#rule of threes ⟡₊ ⊹

[reiding-writing]

Congrats on 3k!!

Could you do an injury trope with like season 5-6 Spencer where he and fem! Reader split up and he finds them like dying, UNSUB on the floor also bleeding out so Spencer can safely assume that reader fought back before collapsing and after the UNSUB is arrested, Spencer is immediately at readers side and speaking to them "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.", and "You’ll be fine." *silence* "You’ll be fine. Hey! Wake up! Please. Please wake up…" and while Spencer is panicking over whether or not reader will live, he thinks about how they changed from enemies to lovers.

BLEEDING HEART. /spencer reid/

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” “You’ll be fine.” *silence* “You’ll be fine. Hey! Wake up! Please. Please wake up…”

enemies to lovers

CW | reader is critically injured and unresponsive for most of it, graphic blood descriptions, open ended but maybe reader lives if you want her to

s6! spencer x fem!reader 1.0k angst event masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | angst oh glorious angst

You were too slow. That’s the only thought pounding through Spencer’s head as he stumbles into the warehouse, gun trembling in his hand.

His breath is ragged, his legs unsteady from running full speed across the broken asphalt lot. He barely registers Morgan and Rossi’s shouts behind him, the pounding of boots and orders barked into radios. It’s all white noise. Because the moment his eyes fall on you, collapsed on the cold, blood-slick floor, everything else ceases to exist.

The gun in his hand drops with a clatter.

“No, no, no…”

He’s already kneeling at your side before he registers the motion, fingers shaking as they reach for you. Your face is pale, far too pale, and your hair clings to your sweat-dampened forehead. The bright red stain spreading across your shirt glistens under the flickering light overhead.

Spencer’s hands are sticky the moment they press against the wound. You flinch faintly, your eyes barely cracking open. He feels your blood seeping through his fingers.

“Hey, hey— stay with me, you hear me?” His voice wavers as he glances at the body a few feet away. The unsub is face-down in a growing pool of blood, still twitching slightly, gasping wetly with every rattling breath. The knife he used on you lies discarded, coated in blood—your blood.

You fought him. Spencer knows it. He sees the torn sleeve, the bruises forming along your jaw, the deep scratch marks on the unsub’s neck. You fought back. You must have been so scared, so desperate. And he wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, his voice cracking as he presses his hand harder against the wound. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—” His throat closes around the words.

You cough weakly, and his eyes snap back to you. Your lashes flutter, your gaze unfocused, but you’re still there. Barely. Too barely.

“You’ll be fine,” His voice is hollow with the promise. His blood-slick hand cups your cheek, smearing crimson along your jawline, and he swears he feels you lean into the touch. Or maybe he imagines it.

His eyes blur with the sting of hot, useless tears. “You’ll be fine, okay? Hey!” Your eyelids droop, and a sharp panic seizes him. He shakes you slightly, voice breaking. “Wake up! Please. Please, wake up…”

Your body doesn’t listen. Your eyes fall shut, your chest barely rising with each shallow breath. His own breathing is quick and erratic as he grips you tighter, almost as if he could anchor you there with him.

And then his mind splinters.

For a heartbeat, he isn’t kneeling on the cold warehouse floor with your blood soaking into his jeans. Instead, he’s remembering the first time he met you—how you rolled your eyes at his rambling statistics during your first case together.

He remembers the disdain in your voice, how sharp your words were, how easy it was to bristle around you. You were reckless, impulsive, infuriating.

But then he remembers the late nights in the bullpen when you started bringing him coffee without asking. The first time you defended him against a suspect who mocked his stammer. The way your eyes softened when you caught him with trembling hands after a particularly brutal case.

He remembers how he fell for you so stupidly, so completely, even though neither of you could ever say it. The arguments became softer, the walls thinner. One day, you weren’t his rival—you were his home.

And now, you’re slipping away.

“Don’t—” His voice cracks on the word, his forehead pressing against yours. “Please. Please, don’t do this.” His hands are covered in your blood, and it’s warm and sticky and wrong. He doesn’t know if he’s shaking from fear or from the adrenaline crashing through him, but he can’t stop. He won’t stop.

There’s shouting behind him, someone calling for a medic. He barely hears it. All he knows is you.

“I love you.” The words tumble from his lips in a strangled whisper, broken and desperate. They taste like salt and dirt. His voice is lost, drowned by the ache in his chest, the terror clawing at his throat. “I love you, so you can’t— you can’t leave me. Please…”

When your breath hitches, his heart nearly stops. But then, with excruciating slowness, your eyes flicker open just slightly, unfocused and glassy but alive. Alive.

