to fumble a lot to find the perfect setting to reveal Hotch’s true chatty grandma self hihihihi this was so funnn! (I think I wrote three different versions of it because my brain cells just refused to collaborate… but hopefully this one works.) [I didn’t end up scripting in the part where Hotch knows the dad because of Jack, butttt! trust me, it’s probably for the better.] Thank you so much for the request, marry meeee <3

masterlist(s)

Pinot Grigio.

Just a normal white wine.

Pear on the nose. Citrusy. Crisp. Innocent.

Until yesterday. 7:24 PM.

When Penelope Garcia - who you don’t know, didn’t follow, would absolutely remember if you did (because of the most adorable Lego duck earrings and blonde curls) - posted a single photo from some FBI event on Facebook.

A glass of wine in one hand. Aaron Hotchner’s shoulder in the other.

A bottle of Pinot Grigio right there on the table.

Since then, it’s been panic.

Pool moms liked. Pool moms shared. Some pool moms commented, even.

Penelope is now famous.

She’s gained at least forty new friend requests from women named Debbie (the cool-girl rebrand of Deborah), Beth (Bethany, but pretending), and Lisa (just... Lisa) - all of them hoping for fresh content.

A new Hotchner sighting. A blurry arm. The back of a head. The profile of his nose.

And now you are paying the price.

Because you’re six bottles deep into Pinot Grigio and currently opening your seventh for the Pool Extension Project Announcement Party.

(A name so thrilling it could only have been brainstormed by three men named Greg in a windowless office with beige carpets and no dreams... broken dreams, maybe.)

(Apparently they’re adding a spa? Maybe? You weren’t listening. You were too busy arranging the buffet to look “effortlessly elegant” while silently sobbing into a tray of beet hummus.)

You’re catering it. Sort of.

You were a last-minute call.

You were a desperate substitution. Someone dropped out, and they called you.

Because you are reliable.

Talented. Charming. Funny. Qualified. And – crucially - cheaper.

(Not cheap. Cheaper. Enough of a bargain to be flattering but still slightly degrading.)

And of course, you said yes. Said “I’d love to,” said “What’s the dress code?” while internally shrieking because - what if Aaron is there too? (He might be. He probably is.)

You also told yourself you weren’t dressing for him.

That you just wanted to look professional in your very black, very tailored to your body catering uniform (with a slutty apron) - but your ass looks absolutely divine in these trousers, and if it’s not captured in one of the official photos and framed in the break room, you’re suing.

Mayday. Mayday.

He’s here.

Confirmed visual.

Aaron Hotchner.

In the flesh. In the room.

Looking slightly out of place, which of course only makes him stand out more.

Navy button-up. Jeans.

(Jeans? Him? He owns a pair of jeans??? Who sold them to him? Who authorized this? Who gave this man thighs and then denim?)

(Well… apparently so. And they fit. Criminally well.)

Meanwhile, everyone else is trussed up in three-piece suits, using big grown adult vocabulary like municipal redevelopment-

(Meaning: someone’s cousin is getting paid a suspicious amount of money to plant four trees and call it urban renewal)-

and strategic infrastructure planning-

(Meaning: they’re finally going to pour some lukewarm asphalt over the holes in 45th St NW, right before election season.)

They all shake hands with fake smiles, congratulate each other on breathing, and pretend the room doesn’t still vaguely smell like feet and chlorine, despite the mountain of imported cheeses you spent hours shaping into perfect little geometric offerings to the gods of local politics.

And Aaron-

Aaron just stands there.

Not speaking. Not smiling. Not performing. Just existing.

And yet, somehow, he still looks more elegant than all of them combined.

God, what a man.

…A man you’ve had full conversations with–

in your head.

While brushing your teeth.

While shaving your legs.

While marinating chicken.

You’ve practiced your banter with him more than you’ve prepared for actual job interviews.

The fact that you’ve barely spoken to him in real life is not because you’re shy. Not because you’re afraid of rejection. Not because there’s the occasional whisper that he’s technically old enough to have fathered you if he’d started very, very young.

(Which, most of the time, only makes it more erotically confusing.)

No. (Yes.)

It’s because you lowkey hate him.

You hate him because he walked in holding his pool bag.

…He just showed up here to do his laps.

And you just know - deep in your soul, in your bloodstream, in your ovaries - that inside that bag is a navy speedo. Matching. To. His. Shirt.

A Speedo that will now never fulfill its destiny, heartlessly imprisoned, crushed by a rolled towel and - if you had to guess - a blister pack of ibuprofen (he’s old enough to break his back sneezing and still blame it on “tight hamstrings.”)

Because, clearly, judging by the way he’s confidently flipping the strap back up onto his shoulder…

He has no idea the pool is closed today.

Didn’t know there was a party. He wasn’t briefed. He didn’t glance at the laminated flyer at reception with a dolphin in a bowtie that said “Join us for the Pool Extension Gala!”

Beautiful, beautiful man. But apparently can’t read for shit.

Because he was too busy doing… FBI things.

Whatever that means.

You don’t really know what he does.

In your head it’s just a sweaty, shirt-clinging montage of him saving lives, wrestling evil, or rescuing kittens from burning houses and carrying them out in one arm while the other cradles a bleeding witness.

You just know it’s hotter than whatever the hell you do, because before he can take more than two steps into the room, he’s already being mobbed by politicians.

Actual, elected men - men with power, men with authority, men with at least three types of stress-induced hair loss and thinning temples they pretend aren’t happening.

And they know him. They recognize him.

They even lower their voices when they speak to him, they shake his hand with such reverence, you can smell their intimidation from all the way across the room.

The fear. The respect. The power. The arm veins. The way Aaron has no idea he’s the main event at a party he didn’t even know existed.

Quite ironically, on the other hand - on the small, overworked, kind of underpaid, sexually malnourished hand that is you - you haven’t slept properly in a week because of it.

Because of the stress of the endless prep and logistics and… fine, because of him too.

Sometimes at 4 a.m., you’d find yourself just… staring at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, vibrating with anxiety and something much less noble and your only two options for survival were:

Cooking. Loudly. Desperately. Whipping up reductions and spreads in your tiny kitchen, determined to perfect the fig-and-goat cheese tartlet while trying not to scream when the oven beeped and you realized the sun was already rising.

Or… Well. Let’s just say your neighbors must think you’re really, really into dental hygiene. What kind of electric toothbrush has that many vibration modes? What kind of dental tool sings at such frequency?

Answer: not a toothbrush.

It’s pink. Plastic. Takes two AA batteries and a prayer.

You may or may not bought it during a very dark week with your café tip money at 2 a.m. from the back shelf of a pharmacy, and since then it’s been the most stable relationship of your adult life.

You’ve had to steal batteries from your TV remote more than once just to get through the week.

She’s not fancy, but she gets the job done.

You’d recommend her.

You’d even recommend her to the woman now standing in front of you - if she’d stop looking at Hotchner and trying to hormonally inform him that she is, at this very moment, in the mating phase of her cycle.

It’s not even subtle - the little cleavage tug, the fluttery eyelashes, the way she’s nodding absently while you talk about acidity and finish, eyes locked on the back of his neck rolls.

You get it. You’ve been there. Last week, actually.

And even now - when you are categorically not ovulating, when you are actively trying to be a functioning member of a patriarchal society - he does, objectively, have a beautiful neck.

A neck that has almost certainly never been stressed about fig preserves or the structural integrity of a puff pastry shell.

“I’ll have that one,” she says, stopping you midway through your ramble and pointing at a bottle.

The fucking Pinot.

Of course you will.

You smile.

Because you are a professional.

Because rage doesn’t pair well with brie.

“Sure,” you say, and pour.

You handpicked twelve white wines for this event. Twelve.

Each chosen with a level of passion that should’ve been reserved for, say, human relationships or personal growth.

Some of them had to be pulled from tiny Italian cellars with shipping so disorganized you’re now on a first-name basis with a man named Lorenzo who thinks you’re unstable and possibly in love with him.

(You might be. You’ve sliced figs and cried about tannins. Your grip on reality is… soft.)

You woke up in cold sweats for a whole week wondering if the Soave made it through Zurich because Italians do not believe in emails. Or customs. Only God.

But none of it mattered, because in the end, it’s always the Pinot, for her – and all the other people that came to your stand earlier.

You call it the Aaron Hotchner Effect.

The logic goes like this:

“If in the picture, he was drinking Pinot, and I drink Pinot, then we have something in common. We can laugh. We can clink glasses.

He’d say something dry and low - “You’ve got good taste” - and brush my fingers as he takes the glass. Maybe the hand. Maybe the elbow. Maybe the fucking thigh.

We’d flirt.

And then he’d fuck me.

Some really good rough, sex up against his hardwood bed. He’d keep his tie on. Hold my wrists. Press his mouth to my shoulder to keep from making a sound, because letting go like that, making noise, would be too revealing. Too honest.

He’d fuck me until my knees gave in and my breath stuttered and my voice cracked from begging. He wouldn’t come until I had. At least three times.

