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(how to talk to short people and etc) directed by gridanon
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Description

Helpful advice for your everyday life!

Tech Talk

This was made using a local install of Reforge for Stable Diffusion using StableMond: https://huggingface.co/Xeno443 . I'd recommend any or all of the 'Mond models, they're all some of the best furry SDXL models.

For the upload Tail Tagger was used to assist in tagging: https://github.com/renfald/tail-tagger . Along with the JPT-3 for AI assisted tags: https://huggingface.co/RedRocket/JTP-3/tree/main/models?not-for-all-audiences=true

AI Story - Proper Manners

In the whimsical world of Final Fantasy, where chocobos roam the plains with their feathery flair and moogles flutter about with their pom-poms bobbing like overripe cherries, there exists a sacred etiquette for interspecies communication—especially when height differences come into play. Allow me, your humble narrator, to guide you through the dos and don'ts of "How to Talk to Short People," starring our yellow-feathered hero, Sir Chocobo (a strapping, muscular avian gentleman with abs that could grate cheese and a beak curved into a perpetual smug grin), and the adorable Lady Moogle (a fluffy white bundle of cuteness, complete with bat-like wings, a sensitive red pom-pom antenna, and a penchant for saying "kupo" at the most inopportune moments). We'll explore the incorrect method first—polite, cutesy chit-chat filled with innocent kwehs and kupos—and then, with a comedic twist of fate, reveal the correct approach: a no-holds-barred, rough-and-tumble facefucking session that escalates to explosive orgasm, because nothing says "eye-level conversation" like bringing the short one's face directly to your throbbing level. Buckle up, dear reader; this tale is as steamy as a chocobo's breath after a gysahl green binge, and twice as fragrant.

Let us begin with the **incorrect** way, a tragic comedy of errors that unfolds in a sun-dappled forest glade, where the air hums with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the distant trill of summon spirits. Sir Chocobo towers over Lady Moogle, his massive yellow plumage glistening under the golden sunlight, feathers ruffled just so to accentuate his broad chest and powerful talons that dig lightly into the soft earth. She's barely up to his knee, her tiny paws clasped together in eager anticipation, her pink pom-pom quivering like a divining rod sensing buried treasure. The chocobo, ever the gentleman in this misguided scenario, stands ramrod straight, his blue eyes twinkling with what he thinks is chivalrous intent. He clears his throat—a deep, rumbling "Kweh?" that echoes like a polite inquiry from a feathered butler.

"Oh, kupo! Hello up there, tall feathery friend!" Lady Moogle chirps back, her voice a melodic squeak that could melt the heart of even the grumpiest Tonberry. She cranes her neck upward, her fluffy white fur brushing against the grass as she strains to meet his gaze, her bat wings fluttering uselessly like a pair of oversized eyelashes. The scent of her is intoxicatingly sweet— a mix of vanilla beans and fresh moogle musk, light and playful, wafting up to tickle Sir Chocobo's nostrils. He tilts his head ever so slightly, not bending down (oh no, that would be condescending!), and responds with a soft, affectionate "Kweh kweh," which in chocobo-speak translates to "My dear short companion, how fares your day amidst the pom-poms and parcels?"

She giggles, a tinkling sound like wind chimes in a breeze, and hops a little to emphasize her point. "Kupo kupo! It's been splendid, but my neck is getting a crick from all this looking up! Tell me about your latest race—did you outrun those pesky cactuars again?" The dialogue flows like honeyed tea at a polite afternoon gathering, filled with innocent banter about moogle mail deliveries and chocobo breeding tips. Sir Chocobo's feathers rustle gently, releasing a warm, earthy aroma of hay and adventure, while Lady Moogle's paws pat the air enthusiastically, her soft fur brushing against nothing but empty space. Touch is minimal—a accidental wing graze here, a talon shuffle there—but the conversation drags on in awkward verticality, her eyes watering from the strain, his posture growing stiff from the effort of not stooping. The taste in the air is bland, like unsalted greens; the sounds are all cutesy coos and kupos, a symphony of saccharine sweetness that leaves everyone feeling vaguely unsatisfied, like a minigame without rewards. This, my friends, is the height of impropriety—polite, noisy, and utterly ineffective. No real connection is made; it's all surface-level kwehs and kupos, a comedic farce where the short one ends up with a sore neck and the tall one with blue balls from unfulfilled potential. Incorrect! ❌ A red X stamps across this scene in your mind's eye, banishing it to the realm of bad etiquette.