“Spence…?” It’s barely a whisper, your voice cracked and broken. You’re confused. Afraid. But there.

A ragged breath shudders out of him, half-sob, half-relief. His grip on you tightens, his lips trembling against your temple.

“I’m here,” His voice is thick, barely above a whisper. He presses another frantic kiss to your forehead. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

And as the paramedics rush in, he still doesn’t let go. Even when they pry you from his arms, he’s right there, clinging to your hand with trembling fingers, refusing to let you slip away again.

And for once, statistics don’t matter. Because he won’t accept any other outcome.

[booart5]

Reblogging this drawing with the Timelapse because I finally figured out how to add those and I think it’s cool

Took me about 60 hours which is CRAZY,, I call this one The Quark Family when I’m talking about it (which seems apt) and I’ve literally crammed so many references and details and hours into this my life feels so empty without it. Tumblr is butchering the image quality but that’s just what it is ig,,, I’ve tried and I can’t seem to fix it

Progress shots and closeups under the cut (and a full list of the references and stuff I crammed in in the tags bc I have to know that they’re all noticed)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

None of our hands are clean

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[blurbery]

🆙🆙

[lavenderprose]

'He would not fucking say that' only it's 'That child would not speak in full fucking sentences.'

[methoughtsphantom]

Jason “my family doesn’t know im alive” Todd and Danny “my family doesn’t know I’m dead” Fenton going alongside each of their plans my beloved. like Danny will absolutely go head-to-head with all of Gotham to support his new best friend on all his crime lord endeavors while he drags Jason to also attend collage with him. They are roommates and there never seems to a mention of family from either side. It’s an unspoken understanding they have. They met because Crime alley as a ghost lair thrummed with so much loneliness, it was at first the perfect place for Danny to hide his ecto signature in. But then he saw the dumbass whose lair it was lean his motorcycle just a tad too much when making a sharp turn to an alley, he sweeped the floor through a lifted chain link that passed his body but not his helmet. Yep that’s right the red thing got stuck. Danny who at the moment happened to be watching through his window snorted. Much to his horror because if not a ghost that dude could’ve gotten his head flung off.

Still, the scene was ridiculous.

On a whim he irrationally sees the police closing in on the guy and panicked at the thought of the guy using intangibility to free himself so Danny phased them both through his apartment wall and left the guy sprawled in his couch. Jason didn’t freak out but that’s normal when one’s got a concussion, one the guy immediately denied having as Danny laid out the medical supplies. The idiot proceeded to almost flatten four steps to the door with his stubbornness. He also said “I’m asexual” in the most deadpan voice as Danny dropped him back in the couch.

Danny sighed. Clearly though, he’d done so too early in the night because the guy kept trying to go, kept trying to knock Danny out, kept trying to slash him with knifes Danny didn’t know he had stashed. He’d only disarmed the guy from his guns. The visible ones apparently, cause at one point the guy did take out a gun and shoot until the ammo ran out and then teetered the thing like it was an art prop and hit his moon lamp.

Danny "yeah you aren’t officially my friend until you’ve tried to kill me" fenton my guys.

Anyways both keep having the same argument over if Danny technically kidnapped Jason or not. Danny holds the fact that the police at least didn’t see the guy make the ridicule. Jason argued that happened cause he was sporting a concussion. Danny argued he got that after.

Jason at first thinks the guy's a meta, but no. Danny introduces himself, sheepily now that he recognizes this is who the lair he invaded is from. He bandages him and tries to cook for him. If Danny didn’t have ice powers he most certainly would’ve burned the apartment. Jason then proceeds to kick him out of his own kitchen and make them both enchiladas. It’s the most normal both had in a while with another person and the air seems oddly settled. From then on, Jason constantly invited himself over, under the pretense that this was his territory and therefore he could drop in unannounced. Danny who has actual powers says he only allows this because Jason cooks very well.

Danny stays away from the crime fighting business unless his buddy is in deep shit he can’t get himself out. Also it’s Danny’s turn to cover for his vigilante friend which Sam and Tucker give him so much shit for. (but also advice)

And they were roommates. (omg) Danny effectively derails Jason’s big comeback plans by casually dropping ghost lore every two days. Like,

Jason, talking about how he doesn’t want Bats snooping on his territory:

Danny: Just don’t let them in

Jason: ??

Danny: yeah!! Hasn’t Batman died and got revived??? You can totally kick out death touched people you don’t want entering on your lair.

