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I wonder what they put in gale that makes him our torture doll anyways I'm imagining him with a ruptured liver dying of what bucky should be dying 💖
I think there's an immediate answer (ausbut's suffers beautifully) & also something more linked with his status as a narrative foil to Bucky & in general the textual weave they're woven into. Pain & suffering are so fundamental to their characters (one could argue they're fundamental to the human experience) that taking them away is - I wouldn't say Wrong, I don't think there are rights or wrongs, but it would definitely make me miss something when exploring & playing with Concepts.
In particular with Gale & with his symbiotic relationship with John, I think (and I dare say we all agree on this, at least on a certain level) what makes them so compelling is not only their bestfriendism (which of course I enjoy immensely) but that linked with their "falling out" fight in the stalag. I don't think I would enjoy their dynamic as much if it weren't for the incompatibility, the suffering they are apparently unable to share, which in the end is also because they care too much about the other. In a way (to me at least) it felt like a real marital crisis (lol).
I'm still unsure about how to really analyse their punches; was John instigating Gale because he felt like Gale didn't care or because he was (amongst other things) scared that Gale was losing himself to hopelessness? Gale hesitated before punching John because he didn't want to hurt him (thinking he was acting Irrationally but knowing that it was how Bucky's elaborated grief) or because he didn't want /to be/ the one hurting him, mindful of their mingled pasts (in this case, him saying You remind me of my dad assumes a much deeper meaning: was he imagining punching his dad? If so, was it a release or something that he unwillingly did? I'm partial to the opinion that Gale loved his dad, actually & that John doesn't like that Gale loved him but that's another discussion). To be honest, because fanfiction exists in an alternate universe where Every action has a Deeper meaning, the truth is that if we were to strip them of their Blorbo status, they were fighting because they were angry lol, which - hey - it's still a fun thing to explore.
To me - because I see their relationship as so intrinsically romantic - their fight was both the culmination/the highest part of their love (I love you and because I do I'm willing to hurt you) & the bursting of their friendship (why are you making me do this while we're both hurting & in the same position?), so of course everything that comes after cannot exist without this kind of Pain, & obviously this rings true to most things (in order for the release to feel satisfying something needs to be held back before it happens); I make no universal claims, mind you, this is my preference! The stalag fight & the captivity is what makes me believe they were in love, but that is when they realized. Gale was obviously worried about John, he'd been worried, and I also like when John's pain blinds him & he can't see that Gale is suffering, too, (because he holds Gale to a higher standard & this at one point will upset him), but I also like when he's willingly making him upset because he knew he was going to burst. I don't think it's Just a Case that after the fight Gale asks Alex to help them formulate a plan, lol...
But, for a more direct answer: Gale is just the perfect character to 'torture' because I feel like his unwillingness to show makes him best suited to be the primary subject for the literary pursuit of explaining Pain.
Part of it is also definitely catharsis. He's an object & much like a stressball or a punching bag he can't hurt us back!
Sorry I don't think you were expecting such a long answer lol but The Clarifier etc.
CIRCLING BACK to the ruptured liver Absolutely yes, when their mutualism makes it so that everything is a Shared experience, like those twins that feel each other's touches... and it's never for Pleasure!!!
This is for all MOTA creators and all characters, themes and ships! All forms of creative work are welcome - writing, physical or digital art, edits, collages, music etc.
Be creative! Nothing is too hopeful or fluffy!
How do I participate?
The Hope weekend will consist of three days (friday-sunday), all of which have their own hope-set (much similar to the whump-sets during the MOTA whumpfest). These sets will contain different kinds of prompts and creative inspiration that you can use when creating your own fanwork.
You decide yourself how you want to interpret and draw inspiration from each day’s set. You can base your work on one part of each set or all of it, whatever you prefer.
The hope-sets will be posted soon! You can find them here.
To participate, you post your fanworks during the weekend the event happens. Add the #MOTA HOPE 2026 tag, and tag @mota-collab in the post so that we see it and can reblog it.
Alternative prompts?
If none of the hope-sets resonate with you but you still feel inspired and want to participate, feel free to participate with fanwork independent from the hope-sets. You can create something of your own personal choosing, inspired by the theme hope.
If you want more ideas, check out this masterpost!
Recommending works
You can also recommend favourite fan works that correspond with the theme. Send us an ask via the Mota Collab page, and tell us:
The title of the fan work and what medium it is (fic, art, edit, etc.)
The link to the fan work and to the artist
What you like about it
Why you think it fits the theme hope
If you don't want to send it to us, you can post recs on your own blog of course, again using the #MOTA HOPE 2026 tag, and tag @mota-collab in the post so we can see it! (Don’t forget to tag the artist so they can see your recommendation!)