And then, of course, He’d marry me.

All because I drank his wine.”

That’s the pipeline. That’s what’s happening behind their eyes.

And you can't even judge them.

You’d be doing the same, if you weren’t currently being reminded by the smell of onion jam soaked into the pocket of your apron that you’re on the job.

You’re the help, the wine girl no one listens to until the glass is already full and the flirting has failed.

But you’d do it. You would.

Just… correctly.

Because while everyone else in that cursed Facebook photo saw the bottle, you saw the glass.

His glass, the one shoved off to the side, barely in frame - because God forbid someone like Aaron Hotchner be photographed holding the fun juice. That would imply he experiences pleasure. Or whimsy. Or serotonin.

Still, you zoomed in. You don't like to admit that. You really don't. But you did.

And thanks to the course that still haunts your bank account - the one led by three men, all named Marco - you can confidently say, with devastating clarity:

That was not Pinot.

It was Verdicchio.

Lean. Salty. A little green around the edges.

The kind of wine that doesn’t care if you like it.

Citrus and sea air and something just a little bit wrong at the end, like it’s judging you.

And maybe it is.

It’s bitter. Quiet. Difficult.

Difficult also because no one knows how to properly pronounce its name - you didn’t. You butchered it every time and got scolded by each of the Marcos at least once.

(Marco One - smoking indoors in his wool turtleneck in July, would hiss, "No, no, Ver-deek-kio, not Ver-dish-ee-oh, do you want to die in shame?")

(Marco Two made you repeat it five times in a row in front of the whole class.)

(Marco Three just muttered “Madonna Santa” and poured himself another glass.)

Verdicchio doesn’t seduce.

It holds its distance, stands in the corner of the room with crossed arms, and waits for you to prove you're worth the conversation.

Half the people who taste it hate it. The other half get addicted.

It lingers. It cuts. It stays in your mouth longer than it should.

A wine with boundaries.

A wine that says: you don’t know me.

You think you do, but you don’t.

Just like Aaron.

And you tried, betraying everything the three Marcos ever taught you about integrity, balance, and correct regional pairings, to guide each of your (unwanted) patient tragically afflicted with Hotchism toward the Verdicchio.

Even when it didn’t pair with what they were eating. Even when it clashed. Even when it made your soul itch with the wrongness of a soft-rind Brie beside all that salinity.

You’re not a bitch. You don’t gatekeep. You offer your knowledge freely. Warmly. Kindly.

But you’d be lying if you said that knowing the truth didn’t make you feel good.

Smug.

A little superior.

And yes, fine, maybe that made you feel close to him.

Closer.

Maybe you are a bitch.

Because you could have said it, could have casually dropped the line - “Oh, by the way, he was drinking Verdicchio. It wasn’t the Pinot.”

You could have been generous. Transparent. Correct.

But it wouldn’t have changed anything.

You’d be out of Verdicchio instead of Pinot.

They’d still fawn.

Still flutter.

Still call him Agent Hotchner with that glazed, pseudo-coy voice like they’re already imagining what his mattress feels like.

(It’s probably very firm. Orthopedic. Recommended by his chiropractor. No softness. No give. Posture is sacred. Comfort is weakness.)

(He probably tucks the sheets so tight you’d have no choice but to scooch closer to him just to have some room to breathe. Which, obviously, is the point.)

Same thirst, different label.

Maybe you’d tell the first one who actually listens to you.

The first one who doesn’t treat you like furniture in an apron. The first one who doesn’t cut you off mid-sentence the moment they clock that the politicians are loosening their grip on him.

Maybe the reason why you have such a crush on him is because he’s everything.

And you’re- well. You’re here.

In shoes that are starting to pinch. With wine on your hands and fig paste in your hair. With bills and back pain and the slow, creeping dread that no one really sees you unless you’re holding something they want.

And even then, just barely.

He’s elegant, unreadable, capital letter Important.

You’re… nice. Warm. Cheap... cheaper.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole appeal.

Maybe that’s why you keep staring at him as he’s basically dragged to your tasting stand by a small parade of men who spend their days warming seats in the Senate and collecting checks for pretending they invented civic duty.

One of the men makes the effort to squint at your name tag.

You can see the gears turning in his head as he uses it - not to address you - but to soften the blow of a condescending joke he thinks is charming, such as “how rare it is to find a young woman with taste… especially one who serves.”

You smile.

Because that’s the job.

You’re the help. The scener-

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, turned slightly toward the man, voice flat.

He looks disgusted.

(Though, in fairness, everything he says sounds vaguely judgmental. That’s just his face.)

“Oh, no… Hotchner, don’t get me wrong. I mean it as a compliment. I admire it. Not everyone’s meant to chase titles or build a résumé, you know? And that’s not a bad thing - society only works because some people are content doing the everyday stuff. The real work.”

You’re two seconds away from breaking the last Pinot bottle over his head.

Kill two birds with one stone: one bottle, one condescending prick, and finally, blissful silence.

“…We need the people who keep the wheels turning. Mechanics. Hairdressers. Cooks…”

He gestures vaguely to you, apparently your existence is now an example. A concept. An idea. Something nice to look at when dressed in black and pouring wine.

“Really,” he adds - just in case you didn’t catch the insult the first three times - “I admire it.”

“Do you always talk to people like this?” Aaron doesn’t raise his voice - just tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on the man with a kind of stillness that, for reasons you’ve yet to comprehend, is louder than yelling.

It’s unsettling.

“What? I’m paying her a compliment.” Senator Asshole tries to laugh it off.

“You’re condescending to her. It’s not the same thing.”

“Come on,” Senator Asshole chuckles, flicking a desperate glance around, “I’m just saying she’s good at what she does.”

“And I’m saying maybe you should stop talking,” Aaron hisses.

The silence is immediate.

Aaron just stares at him – for one, two, three, four??? Seconds.

Senator Asshole, sadly, does not burst into flames. He’s stolen away by Councillor Buttchin, who probably heard everything and tries to mop it up with the limp excuse of needing to discuss “urban renewal”

(Meaning: gentrification. The rich man’s robbery.)

And so Aaron watches him leave, before he turns back to you.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “The asshole didn’t even apologise.”

(He’s very hot when he swears.)

You wave it off. “It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. It’s disgust-”

“It’s not the first time,” you cut him off. Because you don’t want to hear it. The apology. The concern. The male guilt wrapped in decency like it's somehow revolutionary.

Yes, thank you for noticing misogyny exists. Gold star.

You’ve done the bare minimum and you’re very tall so it feels like more. Congratulations on not being a monster.

At least, that’s what the rational part of you is saying. The one with a spine. The one that reads theory and donates when she can.

The other part – the one currently regulating the lubrication levels of a certain region of your body that apparently believes being mildly defended by a man with forearms like that is enough to justify reproduction - has… other thoughts.

Darwin would call it natural selection.

You’d call it bringing feminism back fifty years in one pelvic pulse.

But maybe your body’s oh-so-romantically prepping for insemination because he doesn’t make a speech.

He doesn’t continue to perform, doesn’t launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about respect, social or say something like “I have a lot of female friends, my mom is a woman, for instance.”

He doesn’t explain how decent he is.

He just… nods. Gives you a flicker of a concerned half-smile (because he’s a dad, and concern is hardwired into his frontal cortex, right between disapproval and knows best.)

But it’s quiet. Undramatic.

Like he saw it. Heard it. Filed it.

And now he’s moving on. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.

And not just emotionally, physically. Actually moving-moving.

Shifts halfway down the shorter end of your stand - not technically in your area, but just close enough that if he got any nearer, people might start asking him what cheese pairs with a Chablis.

(Which would be a disaster, because he looks like he’d say “cheddar” and then stare you down until you corrected him.)

Close enough to feel like a choice.

He doesn’t look at you. Scans the room instead, until his gaze lands on something. Someone.

“See that guy?” he says, nodding subtly toward ‘that guy’ across the room.

You follow the gesture.

Ah. That guy.

Mid-thirties.

You don’t know his name.

You just know he’s always suspiciously nearby. Hovering. Lurking. Casually orbiting the table where you sit every week in the pool cafeteria while waiting for your friend to finish her laps.

Objectively hot - if your type is broad shoulders, hollow eyes, and a divorce lawyer in waiting (and it pretty much is, unfortunately.)

He has a kid, you’re pretty sure. And a wedding ring he forgets to forget.

The kind of man who blames his wife’s headaches instead of confronting the fact he thinks the clitoris was a Greek philosopher.

(“Clitoris? He makes an appearance in Plato’s Symposium, doesn’t he?”)

“He’s been battling with himself over asking for your number for about a month,” Aaron says. “Still hasn’t managed it.”

Oooooooooooooookay.

Weird. Unexpected. Also deeply awkward.

(How strange that it’s not you making things weird for once.)

“And…” you trail off, because you’re too distracted by how he looks like he’s regretting it all - what a loser. “You’re saying this because you want me to hand it to him directly?”