Jason: …I can?

Danny: Yep dude, your lair’s supposed to feel safe.

Jason: wait does that mean I can kick you out?

Danny: First this is my apartment. Second, im dead, not dead touched. Third, it’s too late to get rid of me. bitch.

Anyways Jason is super excited. You mean to tell him he can actually deny people over to his territory haunt?? (Yes it’s only to people who have died and came back but still!! The sample size is exactly the type of people he doesn’t want to see—!)

Joker my beloathed can’t step foot in Crime Alley.

(Jason’d feel a lot safer if the clown was dead but the possibility of his murderer turning into a ghost and their little loophole not applying on the clown is too scary to contemplate.)

Anyways, Jason loves experimenting with the power. It can go from simply making people shudder and not want to enter crime Alley to straight up not letting them enter like there’s an invisible wall blocking the way.

Jason because he’s hurt that Bruce never even patrols Crime Alley and also because he’s petty put B under the category of “invisible wall” blacklist. His reasoning is that the man doesn’t even attempt to enter Crime Alley. To him it’s surely just a place shadowed in tragedy. (anyways that’s it’s the place he met Jason)

Ironically, Jason totally forgets that Batman does venture into Crime Alley one day in the whole year. The day he met Jason.

Okay. He didn’t forget at first. The first year Jason remembers cause it was only a few months till then but then the next— Jason forgets that today’s the anniversary of the day’s Bruce’s parents died. He forgets to allow B in when he feels a slight tug and dismiss the feeling that prompts Bruce to investigate because he literally can’t enter Crime Alley. He starts the trialsTM, he scouts on the very edge and sees people the whole day enter and get out and cross with no problem but Bruce can’t.

It’s literally just Bruce.

Time to call Constantine, i guess.

[thatsbelievable]

[reiding-writing]

congrats for reaching 3k, love!!! You deserve it sm<3

step one, prompt list RIVAL: ❛ you can yell at me later. just let me help you. ❜

step two, list one: 7. them getting angry on your behalf

with s1!Spence:))

COLLATERAL DAMAGE. /spencer reid/

“you can yell at me later, just let me help you.”

getting angry on your behalf.

s1! spencer x fem!rival!reader 1.4k flangst event page. event masterlist. main masterlist.

The pain shoots up your arm the second you try to move it. You curse under your breath, gritting your teeth as you push yourself upright, the damp, gravel-streaked concrete biting into your palm.

Blood clings to your fingers in thin, sticky ribbons, smearing across your skin as you drag yourself away from the scene. The flashing red and blue lights of the local police cruisers wash over you in nauseating pulses.

You’re barely on your feet when you feel a hand grip your elbow, steady but hesitant, as though unsure you’ll let it stay.

“Hey, hey—wait, slow down. You’re—” Spencer’s voice cracks slightly, his eyes wide and wild with panic. You can feel the faint tremor in his hand, and you already know he’s spiraling through statistical probabilities of untreated injuries. “You’re lightheaded, you’ll pass out if you push your luck,”

You wrench your arm away from his grip, biting back a hiss as the motion flares the pain up again. The sharp inhale you take only makes your ribs ache deeper.

“I’m fine, Reid,” you snap, harsher than intended. The adrenaline still floods your system, making your voice sharp and clipped. “I just need to—”

“Stop,” he cuts in, surprising you. His voice is firm. Desperate. “You’re bleeding.”

Before you can argue, your attention is ripped away by the sound of the local detective’s voice barking orders. The same detective who had dismissed your intel half an hour ago. The same one who claimed he didn’t need to wait for your team’s profile before sending officers into the building.

The same one whose arrogance got you caught in the middle of a shootout.

Your lips press into a thin line as you watch him casually wave off the severity of the situation, speaking with another officer as if his decision hadn’t nearly gotten you killed.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, your good hand curling into a fist at your side. You can feel the heat behind your eyes, not from pain but from the sheer rage clawing its way up your throat.

And then, before you can blink, Spencer’s voice cuts through the night.

Sharp.

Cold.

Furious.

“Are you kidding me?!”

Your eyes snap to him, momentarily stunned by the raw anger in his voice.

Spencer, who barely raises his voice in disagreement. Spencer, who avoids confrontation like it physically pains him. Spencer, who always speaks like he’s inconveniencing anyone listening.

But now? He’s stalking toward the detective with an uncharacteristic fury you’ve never seen in him. His shoulders are stiff with tension, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as though barely keeping himself contained.