Where can I see the created fanworks/recs?
Follow the #MOTA HOPE 2026 tag! We’ll do a masterpost at the end of the event and there will be an AO3 collection for any fics posted or recommended on that platform.
What about AI?
Note that no AI, of any kind, is allowed at this event. This weekend aspires to focus on real people, human made art, and how we can make the world a better place through our creative expressions and outlets together.
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I think the mota press tour owed us a lie detector episode where Austin and Callum take the test together. Imagine Austin asking Callum have you ever fallen in love with a co-star? and Callum answers Yes. The test rules it truthful, and everyone in the room immediately assumes he’s talking about Vanessa. But Callum holds eye contact the entire time, desperately wishing Austin understood who he was actually referring to.
John tries to stay calm, to see the Oscars just as a fun night out with the rest of the cast, nothing to worry about, nothing serious. But his fans still campaigning for him, the betting sites' predictions, and most importantly Gale's unwavering support have planted in him the traitorous seed of hope. And with hope comes a gnawing feeling in his gut, exciting and tiring at the same time, and the worst case of nerves he's ever suffered from.
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I think the mota press tour owed us a lie detector episode where Austin and Callum take the test together. Imagine Austin asking Callum have you ever fallen in love with a co-star? and Callum answers Yes. The test rules it truthful, and everyone in the room immediately assumes he’s talking about Vanessa. But Callum holds eye contact the entire time, desperately wishing Austin understood who he was actually referring to.
I like writing Gale with anger it's like one of his most vibrant emotions to me
cw: period-typical homophobia
Thanksgiving break brings a lull to the usual rigor of readings and colloquiums, and with it, restlessness. When one of Gale's classmates, a lanky fellow named Fitz who sits two rows ahead in thermodynamics, proposes they grab drinks before everyone scatters home for the holiday, Gale doesn’t have a good enough reason to refuse. They end up six in total, spilling out of the library steps into the winter night, breath fogging in front of them.
The block near the campus has a reputation for its nightlife, though it's not the sort of reputation administrative staff mentions in orientation pamphlets. Neon signs flicker above doorways, jazz spilling out each time a door opens, then swallowed again when it swings shut. Gale walks slightly apart from the group, only half listening to whatever Fitz is arguing with Elaine about. Up ahead, a commotion catches the corner of his eye: a cluster of policemen, a black car with its lights still spinning idly, a handful of men lined up against the brick wall of a club with an inconspicuous signboard.
Gale looks, for a second too long, and recognizes one of the men.
Lewis. That's his name—or Gale thinks it is. Among the men John had introduced him to at a roadhouse a few months back, ones whose names he'd been too polite to ask twice, Lewis was the one who'd shaken his hand, asked about the history behind Gale's shared nickname with John, and that had been the extent of it. Now the man stands with his back against the wall, hair ruffled, tie loosened, sweat glinting at his hairline despite the cold. His eyes, dark under the streetlight, land on Gale for a fraction of a second as the group passes. Something flickers behind them, though nothing shows on his face aside from the reflexive alertness of someone cataloging who's a threat and who isn't.
Gale’s legs feel strange, sluggish, like his guts have dropped and tangled somewhere around his knees. But he must have kept moving, because the next thing he knows, the commotion is already behind him, out of sight.
“Wonder what that was about,” someone says once they've cleared the block.
“Oh, you know what that place is,” Fitz says. “Everybody knows.”
“Know what?” Elaine asks.
Fitz gives a short laugh—the polite discomfort of a decent man who'd rather the subject came up after a few more drinks. “Just—that kind of place, Elaine.” He tilts his head, making a face that finishes the sentence without the vocabulary to do so.
The others nod along, like they'd all figured as much already. The answer doesn't seem to satisfy Elaine. She's saying something Gale doesn't follow, his mind an overwound film reel spinning back to the roadhouse. Maybe he's got it wrong, having mistaken a total stranger for someone in his memory.
“My cousin says half these vice raids don't even lead anywhere,” Fitz goes on, warming to the subject despite his earlier effort to brush it off. “Just rounds ‘em up, scares ‘em, lets most go by morning. Unless they got a name in the papers already.”
Some laughter at that, not unkind exactly, but not needing to be either—tossed off the way one might mention bad traffic. Lewis's eyes flash in Gale's mind again, alarmed but tinged with a strange aloofness, as if this wasn't the first time he'd put himself in that position. as if he couldn’t help himself. It occurs to Gale that he's never seen what color those eyes are in daylight. He has a hunch there may never be a chance to know.
“Serves them right, if you ask me,” someone chimes in.
“Well, what were they expecting?” another says. “This ain't Paris.”