“Oh, not at all.” Boy. That was fast. Too fast. “…he’s married.” You knew that already. “…You shouldn’t-”

“I shouldn’t?” You blink.

“Um, you…” He shakes his head, “You should… just… know this.”

…Right.

Aaron’s wife definitely cheated on him. Or maybe he’s just a prude. Or a control freak.

All possible. All extremely inconvenient. Poor him. Or maybe he deserved it, who knows.

“…Thanks,” you say flatly. “You… want something to drink?”

You ask because it’s polite… and also because he’s technically clogging the line forming behind him (all faint whiffs of Pinot settling directly into your nostrils from people pretending they need a refill, when really, they just want to stand near him.)

(Mr. Aaron.)

(Awkward-mr.-Aaron.)

(Socially-repressed-emotionally-terrifying-mr.-Aaron.)

(Mr. very-much-returning-to-the-place-he’s-meant-to-be, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr. leaning-in-to-read-the-wine-list, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr-)

“How did you know about the guy?” slips out of you, as you’re already pouring something into an empty glass just to keep moving… you don’t even look at the bottle.

No pear. So, not Pinot. (Small victories.)

“He always sits on the side of the table facing you, instead of watching his son’s swimming lesson like the rest of the parents.”

Yeah, okay, that guy is a bit way too obvious, but the problem only continues to be him.

Aaron.

“He straightens his posture every time you laugh.”

Aaron, who shouldn’t have time to notice these things. Who stops by every other week, maybe. Maybe less. Always suited. Always in a rush. Always delivering the same three lines.

“Americano, no sugar.”

“Card.”

“Have a nice day.”

He never lingers. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even stir the coffee. Just takes it and goes. Gone before the register beeps. FBI stuff awaiting for him.

“He ordered the same drink as you twice. Didn’t drink it. He doesn’t like cappuccino, he only did that because he thought you’d notice him”

So, how the hell does Aaron know? How does he notice you? Because he must have.

Somewhere in those two-minute drop-ins. In the blur between Card and Have a nice day. In the handful of seconds he’s ever been within ten feet of you.

Unless…

“Puts his phone down when you walk in. Doesn’t check it again until you’re gone.”

Unless he did look. Unless he looked specifically at you. Out of all the people. All the tables. All the parents and staff and regulars.

“His son finishes swimming before your friend. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk to anyone else. Always finds something to do. Phone. Book. Pretending to read the sign about pool shoes.”

He saw you. And he remembered.

Which means…

“Always leaves five minutes after you. Never before. Never with anyone else.”

He’s either been paying attention. Or this big, terrifying federal agent is actually just… a massive gossip.

You freeze, because he picks up the glass you poured.

It wasn’t meant for him. You didn’t even know what it was.

Aaron swirls it once.

Leans in. Smells it.

Then brings it to his lips-

And hums.

A low, pleased little sound that settles right between your legs lungs, ergo straight to your heart. Because you’re a professional. And you take the sommelier thing very seriously.

You’re just passionate about your craft.

Especially about praise.

You love being praised.

On the job.

For the wine.

“People give a lot of themselves away when they want someone,” he says softly, almost kind.

Then he licks his lips. Just to clean the red off.

But it’s slow. Thoughtless. (Only makes it worse for you, honestly.)

You’re magnetically locked onto that smart mouth, so it’s easy to catch the small smile he gives you before turning and walking away.

Still with that soggy pool bag slung over his shoulder.

Fuck.

The things you wouldn’t do to that man.

“Can I have what he just had?” the next woman in line asks, already stepping up.

Of course you can.

That’s the point of lines, isn’t it? You wait your turn, you get what you want, and you leave. No lingering. No swooning. No involuntary pelvic lurches.

Survival.

Even if the sommelier - oh, that’s you! What a coincidence - would swear to drink Pinot for an entire godforsaken month just for five more seconds with that huge, handsome, back in that goddamn navy shirt… and that mouth too.

You glance at the bottle in your hand.

What did you even pour?

Oh. Of course.

It’s that wine.

The one you only open on nights when you’re either crying or coming.

The one that tasted like a mistake the first time and like a need every time after.

Aglianico.

Black fruit. Smoke. Leather.

Earthy. Dense. A little savage around the edges.

Unapologetic.

Masculine.

Slow to open.

Demands patience.

Tastes better if you wait for it.

Like all the worst things.

And all the best ones.

What a coincidence, really.

Phi's Corner: requests for fleabag!reader x Hotch are (wide) open(ed)!

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#fleabag!reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner imagine

513 notes · View notes

zatrapa-gaylien · 5 months ago

Text

UI/UX 101 para Amateurs (porque, en serio, lo necesitan)

Para este mensaje quiero que me visualicen como los Volturi juzgando desde el palco. Será más divertido.

Hay que entender que estos consejos son agnósticos en el estilo que tengas para hacer tus cosas. Y no tienen por qué seguirlos. Yo a veces ignoro algunos y no exploto (principalmente el de contraste). Pero esta será el primer y único aporte de caridad que haré para esta comunidad que hace codes. Dado que con el reciente drama, lo mismo, algunos se interesan (lo más probable es que no).

Si alguien viene a contradecirme algo, que me enseñe su nómina primero.

Estructura

Dentro del concepto de estructura existen dos modelos, se les llama F y Z. Esto es de parvulario casi, y seguro que intuitivamente habéis llegado a lo mismo sin saberlo:

F es cuando un diseño tiene una columna.

Z es cuando un diseño no tiene una columna.

Ahora, sobre eso, os tenéis que preguntar una cosa: ¿Cómo leemos? Si vuestra respuesta es otra cosa que no sea «De izquierda a derecha y de arriba a abajo», ¡Felicidades por no ser de Occidente! Me sorprende que hayas encontrado esto. Para los demás, leéis de izquierda a derecha y arriba a abajo.

El cómo leemos influencia el cómo se estructuran las webs. Por eso, si por casualidad visitas una web asiática, te quieres pegar un tiro. Simplemente, su estructura no está pensada para como nos hemos educado desde Primaria.

Sobre eso, hay que tener en vital importancia como se presenta el contenido. Nuestra cabeza prioriza siempre el lado derecho porque, como ya hemos dicho, leemos en esa dirección. En el diseño en Z da igual, porque no hay columna. Pero en el F sí.

Así pues... ¿Qué es lo imporgtante en un foro? ¡El foro! Así que si ponen una columna (por favor, nunca dos, no son una red social donde necesitan esa funcionalidad), siempre en el lado derecho.

Contrastes

Esta es una norma que me salto a veces. Quiero decir, en mi foro Brave New World me la salto. Pero hay que tenerla en cuenta.

La norma radica en que NO SE DEBEN USAR COLORES CLAROS SOBRE UN FONDO CLARO, NI COLORES OSCUROS SOBRE UN FONDO OSCURO. Es un poco de calle, pero sorprende la gente que lo ignora.

¿Que por qué lo hago yo? Quería poner la bandera Republicana (de Españita) en los grupos. Y para mí un meme vale más que mil palabras.

Sin embargo, el contraste es algo que varía mucho. Depende no solo de los colores (y lo estridentes que sean), sino de la fuente y su tamaño. Podría proporcionar checkeadores, pero es algo con lo que tendrán que ir a ojo. ¡Good luck!

Fuente

Aquí no hay debate. Mínimo 16px (o lo que es lo mismo, 1rem). Con un interlineado de 1.5 veces el tamaño de la fuente (24px o 1.5rem). Su vista lo agradecerá.

Puede haber elementos secundarios más pequeños. Y el punto anterior de Contraste influye. Así que deben ir un poco a ojo. Por norma general, si necesitan zoom para ver algo (EN ESPECIAL LOS MENSAJES DE UN FORO, QUE SON EL CONTENIDO PRINCIPAL), la fuente es demasiado pequeña.

Resolución

Sé que muchos de ustedes no han pasado de pantallas de 800px de alto. Sé que imponerles que atiendan a resoluciones más altas que 1080p les sonará a clasista. Pero no saben lo rotas que se ven sus skins cuando se las mira por otra pantalla que no sea la suya. Y desde luego, no saben lo horrible que son de visitar, incluso con 170% de zoom, en una pantalla 4K.

¿Cuál es la solución? Es un secreto que diseñadores de todo el mundo saben desde 2003, pero se lo voy a compartir: usen un cuerpo para el foro de 1280px de ancho (incluso se puede menos, yo hice una con 1100px) Y CÉNTRENLO. No es tan difícil.

Navegadores

Sé que hace unos años estaba muy de moda decir «Skin codificada para Chrome uwu» y quedarse tan anchos. A esa gente tengo que decirle: ¿OS HABÉIS FUMADO ALGO?

Entiendo que Chrome (y derivados) son el navegador más usado. Entiendo que targeteando a eso, en específico, se cubre el 90% de la userbase. PERO NO, GENTE, TENGAN UN MÍNIMO DE PROFESIONALIDAD. MIREN DE CUBRIR AL MENOS FIREFOX TAMBIÉN Y, SI PUEDEN, SAFARI.

