Luna Fox

the full stink

turns out i never posted this oops lol
it was meant to go up before the berry pic

disconnected sense of self

POV: You’re the Halloween candy....

A vividly colorful digital painting of a zombie with a weird alien growth merged with its jaw and traveling down its torso, terminating in tentacles

Day 4 of #zombieskulltober #darkart and this is all @stringerseven.bsky.social ’s fault 😂

🎃HALLOWEEN DOODLES🎃

📦Setting a little money chest.

👉Until the 31st, for $10 I will pull a small doodle of a ghoul from the chest. We need many ghouls for a proper, spooky Halloween.

ko-fi.com/cspstuff

Hylics

Yip! #art #digital

Comic with two chickens and an egg One of the two chicken says "it's about to hatch!". The second panel shows an egg with cross hatching.

Comic

and scene

"2000s pop song plays at the background"
You can see the full comic on my Patreon 🔞
#Nathan #Harper #Nycan #werewolf

WereYeen

My brother ordered the second run of Knife Plushie and he loves it x3

if you haven’t been paying attention, palestinian accounts have been getting banned for no reason. most of whom are looking for mutual aid. most of whom have to risk their lives for internet to ask for help.

email bluesky and shame them for this abhorrent behavior.

moderation@blueskyweb.xyz

The CEO of Bluesky is craven and evil. The only people that build these platforms are infected with the self-reproducing moral rot of capitalism. They have no sense of duty or stewardship. They see their monetary reward as a cleansing justification for their actions.

GwenFox transformed into a Were-fox as she stands happily with her flappy tongue out. Behind her are trees and the full moon shining upon her.

Transform for WERETOBER YCH! Any species, gender, outfit: $75. Show your wild side! Check the link in the post for the form.

kick off the spooky season with a WERETOBER YCH! 🐺 🎃

linktr.ee/rometwinextra

Mix N Match Creature
#kaseyart #penandink

A digital sketch of a black wolf standing menacingly over another canine who lies supine. The black wolf has intense yellow eyes and a slightly opened mouth. One paw is placed upon the other canines elbow. We see through the lying canids eyes, looking down the snout and past the dark wolf we can see towering trees and grey clouds in a dark night sky. Peeks of a clear sky full of stars can be seen.

come closer and see
see into the dark
just follow your eyes

🐉🧡

A hand-drawn black-and-white cover image in a sketchy ink style. At the top, large stenciled type reads: “LOOK INTO MY EYES ONE LAST TIME.” Below the title is a syringe and a small medicine vial labeled “LUPINEX – Therionyl – 5mL,” with a stylized eye logo on the label. The vial and syringe are crosshatched with vintage texture lines. Below the drawing, in handwritten script, is the phrase: “Homecoming, not vanishing” and the signature Shimi & Critter.

[Art on Page] A detailed graphite drawing of a wolf’s eyes. One, the left is more formed than the right — indicating a near but not complete transition. The fur around them is dense and wispy, rendered in fine pencil lines that suggest softness and depth. The eyes are highly realistic and expressive, staring directly outward with intense, soulful focus. They seem alert but ancient—wide with instinct, watching as if waiting for something to begin. The drawing fades at the edges into blank white space, giving the eyes a floating, disembodied presence. Look into my eyes one last time Look into my eyes. Hold them close until you can see the last scrap of me — the part that counts thoughts in lists, that weighs choices against rules, that folds shame into tidy, human-shaped pockets. Watch it loosen. Watch the corners of doubt unhook themselves like small animals from a net and dart away. There is no melodrama here, no violent yanking; it slips. The human mind peels like old bark, and underneath, the thing that always was settles warm and terrible and simple. They give me the last injection in a room that smells faintly of cedar and lemon. No needles, no cold clinical lecture — only the careful hands of doctors, veterinarians and nurses who know which bones to cradle and which stories to leave untold. I breathe. I lost the ability to count days back. I let the bracing liquid be a gate, not an instruction manual. I do not want to name it; names are the thin net that caught me for years. The burn is a rumour. It goes through me sideways — a quiet rearrangement, like a convent bell that signals not death but a calling. My limbs answer first. They stop thinking of movement and begin to remember it: how to fold, to coil, to push.

