🚨URGENT: Congress prepares to push forward wolf slaughter bill that would remove federal protections for gray wolves across the lower 48 states and prohibit judicial review. Decision will be voted on Dec. 15 and could move to a House vote next week.
📣Take action: https://bit.ly/4adWexU
Release day giiveaway! Fɾee mask. Bluesky exclusive. Share + comment to enter rafflle for a fɾee mask (plus other goodies I’ll drop in the box). Yes, I’ll ship internationally. The mask has minor cosmetic flaws, but it’s cool as fuck. Background image shows the hardcover of Feral Flame with the buffalo illustration, and a dark canid mask over a moody illustration with a feral wolf.
🐮💚 Happy Feral Flame release day! 🐺🔥
Book 4 of 6 of the #NossSaga ✅ ... Two more to go.
Help me spread the word, and good luck getting that mask!
#BookSky 🌈📚 #QueerBookSky
Happy birthday!
19.10.2025 14:41 — 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
its #TFTuesday again fellas! this is my fave one I've done so far
19.09.2023 18:47 — 👍 85 🔁 20 💬 1 📌 0
Two ink drawings on textured paper, each depicting a pair of wolves curled together in intimate, circular poses. In the top image, one wolf drapes protectively over the other, their bodies forming a tight spiral of fur and tenderness. In the lower image, the two lie intertwined, mirroring one another in a yin-yang–like composition. Both wolves have small glowing circles at their hearts, symbols of inner light. Each piece is signed “Shimi” in a red seal. The overall mood is one of deep affection, safety, and unity — creatures finding warmth in each other’s presence.
Re-child yourself / Re-wild thyself.
15.10.2025 20:50 — 👍 393 🔁 122 💬 2 📌 0
starparkdesigns you deserve to be in environments that bring out the softness in you, not the survival in you STARPARK
you deserve to be in environments that bring out the softness in you, not the survival in you
10.08.2025 03:04 — 👍 948 🔁 345 💬 5 📌 2![[A furry transformation comic with eight panels]
A guy yawns and sits sleepily at a table with a box of cereal, a spoon, and an empty bowl. There is a maze on the back of the box.
The front of the cereal box reads "DoggO" and features a dog mascot. The guy says "hm" and reads a handwritten note in front of the bowl: "New brand I found for you. Eat up before our walk! ^v^"
He pours the cereal and some milk into the bowl and eats a spoonful of it. The pieces are shaped like bones and rings.
He says "mm!" and his hair starts growing fluffy and grey, his nose becomes a little snoutlike, and fur starts to appear on his body. He licks his lips when his face becomes a furry grey canine muzzle. His ears grow larger and a mane begins to form on the back of his neck. The rest of his body is now almost completely grey with fur.
He stands up, pushing his chair back and sleepily looking down into the cereal as a small fluffy tail pops out of his pants and a mane of thick dark grey fur makes its way down his spine. His face and ears are almost entirely canine.
As the rest of his body takes on the shape of a maned wolf, he plants his paws on the table, plunges his face into the bowl, and frantically laps up more cereal, knocking over the box and the chair.
Licking his lips again, he climbs up onto the table (which is now covered in milk and cereal) with his tall, goofy, maned-wolf body, discarding his pants and excitedly wagging his tail. He eyes up the pile of cereal that remains in the box.
He sticks his whole muzzle into the box, wearing it on his head and eating as much cereal as he can. The author of the note (and, presumably, the provider of the cereal) arrives home and sees him sitting on his rump on the table amid the mess: "Are you ready for our w— HEY, GET OFF THE TABLE"](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:taomwumgr4h6irdrqqmrcckn/bafkreiektfuacm2obekzjaunpxmkawjzjumblapwxryb74pptv5zjfzxwq@jpeg)
[A furry transformation comic with eight panels] A guy yawns and sits sleepily at a table with a box of cereal, a spoon, and an empty bowl. There is a maze on the back of the box. The front of the cereal box reads "DoggO" and features a dog mascot. The guy says "hm" and reads a handwritten note in front of the bowl: "New brand I found for you. Eat up before our walk! ^v^" He pours the cereal and some milk into the bowl and eats a spoonful of it. The pieces are shaped like bones and rings. He says "mm!" and his hair starts growing fluffy and grey, his nose becomes a little snoutlike, and fur starts to appear on his body. He licks his lips when his face becomes a furry grey canine muzzle. His ears grow larger and a mane begins to form on the back of his neck. The rest of his body is now almost completely grey with fur. He stands up, pushing his chair back and sleepily looking down into the cereal as a small fluffy tail pops out of his pants and a mane of thick dark grey fur makes its way down his spine. His face and ears are almost entirely canine. As the rest of his body takes on the shape of a maned wolf, he plants his paws on the table, plunges his face into the bowl, and frantically laps up more cereal, knocking over the box and the chair. Licking his lips again, he climbs up onto the table (which is now covered in milk and cereal) with his tall, goofy, maned-wolf body, discarding his pants and excitedly wagging his tail. He eyes up the pile of cereal that remains in the box. He sticks his whole muzzle into the box, wearing it on his head and eating as much cereal as he can. The author of the note (and, presumably, the provider of the cereal) arrives home and sees him sitting on his rump on the table amid the mess: "Are you ready for our w— HEY, GET OFF THE TABLE"
DoggO's! Breakfast cereal for canines—including you, if you don't mind being a dog for a day!