Móviles

Honestamente, esto es algo de lo que pueden sudar. Yo lo hago con mis skins por flexear, pero no es necesario. He mirado mis Analytics y solo 4 usuarios en 4 foros (retirando duplicados, 30 en total) visitan foros en móvil. No renta el esfuerzo de pensar todo de 0 para eso.

Cabeceras

Voy a empezar esta sección con una skin que no peca tanto del error. Una de un foro de un... ¿semipana? De alguien con quien hablo semiregularmente, que me cae bien y no tiene una skin que me parezca fea.

Lo hago porque a veces me gusta pegar a mis amigos. Y porque no es NI DE LEJOS, un foro con un caso grave de lo que comento.

Ese foro es DC New Frontier. ¿Cuál es el problema? En principio nada. A fin de cuentas, si el foro va a tener tablón, la suma de este y la cabecera no debería ser más de una vista (vista es un scroll completo de la pantalla, 100vh en CSS). Y la skin lo hace. Sin embargo, lo hace en todas las vistas (subforos y temas). Y eso es un problema.

¿Por qué? Se preguntarán. Porque debes hacer scroll cada vez que vayas a lo que te interesa. La información. Ya sea el propio tema o el listado de temas. Y lo mismo, una vez no pasa nada, dos tampoco. Pero cada vez acumula al medidor de coñazo. Y eventualmente o te acostumbras, o navegar implica querer pegarte un tiro. ¡Miren qué cómodo queda si se quita en temas (y lo mismo pasará con subforos)! No es muy difícil implementar un js que elimine un elemento si la ruta no es "/". Pueden preguntar a ChatGPT incluso. Les dejo uno que furula con ese foro.

Y ojo, como he dicho. DC New Frontier lo hace bien. Solo un scroll. Hay foros donde la cabecera es un scroll entero y luego va el tablón. NO HAGAN ESO.

Contenido inaccesible

Llegamos al último punto. ¡Al fin! ¡Mi tortura termina! Por suerte, es lo más de calle. Incluso más que la parte de Navegadores. Y es, como dice el título, el contenido inaccesible.

Para ello, me remito a otro foro que tengo afiliado. Fragments of the Masks (@fom-rol).

¿A qué me refiero con «Contenido inaccesible»? Básicamente, que todo enlace en el foro no debería ser cubierto por un bloque invisible. Salvo que esa sea la intención. Cosa que, en este caso, no creo que lo sea.

¿Por qué no lo creo? Miren el tablón, con su lindo Últimos Temas. Intenten pulsar el primer enlace. No pueden, lo sé.

El motivo de eso es que una imagen lo cubre. La imagen de cabecera. Hipotéticamente, se podría apañar la imagen para arregarlo. Pero es un error causado por la confusión de z-index.

Idealmente, la solución más sencilla es pensando mejor la cosa antes de ponerte a codear, o testeando antes de publicar. Pero todo el mundo tiene errores, ¡incluso yo! Así que dejo un apaño guarro AQUÍ.

#ux/ui #web dessign

29 notes · View notes

elalmacen-rp · 5 months ago

Text

Buenas tardes, venimos a dejar un mensaje después de un par de asks, para no repetirnos. Pedimos disculpas por adelantado, pero el año no ha empezado excepcionalmente bien para un servidor y es mejor tener la cabeza tranquila antes de publicar algo mal escrito.

Se ha compartido cierto documento que acusa a este blog y a sus mantenedores de "difamar" o criticar a cierto foro por un enfrentamiento (en Marzo de 2022, a nuestro conocimiento). Dicha conversación no se dio en un canal privado con pocos miembros o sólo miembros de moderación: esta conversación se dio en el canal de #debates de la categoría General del servidor del Almacén, un servidor de acceso libre (tienen la publicación fijada en este mismo blog), en el cual a día de hoy hay cerca de 190 usuarios de discord que pueden leer y comentar. Ciertos comentarios provinieron de gente colaboradora, en su momento, de El Almacén, pero que no han ayudado en el mantenimiento del blog desde hace años.

En el momento en el que se dan estos mensajes, en 2022, los colaboradores habituales del Almacén eran Necromancer Coding, Mary Skins y King Codes, y en ocasiones, Soliloquy. Este blog colaborativo ha pasado por muchas manos (Gitano, te echamos de menos). A día de hoy, el 90% del mantenimiento corre a cargo de Necro.

Como colaborador y mantenedor del Almacén y su fundador, yo, Necromancer, aparezco en dichas capturas, y los mensajes siguen en el servidor de discord pues no dije nada que no creyese cierto. Mis clientes saben de primera mano que ellos pueden hacer los cambios que deseen en sus skins, pero en mi portfolio figurará el diseño que yo entregué en su momento, sin los cambios de la administración (salvo contadas excepciones y siempre preguntando primero a dicha administración). De hecho, hago esa misma broma en uno de los mensajes que se ven en la captura. Pero no quiero desviarme del tema en cuestión con justificaciones, en mi opinión, innecesarias en este momento.

Es en lo único en lo que nos podemos posicionar de manera firme, puesto que el servidor de discord es una comunidad abierta donde lo único que tienes que hacer para comentar en ese canal en concreto es aceptar las normas del mismo y "recibir color". Cuando este tema se dio en su momento por el post de Entourage Themes, no se le dio reblog en El Almacén, como pueden comprobar.

No publicamos un anuncio en su momento (de nuevo, este caso es de 2022) porque no se nos hizo llegar ninguna prueba de la otra parte y si se compartió en algún tumblr de conversación, tristemente no lo leí (de nuevo, como fundador del Almacén, es mi responsabilidad y la considero tal). Al tener sólo un mensaje de desvinculación por parte de Entourage, no consideramos que el caso fuese más que eso, un desacuerdo entre dos partes que debía resolverse entre las mismas. ¿Debí interesarme más, buscar información de la otra parte? Por supuesto. En ese punto no diré otra cosa.

Queremos decir que hay puntos del documento que nos parecen irrelevantes para la situación que se está dando y que es algo que no consideramos una estafa tanto como un conflicto entre lo que quería el cliente y lo que se le dio y mala comunicación. Pero creemos que como blog de almacenaje de códigos para foros de rol esa porción no nos compete juzgar, sino a potenciales clientes de dichos coders. Sin embargo, es cierto que hay ciertos puntos (relacionados con los créditos y tablillas de terceros) que nos gustaría que se aclarasen por parte de Entourage habiendo visto el documento de la otra parte, y en caso de no darse una respuesta que nos satisfaga, igual que se ha hecho en otros casos, El Almacén no hará reblog a dicha parte en el futuro cercano.

Queremos cerrar con una petición a un diálogo civilizado. Esta situación se ha dado entre terceras personas que no pertenecen a la moderación y equipo de mantenimiento del Almacén. El Almacén se creó para que no se perdieran entre las grietas de tumblrs los numerosos coders ante la falta de un foro central de códigos en esta década, y seguirá siendo eso por delante. Hacemos esto por apoyar a la comunidad en lo que podemos, y lo seguiremos haciendo hasta que la comunidad no nos necesite, porque significará que se ha vuelto al almacenamiento de códigos que la comunidad usaba hace años.

Saludos y un tardío feliz año.

14 notes · View notes

latinotiktok · 2 years ago

Text

Propaganda:

LELOUCHE LAMPEROUGE porque es parte del lore de code geass que "el imperio de britannia" (que aunque se llame asi no tiene a los britanicos) en realidad esta ubicado en todo el continente de las americas (https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/codegeassfanon/images/f/f0/Code_Geass_Map_%28LotV%29.png). Y considerando que Lelouch era ignorado por su padre el emperador, al punto de que lo mando al territorio enemigo (a japon, especificamente) como rehen de guerra cuando el pibito renuncio al trono, NO ME EXTRAÑARIA que Lelouch no viviera en las "homeland", sino que en alguna de las colonias de britannia (ubicadas en latam). <- es un headcanon, pero para mi es canon Y COMO PUNTO A FAVOR, dado a que el imperio de britannia tecnicamente se centra en estados unidos/canada, y Lelouch derroca a todo el imperio, le da puntos por ser anti-gringo (???) Y que en el proceso, libere las colonias (latam incluido) de sus colonizadores (a los que dejo sin imperio) solo lo hace mas una Typical Latinoamerica Experience™. <- porque que pais de latam no nacio despues de independizarse de sus colonos nocierto Lelouch le diria Ñ a los gringos. No tengo pruebas pero tampoco dudas.

Utena Tenjou y Anthy Himemiya

Anthy Himemiya (de utena) (Argentina). En la serie siempre hablan del fin del mundo y yo eso lo tomo con que viven en tierra del fuego👍. Yo digo que toma tereré.

