MagPi

Small friends :>

A magpie fursuit with their brow pierced

Surrender your shinies. 

#BatPics
🐦 @magpiarts.bsky.social

Anyone else get the urge to keep all their friends in a shoebox?

CW: #Vore, #Mawshot

Taking a deep look at a Yinglet's mouth is understandable. Just be sure you can resist going beyond zhat... ✨

A lil style experiment..! Somezhing simple yet a bit more clean zhan my usual sketch work c:

Seconding WildePrints, they're in-fandom and everything I've printed with them came out amazing.

CW: #vore

Help I like drawing neck bulges a lot actually

Yinglets got such long necks for it too......

I'm sure someone else has had this cursed thought somewhere but do y'all think snakes are pawless or are they just one big long wiggly paw?

Had a need to draw fun perspectives wizh my own toes c:

Cozy times is different. Communication doesn't *have* to happen, and when you're comfortable with another creature to that extent it's fine. My issue is trying to communicate ideas or even basic thoughts to others increasingly often.

Anyone else ever feel like just communicating with other entities is exhausting and ultimately only results in nothing useful? Sometimes that's me.

A low angle POV of a bat looming over the viewer with a sultry look on his face and a finger tugging at a plump sheath and balls while saying "Wanna take a ride?"

Your rideshare is here. Be sure to rate 5 stars and leave a good tip~

#KurriArt #SheathChurch
Art by @magpiarts.bsky.social

gentle sharps <3

A! Zhanks //>v<//

Weh! //>v<//

@goobeak.bsky.social >v>

This is looking SO GOOD

huff, goodness //>v<//

no but it should be >v>

Goodness.. honestly, I need to draw things along this line. Sister bonding time between a veteran and a newly-minted yinglet. @hypo.bsky.social teaching me how to be a yinglet.

Such a pretty bat <3

aa thank you! I have more art of this form that's more recent on the queue, but it'll be a few weeks before that gets posted. Suffice to say I've been drawing a LOT of yinglets lately.. blame Hypo, it's gotten me utterly ying-brained.

LOL omg. I still haven't seen that but I heard it was good XD

a gigantic anthro bat with massive sheath relaxes on two buildings

This was a warmup piece from long ago for @kurrikage.me <3
#magpiart #furryart #furrymacro

Reference views, front and back, of a female yinglet in magpie colors.

My yinglet form reference! A certain yinglet sister ( @hypo.bsky.social ) might have zhatzhinged me..  This is already a bit out of date but screw it I wanna post it anyway.
#magpiart #furryart #yinglet

I can't believe there's a set of four movies between Revolutions and Resurrections where Neo becomes the greatest hitman and Morpheus just stays as himself the entire time.

I wish so hard this was real. I want a modern keyboard with the feel of those keys.

Making them choke out on deer clit.

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

Need these stickers..

I know the feel, but it's worth it!