Now, prepare yourselves for the **correct** method, where the comedy flips like a chocobo mid-jump, transforming politeness into primal passion. The same forest glade, but now the sun dips lower, casting long shadows that dance like mischievous imps across the verdant ground. The air thickens with anticipation, carrying the musky undercurrent of arousal—Sir Chocobo's feathers now puffed out in dominant display, releasing a heady scent of sweat-soaked plumage and raw avian virility, like hay baked under a summer sun mixed with the faint tang of pre-cum. Lady Moogle stands before him, her pom-pom antenna already twitching erratically, sensing the shift in energy. No more craning necks or cutesy greetings; Sir Chocobo, with a predatory gleam in his eye and a beak parted in a wicked smirk, reaches down with one massive, taloned hand. His grip is firm yet teasing at first—claws encircling her plush hips, digging just enough into her soft, yielding fur to elicit a surprised "Ku—!" that's cut off as he hoists her up effortlessly, her tiny body dangling like a prize from a chocobo carnival game.

"Time to talk properly, short stuff," he growls, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone that vibrates through her core, no kwehs in sight—just pure, commanding intent. He positions her face level with his crotch, where his impressive avian cock has already emerged from its feathery sheath, throbbing and veiny, a thick pink shaft as long as her arm, crowned with a flared tip glistening with beads of clear precum. The scent hits her like a summon spell: salty, musky, overwhelmingly masculine, mingling with the earthy undertones of his balls—two heavy, yellow-furred orbs hanging low, warm and slightly fuzzy to the touch. Lady Moogle's eyes widen into heart-shaped pools of lust, her fluffy cheeks flushing a deep pink as she inhales deeply, the aroma making her wings quiver and her own arousal drip visibly between her thighs—a slick, honeyed nectar scenting the air with feminine sweetness.

Without a word of protest—nay, with a muffled moan of approval—she parts her tiny lips, her tongue darting out to taste the salty tang of his tip, lapping at the precum like it's the finest elixir from the Moogle Moghouse. But Sir Chocobo isn't here for polite licks; oh no, this is etiquette at its finest. With a comedic grunt of "Let's get to the point!", he thrusts forward, shoving his massive cock into her eager mouth, stretching her jaws wide around his girth. The sensation is electric: for him, the wet, velvety warmth of her throat enveloping him like a custom-fitted glove, her tongue wriggling desperately against the underside of his shaft, sending jolts of pleasure up his spine that make his feathers stand on end. For her, it's a overwhelming fullness—the taste of salty skin and musk flooding her senses, her nose buried in the soft fur of his crotch, inhaling the potent mix of sweat and desire while her pom-pom bobs wildly, brushing against his balls like a teasing feather duster.

He doesn't hold back; this is rough, hardcore facefucking, the correct way to bridge the height gap. His talons grip her ass cheeks now, squeezing the plump, white-furred globes with enough force to leave light marks, his claws pricking just enough to add a sharp sting that contrasts deliciously with the slick slide of his cock pistoning in and out of her mouth. "That's it, take it all, you fluffy little slut," he pants, his voice husky and commanding, hips bucking with rhythmic force—slap, slap, slap—the sound of his balls smacking against her chin echoing through the glade like a perverted drumbeat. She gags comically at first, her eyes watering with tears of effort and ecstasy, but she adjusts, her throat relaxing to accommodate his length, slurping and sucking with enthusiastic slurps that fill the air with wet, obscene noises. No kupos here; instead, her muffled cries are "Mmmph! Glk! Y-yes, more!" garbled around his thrusting member, her wings flapping erratically, brushing against his thighs with soft, ticklish caresses that only heighten his arousal.

The senses explode in a symphony of sin: sight—the erotic contrast of yellow feathers against white fur, her ass jiggling with each thrust, pussy lips glistening and parted in neglected need; sound—the guttural grunts from him ("Fuck, your mouth is tighter than a chocobo saddle!"), her sloppy gurgles and moans; touch—the heat of her mouth clenching around him, the silky fur under his claws, the building tension in his balls as they tighten; smell—the intoxicating cocktail of their combined arousals, her sweet nectar mingling with his musky dominance; taste—for her, the bitter-salty flood of his precum coating her tongue, for him, the phantom flavor of victory in the air.

The comedy peaks as he ramps up, facefucking her with abandon—her body bouncing like a ragdoll in his grip, pom-pom flailing comically, wings slapping against his legs in futile protest or perhaps encouragement. "No more polite chit-chat," he declares between thrusts, "This is how we communicate—deep, hard, and to the point!" She responds with a throaty hum that vibrates through his cock, sending him over the edge. With a final, triumphant roar—not a kweh, but a beastly "Kweeeehhh!" twisted into ecstasy—he cums, flooding her mouth with thick, hot ropes of avian seed, the taste exploding on her tongue like creamy, salty ambrosia, spilling from the corners of her lips as she swallows greedily, her own orgasm hitting from the sheer intensity, pussy clenching around nothing, juices dripping to the forest floor in a puddle of release.

As he sets her down gently (etiquette demands a soft landing), she gasps for air, cum dribbling down her chin, eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "K-kupo... that was... correct," she whispers, and they share a knowing grin. Thus ends our lesson: forget the cute noises; embrace the rough ride for true connection. Correct! ✓ And scene—may your own conversations be equally enlightening, dear reader.

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