🎨 PineconePaladin
www.furaffinity.net/view/62612562/
(For higher resolution, see FA ⬆️ or replies ⬇️!)
#furry #furryart #transfur #transformation #tf #manedwolf #aguaraguazu #loboguara
Coasters are awesome too! I’ve seen people in their 70s ride them. You fiiiine!
09.10.2025 10:45 — 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 1 📌 0
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.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:6hpcvbf2bhtwyfh5cfmx6clw/bafkreievifoujnv75rp5xqfgciv32ujns4h34ljset745atwuduopqikei@jpeg)
[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
LOOK INTO MY EYES ONE LAST TIME Hold me close until you can see the last scrap of me — the part that counts thoughts in lists, 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; 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 cold lecture — only careful hands, people who know which bones to cradle and which stories to leave untold. I breathe. I let the bracing liquid be a gate, not an instruction manual. Names fade; names were the thin net that caught me. The burn is a rumor that moves through me sideways — a quiet rearrangement, like a bell that signals not death but calling. My limbs answer first. They stop thinking of movement and begin to remember it: how to fold, coil, push. Tendons unlearn two-legged politeness and curve toward the fourfold logic of running. My hands tighten and flatten; fur prickles along my forearms as if a thousand moths lift and settle. Each hair is a note in a chord I’ve felt… no… known since childhood. Look again. Pupils widen; the whites retreat like a shy moon. The last maps of metaphor — the ledgers that turned hunger into lists and longing into projects — dissolve. Where there had been accounting of self, there is now only 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 I pretended. Sound condenses: the slow arc, the breath of the person beside me, the whisper of fabric, the distant wet gutters. Underneath it: a low, patient life-frequency — root and soil and river.
I hear the insect conversation in the walls, sap walking up birch, the stupid heartbeat of a mouse two blocks away. Intimacy. It is almost rude. Breath becomes work and worship at once. My ribcage narrows and widens in ways I cannot name. Milk memories rise like tide: the cadence of suckling, the simple law of feeding and protecting. A swelling around my belly that is not fat but purpose. I think of children who never were, of packs loved in mute pieces. Motherhood is larger than gender; it is a compass with teeth. My children! You are my children. You are my all! My jaw shifts. A socket loosens, a hinge finds its voice. A tooth erupts where organized thought had lived. The smell of iron, of rain-damp soil, of sleeping bodies fills my mouth. Tears come; they taste of salt and release. There is a tenderness in my trembling I have not allowed before. Outside, someone laughs and it sounds like a bell. Handlers murmur: careful, gentle, let the pack decide. My mouth forms assent I could not voice when wholly human. Somewhere a crate opens as if the world takes a breath with me. They will test me — to see whether I walk toward wild or cling to fostered hands that teach passing in paved worlds. I do not fear them. I am no longer wrapped in ledgers of consent and consequence. I am wrapped in appetite and mercy. The choice, if there is one, feels less like 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, a riverbed where stones remember every footstep. The tiny librarian of my life exhales and steps back through the open doorway. Where it is gone there is fullness, a pulse answering the creature’s call without translation. This is not loss. 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
For those of you unable to make it to this location.
“Look into My Eyes One Last Time” — By Shimi and Critter
#tf #TFTuesday #Therian #HoloTherian
I am loyal Honest in instincts. Fierce when needed. Gentle to those I see as my own. A good wolf doesn’t mean tame, it means true to myself, a Wolf
26.09.2025 02:07 — 👍 3 🔁 3 💬 0 📌 0
Remember, folks:
You're loved
You're valued
You will see brighter days
You will see happier times
You can find self-acceptance
You can have joy
Your efforts are good enough
Your pursuits are valid
You're allowed to feel sad
You're allowed to feel happy
You're allowed to feel hopeful
Love ya all
❤️
THIS IS A THERIAN STOP POINT
stretch your tail
flex your claws
shake your coat if you have one
that's better ✨️🐾
Something I didn't think possible
17.10.2024 19:55 — 👍 4698 🔁 1660 💬 23 📌 17
@poxphox.bsky.social @ravenablack.bsky.social @draxera.bsky.social
19.08.2025 09:36 — 👍 10 🔁 3 💬 0 📌 0
Lil wolp sketch for #InternationalWolfDay 🐺🐾
14.08.2025 06:41 — 👍 243 🔁 53 💬 5 📌 0
Today, August 13th, is International Wolf Day! 🐺🎉🥳
Let’s celebrate our wild kin—may they run free, thrive in the wild, and be spared from both hunters and awkward werewolf movie stereotypes.
Things fell through… long story short we had to go home so didn’t get to see wolves. Hopefully I do get to see them soon….