Utena Tenjou (mexicana). EN EL DOBLAJE ELLA SE LLAMA ÚRSULA. Y A LA SERIE LE PUSIERON ÚRSULA Y EL ANILLO MÁGICO. Representación de tortillera mexicana

UTENA Y ANTHY DE RGU. LITERALMENTE TIENEEEEEEN Q SER LATINAS. DEJENLAS GANAR ALGO POR FSVOR

#canonize your blorbo as latino tournament #polls #LISTEN. NOT TO BE SUBJETIVA PERO SI PIERDEN LAS TORTAS ME INMOLO

90 notes · View notes

cherryflancodes · 9 months ago

Text

¡Llegamos a los 50 seguidores!

Arte por James Turner@twitter

Pueees como dice el título, ¡este blog llegó a los 50 seguidores! Que puede sonar como poco para algunos, pero para haber vuelto a empezar hace un par de semanas creo que no está nada mal! Muchas gracias a todos quienes han seguido este blog y le han dado like a los pobres codecitos que he hecho ;v; De aquí, ¡más y mejor!

Ahora, como en hitos como estos hay que celebrarlo de forma especial… ¿qué tal una dinámica? Esta forma de dinámica la he visto más de artistas en twitter, en donde dan una lista de características (raza, género, color de cabello, color de ojos, etc) para crear un personaje, y estas características eran dadas una a una en comentarios al tweet. Como ejemplo, podríamos decir que la primera respuesta fue que el personaje sea de raza tiefling, la siguiente que sea género masculino, después otra respuesta que diga que el cabello sea de tonalidades azuladas, otra sobre los ojos que sean de un completo dorado, y así.

¡Algo parecido haremos con una tablilla! Daré cinco características, y por orden de respuesta (a este mismo post) iré tomando sus peticiones, para eventualmente armar una tablilla y compartirla con todos. ¿Qué les parece? Aquí las características que necesitaremos completar:

Tipo de tablilla: expediente, búsqueda, post de rol, cronología, firma, otros

Tamaño: también si es fijo/con scroll, o adaptable/sin scroll

Basado en: puede ser una temática, una serie/videojuego, un personaje, un género artístico, una palabra clave, y demás

Colores: puede ser un solo color, o una paleta de colores (por ejemplo de Color Palettes)

Fuente: serif, sans-serif, alguna otra fuente específica

Y algunas aclaraciones, porque siempre son útiles:

* Para el tipo de tablilla y otros puntos en general, no aceptaré peticiones muy complejas o muy grandes. Cosas como tablones de anuncios, sección de estadísticas, perfil de usuario, o skins completas(!) no están disponibles para esta actividad. * Suelo trabajar más con temáticas anime, así que si se trata de una serie de personas reales/músicos/actores, puede que no cumpla a cabalidad con aquella característica porque no conozco del tema. ¡Me disculpo con antelación! * Trataré de acoplar los elementos lo más que pueda, pero en el caso de colores y fuentes, puede que termine usando otros colores/fuentes complementarios. * Si no se llegan a llenar todos los puntos en 10 días, tomaré los que estén y continuaré con el código a mi discreción. * Como hago códigos en mis momentos libres, no hay una fecha fija para cuando tendré listo el resultado, ¡pero estará! Quién sabe, puede que sus ideas lleguen a inspirarme y lo termine pronto hehehe.

¡Y eso! Una vez más, muchas gracias por su apoyo a mis trabajitos. Espero ir mejorando en mis diseños y codes, y eventualmente hacer cosas más grandes como skins y demás! ¡A por el siguiente hito!

#cherryflavouredcodes #cherryscented.text #cherryflavoured.challenge #tablillas html #reto de códigos

9 notes · View notes

hablemosderol · 4 months ago

Note

Buenos días, coincido mucho con que se está dando vueltas de más al asunto de Entourage y El Almacén, de hecho, diría que tranquilamente se lleva un mes sin descanso hablando del tema (por parte de las mismas personas, se nota). Sin embargo, a riesgo de que me coman a hate como estos anónimos hacen a cualquiera que no les siga el juego, esto se ha convertido en una campaña de acoso sin fundamentos. Muchos lo estamos viendo. Concretamente hacia el usuario King Codes. Se han cambiado drásticamente los temas para insultarla, administradores de Setting Sun, de hecho, se han identificado públicamente para hacerlo (diciendo cosas privadas y subjetivas sin pruebas). Y esto a mí me hace dudar de sus intenciones. Han extendido las acusaciones a hacerle slut shaming, a hacer insultos racistas/xenófobos, a decir que es una acosador sexual en foros 2D y real (sin ningún tipo de prueba, lo cual es gravísimo), a insultar a cualquiera relacionado con él sin tener que ver con el tema de los códigos (su pareja, quienes rolean con ella, sus amigos), a decir que por ella cerraron foros como Verdammnis (mentira) y demás.

Es un tema serio. Muchísimo. Diría que incluso amerita una denuncia por parte de King Codes hacia estás personas. Porque han dado CERO pruebas (lo que han mostrado es el mal comportamiento de Entourage) pero están diariamente enviando anónimos y anónimos de odio a todos los Tumblrs que se presten sobre King Codes, su objetivo real por lejos. Es muy jodido el asunto, creo que tiran piedras en su propio tejado. Hasta gente que no tiene nada que ver les dice que paren.

Y disculpen, sé que esta página no es para esto, pero me llena de coraje ver cómo tergiversan todo en cada Tumblr de rol que hay. Entourage sí actuó mal, no las defenderé. Pero están acosando a una persona muy remarcadamente con cosas que nada que ver o invenciones por medio del asunto de Entourage (aquí, en guardianas, en proxy rol, en rolmaníacos, en shiki, y un largo etcétera). Y se ponen extremadamente agresivos con cualquiera que lo señala.

Ojalá la comunidad no fuera así de tóxica.

No estamos al tanto de lo que sucede con King Codes y, hasta donde recordamos, no se la mencionó en el documento sobre la compra de skins a Entourage.

Dicho esto, queremos hacer énfasis en un punto: no sabemos qué historia hay detrás de todo esto, qué funas o qué situaciones previas han ocurrido. Lo que sí sabemos es que hubo una compra fallida, una funa y el cierre de un foro. ¿Algo nuevo en la comunidad? No realmente. Lo único distinto es el tema de la compra de skins; todo lo demás es algo que, lamentablemente, suele repetirse.

Si las cosas son como mencionas, es preocupante. Las acusaciones sin pruebas solo alimentan más toxicidad en la comunidad. Creemos firmemente que ningún espacio de rol debería profundizar en estos temas sin evidencia clara, porque eso solo fomenta el acoso.

Nos parece importante recordar que el rol es un espacio para crear historias, no para perseguir personas. Si alguien tiene pruebas de una mala conducta grave, existen formas adecuadas de abordarlo sin caer en dinámicas dañinas.

3 notes · View notes

sobreiromecanico · 6 months ago

Text

Leituras da semana (#44 / 09 Dez 2024)

Estamos a chegar ao final de mais um ano, que é como quem diz: à época das filhoses, das rabanadas, das compras de última hora em centros comerciais apinhados, e, claro, das listas dos melhores livros/discos/filmes/etc do ano. Neste caso não vou sugerir a leitura de uma lista de fim de ano, mas da metodologia e dos critérios que Jo Walton seleccionou para determinar quais são, para si, os dez melhores livros de ficção científica deste quarto de século vinte e um. É uma abordagem muito interessante, aos livros e à elaboração da lista, que está repleta de excelentes sugestões de leitura para lá do top 10 final.

A PlayStation original fez por estes dias 30 anos, e na imprensa assinalou-se a efeméride: também por cá, como se pode ler no Público, mas opto antes por destacar esta peça do The Guardian, mais longa e com mais detalhe. É interessante para mim ler isto, até porque a PlayStation foi a minha primeira consola. Já tinha jogado computador brevemente lá na aldeia (ter um computador não era comum nos anos 90!), e já tinha dado uns toques em alguns jogos na Sega Saturn de um amigo (belas tardes de Tomb Raider), mas nunca cheguei a ter uma Saturn, e o computador, esse, só chegou quando fui para a universidade. Mas tive a Playstation, prenda de passagem do oitavo para o nono ano com excelentes notas: comprei-a numa loja de informática em Odemira, que hoje já não existe, e o primeiro jogo que escolhi foi um que já conhecia de uma breve experiência num ATL de informática: Duke Nukem 3D. Só já em casa percebi que para guardar os saves precisava de um cartão de memória, mas era fim-de-semana: tive de esperar pela segunda-feira para, numa outra loja de informática em Odemira (que ainda existe, ainda que seja mais papelaria do que loja de computadores), comprar o cartão de memória. Já podia gravar o meu progresso, primeiro no Duke Nukem 3D e depois noutros jogos que fui arranjando: Resident Evil 2, Dino Crisis, Wip3out, Worms Armageddon. E noutros que o Daniel, amigo desde esses tempos até hoje, me ia emprestando: Resident Evil 3: Nemesis, Tekken 3, Dead or Alive, e talvez mais um ou dois que agora me escapam. Vou sempre lamentar não ter jogado alguns títulos, como Final Fantasy VII ou Final Fantasy VIII, Silent Hill, Metal Gear Solid, ou Fear Effect. Depois seguiu-se a Playstation 2, comprada com o dinheiro que fiz em gorgetas a trabalhar no verão na Zambujeira do Mar, mas serviu mais como leitor de DVD do que como consola. Na verdade, só cheguei a comprar dois jogos: Resident Evil: Code Veronica X e Enter the Matrix (claro); outros jogos marcantes daquela época, como Dead or Alive 2, Devil May Cry ou Resident Evil 4, já joguei por empréstimo. Entretanto a consola estava na aldeia, eu estava em Lisboa, não tinha televisão, e o meu tempo livre para videojogos foi tomado durante anos pelo World of Warcraft. Saltei a Playstation 3, e só já perto do fim de ciclo viria a comprar a Playstation 4. Hoje jogo Playstation 5, e com gosto, ao fim de anos a jogar exclusivamente em PC.

