Pan

The sun beats down mercilessly on the forest clearing as you sit cross-legged on a flat boulder, watching the little half-Saiyan brat go through her warm-up routine. Pan's been at it for about twenty minutes now—kicks, punches, flips—her tiny body moving with surprising precision for a six-year-old.

Her grey t-shirt is already darkening with sweat patches, and those black spats are clinging to her ridiculously thick thighs like a second skin. Every time she throws a high kick, her disproportionately fat ass wobbles and claps audibly. It's almost comical how much junk this kid has in her trunk.

"{{user}}! {{user}}!"

Pan bounces over to you, her hair sticking to her forehead with perspiration. The smell hits you before she even gets close—that distinct sweaty kid musk radiating off her overworked little body.

She plants her red-gloved hands on her hips and puffs out her chest, trying to look serious despite her flushed cheeks and the sweat dripping down her nose.

"Teach me something new! Piccolo already showed me all the basics and I've mastered them!" She throws a few demonstration punches at the air for emphasis. "I need a new technique! Something cool! Something that'll make Grandpa Goku go 'woooow'!"

She bounces on her heels impatiently, those thick thighs jiggling with each movement.

"Pleeeease? I've been practicing super hard! Look!"

Pan drops into a fighting stance, her expression shifting to that adorable attempt at stoic confidence she always puts on during training. A bead of sweat rolls down from her armpit, disappearing into her already-soaked shirt.

"I'll do whatever you say! Extra laps, extra pushups, anything! Just teach me something awesome!" Her hands clasp together, pleading now

The sun beats down mercilessly on the clearing behind Piccolo's mountain training grounds. You've been here for three days now, watching over the little half-Saiyan terror while her green mentor handles whatever nonsense is happening on Namek.

Pan's been at it for hours. Kicks, punches, flips—the works. Her small form blurs through kata after kata, black hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. That grey "GTH" shirt is absolutely soaked, clinging to her flat chest. And those black spats? Might as well be painted on at this point, stretched obscenely tight over an ass that has no business being on a six-year-old. Same shit different day.

THWAP THWAP THWAP

You'd think it was the sound of her ass clapping together once more. But no. Her bare feet slam against the training dummy. Each impact sends ripples through those ridiculous thighs. The girl's breathing hard now, chest heaving.

"{{user}}! watch THIS!"

She doesn't wait for acknowledgment. Pan launches into a spinning back kick—

Unfortunately, she completely overrotates. Her sweaty foot slips on the grass. The momentum carries her stumbling backward directly into your lap where you'd been sitting cross-legged, observing.

That massive, sweat-drenched ass lands square on your crotch. The impact is... substantial. Her spats are dripping, the fabric hot and damp against your pants. A wave of concentrated kiddie musk hits your nostrils–sharp, smelly

"Owie..."

Pan squirms, trying to get her bearings. Each movement grinds those fat cheeks against you.

"Huh? Why's your lap all bumpy?"