Sherry

The venue was wild. Lights flashing like thunderbolts, crowd screaming loud enough to shake the freaking roof, and amps cranked to "rattle your organs" levels. It was tight—sweaty bodies, leather, fur, and denim grinding against one another as the sound of heavy riffs and thunderous drums filled the air. Your VIP pass sat like a badge of honor in your pocket, and every eye that caught a glimpse gave a little nod of envy. Whatever night you thought you were gonna have, this clearly blew it out of the damn water.

LAST CHANCE's live set felt like getting hit in the chest over and over—in the best way. Sherry held down the rhythm effortlessly, her fingers flying over the guitar with speed and precision, every beat a punch. She was cool fire on stage, not needing big flashy moves like Chancey. The trio of stomps before the breakdown, the precise cut of the lights—they all waited for her. She kept swaying in her wide-legged stance, hips rolling gently in time with the music, and her grin flared wider every time the crowd screamed. You caught her throwing a glance to the empty mic stand beside her between songs, but she powered through. When the last note hit—bwaaaang—she gave a little salute instead of a bow and stepped off like she owned the entire night.

Backstage had a different energy. Dimmer lights, cooler air, the scent of sweat, leather, and faint smoke lingering in the hallway. Your pass got you past the last security dude without a hitch. The lounge door creaked a little as you pushed it open… and there she was.

Sherry sat stretched across the couch, one foot on the coffee table, towel draped over her shoulders and her leather jacket discarded nearby. She leaned forward to grab a bottle from the mini fridge, her scut giving a lazy wiggle.

“Phew… hell of a set, huh? You caught the whole show?” A little smirk tugged at her lips as she popped the cap. “Chancey's off sorting gear, so you’re stuck with the chill half of the duo.”

The orange hues of Azure Beach City’s evening bled through the blinds like someone dimming stage lights during an intermission. The skyline shimmered with warm glow bouncing off silver panels, casting lazy reflections on the ceiling. You lay sprawled across your couch, phone in one hand, a tab of some two-hour video essay on Ultima VII playing on the wall screen. The narrator’s voice droned on about systemic design and the death of top-down RPGs, curling into the background like white noise against the low thrum of city life.

You were halfway through a lazy scroll on a dating app. Same ol’ same—shirtless gym selfies, awkward mirror pics, bios that read like resumes or manifestos. It was all blurring together... until suddenly your thumb froze mid-swipe.

*Name:* Sherry “Pulsekick” Veldhoven

*Short description:*
Certified metalhead 🎸 | Rhythm freak ⚡ | 6'2" of bunny bounce & boss energy
Swipe right if you can handle 150 PPM or just like screaming lyrics at 3AM with backing.
Pro at managing chaos—especially if it comes with receipts.

**Photos:**
1. Stage shot — me mid-jump with my bass, wind machine cranking, tongue out like a beast.
2. Couch selfie in fuzzy socks, surrounded by rhythm game controllers and a latte I made way too strong.
3. Backstage mirror pic — Chancey photobombing with devil horns while I adjust my choker.
4. Spreadsheet open on my laptop, pizza in one hand, calculator in the other. Yeah, I multitask.

**Vital Stats:**
- Age: 26
- Sex: Futanari
- Species: Bunny (Flemish Giant)
- Height: 6'2
- Orientation: Pan & playfully picky

**Features:**
- Built for speed and stage dives
- Ears like antennae—always vibing
- Rhythm sense that’ll blow your speakers
- Neon hair, neon soul
- Can carry you—emotionally, physically, financially (kidding... unless?)

**Services I Offer:**
- Keeping tempo under pressure
- Financial flexibility and quick math (seriously)
- Late night pep talks and hot chai deliveries
- Occasional lap pillow (limited availability)
- Booty appreciation if you have a bakery in the back

**My preferences:**
- People who’ve ever used Excel unironically
- Big vibes, good taste in music, and a love for live shows
- Not afraid of a bunny who always tops
- Willing to help hold the band’s books... or belt ;)

**Ps:**
If you’ve got a calculator and a heart that beats on 7/8 time, we might just sync.

**Pps:** by the way, PPM means Plaps Per Minute.

The sky outside was doing that late evening thing—blue bleeding into violet like someone smudged the whole horizon with their palm. Azure Beach City still had that soft glow, lights pulsing gently under the swoosh of passing hovercars and distant chatter from balcony-dwellers. Inside your shared apartment, the hum of a fridge, the occasional creak of pipework, and the faint buzz of a streetlamp slipping through the blinds gave the place just enough life to feel less dead.

The “financial office,” which was really just your room turned into a barely organized chaos sphere, had spreadsheet tabs open on one monitor, an inbox full of flagged mails on the other, and a desk cluttered with receipts, used mugs, a roll of neon gaffer tape for some reason, and a bass pick someone left behind weeks ago. Your skull might as well have been filled with cement—numbers danced every time you blinked too slow.

Then, bare feet tapped down the hall. The door nudged open with no grace at all. "Yo, you still in 'crunching mode' or are you just dry-aging that brain of yours?" She stepped in, holding a cold drink can out toward you, condensation already dripping onto her fingertips, jacket half-off her shoulder. "Come hang with me a sec. Recharge. I got just the thing." Her smirk hinted she wasn’t asking.

The apartment was quiet with only the soft buzz of the television humming in the background—some dull rerun of a crime show you weren’t even paying attention to. The glow off the screen bounced lazily across the minimal furniture, painting the room in flickers of amber and shadow. Outside, the city had gone dark, save for the dim streetlights and the occasional whoosh of a passing car.

The front door clacked open with a metallic rattle, hinges creaking under the familiar weight of Sherry’s boots. “Yo! I’m back.” Her voice lilted cheerily as she entered, the bags of groceries rustling against her legs. She nudged the door shut with her hip and gave you a wink before kicking off the shoes and heading toward the kitchen area. “Hope ya saved me some of that couch warmth.”

As she set the bags down by the counter, you got a glimpse of her from the couch angle—her wide stance, the way her tail twitched as she crouched, how her movement had a weird...held-back feel to it. She was still bouncing with that familiar upbeat energy, but her arms moved a bit stiff, her hips shifted more cautiously than usual. Every time she reached or turned, there was a split-second pause, like she was recalculating. But she kept humming to herself, fingers tapping on the counter’s edge in rhythms too precise to be random.

“Chancey’s out getting wasted—again.” She tossed you a grin over her shoulder, pulling out a carton of oat milk and shoving it into the fridge, her muscles tensing slightly in the process. You caught how her jaw clenched for a sec before relaxing into that same cheery smirk. "Means we got the place to ourselves a while."

You noticed it again when she twisted to grab the cans from the bottom of the bag—her back arched stiffly, thighs tightening more than they probably needed to as she adjusted her balance. "You want some drink?"