#whimsycal

The Secret Life of LPS

Requested by darling @narumimiz sorry babe for the long awaited request I was too fixated on my other projects BWHAHHA

Gen Narumi came home early.

This was not unusual. Gen often came home early, or late, or at completely random intervals that defied any attempt at scheduling. His streaming career meant his hours were whatever he wanted them to be, and what he usually wanted them to be was "not working." Today, he'd wrapped up a sponsored stream ahead of schedule—something about a new game he'd already beaten twice before the sponsorship deal even came through—and decided to surprise you with takeout from the ramen place you liked.

He did not expect to hear voices from the living room.

Not your voice. Voices. Plural. A high, dramatic falsetto that was definitely you, followed by a lower, growling response that was also you. Gen paused in the hallway, his keys still in his hand, his head tilted. He knew you talked to yourself sometimes—everyone did—but this was different. This was a full conversation. With distinct characters. And sound effects.

"—you don't understand, Marcus. The council has already made their decision. If you can't prove your loyalty by midnight, they'll revoke your status as pack leader."

"That's not fair and you know it, Veronica. I've given everything to this pack. Everything. And now you're telling me it wasn't enough?"

Gen set the ramen down on the hallway table. He crept toward the living room door, which was slightly ajar. Through the gap, he could see you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by small, colourful plastic figures. Littlest Pet Shop figures. Dozens of them. Arranged in elaborate tableaux across the coffee table and the rug and what appeared to be a tiny makeshift courthouse made out of shoeboxes.

You were holding a grey wolf in one hand and a pink poodle in the other. Your face was intense. Focused. Completely unaware that you had an audience.

"The pack doesn't trust you anymore, Marcus. Not after what happened at the lake."

"That was a setup! I was framed!"

"Tell that to the council. I'm just the messenger."

"Veronica, please. We used to be friends. We used to be more than friends."

"That was before you broke my heart at the charity gala. Don't think I've forgotten."

Gen's brain short-circuited. He pushed the door open. "What the hell is happening right now?"

You screamed.

Not a little scream. A full, lung-emptying shriek that sent the wolf and the poodle flying out of your hands and scattered half the Littlest Pet Shop figures across the rug. You scrambled backward, your face going from intense dramatic focus to pure, unadulterated horror in the space of a heartbeat.

"Gen! You're—you're home early—"

"What is this?" He stepped into the room, staring at the sea of plastic animals. There were cats and dogs and hamsters and what appeared to be a very judgemental-looking ferret. There were shoebox buildings and popsicle-stick furniture and a tiny scroll made of yellowed paper that had "COUNCIL DECREE" written on it in your handwriting. "Is this a trial? Are you holding a trial?"

"It's not—it's nothing—" You were already on your feet, your face burning, your hands flapping uselessly at the scene. "It's stupid. It's so stupid. Please just forget you saw anything—"

"Is that a ferret judge?"

"Please stop looking."

"Is the ferret the judge?"

"It's not—" You pressed your hands over your face. "Yes. Yes, the ferret is the judge. His name is Bartholomew and he's very strict about courtroom decorum."

Gen stared at you. He stared at the ferret. He stared at the tiny popsicle-stick gavel clutched in the ferret's tiny plastic paws. Then he did something you did not expect.

He laughed.

Not a mean laugh. Not the mocking laughter you'd heard in middle school when the other kids caught you playing with your Littlest Pet Shop figures during recess and called you weird and babyish and wrong. This was different. This was Gen's real laugh—the bright, surprised sound he only made when he forgot to be cool.

"That's incredible," he said. "You have a whole courtroom. With a ferret judge."

"Bartholomew."

"Bartholomew. Of course." He crouched down, picking up the grey wolf from where it had landed on the rug. "Who's this?"

"Marcus. He's the—he's the pack leader. He's on trial for allegedly framing someone at the lake."

"Allegedly?"

"He says he was framed. Veronica thinks he's guilty."

"Veronica the poodle?"

"Veronica the poodle," you confirmed, your voice small and mortified.

"And they used to be together? Before the charity gala incident?"

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "How long were you standing in the hallway?"

"Long enough." He set Marcus the wolf back on the coffee table with surprising gentleness. "Why are you embarrassed about this?"