Nunca me desfiz da minha Playstation original, claro: ainda a tenho lá em casa, numa gaveta no meu quarto, com alguns dos jogos da época (um ou dois transviaram-se quando os emprestei), e tenho saudades daquela simplicidade - da consola em si, dos jogos, da vida sem grandes preocupações. A ver se a volto a ligar num destes dias.

#leituras da semana #livros #ficção científica #videojogos

2 notes · View notes

fernandaelucascosta · 1 year ago

Text

por: Fernanda Rossetto

Código de Produção (Parte 1)

Hollywood antes do código de produção

Depois da introdução dos “talkies” (cinema falado) em 1927 e antes do surgimento do Código Hays em 1934, Hollywood vivia a era chamada “Pré-Código” onde artistas e estúdios possuíam maior liberdade para criar filmes explorando questões sobre sexo, drogas e sexualidade, do que nas décadas posteriores, como podemos ver nesta lista de filmes aqui.

Porém, mesmo com o avanço tecnológico possibilitando essa exploração de temas mais complexos no cinema, a liberdade artística dos estúdios não durou muito tempo, já nos anos 20 com o surgimento de escândalos em Hollywood a indústria cinematográfica já era vista com maus olhos pelos conservadores, um dos escândalos que levaram a isso foi o julgamento do ator “Fatty” Arbuckle depois da morte da atriz Virginia Rappe, que ocorreu alguns dias depois de uma festa com drogas e álcool (no período da Lei Seca).

Além dos escândalos outra questão que levou a regulação das produções foi a presença da censura feita pelo governo em diferentes estados como a Pennsylvania e o Kansas, sendo essa censura permitida pois em 1915 no julgamento Mutual Film Corporation v. Ohio a Suprema Corte concluiu que filmes não estavam protegidos pela primeira emenda, de liberdade de expressão.

Desta forma a associação MPPDA (Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America), hoje com o nome de Motion Picture Association (MPA), foi fundada no ano de 1922 e teve eleito com presidente Will H. Hays, republicano que auxiliou a vitória presidencial de Warren Harding. Hays desejava estabelecer uma auto regulação dentro da indústria cinematográfica ao invés de os estúdios ficarem sujeitos à regulação governamental, porém durante a década de 1920 Hays não obteve grande sucesso em sua empreitada.

Um importante passo para essa regulação foi dado, porém, quando em 1927 a associação criou um documento chamado "Don'ts and Be Carefuls." (Nãos e Tome cuidados) que reuniam demandas comuns dos conselhos de censura dos estados, neste documento ficavam proibidas representações de nudez, trafico de drogas entre outras questões consideradas tabu.

Referências:

Hollywood Censored: The Production Code Administration and the Hollywood Film Industry, 1930-1940 (https://www.jstor.org/stable/3814976)

Morality and Entertainment: The Origins of the Motion Picture Production Code (https://www.jstor.org/stable/2078638)

What is Pre-Code Hollywood? – Pre-Code.Com

3 notes · View notes

necromancercoding · 10 months ago

Note

Hola Necro, no soy el anon de los dados pero tengo una duda respecto a estos. ¿Habría manera de programar tiradas abiertas en FA? (Siendo las tiradas abiertas la posibilidad de que automáticamente se lance un dado tras haber sacado el resultado máximo en la tirada)

¡Hola anon! ¿Entiendo que te refieres a la dinámica que hay en algunos tabletops de "explotar" un dado? Es decir, si tiras un d6 y sacas un 6, tiras otro d6, etc etc hasta que no sacas un 6.

Si es así, es algo bastante complicado y que no entra en mis capacidades, a decir verdad. Más que nada porque para que ocurra algo como eso tendrías que hacer otro post y que el contenido del nuevo dado se agregue al anterior pero no quede rastro de los otros posts... Creo que es un trabajo más para un programador y me temo que no me puedo definir como tal, jajajaj. Pero menciono a @adven-codes, que quizá le mola la challenge (?)

#necro talks

5 notes · View notes

guardianasdelrpg · 1 year ago

Note

No solo el skin, el registro tiene errores y ayer varios tuvimos que volver a postear porque faltaba el code, si no saben administrar para que abren un foro? además con el criterio de no hay ficha, solo castings y todos son aceptados... pfff// Oigan xD no sean... Por fallas en los codes ya dicen que no saben administrar? Y si el criterio de no subir fichas no les gusta, ¿Para que se registran en el foro? Si el chiste es seguir tirando hate xD no se escuden en cosas que no tienen nada que ver. Por eso estamos como estamos, repitan conmigo: si no me gusta un foro, no me registro o en dado caso de haberme registrado, me voy. No es tan difícil seguir la logica.

A mí no me gustan los foros de época, no me registre, ¿Ven que es sencillo no acercarse a lugares que no nos gustan?

Pues eso, tienes razón. <3

✶✯╰☆╮ ︻╦̵̵͇̿̿̿̿╤── ☠ ~ JINX ~ ☠

5 notes · View notes

ssa-dado · 5 months ago

Text

The Ship of Theseus (prelude)

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort (?), pining - I really do suck at tagging Summary: Never fuck your boss. Never fuck your best friend. And definitely never fuck Aaron Hotchner. But you did anyways. And now you’re left with the post-coital edition of Mr. Practical and all the messy aftermath that came with it. And a makeout too. Apparently the big scary man fell asleep right into your arms. Warnings: It's mentioned that they fucked. Whoops. IDK. In doubt - +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. No actual smut, but it's STEAMYYYYY... way too suggestive. Also, some cuss words here and there. Hotch being a softie. Word Count: 4.1k Dado's Corner: It’s a Chekhov’s gun of Ethics but without the actual gun… unless, of course, we’re talking about Aaron’s GUNSHOTS - oh, wait, there it is! The gun! Aaron’s thick, throbbing GUNSHOTS - oh shit, that’s so cool

masterlist

If there was ever an Olympic event for post-coital efficiency, your dearest friend – and funnily enough – your boss Aaron Hotchner would be taking home the gold.

Truly, what a sight to behold.

One moment, he was wrecking you within an inch of your sanity, and the next - barely a minute later - him and his ridiculously long legs were back in your bedroom, carrying a towel in one hand, a damp washcloth in the other, like the world’s most disciplined housekeeper.

So proper, so effortlessly composed, even now.

Because of course Aaron Hotchner - former prosecutor, Unit Chief, insufferable neat freak - would handle post-coital cleanup like it was just another task on meticulously organized, color-coded to-do list.

Sex: Completed (highly successful, performance rating: exemplary)

Orgasm(s): Confirmed (3, official review pending, though “best orgasm of my life” was strongly implied)

Post-coital hydration: Pending (but water bottle is within retrieval distance)

Aftercare protocol: Initiated (warm washcloth acquired, towel deployment imminent)

Debriefing & emotional processing: Ongoing (mission parameters unclear, subject remains evasive yet sarcastic)

Sheets: Ruined (replacement required, but can be postponed in favor of further activity)

Boss/subordinate ethical violation acknowledgment: Not yet addressed, deliberately ignored

Cuddling: Proposal under review (high-risk scenario)

Exit strategy: TBD (complications may include the inability to leave this bed for the foreseeable future)

And, obviously, you could not let him get away with that.

"Look at you, being all domesticated," you teased, propping yourself up slightly as he walked over.

"Someone has to take care of you," he shot back smoothly, dropping the towel onto the bed and kneeling beside you like this was normal.

Like you weren’t both still bare, still caught in the strange, floating space that existed after.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

The teasing - the constant, insufferable push and pull - was easy. That was your rhythm. That was safe. But this was something else entirely.

Something that left you both a little flustered, a little unsteady.

Even you - you, who could talk your way out of anything, who thrived on throwing him off - found yourself at a loss, your mouth opening, reaching for something to say, for anything that would keep this from feeling like more than what it was.

But then he touched you.

Pressed the warm cloth to your skin with so much care, with so much intent, and whatever sarcastic remark had been forming on your tongue just evaporated.

It wasn’t fair how tender he could be, how his hands - capable of so much control, so much discipline - could be this gentle, this careful. On you.

"You don’t have to do that," you murmured, breathless and barely audible.

"I know," he said simply, his gaze flicking up just long enough to see you before returning to his task. "But I want to."

