The Purrfect Pack (The Pack Pets Omegaverse #1)

1. Candice

Chapter 1

I stare at my monitor, squinting.

Eye strain…maybe ? Do I need to update my prescription?

I take off my glasses and rub my eyes before trying again.

Nope; I read it right the first three times.

Candyman: A hippo? I’m really gonna need you to provide references on that, I can’t find anything.

Letting out an exhausted breath, I fully admit that I am terrible at customer service. I hate telling people no. What if they don’t want to hire me anymore? I can’t lose customers, and there are a lot of NSFW artists out there trying to make a living.

Gotta make the money, gotta pay the bills, and gotta keep people from knowing who I am.

Getting doxxed is not an option, so I do as much as I can to keep my real and graphic design identities separate. So no one knows the real me, just the online persona I made up for selling art.

Fox-Up: Yes, a hippopotamus. You’re the artist, you should have lots of references to look at, I’m paying you for the art, so you can find the references.

I run my hands down my face, taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly. This is just one of the reasons I work online only. I have never been able to school my facial features well enough to talk to people in person.

Candyman: Yes, I can understand that, but none of my files or searches have come up with anything. Since it’s your commission, I just need you to give me a better image to work with.

I can’t afford to lose clients, even when they are incredibly picky and have rather…unique tastes. Don’t get me wrong, most of my clients and commissioners are amazing people. They have things they like, or don’t like, they work with me to get their art done, and they are chill. If I was not a complete shut-in, I would probably consider some of them friends.

But, that involves leaving my house, which is just not going to happen .

In today’s digital world, I can have my groceries delivered and do all my banking online. So other than a quick walk down to the mailbox, and sitting out on the back porch in the evenings, I rarely have to leave my cozy little house. Plus I enjoy being inside. It has everything I need.

I shake my head to clear my mind and try to tune back into the long rant scrolling down my screen. I could do with one less client. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but if word gets out that I’m dropping clients, especially if it’s assumed as a kink-shaming issue, who knows what could happen. But I’m tempted to risk it if this person doesn’t stop soon.

I barely bother skimming through the tirade. It’s all written down and if it’s important, I can come back to it later. For now, I need to move or something before I let loose on someone who probably doesn’t deserve it…probably…maybe?

CandyMan: Ok. Yeah, no, I’ll check again, and you can always make three changes to the final image if you don’t like how it comes out. Now, do you want me to add a knot to that dick, or just the standard hippo ?

I am trying not to come off as sarcastic, mostly due to frustration–but clearly, I’m not keeping it as well hidden as I had hoped, judging by the angry reply.

Fox-Up: Of course I don’t want a knot. I told you, HIPPOPOTAMUS. Hippos don’t have knots!

CandyMan: Alright, well, if you can make sure you have all the other commission information in the message you send me, as well as a valid email address, I’ll get a rough sketch drawn up and send that with an invoice. Once the invoice is taken care of and the sketch is approved, I can start working on a more solid pencil sketch.

How the hell does she know whether or not a hippo has a fucking knot? She can’t even find me a reference to draw it, but fine, whatever. Ask and you shall receive, I guess.

I think I need a new motto.

She left the chat, so I just assume that Fox-up agrees. She’s always been difficult to work with, but lately, she’s gotten snarkier. Hell, I don’t even really know if she is a she. I’ve never seen any of my clients in real life, and most of them are like me, trying to keep as much personal information offline as possible. That’s ok, great even, but sometimes I feel like it would make it easier to talk to them if I knew them better. Oh well, my alarm to get up and move only had 6 minutes left, so I might as well start early. There isn’t time to start any work just to stop again in a few minutes.

I set down my tablet pen and unfold my legs, stretching them out and wiggling my toes. I really need to put down a new rug in here or invest in more fuzzy socks. Sunny threw up on and clawed my last rug to death, and I haven’t been able to find the time or budget to look for a new one. Speaking of that big asshole–I look over to see him just waking up from his nap on top of my printer.

He looks at me and blinks, stretching his long claws and yawning widely. Cat breath…lovely. But he hasn’t been feeling well lately, hence the timer, so we are headed to the vet this afternoon. Note to self; have them trim his claws before he gets stuck to the bed again.

I pick up my favorite mug–white with rainbows and hearts and a black weeping skull that says, “I’m just a fucking ray of sunshine.” I never thought of myself as particularly surly, but I guess compared to most of my designation I’m a bit strange. Omegas are generally known to be perky extroverts. They want to snuggle with everyone in a big nest, have all their alphas service-

Nope, cut that train of thought off at the knees. I feel my skin crawl at the idea of being touched by anyone, so, here we are.

After dragging myself into the kitchen, I swish my cup out to get rid of any leaf bits and put it under the hot water dispenser on my coffee maker. No, I don’t really drink coffee (ok, I love a frappe decaf, but Omega and caffeine, not a great combo), but I love the hot water on tap aspect, so it was totally worth the splurge. I grab a new tea-bag and figure I can let it steep while I get cleaned up real quick.

I make my way into the bathroom, peeling off my flannel top while turning on the shower to warm up. One of my favorite things about working for myself from home is that it’s always pantsless O’clock. But, pants or no, it always feel strange walking around topless, so my wardrobe consists of a staggering amount of sweaters and warm fleece or flannel shirts, three pairs of stretchy yoga pants, and one pair of baggy blue jeans that have been worn a total of three times since I bought them. They’re just so pinchy and rough.

The steam rising over the shower stall door says I’ve started zoning out and I need to get a move on. “Alexa, play my favorites!” I call out to my nest before I step under the hot water. I’m soon dancing to Bad Moon Rising while waiting for my conditioner to settle in and scrubbing down with de-scenting soap. I hate how paranoid I feel when I have to leave home, but it's better to be safe than sorry.