"Because it's weird. It's childish. I'm a grown adult playing with toys and making up drama for them."

"Yeah. That's what I just said. Why are you embarrassed?"

You stared at him. He stared back, his expression genuinely puzzled, like he couldn't fathom why anyone would be ashamed of something so obviously fun.

"I got made fun of," you said finally. "When I was a kid. For playing with these alone. For making up stories. Everyone said it was immature and stupid and I should grow up and play with normal things."

"Normal things like what?"

"I don't know. Makeup. Boys. Whatever normal kids did."

"Normal is boring." He picked up the pink poodle, examining her rhinestone collar. "I collect slime plushies. I have forty-eight of them. I'm thirty years old and I spent six hundred dollars on a limited-edition figure last month. You think I'm judging you for playing with plastic animals?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"It just is. You're—you're cool. You're a famous streamer. People think you're cool."

"People think I'm a degenerate who plays video games for a living. Which I am. And you're a person who plays with Littlest Pet Shops and comes up with elaborate courtroom dramas. Which is amazing." He set the poodle down. "Tell me the rest."

"The rest?"

"Of the story. Marcus and Veronica. The lake. The council. All of it. I'm invested now."

You blinked. "You want to hear about my LPS drama?"

"I want to hear about the LPS drama. Start from the beginning. Don't skip details."

Slowly, hesitantly, you sat back down on the rug. Gen sat across from you, his back against the couch, his legs stretched out. He picked up the ferret judge and examined its tiny gavel.

"Does Bartholomew have a tragic backstory?" he asked.

"He lost his wife in a boating accident."

"Perfect. Continue."

The story poured out of you like water from a broken dam. The pack politics. The forbidden romance. The charity gala betrayal that had shattered Marcus and Veronica's relationship and set off a chain of events leading to the trial. The council members—a collie with a drinking problem, a Persian cat with a mysterious past, a turtle who was secretly pulling everyone's strings. The lake incident, which may or may not have involved a stolen inheritance and a forged letter.

Gen listened to all of it. Not just listened—he asked questions. Clarifying questions. He wanted to know the turtle's motivation. He wanted to know if Veronica still had feelings for Marcus despite everything. He wanted to know if Bartholomew the ferret was truly impartial or if he had his own agenda.

"Bartholomew is supposed to be impartial," you said. "But he's been getting anonymous threats. Someone doesn't want this trial to go forward."

"The turtle."

"Maybe. But the turtle has an alibi."

"The turtle always has an alibi."

"That's what I've been saying!"

By the time the ramen was cold and the sun had set outside the window, you'd told him the entire saga. Every twist. Every betrayal. Every cliffhanger. And Gen had absorbed it all with an intensity he usually reserved for boss fights and limited-edition merchandise drops.

"Okay," he said. "I have a proposal."

"A proposal?"

"I want to play."

You stared at him. "You want to play with my Littlest Pet Shops."

"Obviously. This is the best content I've ever encountered. I have ideas. I have a vision." He grabbed a hamster in a tiny leather jacket from the pile. "Who's this?"

"That's Spike. He's a mechanic with a heart of gold."

"Not anymore. Now he's an undercover cop investigating the council's corruption."

"What?"

"He's been deep undercover for three years. Only Bartholomew knows his true identity. Everyone else thinks he's just a mechanic, but he's been gathering evidence this whole time."

"That's—that actually works. He's always had a suspicious amount of knowledge about the inner workings of the pack."

"Exactly. I'm good at this." He grabbed a dalmatian in a firefighter hat. "This one. Tell me about this one."

"That's Daisy. She's a firefighter. She's been in love with Marcus for years but he's never noticed her because he's too caught up in the Veronica drama."

"Tragic unrequited love. Classic. But what if she's also the one who's been sending the anonymous threats?"

"She wouldn't! She's too pure."

"That's what they want you to think."

"Oh my god, you're right."

The night spiralled from there.

What started as a simple game became an elaborate, multi-hour improv session that consumed the entire living room. Gen reorganised the shoebox sets. He requested additional props—"We need a police station, do we have a police station?"—and built one out of a cereal box and some markers. He assigned voices to every single figure, some of which were genuinely terrible and some of which were terrifyingly accurate.