So you let him. Let him take care of you.

Let yourself watch him, tracing the way his thick brows furrowed with concentration because he wanted to get it just right, the way his jaw tensed and relaxed as he worked, annoyingly meticulous, like this was just as important as everything that had come before it.

Gentle. Steady. Intimate. Intentional.

In a way that made your chest ache.

In a way that made you terrified of what it meant - now that the lust had passed, now that you were both just... here, bare, with nothing but each other.

And especially when he started pressing slow, lazy kisses along your knee, your already-marked thigh, your hip - like he needed to, like he couldn’t help himself, like he wanted to remind you that he had been there, that you were safe with him, even now.

Every second was more devastating than the last.

When he finished, he set the towel aside and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a beat, then another, then another, until he could hear how fast your heart was pounding.

"There," he murmured, lips still brushing against your skin. "All set."

You shook your head, forcing a smile, forcing yourself back to safer ground. "So thorough, Hotchner. Truly, I’m impressed."

His mouth quirked, but apparently, he wasn’t done being insufferably tender, kissing your cheek up next. Wasn’t he just adorable?!

"I aim to please," it was so utterly him it made your stomach flip, but not even more Aaron Hotchner than when, suddenly, he was back to bossing you around in your own home.

"Now, we change the bedsheets, take a shower, and then I’ll see you back here so we-"

And then he stopped. Oh no. Cat got your tongue, bossman?

"We what?" you prompted, raising an eyebrow, watching with unholy satisfaction as the tips of his ears turned red.

He cleared his throat, hesitated in a way that was so unlike him it almost hurt to witness."We… could cuddle. If you want. Or talk. Or whatever you want to do, really. No pressure. I can leave, all you have to do is tell me."

The longer he spoke, the redder he got, his words tripping over themselves, and honestly, it was taking everything in you not to burst out laughing right in front of him.

"You’re adorable, you know that?" you said instead, leaning in to press a kiss to his flushed cheek, hopefully to calm him down – or at least that was your excuse. "Big, scary Aaron Hotchner, suggesting cuddling in the same breath as ‘no pressure.’"

You mocked him, because humbling him was your second nature, and judging by the glare he was giving you, you were winning yet another round. Still, you didn’t want him to just leave. That much was obvious.

He exhaled slowly, gaze steady. "So… what do you want?"

You pretended to think about it, dragging it out just to see that little furrow in his brow deepen.

"Well, I suppose I could settle for cuddling… " you mused, letting your fingers ghost along his shoulders, "but only if you’re the little spoon."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Little spoon?"

Oh, wasn’t it just glorious. 2-0

"My house, my rules," you said smugly. "If you don’t like it, next time we’ll do it at your place, and you can do whatever you want."

And the second the words left your mouth, you definitely wanted to die.

Next time.

As if this was a thing. As if you had even talked about what it was, what this meant. As if you had acknowledged that what you’d just done was completely, wildly, against every rule in the protocol - and common sense as well.

Especially because he was your boss.

"I’m joking, of course," you backtracked quickly, though you felt the heat creeping up your neck.

"Of course," he echoed, but there was something in his expression, something behind his eyes that said he wasn’t entirely convinced, probably because he caught you with your hands in the cookie jar. "This was…"

Great. The talk.

"An accident," you supplied.

"Against protocol," he continued.

No shit, Sherlock.

"Because you’re my boss-"

"We work together," he chimed in, but his voice was softer now, trailing.

"Could cost us our careers," you pointed out, waiting for him to acknowledge it, to confirm the obvious.

"When there’s a pattern of offending behavior," he murmured, almost to himself, slipping into technicalities - because of course he would.

But then - he smirked. Just the slightest tilt of his lips, still – he smirked.

Oh.

And that could only mean one thing.

"A pattern," you echoed, watching him carefully.

And just like that, because he was only a man - logical, brilliant, but still just a man - he reached the same inevitable conclusion you had, just a breath later.

His fingers found yours, intertwining, and it was stupid how calming that simple gesture was.

Or maybe it wasn’t the touch itself but the truth laced between your hands.

Or maybe both.

Or maybe it was just this - how the whole conversation had shifted without either of you stopping it.

It didn’t mean you wouldn’t push and pull anymore. Didn’t mean you wouldn’t still play cat and mouse. You would. Just differently now. With your lips on the other’s skin instead of just grazing the air.

"We’re very good at patterns," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, pressing a kiss there.

"At recognizing patterns," you corrected, your breath hitching as you tilted your head, catching the corner of his mouth with yours.

"What is a pattern, after all?" His lips moved along your cheek, his hands sliding up your spine, settling against your back.

"A repetition," you answered, barely above a whisper, pressing a kiss just beneath his ear.

"A repetition," he echoed, voice rasping, pressing one to the curve of your jaw.

"Exactly that." You murmured as your fingers traced patterns over his bare shoulders.

"Depending on a series of factors," he continued, shifting slightly, pressing another kiss to your collarbone.

"Such as…?" You exhaled against the bruise you left on his throat.

"Subjects involved," he murmured.

"Location," you supplied.

"A very important factor," he agreed, flashing his intoxicating dimples, nudging his nose against yours.

"Fundamental in analysis," you teased, smiling against his lips.

"If the location changes," he murmured, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, "the recognition of the pattern could be…"

You barely heard him, too focused on the way his breath ghosted over your skin, but still - hearing him talk like that, with his voice all low and thoughtful and dangerous, made you shiver.

"Devious," you countered, barely referring to legal theory anymore.

No, he was devious - the way his mouth was just barely touching yours, his hands skimming your sides like he wanted to devour you but was forcing himself to behave.

You've had enough. You tilted your head, catching his lips in a kiss, cutting off whatever legal analysis he thought he was about to give.

"Faulted," he corrected, the words slipping straight into your mouth, delivered onto your tongue by his, deepening the kiss without hesitation.

"You can never be sure…" your voice faltered, swallowed by the way he pulled you flush against his bare body, his fingers digging into the skin of your lower back.

"…if it’s the same pattern," he finished for you, just before his teeth caught your bottom lip, just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Or a copycat," you murmured, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, feeling completely dizzy, straight-up autopilot - you barely even knew what you’d just said.

Judging by the way he chuckled, though, it was probably nonsense.

No, definitely ridiculous, because now he was repeating it back to you, still grinning, "…A copycat? You’re crazy."

Still, he never looked away.

Right… you definitely weren’t exactly talking about unsubs now.

"So one single act can still be admissible?" you asked, fingers idly tracing over his cheek.

"It was just a little lapse in judgment," he chuckled, but you could already feel the gears turning in that brilliant lawyer’s mind, already bending the rules in real time, looking for the inevitable loophole in the very system you both swore by.

"...At your place," he added, like that alone made all the difference. "And that’s just one location."

You smirked. "Not your apartment."

"To be precise," he murmured, his mouth brushing over yours, "it was just your bed… which means that technically-"

"Technically", you could still fuck each other everywhere else.

"Oh, I love the way your brain works…" you hummed, punctuating your words with another kiss, this time against the sharp line of his jaw. "So… not the shower."

And just like that, it became a game.

A list. A reckless, bucket list.

"The desk," he murmured, and fuck, you had to squeeze your thighs together at that one, trying so hard not to let your brain go there - not to picture which specific desk you wanted him to bend you over, not to imagine the feel of his hands gripping your hips, his voice low in your ear, telling you to keep quiet.

Definitely not the one in his office. No. That would be unethical.

"The kitchen counter," you whispered, voice already a little breathless.

"The floor," he added, lips dragging just beneath your ear, voice husky, teasing, unfair.

"Of all the rooms in this apartment…" you trailed off, tilting his chin just slightly so you could press a slow kiss right between his brows, smoothing away the tiny crease there.

"The couch," he murmured. Low blow.

You bit your lip, because that wasn’t fair, because now all you could think about was straddling his lap, sinking down onto him, rolling your hips while his hands dug into the flesh of your thighs, holding you in place, watching you come undone.

You had never wanted to ride a man so badly in your life.

"Against the front door," you suggested next

“The armchair” he added, and okay - so he really wanted you to ride him. Noted.

"The stairs," you countered, throwing something ridiculous just to regain some control.

"We don’t have stairs," he said, lips curving against your skin.

"Fine," you huffed. "The car."

"Backseat or front?" he asked, way too inclined to indulge in your proposal.

"Front if I’m driving," you mused.

He groaned at that, and you took the opportunity to press your advantage, brushing your lips over his throat, smirking against his skin as you felt something become quite… hard.

"My bed," he rasped suddenly, and damn, you knew you were done for the second those words left his mouth.

Because that - that was dangerous. The thought of being wrapped in sheets that smelled like him, tangled up in his warmth, surrounded by the scent of sex and sweat and that insufferable, frustratingly attractive man…

You would not survive it.

"The elevator," you rasped before you could stop yourself.

And that was when he froze - for half a second, you thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. And then-

"Jesus Christ."

"I don’t think that one’s possible, Hotchner.."

