Nunc est bibendum

Hi, everyone. I know I’ve been avoiding direct messages and comments, and I’m sorry for disappearing without explaining where I was at. The truth is that I’ve been struggling to put all of this into words. I owe so much to the Heated Rivalry fandom. I have found an incredible amount of joy, love, and community here, and it has meant more to me than I can properly express. Seeing queer media finally receive this kind of mainstream attention has been genuinely wonderful.

However, the hate has become too much for me. I have had to completely filter my comments because of the way people have been speaking to me. Some of the direct messages I’ve received have included death threats. I write for free and for fun, and at some point, it stopped feeling like something I was allowed to enjoy. It became something I was afraid to share. Because of that, I am taking a hiatus from writing for Heated Rivalry. That is also why I took down Reaper. I don’t think it is fair to leave a WIP up indefinitely when I currently have no plans to finish it. It is fully outlined, and I am someone who deeply wants to complete the things I begin. With season two coming, I hope something sparks again, and I find my way back to it. Right now, though, it truly feels like a candle that has been blown out. I also know I mentioned I had written a 2nd part of Jane. I am sorry, but it will not be posted. Given the way I was treated—and the deeply inappropriate and uncomfortable comments made about gender exploration—I am no longer comfortable sharing anything connected to that story. I cannot subject myself (or any readers) to that again.

My writing is not gone. I have been writing anonymously in the Bloody Mary fandom for some time now, and I suspect some of you may have already found at least one of my pieces. If you are genuinely interested, you can message me privately for more information, though I may be slow to respond. This is not necessarily a permanent goodbye to Heated Rivalry. It is simply me being transparent about where I am right now and giving myself the space to enjoy writing again. To everyone who has read, commented with kindness, made art, shared my stories, or quietly followed along: thank you. None of this is directed at you, and I hope you know how deeply grateful I am for the love you have shown me.

Please be kind—to writers, to one another, and to yourselves.

“My father—” He stops. Swallows. His head pounds harder now, pulse thudding behind his eyes. “When he was sick, he hated it. Hated needing help. He said it made him less. I thought he was wrong. I thought I would not be like that.”

His vision swims. He leans back without meaning to, palm sliding behind him for support.

“And now I am,” he finishes hoarsely. “I am lying in bed while you do everything. I am making you anxious. I am making you cry. And you wash my hair—” His voice fractures. “It makes me feel like crying.”

Shane moves closer instantly.

“Ilya, stop.”

“I just don’t deserve it,” Ilya snaps anger rising to cover the fracture underneath.

Shane recoils like he’s been struck.

“Don’t,” he says immediately. It comes out low and shaking.

“Do not say that.”