The detective turns toward him with a look of lazy disinterest, which only makes Spencer’s voice sharpen.

“You ignored the profile we gave you. You dismissed every tactical recommendation. You refused backup,” Spencer spits, the words cracking slightly at the edges. He takes a step closer, his eyes flashing with unrestrained venom. “She could’ve died because of your incompetence.”

Your chest tightens.

You blink, unsure if you heard him correctly. You’ve seen Spencer angry before, but this is different. This isn’t quiet indignation or the soft condescension he sometimes falls into when correcting others. This is raw, unfiltered fury.

The detective stiffens slightly. “I don’t have to answer to you, kid. This is my jurisdiction—”

“You think jurisdiction makes you exempt from accountability?” Spencer’s voice pitches up, incredulous, eyes narrowing. “Jurisdiction doesn’t excuse negligence. You walked your officers straight into an unsub’s ambush. And you nearly got an FBI Agent killed.” He throws his hand out in your direction, voice cracking slightly on the last word.

You feel the eyes of several officers shift toward you, but you barely register them. Your gaze is locked on Spencer.

He’s still trembling. His hands, clenched into fists, are twitching slightly at his sides. You know him well enough to recognise the strain in his posture—the too-quick rise and fall of his chest, the darting of his eyes that signals he’s barely holding himself together.

The detective takes a half-step back. For a moment, he looks like he might argue, but then he mutters something under his breath and storms away.

Spencer is still glaring after him, eyes blazing with unspent fury, fists clenched so tightly you can see the faint tremor in his knuckles.

It’s only when you touch his arm that he flinches slightly, as if just realising you’re there. His eyes flick to you, still sharp with residual anger. His jaw clenches.

“Reid,” you say quietly. His name catches in your throat.

He swallows hard, his breathing still shallow, but the moment his eyes meet yours, they soften. Some of the fire drains from his gaze, replaced by a worried, desperate sort of tenderness. You’re not sure how you feel about it.

“You can yell at me later,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just… let me— help you.”

His eyes flick briefly to your arm. His hand hovers over it again, hesitating, clearly waiting for you to pull away.

And you almost do. The familiar instinct to keep your pain to yourself, to push through without letting anyone see you falter, kicks in on reflex.

But the expression on Spencer’s face stops you.

His eyes are pleading. His jaw is tight, his brows pulled together with a mixture of frustration and concern. There’s still a trace of anger lingering in his expression, but it’s not directed at you—it’s the sharp, protective kind. The kind that makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

You don’t stop him this time when he gently takes your wrist. His touch is light, almost hesitant, as though afraid you might break under his fingertips.

“Please,” he adds, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and finally nod.

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. He guides you to the back of the ambulance, staying close enough that his arm brushes yours, as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets you stray too far.

Once you’re sitting on the edge of the ambulance, Spencer kneels beside you without hesitation. He’s quiet, watching the paramedic clean the bullet graze on your arm, but you can feel the weight of his gaze on you the entire time.

The paramedic presses an alcohol wipe to the wound, and you flinch slightly, exhaling sharply through your nose. Spencer’s hand is suddenly on your knee, grounding and steady.

You don’t shake him off.

After the medic finishes and walks away, Spencer stays kneeling in front of you. His eyes search your face, his brows still pulled together in concern.

“You almost died,” he murmurs quietly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the scene.

You exhale through your nose, feeling the lingering burn of adrenaline dissipate.

“You shouted at someone,” you murmur, your voice rougher than intended.

His lips press into a thin line, an almost smile. His gaze flicks downward, almost ashamed, as though realising how uncharacteristic his outburst was.

“I couldn’t—” He swallows thickly, blinking a few times too quickly. “I just—” His voice catches.

You surprise yourself when you reach out and gently touch his hand, still resting against your knee.

“Hey,” you say softly, waiting until he meets your eyes again. You force the corner of your mouth into the faintest of smirks. “If you’re gonna yell at the locals for me, you could at least let me join in next time. Or are you gonna take that from me too?”

His lips part slightly in surprise, then he lets out a faint, breathy laugh—barely more than a huff of air, but you feel the tension in his frame loosen slightly.

He squeezes your hand gently, almost absentmindedly, before clearing his throat.

“Deal,”

[k4pp4-8]

⚡♠️♣️

[mespilus]

Slightly nsfw I guess??