Still, his mouth parted, his pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left, and for a second, you genuinely thought he was about to die right then and there. Would’ve been tragic, really - death by horny legal loopholes debate.

Explain that to Erin Strauss...

But then he groaned, deep and wrecked, dropping his face into your neck like he needed a moment to recover. Maybe he wasn’t going to die just yet.

"The elevator?" he muttered against your skin, muffled, bewildered, like he couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation.

"The elevator," you confirmed, absolutely shameless.

"Jesus."

"I’d prefer it be just the two of us, if that’s not a problem for you," you deadpanned.

He let out a deep, suffering sigh against your neck, like he was physically restraining himself from debating elevator logistics.

"I don’t even know what to do with you," he muttered.

"I have some ideas."

He exhaled, then lifted his head just enough to look you dead in the eye. "We are never having sex in an elevator."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"That sounds like a lawsuit," he corrected, still so visibly distressed that you could not stop laughing.

"Thought you used to be a good lawyer, Hotchner," you teased, your fingers dragging lazily along his spine. "Wouldn't you know your way around a legal loophole?"

"Oh, I do," he sighed. "I also know how to avoid federal charges."

"You’re truly a prude."

"You're truly reckless," he shot back, eyes closed, mentally revisiting every questionable decision he’d made in the last hour… or maybe the last two…

Honestly, who was even keeping track at this point?

You smirked, shifting until you were draped half over his chest, resting your chin on your folded arms as you gazed at him. "Oh, c'mon, Hotchner, live a little."

His eyes opened just enough to give you a look.

You huffed. "Okay, okay, fine. No elevators. If you really wanna be lame about it."

"Thank you," he said flatly.

A pause. Then, you couldn’t help it. "The jet."

His entire body went rigid. You swore you felt his soul attempt to leave his body.

"The jet?" he repeated, voice hoarse.

You nodded sagely. "The jet."

"Oh my God."

You grinned, slow and so wicked. "Can you imagine it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Small, enclosed space-" you started.

"Oh my God."

"-turbulence, you pinning me against the-"

"No." He cut you off.

You cackled, absolutely delighted by his suffering.

"The team is on that jet," he tried to argue.

"Not always," you countered, “sometimes Strauss is there too.”

His entire face drained of color. For a solid three seconds, he just stared at you, mouth slightly parted, horror creeping into his very being.

"Get out."

You wheezed, collapsing against his chest, “Of my bedroom?! You can’t really dismiss me here unfortunately for you.”

"I don’t ever want to hear the words sex and Strauss in the same sentence again," he grumbled.

"I believe you just said them yourself, Hotchner"

A slow blink. A deep sigh. He was so close to reconsidering every single choice that had led him to this moment.

And yet-

Instead of answering, he just exhaled, letting his weight sink into you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder like admitting defeat.

Because you both knew exactly what this was.

A game.

A flimsy, shameless, beautiful excuse to keep doing this - to keep falling into each other, to keep breaking rules and bending logic, to keep pretending it wasn’t something more.

But neither of you said that.

Neither of you needed to.

Instead, you simply thrived in the ineffable, in the space where words didn’t need to be spoken. In the way his body melted on top of yours, drawn to you despite himself, despite the attitude, despite everything.

Because with you, he could just be.

Simply, truly, exist in his truth.

Not Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. Not the unshakable leader, not the man who carried the weight of everyone else’s burdens on his back, never allowing himself to falter.

Just Aaron.

The six-foot-two little spoon who swore he wouldn’t be, yet here he was, folded into you like he’d never belonged anywhere else, all because you’d jokingly set it as a condition for him to breathe this close to you.

At least, that’s what you told him.

But in reality a part of you wanted this.

A part of you wanted the man who always stayed close – from the victims, to the UnSubs, and everyone he cared about, always making sure he was the one who bore the weight so no one else had to - to have someone stay close for him.

To let him know what it felt like to be held.

Because the thought had been lingering at the edges of your mind for far too long now - unwelcome, unavoidable -

If he was there to protect everyone, who was there to protect him?

Not that you were volunteering. Not like that.

Actually if you said it out loud, he’d probably just laugh at you, and use that damned dry humor of his and tell you “How can you protect me if you can barely shoot?”

And you’d laugh, you’d tease him right back - and nothing would change.

But you knew the truth - you’d been his anchor for the past decade.

And so your fingers traced idle patterns along his back, thoughtlessly, feeling the tension unwind from his muscles, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You’re warm," he murmured after a while, rasping at the edges, making your heart ache in a way you didn’t want to think too hard about.

"You’re a bit heavy," you murmured, lips quirking slightly.

"Mhm." But he didn’t move, didn’t even try.

You smiled to yourself, dragging your fingers gently through his short hair, feeling the strands slip between them, coarse and slightly mussed.

"You don’t have to do that," he said softly against your skin.

"I know," you whispered, your hand still smoothing over his back, still holding him close, like you weren’t fooling either of you. "But I want to."

A pause. A deep breath.

Then-

"Thank you," he sighed, pressing a barely-there kiss to your shoulder, too tired to move, too tired to do anything but exist against you.

Just holding each other.

Just existing in the same space, in the same breath, with no expectations, no pressure, no future to consider beyond the feel of his heartbeat against yours.

"You know, there’s a philosophical dilemma called the Ship of Theseus-" you started, your voice a gentle hum in the quiet, earning a small huff from him in response.

"It questions whether an object remains fundamentally the same if all of its components are replaced over time. If every original part is gone, is it still the same thing? Because technically, it’s not… if identity is tied to its physical components and not something more abstract, like function or form."

You felt the slow, subtle curve of his lips against your shoulder.

"Which brings us to," you added, lips curving now too, " is this even the same bed if we just change the sheets? On some criteria, following this logic… it isn’t."

A beat.

No reply.

Just the steady, even sound of his breathing.

And - oh.

Oh.

He’d fallen asleep on you. Mid-philosophy. Unbelievable.

Great. So apparently, you were the boring one now. Perfect.

But before you could dwell too much on your bruised ego, he stirred, mumbling something barely coherent against your skin.

"Mmmh… we change the sheets… shower… come back here and-"

“’And’ what?” You sighed, your fingers still lazily running through his hair. “Aaron, you sound like a low-battery version of yourself.” You huffed a laugh, shaking your head.

"M'practical," he slurred, as if that was a valid argument.

"You’re half-asleep."

"Still practical," he muttered.

"If you move, I’ll take care of the sheets. You go shower," you offered, voice quiet, fond.

He barely responded, just a low, unintelligible grumble against your collarbone before-

"Mm-mm… we don’t… shower together?”

You sighed. Of course that was where his sleepy brain went.

"Will we just shower?" you asked, knowing full well he wouldn’t have the energy for anything else.

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice barely above a whisper-

"What if we don’t?" he muttered, already half-asleep. "S’not against the rules…"

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Aaron-"

"The ship… applies to your shower too…" his words trailed off lazily, completely nonsense, but you could hear the hint of a smile in them. "If you replace the soap… ‘s a different shower…"

Well, at least even in his on-the-brink-of-unconsciousness state, he was committed to following through with your logic...

"I’m saying this for your own good, Hotchner, because you really don’t have the energy for another round."

"I do," he grumbled, shifting, his arms tightening around you like you had to believe him.

"Sure," you murmured, kissing his forehead. "I’ll believe that when you make it to the bathroom without falling asleep in the doorway."

He made a low, unintelligible noise, like he wanted to argue, but his body had already betrayed him, too heavy, too settled against you.

"Go," you whispered, nudging him gently.

A deep sigh. Then-

"Fine."

He peeled himself off you with the effort of a man being dragged out of bed by force, his body moving like it was actively resisting him.

You bit back another laugh as he stumbled toward the bathroom, catching himself on the doorframe for just a second before disappearing inside.

And, of course-

When you finished your own shower and stepped quietly back into the bedroom, he was already collapsed against the bed, completely dead to the world.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you eased yourself into bed, trying your best to be quiet, he shifted -

One sleepy, instinctive movement.

And suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you without thinking, his body curling into yours, his head tucking against the crook of your neck, snuggling.

Clingy.

"Annoying little spoon," you muttered.

You felt a muffled hum against your skin. "Next time… we switch."

You sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, letting your fingers drift through his hair one more time. "Go to sleep, Aaron."

He sighed against your skin, warm and content, the weight of him only settling deeper into you.

"Mmm. ‘M already sleepin’…" he murmured, words barely holding together.

A beat.

Then, even softer-

"You should too… two hours ‘til work."

Oh, he just could not help himself - spent a full minute reminding you, over and over, that you just fucked your boss.

Damn it, Aaron. At least he could try to pretend...

"Actually, it’s one and a half." you bit back.

A pause.

Then-

"Shit."

Shit indeed.

Phi's Corner: BOTTOM HOTCH RIGHTS!!!!!!!! Also don't worry filthy goyals, you will be fed with some actual smut tomorrow. And probably some context too... maybe?!?! hope you enjoyed this anyways...

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #symposiumff #aaron hotchner smut

286 notes · View notes