Tendons unlearn the polite phrasing of two-legged steps and curve toward the old, fourfold geometry of running. My hands tighten and flatten; the knuckles find a new logic. Fur prickles along my forearms as if a thousand small moths take flight together and settle again. Each hair is a note in a chord I’ve felt… no… known in my bones since childhood. Look again. See how the pupils widen, how the whites retreat like a shy moon. My last maps of metaphor — the maps that turned hunger into lists and longing into projects — dissolve. Where there had been a ledger of self, there is now only the immediate ledger of scent and sound and the earth’s exact tilt beneath my weight. I do not mourn the maps. I never used them as well as the human world predicted and as I pretended. Sound changes. Those little, trivial noises of the room condense into a chorus: the slow tick of breath in the person beside me, the whisper of fabric, the distant wet confluence of gutters. And underneath that: a low, patient life-frequency — root and soil and river. It is not music so much as an acknowledgment. I find I can hear the insect conversation inside the walls, the sap walking up the birch, the small, stupid heartbeat of a mouse two blocks away. There is an intimacy to it that is almost rude. Breath becomes work and worship at once. My ribcage narrows, then widens in ways I know but cannot name. Milk memories — a thing to shame into silence when human — rise like a tide: the cadence of suckling, the doctrinal simplicity of being called to feed and to protect. A swelling around my belly that is not fat but purpose. I think of my children who never were, of the packs I have loved in mute pieces. The notion of motherhood is larger than gender; it is a compass with teeth. My children! You are my children and you are my all!

My jaw shifts. I feel the slow, inevitable rearrangement — a socket loosens, a hinge finds its voice. A tooth erupts where an organised thought had lived. The smell of iron, rain-damp soil, and sleeping bodies that have waited for me — flooding my mouth like saliva. Tears come and I do not know if they are human or creature; they taste of salt and release. There is a tenderness in my own trembling that I have never allowed before. Outside the window, someone whose scent I knew laughs and it sounds to me like a distant bell. The handlers murmur: careful, gentle, let her and her pack decide. My mouth forms the shape and bark of guttural assent I could not voice when I was wholly human. Somewhere a crate opens as if the world is taking a breath with me. They will test me further, yes. They will see whether my newness walks toward the wild or clings to the small, safe hands of fosterers who will teach me boundaries, how to pass in a world of paved things. I do not fear them. I am no longer wrapped in that ledger — of consent, of cost, of consequence. I am wrapped in appetite and mercy. The choice, if there is one, feels less like an argument and more like a direction: toward den or home, toward the kill lovingly taken or the bowl lovingly given. Look once more. There is no human drama in my eyes now — only depth, like a riverbed where stones remember every footstep. The last scrap of thought, the tiny librarian of my life who loved lists, things and order, exhales and steps back through the doorway we are leaving open. I feel it go, and where it is gone there is fullness, a pulse that answers the creature’s call without translation. This is not a loss. It is not my obliteration. It is the solving of a long, clenched equation. I am not lessened. I am finally the shape I have been learning. Look into my eyes, one last time. I am awakening. — Shimi & Critter @shimi.bsky.social

New zine: “Look Into My Eyes One Last Time”

A final love letter to the self I shed
A prayer for the creature. Becoming
A reckoning, a surrender. Homecoming

This is my deepest wish laid bare—needle, fur, breath, & mercy. Being held with a care I never found.

#AnimalHRT #Therianthropy #ShortStory

Hi I've heard of it, am that :3

Transformation being a gateway into the furry fandom???? NEVER HEARD OF IT

Girl with black and teal braids surrounded by toys, handheld games and electronics from the 90's! Some to note are Gameboy, Gameboy Color, Super Magic Diary, Gameboy Advance, Nintendo 64, Sega Game Gear, Tamagotchi, Pokemon Pikachu, Bop It, Yak Pak, Nintendo GameCube, Tiger Handheld Electronic - Aladdin but i made it look silly, and Talkboy which i was wracking my brain about lol.

Wow! (part of the 2023 nostalgiababy.theartkids.org) #art

do u think she likes long bacon
#deltarune

sick!!

Lucky Dragon and Friends Page #23

Love Lucky Dragon? Get the plushies and more! ❤️
luckydragonfriends.com

[ #webcomics #webtoon #webtooncanvas ]

processing fragments

#deltarune #krusie let's hangout together for the rest of our lives or something dude 💍🤜🤛

Hello there! I am Diesel, I like to draw animal people with sharp teeth, regardless of if they should have sharp teeth.

I also live in other places: https://linktr.ee/diamantefangs

traditional painting, acrylic on canvas