Tessera

Silvergriffin21

@silvergriffin21.bsky.social

27/F Genuine owl face. No make up. ΘΔ Therian, Trans, 100% bird brain. Been in bird community over a decade. Welsh! Lives in Scotland currently Artist, Mechanic, Photographer, Fur suiter, Tf artist

100 Posts57 Follower 41 Folgt

FURRJOI @furrjoi.com · 9mo ago

✨𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 & 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘✨ Horse hooves officially launched: furrjoi.com/promotion/116 - Small sizes fit for EU 36-39; Large sizes fit for 42-46 - Small and large differ in shape; please check before ordering 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 + 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 + 𝐑𝐓 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬! #hooves

Shimi @shimi.bsky.social · 11mo ago

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

[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

😸 Hugo the pink cat 😸@hugothepinkcat.bsky.social · last yr.

Juno Birch's impression of Joanne Rowling walking into a women's washroom

Silvergriffin21 @silvergriffin21.bsky.social · last yr.

Bird rocking bussom

Tiercel 𓆇 𓅊@tiercel.bsky.social · last yr.

Lugger loaf

Corvi - 🐣🎉💖@corviforms.bsky.social · last yr.

happy mothers day 🪺

doodle of a robin squished down in a nest with a button that reads #1 Mom

roundbirbart @roundbirb.art · last yr.

Awebo‼️

Hellvetika 🏳️‍⚧️ ⚧@hellvetikaseraph.bsky.social · last yr.

bsky.app/profile/hell...

Hellvetika 🏳️‍⚧️ ⚧@hellvetikaseraph.bsky.social · last yr.

www.facebook.com/share/1DSnNM... If you find yourself arguing with people who want to talk about XX and XY, penises and vaginas.. They won't read this but refer them to this anyway.

In 1890, the X and Y chromosomes were discovered. It was found that the men who were tested had 46 chromosomes, including an X and a Y, while women who were tested also had 46 chromosomes, including 2 X chromosomes.

So obviously the conclusion was that the Y chromosome defined masculinity. A reasonable conclusion.

Fast forward 50 years... and it was found that some men had 47 chromosomes, including 2 X's and a Y, while some women had 45, including only one X. Still no problem with the "Y chromosome defines masculinity" idea.

Then... it was found that fully 1 in 300 men weren't 46,XY. Some women were.

Oops.

After DNA was discovered in the 50s, it was found that the SrY gene, usually found on the Y chromosome, sometimes was missing. And sometimes had been translocated to another chromosome, hence 46,XX men and 46,XY women. So SrY defined masculinity.

Then.. it was found out that some men didn’t have an SrY chromosome, not anywhere. Some women did. Other genes were involved. Worse, other factors, such as Androgen Insensitivity made 46,XY people female, and Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia masculinised 46,XX people.

Then in the 70s, other syndromes, such as 5alpha-reductase-2 deficiency were identified, which caused babies to look like one sex at birth, then the other at puberty. Worse, in some places 1 in 50 infants had this natural sex change, it was not rare there.

Katy Montgomerie 🦗@katymontgomerie.com · last yr.

This statement about the transphobic Supreme Court ruling by the UK's Crab Museum (yes a museum about crabs) is better than 99% of the statements I've seen on the topic www.crabmuseum.org/visit 🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

Silvergriffin21 @silvergriffin21.bsky.social · last yr.

Love how the only news of the trans protest on Uk is an article saying how vandals drew on some stones...impartial right BBC?

Meesh @cookiedoves.bsky.social · last yr.

lord of the wings

colinstu @colinstu.birdbutt.com · last yr.

I love seeing these huge soft loafs trying to land on the tops of these trees.

Silvergriffin21 @silvergriffin21.bsky.social · 2y ago

The hidden colours of birds always amaze me, a cormorant looks black. but is it? Nope.

Silvergriffin21 @silvergriffin21.bsky.social · 2y ago

I love meeting rodent furrs/therians, just standing imposing over them. beak breathing heavily..

Scottish Greens @scottishgreens.org · 2y ago

LGBT+ rights were won over decades through activism, struggle and solidarity. But now more than ever we see powerful forces working to divide us and roll them back, while others stand aside. Human rights are non-negotiable. They must be at the heart of Scotland's future. 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Ekron Vulture @ekron-vulture.bsky.social · 2y ago

Just putting this here for no good reason.

LeedsFurs @leedsfurs.bsky.social · 2y ago

Who watches the watchnook? Don't forget our first meet of the year is tomorrow! 🦝: @mow.sh 🦅: @silvergriffin21.bsky.social 📷: @bazil.bsky.social #LeedsFurs #FursuitFriday #MainMeet

A Tanuki fursuiter peering over railings, watched by an Griffin fursuiter on a higher level.

Silvergriffin21 @silvergriffin21.bsky.social · 2y ago

@ericmalves.bsky.social finally joins the fray!

kibty @pterigrus.bsky.social · 2y ago

Fanart for @ericmalves.bsky.social 's incredible novel, Anima. If you're a fan of transformation, I definitely recommend it! Cannot wait to start reading the sequel. This is the main character, Lyall, inspired by the scene where he grows his beak. #transformation #furryart