08.08.2025 20:38 — 👍 1 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Beautiful morning and day yesterday at Indiana Beach with @kwandry.bsky.social. Was a great time to put it lightly. Really excited for our second stop today on the way home, stopping at a wolf sanctuary ^_^
08.08.2025 11:08 — 👍 6 🔁 0 💬 1 📌 0
So I was at a wolf sanctuary today. Let it be known, wolves are much bigger than you realize.
Human hand for scale.
I wish a very happy “fuck you” to everyone who thought throwing trans people under the bus was going to stop these lunatics
Their goal has *always* been the eradication of the entire LGBTQ+ community, and they’re not gonna stop at Obergefell either
This is why we fight for *everyone*
A loss of one’s father is one of the hardest things I had to go through….. I am willing to talk and listen to anything to help you get your pain off your chest….
22.07.2025 02:13 — 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0Can I be real for a minute?
15.07.2025 15:38 — 👍 10 🔁 3 💬 1 📌 4
Remember:
No matter what you're struggling with, you ARE worthy of love, care and happiness.
The bad things won't last forever. Life has a way of reminding us what's worth sticking around for if we allow it.
Stay with us.
No more absent friends 💜🦊💜
Burnout is clinically understood as a combo of 6 factors—work overload, lack of control, insufficient rewards, breakdown in community, absence of fairness, & value conflicts—and only a fraction of it is under your control. Burnout is a systemic problem, so be kind to yourself and hard on the system.
13.07.2025 23:10 — 👍 9766 🔁 3891 💬 53 📌 167
Remember to embrace small moments of joy as they come
Savor bites
Bask in the sun
Feel the breeze
Catch raindrops on your tongue
Kittens purr
Birds sing
Tails still wag, even when the skies are dark
Let yourself feel love
Let yourself feel hope
We'll overcome all of this
Until then,
Remember to live
Clarification: 20 coaster experiences. Not 20 different coasters
12.07.2025 03:01 — 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Cedar point today was really fun, got to ride 20 coasters and get two new credits with Sirens Curse and TT2 with @kwandry.bsky.social Great ops and keeping all coasters up today! @cedarpoint.bsky.social
Sirens curse in particular had a really fun layout. Was definately more than a gimmick.
A photograph of three drawings in a rough and expressive style. Left panel: A rough ink sketch of an upright anthropomorphic wolf performing a ritual. The wolf stands on two legs, howling upward while holding a staff in one paw and a stick in the other. At its feet are ceremonial objects—a lit vessel of an offering bowls, a leather book, a stone and a pinecone The background is filled with wild, expressive linework suggesting tall grasses or trees. Center panel: A large wolf crouches protectively over a small pup, cradling it gently with both front paws. The adult wolf’s head is lowered, touching the pup affectionately, eyes closed in tenderness. The composition is dense with fur texture and soft shadowing, evoking quiet nurture and warmth. Right panel: A seated wolf throws back its head to howl, one paw slightly raised, eyes closed. Tucked securely beneath its raised arm is a very small pup, looking out with wide eyes. Sparse forest linework forms the backdrop, emphasizing the emotional core of protective howling.
In ritual, in nurture,
With child held close
I invoke, I guard I sing
the work of love is not always gentle,
but it is a holy thing
I growl & howl not in anger,
but as a warning: here I stand
this child is mine to protect. I give all I am,
I give warmth, I give tooth,
so they may live & understand.
hey there. little one. i’ve been trailing your scent through the wasteland for days. don’t run. i’m not here to hurt you. i’m here to tell you—you’re not wrong. all your life you’ve twitched at shadows, felt eyes where there were none, ached like something was missing just under your skin. they called it dreaming. they called it madness. but i’ve seen it. i’ve seen you. and you’re real. not some soft mistake. not a too-bright child who never learned to settle. you are claws. you are hunger. you are song written in wet leaves and dirt. you are what came before language. don’t you remember? when you used to listen with your whole body? when you could read the sky like scripture? when sleep came only after circling down, nose to tail, heart to moss? you used to know these things. before they taught you to be still. before they filed your teeth and stuffed your mouth with plastic. before the quiet got so loud you forgot how to feel. but i didn’t forget you. and you didn’t lose it. it’s all still inside— the instinct, the kin-sense, the aching need to run without name or reason. the snarl that isn’t anger but love with no words. you’ve tried to play nice. tried to keep your head down, your tail tucked. but i see you. i see what’s under the mask. the beast that paces. the soft creature still watching the trees for a signal. for a friend. for a way home. listen. this world isn’t safe. but it was never meant to be. we weren’t made for steel boxes and lonely kitchens. we were meant for packs. for muddy paws and rib-warmth and eyes that say i know you. i don’t promise ease. but i promise this: you are not alone. you were never alone. so rise. panting, blinking, wild with grief— but rise. and when the night presses in, don’t whisper. howl. howl into the void until something howls back. and then run to it. run to the ones who remember. run like your name depends on it. because it does. i’ve waited so long. we all have come back. come through. come home. — Shimi & Critter
Hey There Little One
08.07.2025 00:24 — 👍 1092 🔁 464 💬 49 📌 14
