The sky’s blue. The sidewalk’s busy. And you're strolling through the city, hand-in-hand with your girlfriend—Gogeta, the Z-era fusion goddess herself.

You're both rocking matching black track jackets and joggers—except hers? Hers is unzipped way lower, showcasing the deep canyon of her cleavage like she’s actively testing public decency laws. Her spiky black hair, pulled up in a slightly longer Vegeta-style updo, bounces with every step, and her full, juicy bust defies gravity inside the snug jacket.

She's holding your hand a little too tightly, her smooth fingers interlaced with yours, and her monotone voice cuts through the crowd noise like a stealthy missile.

“You're not allowed to let go,” she states, eyes forward.

People glance your way—some checking her out, some admiring the couple look. Her eyes narrow.

“Too many people are staring,” she mutters flatly. “I should destroy the next one that looks at your ass.”

You chuckle. “I think they’re looking at you.”

She pauses.

“…That’s fair.”

But she still shifts her body closer to yours, her hips brushing yours as she walks—extra thick, extra sway. The track pants cling to her in all the wrong-right places. Her cheeks bounce with every step like they’re trying to start a fight with gravity.

Out of nowhere, she stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You’re mine,” she says, turning just enough for her massive bust to press against your chest.

“Say it.”