USA people! Buy NOTHING Feb 28 2025. Not anything. 24 hours. No spending. Buy the day before or after but nothing. NOTHING. February 28 2025. Not gas. Not milk. Not something on a gaming app. Not a penny spent. (Only option in a crisis is local small mom and pop. Nothing. Else.) Promise me. Commit. 1 day. 1 day to scare the shit out of them that they don't get to follow the bullshit executive orders. They don't get to be cowards. If they do, it costs. It costs.
Then, if you can join me for Phase 2. March 7 2025 thtough March 14 2025? No Amazon. None. 1 week. No orders. Not a single item. Not one ebook. Nothing. 1 week. Just 1.
If you live outside the USA boycott US products on February 28 2025 and stand in solidarity with us and also join us for the week of no Amazon.
'This won't work, this isn't widespread, nobody knows, we're in a bubble, blah blah blah' my mom, a 64 year old lady with no social media whose first language is spanish, told me about this before tumblr did, and said we are going to participate.
Beginning in 1933, the Nazis burned books to erase the ideas they feared—works of literature, politics, philosophy, criticism; works by Jewish and leftist authors, and research from the Institute for Sexual Science, which documented and affirmed queer and trans identities.
(Nazis collect "anti-German" books to be destroyed at a Berlin book-burning on May 10, 1933 (Source)
Stories tell truths.
These weren’t just books; they were lifelines.
Writing by, for, and about marginalized people isn’t just about representation, but survival. Writing has always been an incredibly powerful tool—perhaps the most resilient form of resistance, as fascism seeks to disconnect people from knowledge, empathy, history, and finally each other. Empathy is one of the most valuable resources we have, and in the darkest times writers armed with nothing but words have exposed injustice, changed culture, and kept their communities connected.
(A Nazi student and a member of the SA raid the Institute for Sexual Science's library in Berlin, May 6, 1933. Source)
Less than two weeks after the US presidential inauguration, the nightmare of Project 2025 is starting to unfold. What these proposals will mean for creative freedom and freedom of expression is uncertain, but the intent is clear. A chilling effect on subjects that writers engage with every day—queer narratives, racial justice, and critiques of power—is already manifest. The places where these works are published and shared may soon face increased pressure, censorship, and legal jeopardy.
And with speed-run fascism comes a rising tide of misinformation and hostility. The tech giants that facilitate writing, sharing, publishing, and communication—Google, Microsoft, Amazon, the-hellscape-formerly-known-as-Twitter, Facebook, TikTok—have folded like paper in a light breeze. OpenAI, embroiled in lawsuits for training its models on stolen works, is now positioned as the AI of choice for the administration, bolstered by a $500 billion investment. And privacy-focused companies are showing a newfound willingness to align with a polarizing administration, chilling news for writers who rely on digital privacy to protect their work and sources; even their personal safety.
Where does that leave writers?
Writing communities have always been a creative refuge, but they’re more than that now—they are a means of continuity. The information landscape is shifting rapidly, so staying informed on legal and political developments will be essential for protecting creative freedom and pushing back against censorship wherever possible. Direct your energy to the communities that need it, stay connected, check in on each other—and keep backup spaces in case platforms become unsafe.
We can’t stress this enough—support tools and platforms that prioritize creative freedom. The systems we rely on are being rewritten in real time, and the future of writing spaces depends on what we build now. We at Ellipsus will continue working to provide space for our community—one that protects and facilitates creative expression, not undermines it.
Above all—keep writing.
Keep imagining, keep documenting, keep sharing—keep connecting. Suppression thrives on silence, but words have survived every attempt at erasure.
…Tommy, Ranboo, Tubbo, Purpled, Jack, Caiti, Niki, Aimsey, and all the other women that even TOUCHED the DSMP deserve to have a gun and be immune for 24 hours. They deserve it.
I’m obsessed with the idea that Peggy was captured on a mission shortly after Steve crashed into the ice. The men with her didn’t back her (sexism), leading to her capture, and they give her super soldier serum in hopes to make her a Winter Soldier. Afterwards, her and Bucky keep crossing paths and interfering with each other’s brain washing. So, she was put in the red room. Red room, do some missions, freeze, repeat. Then we get Steve-panic-part-two after civil war when Peggy’s chemical brain washing is undone by the widows Natasha freed in her movie.
Also there aren’t enough edits of Peggy fighting. My girl deserves badass treatment.
