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Welcome to Bloodiequill’s World! ✍️

Hello everyone! I’m here with a brand-new blog, and this space will be a reflection of my stories, writing, and imagination! 🖋️ From short stories, poems, and character analyses to fanfictions and completely original works—this is the right place for it all.

What do I write?

Custom stories: I can bring to life the world or character you’ve always dreamed of.

Fandom content: Fanfiction, meta, or analyses for your favorite shows, movies, books, or games.

Anything else you need: Want a heartfelt letter, a monologue, or something written just for you? Done!

Commissions are open!

Yes, I can write personalized pieces for you! Whether it’s a short story, a longer work, or another format, I tailor it to your request. Prices depend on word count and type of content, but don’t worry—we’ll find something that fits your budget!

Why commission me?

I put my heart and soul into everything I write.

Every piece is customized to your vision.

Fast delivery & clear communication guaranteed!

Let's get started!

If you’re interested, feel free to DM me. Share your ideas, dreams, or even your wildest requests—I’ll take care of the rest! ✨

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bloodiedquill

The End of the Story

The rain came down in sheets, blurring the edges of the world as you stood beneath the awning of the old bookstore, clutching a dog-eared copy of *Wuthering Heights*. The city smelled of wet asphalt and regret, and you were waiting for him—Elliot, the man who’d slipped into your life like a melody you couldn’t stop humming. His name felt like a secret you’d been keeping from the universe itself.

Elliot was an artist, not the kind who painted grand canvases, but the kind who saw the world in fragments—sketches of strangers’ hands on coffee cups, the curve of a streetlamp against a twilight sky. His eyes, a storm-gray that seemed to shift with his moods, had caught yours one autumn evening at a poetry reading in a cramped café. You’d been reading your work aloud, your voice trembling with the weight of words you’d never dared to share before. When you finished, he’d leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and said, “You write like you’re trying to hold the world together.”

That was the beginning.

Now, six months later, you stood in the rain, your heart a fragile thing, waiting for him to meet you as he’d promised. The bookstore was your place—yours and his—a haven of worn pages and whispered conversations. You’d spent hours there, tucked into a corner with mugs of too-sweet tea, trading stories and silences that felt like love. He’d sketch you sometimes, his pencil moving with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “You’re my muse,” he’d say, his voice low, like he was confessing a sin.

But love, you were learning, was a fleeting thing, like the first snowflake that melts on your tongue. Elliot was restless, a soul tethered to the wind. He’d talk about leaving the city, chasing inspiration in places you’d never seen—Paris, Florence, some tiny village in the mountains where the air was sharp and clean. You’d laugh and say, “Take me with you,” but his smile would falter, and he’d look away, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup.

The rain slowed to a drizzle, and you saw him then, crossing the street with his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his dark hair damp and curling at the ends. Your heart leapt, a foolish thing, because even now, you knew. You knew the weight of his steps, the way his shoulders hunched when he had something to say that would break you.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The word was soft, but it carried a finality that made your stomach twist.

“Hey,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. The book in your hands felt heavier now, a shield you couldn’t quite wield.

Elliot looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was memorizing you for a sketch he’d never draw. “I got the residency,” he said finally, and the words landed like stones. “In Florence. They called this morning.”

Your breath caught, sharp and cold. “That’s… that’s amazing, Elliot.” You meant it, even as it hurt. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.” He said it so quietly you almost missed it, but the word sliced through you all the same. Tomorrow. Not next week, not next month. Tomorrow.

You nodded, your throat tight, and looked down at the book in your hands. The pages were damp from the rain, the ink smudging under your fingertips. “You’re going alone, aren’t you?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He didn’t speak for a moment, and the silence was louder than the rain. When he did, his voice was raw, like he was tearing something out of himself. “I have to. This… this thing we have, it’s beautiful, but it’s—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not built for staying, Y/N. I don’t know how to be the person you deserve.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that love was enough to anchor him, to keep him here with you. But the truth was a bitter pill: Elliot was a wanderer, and you were a dreamer who’d mistaken his fleeting presence for permanence. You’d built a world around him, but he’d always been half in, half out, his heart already halfway across the ocean.

“I love you,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. They hung in the air, fragile and true, and for a moment, his face softened, his eyes shining with something that might have been regret.

“I know,” he said, and it wasn’t the answer you wanted, but it was the only one he could give. “I’m sorry.”

He stepped closer, and for a heartbeat, you thought he might kiss you, might pull you into his arms and say he’d stay. But he only reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he took the book from your hands. He opened it to the title page, his pencil moving quickly, leaving behind a sketch of your face—soft lines, sad eyes, the curve of your lips he’d always said he loved. He pressed it back into your hands, his touch lingering for a moment too long.

“Keep this,” he said. “Keep writing. You’re going to be incredible.”

And then he was gone, walking back into the rain, his figure blurring into the gray of the city. You stood there, the book clutched to your chest, the sketch of yourself staring back at you like a ghost. The rain fell harder now, washing away the last traces of him, and you let the tears come, mingling with the droplets on your face.

You’d loved him, and he’d loved you in his way, but some stories don’t end with forever. Some stories end with a sketch in a book, a heart left open, and the ache of knowing you’d never quite be the same.