I don't really care, enjoy 🫶

(from left to right in case you were wondering)

sorry if sometimes the hands are ugly, I'm practicing drawing them

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Ghouls night out

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[fisherrprince]

mmmmmooorrreeee balop

[mostlysignssomeportents]

"Efficiency" left the Big Three vulnerable to smart UAW tactics

Tomorrow (September 22), I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. Tomorrow night, I'll be in person at LA's Book Soup for the launch of Justin C Key's "The World Wasn’t Ready for You." On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

It's been 143 days since the WGA went on strike against the Hollywood studios. While early tactical leaks from the studios had studio execs chortling and twirling their mustaches about writers caving once they started losing their homes, the strikers aren't wavering – they're still out there, pounding the picket lines, every weekday:

https://www.cnbc.com/2023/08/09/how-hollywood-writers-make-ends-meet-100-days-into-the-writers-guild-strike.html

The studios obviously need writers. That gleeful, anonymous studio exec who got such an obvious erotic charge at the thought of workers being rendered homeless as punishment for challenging his corporate power completely misread the room, and his comments didn't demoralize the writers. Instead, they inspired the actors to go on strike, too.

But how have the writers stayed out since May Day? How have the actors stayed out for 69 days since their strike started on Bastille Day? We can thank the studios for that! As it turns out, the studios have devoted so much energy to rendering creative workers as precarious as possible, hiring as little as they can getting away with and using punishing overtime as a substitute for adequate staffing that they've eliminated all the workers who can't survive on side-hustles and savings for six or seven months at a time.

But even for those layoff-hardened workers, long strikes are brutal, and of course, all the affiliated trades, from costumers to grips, are feeling the pain. The strike fund only goes so far, and non-striking, affected workers don't even get that. That's why I've been donating regularly to the Entertainment Community Fund, which helps all affected workers out with cash transfers (I just gave them another $500):

https://secure2.convio.net/afa/site/Donation2?df_id=8117&8117.donation=form1&mfc_pref=T

As hot labor summer is revealed as a turning point – not just a season – long strikes will become the norm. Bosses still don't believe in worker power, and until they get their minds right, they're going to keep on trying to starve their workforces back inside. To get a sense of how long workers will have to hold out, just consider the Warrior Met strike, where Alabama coal-miners stayed out for 23 months:

https://www.thenation.com/article/activism/warrior-met-strike-union/

As Kim Kelly explained to Adam Conover in the latest Factually podcast, the Alabama coal strikers didn't get anywhere near the attention that the Hollywood strikers have enjoyed:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyMHf7Yg0Q

(To learn more about the untold story of worker organizing, from prison unions to the key role that people of color and women played in labor history, check out Kelly's book, "Fight Like Hell," now in paperback:)

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Fight-Like-Hell/Kim-Kelly/9781982171063

Which brings me to the UAW strike. This is an historic strike, the first time that the UAW has struck all of the Big Three automakers at once. Past autoworkers' strikes have marked turning points for all American workers. The 1945/46 GM strike established employers' duty to cover worker pensions, health care, and cost of living allowances. The GM strike created the American middle-class:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-18-uaw-strikes-built-american-middle-class/

The Big Three are fighting for all the marbles here. They are refusing to allow unions to organize EV factories. Given that no more internal combustion cars will be in production in just a few short years, that's tantamount to eliminating auto unions altogether. The automakers are flush with cash, including billions in public subsidies from multiple bailouts, along with billions more from greedflation price-gouging. A long siege is inevitable, as the decimillionaires running these companies earn their pay by starving out their workers:

https://www.businessinsider.com/general-motors-ceo-mary-barra-salary-auto-workers-strike-uaw-2023-9

The UAW knows this, of course, and their new leadership – helmed by the union's radical president Shawn Fain – has a plan. UAW workers are engaged in tactical striking, shutting down key parts of the supply chain on a rolling basis, making the 90-day strike fund stretch much farther:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2023-09-18-labors-militant-creativity/

In this project, they are greatly aided by Big Car's own relentless pursuit of profit. The automakers – like every monopolized, financialized sector – have stripped all the buffers and slack out of their operations. Inventory on hand is kept to a bare minimum. Inputs are sourced from the cheapest bidder, and they're brought to the factory by the lowest-cost option. Resiliency – spare parts, backup machinery – is forever at war with profits, and profits have won and won and won, leaving auto production in a brittle, and easily shattered state.

This is especially true for staffing. Automakers are violently allergic to hiring workers, because new workers get benefits and workplace protection. Instead, the car companies routinely offer "voluntary" overtime to their existing workforce. By refusing this overtime, workers can kneecap production, without striking.