Spike the hamster now spoke with a gravelly New York accent. Daisy the dalmatian had a Southern drawl for reasons Gen refused to explain. Bartholomew the ferret remained stern and impartial, but Gen had decided he was also secretly in love with the turtle, which added a whole new layer of tension to the courtroom scenes.

"Objection!" Gen shouted, holding up a tabby cat in a tiny suit. "My client, Marcus the wolf, is being framed by a corrupt system that has failed him at every turn!"

"Overruled," you said, wiggling Bartholomew. "The prosecution will continue."

"This is judicial misconduct!"

"This is my courtroom, counselor. Sit down or I'll hold you in contempt."

"You can't do this! I'll take this all the way to the Supreme Court!"

"There is no Supreme Court. This is a small-town animal tribunal."

"Then I'll make one!"

At some point, you recorded a snippet and posted it to your secret TikTok account—the one with a modest but devoted following who'd been following the LPS saga for months. The video showed Gen, fully immersed, holding two figures and delivering a monologue about pack loyalty and the burden of leadership. Your caption read: "update: my husband found out about the LPS drama. he has opinions."

Within hours, the comments exploded.

WHO IS THIS MAN AND WHY IS HE SO INVESTED

the way he's holding marcus like a tiny shakespearean actor

this is the most beautiful thing i've ever seen. he loves her so much he became a main character in the lps cinematic universe

bartholomew the ferret is my spirit animal

the SOUTHERN ACCENT on the dalmatian i CANNOT

Gen found the comments the next morning. He read through them while eating cereal, his ears getting progressively pinker.

"You posted me," he said.

"You were very postable."

"I'm trending on LPS TikTok."

"Apparently."

"The comments are calling me 'Bartholomew's emotional support husband.'"

"That's a compliment."

He scrolled for another minute. Then he looked up at you, his expression strange—softer than usual, more open. The way he looked at you when he was about to say something sincere and didn't know how.

"You've been doing this alone your whole life," he said. "Playing with these. Making up stories. Keeping it secret because people made you feel weird about it."

"It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal. It's a huge deal. You built a whole world in here." He gestured at the shoebox buildings, the plastic figures, the tiny scroll of council decrees. "And you did it even when people told you it was stupid. That's not weird. That's legendary."

"You really think so?"

"I know so. I'm an expert on legendary things." He set his cereal aside and pulled you onto the couch beside him. "I'm serious. The streaming, the gaming, the slime collection—I know what it's like to be into stuff that other people think is dumb. But it's not dumb if it makes you happy. That's the whole point."

"The whole point of what?"

"Being alive. Being a person. Finding your player two who doesn't make you feel weird about the things you love." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I'm glad I found out. Even if Bartholomew's backstory is going to haunt me."

"You're the one who gave him a secret romance with the turtle."

"A creative choice I stand by."

Later, he asked if he could be a permanent part of the LPS saga. Not just a guest star—a co-creator. You said yes. He spent the next week developing an entirely new plotline involving a rogue hamster biker gang and a forbidden romance between a collie and a chihuahua from rival families. He wrote backstories. He drew a family tree. He built a tiny biker bar out of toothpicks and hot glue.

And every night, the two of you sat on the living room floor, surrounded by plastic animals and shoebox buildings, building a world together.

Gen Narumi, who had once thought love was something you had to earn and keep and guard with your life, learned something new in those quiet, ridiculous hours. Love wasn't just about grand gestures and emotional confessions and being strong enough to protect someone. Love was also this. Sitting on a rug at midnight, holding a hamster in a leather jacket, arguing about whether Bartholomew the ferret should have a redemption arc.

"Of course he should," you said. "He's been through so much."

"He sent an innocent cat to jail."

"He was being blackmailed!"

"That doesn't justify—"

"Gen. The turtle was threatening his family."

Gen paused. Considered. Sighed heavily. "Fine. But he has to earn it."

"He will."

"And I want him to give a speech. A really dramatic one. With tears."

"Obviously. What kind of redemption arc doesn't have tears?"

He grinned, that sharp, crooked, surprised grin, and pulled you closer. The city hummed outside. The plastic animals stood silent witness. And somewhere in the chaos of the shoebox courtroom, Bartholomew the ferret waited for his moment of salvation.