Wolf 🌕 ☉∇&

HoundGoon

My oc Cassidy an anthro arctic fox character drawn here with a grin and her hands up leaning over. She’s wearing a 2 piece set of a tank top and pencil skirt with garter belt tights

On the prowl 🦊
#furryart

Two anthropomorphic animal characters visiting a butterfly conservatory. One is covered in butterflies, the other is excited to take a picture.

this is where they went after meeting up (kelcie's idea)

Picture of a mercadiez bend g wagon G63 6x6 which has 3 sets of wheels. Written on the image is the word "Caur" spelled C A U R.

This is @caniselastis.bsky.social 's fault

#silly #caur #centaur

Lil' gift for @hakudoge.bsky.social of his curl gurl, Panama!

a fox and wolf bathing in a knee-high lake filled with crystals and shit. the wolfs got a big fat boner that he's acting oblivious to. the fox is watching said boner pensively. it will take 7 seasons for them to kiss once.

wolfo and fops from last years beware calendar

Shibari cow sketch (they're leaking from anticipation) #nsfw

👋 Hey, Michigan furs (and beyond)!
We’re absolutely thrilled to introduce Michigan Anthro Weekend (MAW) - a brand new furry con planned for October 2026 in Grand Rapids!

Follow us to stay in the loop- and get ready to experience MAW! 🦷✨

#FurryCon #MichiganFurs #MAWCon #Furry

💜show me your lizard

She's waiting
but for what

big dommy werewolf mommy

~for first day of weretober!

#furryart #yiff

Kurrikage

Dolled Up 💅

This digitally painted piece honors the survivor spirit of the coyote by tracing its lineage from the first cells of life to the animal trotting our landscapes today. Below the horizon, carefully chosen ancestors mark pivotal moments in adaptation, each contributing to the form and survivor we see today. Above the horizon, Coyote stands alert at the center, framed by both Denver’s skyline and a mountain backdrop, symbols of their ability to thrive in cities as well as wilderness. Embedded in the ground are the skulls and bones of carnivores whose lineages ended long ago, emphasizing Coyote’s persistence in contrast.

"I Contain Multitudes"

This digitally painted piece honors coyote by tracing its lineage from the first cells of life to the animal trotting our cities and the wilderness today.

The thread gives descriptions of all the extinct organisms shown in this piece (not to scale)

Weretober Day 5: Flying Fox
Me when i see the picture after the night out
#weretober

A watercolour of a coyote walking to the right, mid step. He is wearing a green backpack and has a compass and GPS hanging from lanyards around his neck

Time to explore

#furryart

arf

all vore is fatal, they've been lying to you

Sketches of an anthropomorphic spotted hyena and brown hyena

Hmm time to draw a woman [draws a big masc butch] nice cool ok time to draw a man [draws a disheveled long twink] nice. I’m so mysterious and unpredictable

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

Hot jackal guy lifting his tank top and he has some nice abs

I never draw Throck enough so i am remedying that. Goth man thirst trap
#BjyordArt #furry

Old OC update
Janine

Open up your eyes.

WereYeen

a simple digital painting of church pews in a darkened room with a black dog sitting in one row. The dog has pale, glowing eyes and stares at the viewer.

God's not here.
This is an empty box.

#Art #Darkart

Three colored sketches of three anthropomorphic female characters featured in the Laikaverse story Rin: Cursed by Blood. From left to right an older gazelle woman with a sniper rifle, Pebble. A coyote with a revolver and the same iconic outfit from the game, the titular Rin, and a muscular wolf with a grenade launcher, Seethree.

Lil bit of fanart for Rin: Cursed by Blood! Fantastic fanfic and a must read if you're a Laika: Aged Through Blood fan :]

Hello? I need new PS2 friends to play with so much! I'm a 4k hrs salty vet and I love my battle bus

A pencil drawing of a werewolf laying down calmly.

spent my time drawing tonight instead of doomscrolling

new audacity logo looking like

this is basically my kinda fit at home

Art for @pogonip.bsky.social

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