Enter "Eight and Skate," a campaign among UAW workers to clock out after their eight hour shift. As Keith Brower Brown writes for Labor Notes, the UAW organizers are telling workers that "It’s crossing an unofficial picket line to work overtime. It’s helping out the company":

https://labornotes.org/2023/09/work-extra-during-strike-auto-workers-say-eight-and-skate

Eight and Skate has already started to work; the Buffalo Ford plant can no longer run its normal weekend shifts because workers are refusing to put in voluntary overtime. Of course, bosses will strike back: the next step will be forced overtime, which will lead to the unsafe conditions that unionized workers are contractually obliged to call paid work-stoppages over, shutting down operations without touching the strike fund.

What's more, car bosses can't just halt safety stoppages or change the rules on overtime; per the UAW's last contract, bosses are required to bargain on changes to overtime rules:

https://uaw.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Working-Without-Contract-FAQ-FINAL-2.pdf

Car bosses have become lazily dependent on overtime. At GM's "highly profitable" SUV factory in Arlington, TX, normal production runs a six-days, 24 hours per day. Workers typically work five eight-hour days and nine hours on Saturdays. That's been the status quo for 11 years, but when bosses circulated the usual overtime signup sheet last week, every worker wrote "a big fat NO" next to their names.

Writing for The American Prospect, David Dayen points out that this overtime addiction puts a new complexion on the much-hyped workerpocalypse that EVs will supposedly bring about. EVs are much simpler to build than conventional cars, the argument goes, so a US transition to EVs will throw many autoworkers out of work:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-20-big-threes-labor-shortages-uaw/

But the reality is that most autoworkers are doing one and a half jobs already. Reducing the "workforce" by a third could leave all these workers with their existing jobs, and the 40-hour workweek that their forebears fought for at GM inn 1945/46. Add to that the additional workers needed to make batteries, build and maintain charging infrastructure, and so on, and there's no reason to think that EVs will weaken autoworker power.

And as Dayen points out, this overtime addiction isn't limited to cars. It's also endemic to the entertainment industry, where writers' "mini rooms" and other forms of chronic understaffing are used to keep workforces at a skeleton crew, even when the overtime costs more than hiring new workers.

Bosses call themselves job creators, but they have a relentless drive to destroy jobs. If there's one thing bosses hate, it's paying workers – hence all the hype about AI and automation. The stories about looming AI-driven mass unemployment are fairy tales, but they're tailor made for financiers who get alarming, life-threatening priapism at the though of firing us all and replacing us with shell-scripts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

This is why Republican "workerism" rings so hollow. Trump's GOP talks a big game about protecting "workers" (by which they mean anglo men) from immigrants and "woke captialism," but they have nothing to say about protecting workers from bosses and bankers who see every dime a worker gets as misappropriated from their dividend.

Unsurprisingly, conservative message-discipline sucks. As Luke Savage writes in Jacobin, for every mealymouthed Josh Hawley mouthing talking points that "support workers" by blaming China and Joe Biden for the Big Three's greed, there's a Tim Scott, saying the quiet part aloud:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/republicans-uaw-strike-hawley-trump-scott/

Quoth Senator Scott: "I think Ronald Reagan gave us a great example when federal employees decided they were going to strike. He said, you strike, you’re fired. Simple concept to me. To the extent that we can use that once again, absolutely":

https://twitter.com/American_Bridge/status/1704136706574741988

The GOP's workerism is a tissue-thin fake. They can never and will never support real worker power. That creates an opportunity for Biden and Democrats to seize:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

Reversing two generations of anti-worker politics is a marathon, not a sprint. The strikes are going to run for months, even years. Every worker will be called upon to support their striking siblings, every day. We can do it. Solidarity now. Solidarity forever.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

[zivazivc]

do you think freesia and jd would ever get back together? or will they stay sort-of friends?

I'm not going to lie, I kinda like the idea of them starting to date again and seeing where it takes them. 🙈 freesia sneaked into my heart for some reason (she kind of started this new trend of mine where i make ocs that were created to be dicks and then me just getting protective of them and trying to reason out their awful behavior kasjsdj)

also their ship already has a #1 hater and #1 supporter, both of which are doing it for the wrong reasons...

[workingchemistry]

Every time I picture JereJean meeting with Andriel in a Walmart parking lot to transfer custody of their mutual boyfriend I get another year of my life back.

[dragonqueenstormwitch]

i like to think about how in rule of wolves kaz finds out nikolai can turn into a demon and inej likely finds out about zoya turning into a dragon from nina so kanej’s next meeting is just both of them trying to one up the other with the royal gossip they found out