“Hey now. You been anywhere near Europe?”
They burst out laughing, giggly and clueless. Something goes off in Gale and sucks the sound right out of the air around him—it takes him a moment to place it as anger, red and sharp, the smell of blood ghosting in his nose. He grabs hold of the toothpick box in his coat pocket, matching his classmates' pace, and thinks of gravel, vinyl, cold, the metallic taste in his mouth. Feels the asphalt shift under his feet as if it might swallow him whole. He wants to bite into something soft and weak until it gives before he goes down, but the impulse wanes as he realizes they wouldn’t even begin to fathom what hit them.
ALEXANDER JEFFERSON
Masters of the Air | Red Tail Captured, Red Tail Free: Memoirs of a Tuskegee Airman and POW (Sketches by Alexander Jefferson. Click for better quality.)
-> HBOWW2Rewatch Week 12: Perception (vs perception) vs reality
I like writing Gale with anger it's like one of his most vibrant emotions to me
cw: period-typical homophobia
Thanksgiving break brings a lull to the usual rigor of readings and colloquiums, and with it, restlessness. When one of Gale's classmates, a lanky fellow named Fitz who sits two rows ahead in thermodynamics, proposes they grab drinks before everyone scatters home for the holiday, Gale doesn’t have a good enough reason to refuse. They end up six in total, spilling out of the library steps into the winter night, breath fogging in front of them.
The block near the campus has a reputation for its nightlife, though it's not the sort of reputation administrative staff mentions in orientation pamphlets. Neon signs flicker above doorways, jazz spilling out each time a door opens, then swallowed again when it swings shut. Gale walks slightly apart from the group, only half listening to whatever Fitz is arguing with Elaine about. Up ahead, a commotion catches the corner of his eye: a cluster of policemen, a black car with its lights still spinning idly, a handful of men lined up against the brick wall of a club with an inconspicuous signboard.
Gale looks, for a second too long, and recognizes one of the men.
Lewis. That's his name—or Gale thinks it is. Among the men John had introduced him to at a roadhouse a few months back, ones whose names he'd been too polite to ask twice, Lewis was the one who'd shaken his hand, asked about the history behind Gale's shared nickname with John, and that had been the extent of it. Now the man stands with his back against the wall, hair ruffled, tie loosened, sweat glinting at his hairline despite the cold. His eyes, dark under the streetlight, land on Gale for a fraction of a second as the group passes. Something flickers behind them, though nothing shows on his face aside from the reflexive alertness of someone cataloging who's a threat and who isn't.
Gale’s legs feel strange, sluggish, like his guts have dropped and tangled somewhere around his knees. But he must have kept moving, because the next thing he knows, the commotion is already behind him, out of sight.
“Wonder what that was about,” someone says once they've cleared the block.
“Oh, you know what that place is,” Fitz says. “Everybody knows.”
“Know what?” Elaine asks.
Fitz gives a short laugh—the polite discomfort of a decent man who'd rather the subject came up after a few more drinks. “Just—that kind of place, Elaine.” He tilts his head, making a face that finishes the sentence without the vocabulary to do so.
The others nod along, like they'd all figured as much already. The answer doesn't seem to satisfy Elaine. She's saying something Gale doesn't follow, his mind an overwound film reel spinning back to the roadhouse. Maybe he's got it wrong, having mistaken a total stranger for someone in his memory.
“My cousin says half these vice raids don't even lead anywhere,” Fitz goes on, warming to the subject despite his earlier effort to brush it off. “Just rounds ‘em up, scares ‘em, lets most go by morning. Unless they got a name in the papers already.”
Some laughter at that, not unkind exactly, but not needing to be either—tossed off the way one might mention bad traffic. Lewis's eyes flash in Gale's mind again, alarmed but tinged with a strange aloofness, as if this wasn't the first time he'd put himself in that position. as if he couldn’t help himself. It occurs to Gale that he's never seen what color those eyes are in daylight. He has a hunch there may never be a chance to know.
“Serves them right, if you ask me,” someone chimes in.
“Well, what were they expecting?” another says. “This ain't Paris.”
“Hey now. You been anywhere near Europe?”
They burst out laughing, giggly and clueless. Something goes off in Gale and sucks the sound right out of the air around him—it takes him a moment to place it as anger, red and sharp, the smell of blood ghosting in his nose. He grabs hold of the toothpick box in his coat pocket, matching his classmates' pace, and thinks of gravel, vinyl, cold, the metallic taste in his mouth. Feels the asphalt shift under his feet as if it might swallow him whole. He wants to bite into something soft and weak until it gives before he goes down, but the impulse wanes as he realizes they wouldn’t even begin to fathom what hit them.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