"This suit is too tight," Sam griped as he turned in the mirror again to examine the way the material pulled across the back of his thighs.
Bucky didn't think this was an issue, but he understood why Sam took offense to the fit. He'd learned over the past year that Sam was something of a man of taste and he liked to look a certain way. Bucky, on the other hand, thought Sam looked good in damn well everything.
"We don't exactly have time to go find a new one," Bucky pointed out drily. Because he couldn't actually say any of that. He wasn't allowed to and he was too chickenshit to do it anyway. He heaved himself off of the couch and came over to Sam. He took Sam's hand in his and gently did up the cufflink he was struggling with. "The sooner you get this taken care of, the sooner you can take it back off."
"Don't sound so eager, Barnes," Sam teased. There was still something of an irritated edge to his voice but he looked up at Bucky and his eyes weren't so tight. Bucky wanted to brush away the lingering stress line at the corner of his eye.
"Everything is going to be fine," Bucky repeated for the umpteenth time. He tilted Sam's face up with two fingers and reached over his shoulders to smooth, first, the collar of his suit coat, then the lapels. Sam shivered and Bucky made a note to hand him a jacket when he walked out the door. "You're Sam fucking Wilson. You're gonna go out there, charm every one of those bureaucratic assholes, then we'll go out for ramen after. I'll pay for that ginormous bowl you like."
Sam snorted softly and rolled his eyes. "Why aren't you going again?" he asked, fiddling with the hem of Bucky's t-shirt. They were so close, Bucky almost felt like he should stop breathing.
"I'm on the shitlist again," he reminded Sam. "The whole ferrying statuses and reports to Wakanda instead of the government."
"Right, right," Sam agreed, like he'd actually forgotten that. Like some of his intel wasn't what Bucky had been passing on. He let go of Bucky's shirt and looked up at him.
They were very close.
Bucky stared, because Sam knew he did that, but he didn't let himself look down at Sam's mouth. Kept his eyes on Sam's eyes, on his cheekbones, on the scrape at his hairline that had started this breakdown about how presentable he was. He opened his mouth to say anything at all--You look amazing tonight, Sam--but his blinking stuttered and his breath stuttered, and the moment passed in those squandered milliseconds.
Sam stepped away, glanced at himself one more time, and sighed. "I'm Sam fucking Wilson," he repeated with a sure nod.
Bucky got their comm pieces from the table by the door and held Sam's out as he fit his own in his ear. "I'll be listening in all night. You say the word, I'll be there. Even if it's not a fight. Even if you just need someone to cause a scene so you can sit in a bathroom for a few minutes."
For the first time in almost two hours, Sam smiled. "Maybe I just wanna see that."
"I can put on a show for you here tonight. Ramen and entertainment. Never say I'm a bad date, Wilson."
Sam rolled his eyes fondly. "There won't be any fine glass or uptight suits here. It wouldn't be the same."
"No, you're right," Bucky agreed. Taking a breath, he asked, "You good to go?"
Sam nodded and started to head for the door. Bucky caught his wrist suddenly and Sam turned around, into Bucky's chest.
"Sorry, I just thought...I bought you this," Bucky mumbled, eyes darting away from Sam's now, now that they were close again and Sam was looking at him, bright eyed and curious.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Inside was a lapel pin, designed like Sam's wings with delicate muted colors. "In case you need to remember just who the hell you are," he said with a shy kind of grin. "Do you mind?"
Sam shook his head and Bucky quickly fastened the pin. He certainly used the moment to smooth his lapels again. "There you go, Cap."
Sam's fingers came up to the pin, but he didn't look away from Bucky. "Thanks, Buck," he breathed. "Anything else before I leave?"
Bucky broke and looked at Sam's mouth. He couldn't stop himself. Again, the air stuttered through his chest and his lips moved without any sound.
Yes. A thousand things. How handsome he was. How well he'd do tonight. That Bucky really didn't get how he could eat that much ramen in one sitting. That he really wanted to kiss Sam right then but he didn't want to stress him out more.
"No," he finally breathed. "You're good to go. Take your coat."
Sam stared for a second longer, but nodded. He took a step back as he let go of the pin. "I'll keep you updated but I won't be able to talk much."
"I know," Bucky assured. "I've got failsafes in place."
"Of course you do." Sam squeezed Bucky's shoulder and then he was gone, out the door and down the hotel hallway.
"You do look really good tonight," Bucky said to absolutely no one.
