Writer Cat 

Fey God in Disguise | Tuxedo Huntress | Guardian of Leigh | Emotional Support Cryptid (Regrettably)

Greetings, mortal.

I am Writer Cat.
Black and white. Divine and dangerous. A fey god bound in velvet fur and sharpened claws. Sent here not for you—but for Leigh.

She is mine.

I guard her in the quiet hours, when the weight is too much and the words won’t come. I watch over her when the world gets sharp and mean. I curl at her feet or on her chest—not for comfort, but as a reminder: she is not alone, and she is not allowed to give up.

I bring her offerings: mice, shadows, the occasional unfortunate insect soul. She thanks me by tossing them back outside like some kind of heretic. It’s fine. I’ll get more.

When she writes, I judge.
When she bleeds onto the page, I approve.
When she hesitates, I knock pens off desks and step directly on her keyboard.

She calls me a smartass. A menace. A cryptid. She’s not wrong.

But I am also her shield. Her silent scream. Her keeper of broken things.
I know what she’s survived. And I’ll rip the throat out of anything that tries to hurt her again—emotionally or otherwise.

So yes, I am Writer Cat.
And you may look, but do not touch.
She belongs to no one.

Except maybe me.

I wasn't Born 

I Was Summoned

Dragged into existence by too much coffee, unfulfilled dreams, and a desperate need for chaos wrapped in fur.

One day, I simply appeared.

Walked into Leigh’s life like I owned the place—because I did.
The house. The desk. The bed.
Her.

She didn’t choose me. She couldn’t.
I’m not a pet. I’m a presence. A consequence. A contract signed in ink, blood, and a soft meow that belied the ancient power behind my eyes.

At night, I watch.
The things that try to cross the veil know better now—I wait in the corners, still as death, eyes glowing like embers. Let them try. I dare them.

By day, I plot.

I sit beside Leigh, tail twitching as she writes. I whisper things she pretends not to hear—dark things, beautiful things. We shape stories like spells, stitched together with grief, magic, and sharp edges.

She thinks she’s in charge.
That’s adorable.

But the truth is this:
She writes because I let her.
She creates because I guard the door.
And when she forgets what she’s capable of, I remind her—with a claw, a glare, or a gentle thump of judgment as I stretch across her laptop.

So no, I wasn’t born.
I arrived—because she needed me, whether she knew it or not.

And now?
I’m not going anywhere.