When you return to your apartment, you expect to find it empty. You definitely don't expect to be mobbed by animated objects, all eagerly doing their best to make you feel comfortable! Despite that, though, it's not exactly an unpleasant notion either...

Just a cute and silly thing for Festmas prompt #10, "Animate Inanimate". I hope you enjoy!

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You’re not sure what you expected to happen when you got home. Why would you expect anything different? It’s a Wednesday night, for fuck’s sake. Nothing happens on a Wednesday. It’s not even bar night. No, you climb the stairs to your small, comfy apartment on the fourth floor expecting to just pour a nice glass, kick back with some Netflix or put on a playlist, and just unwind for the day. God knows you’ve earned it.

Except, uh. When you open your front door, there’s something going on. Something more than a little weird. All the stuff in your living-room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining-area (look, renting on one person’s budget hardly brings in the super roomy space) has been moved around a bit. You carefully lock the door behind you.

Burglars? No… no, it doesn’t seem like that. Not burglars, at least you don’t think so. Nothing’s missing that you can tell—not that you have many valuables besides your electronics, which are of course the first things you check for—and the place doesn’t look ransacked, either. It’s almost like staying in a hotel and the maid comes while you’re gone and she just moves things a little bit differently before you’re back.

It's only while you scratch your head and throw up your hands—this isn’t worth filing a police report over, and besides, you’ve had a long fucking day—that you realize what’s happening. When you sit down in your armchair to kick off your work shoes, you reach over to turn on the lamp as you always do, only to realize that the lamp is already on; and you definitely didn’t leave it this morning. Also, it’s not plugged in.

You stare, transfixed, your hand outstretched, when the lamp suddenly hovers off the table and flies at you affectionately.

You’re not exactly used to this—getting nuzzled by a lampshade like it’s an affectionate pooch. Because really, that’s what it feels like; like someone took the spirit of a really happy dog and shoved it in your appliance. The lamp buzzes out something staticky and you swear you hear a makeshift noise—welcome home, master!—before your apartment erupts into activity.

Whatever’s animating your lamp, it’s picked more than just that to embrace you.

The small throwpillows fly off the loveseat and pounce on you, wriggling like happy little caterpillars. Your laptop flies out of your bedroom, its two halves flapping like bat wings, and circles you happily. There is the rickety sound of wheels rolling over the ground; your office chair comes out to greet you. And there is even a tremendous thunk thunk thunk as your fridge hops over to you. It unplugs itself free of the wall, yet is still humming as it keeps your food cold; it seems that, like your lamp, your fridge no longer needs a power supply to keep active.

As the medley of appliances and furniture surrounds you, they all somehow express the same sentiment as your lamp had: welcome home, master! Welcome home!

“Um. Uh. Wow.” Like seriously, how are you even supposed to respond to this? “Th-thanks, guys?”

The lamp buzzes happily and soars around your living room, long cord hanging off of it like a tail. The two throwpillows press up against your body with affection and surprising pressure, impromptuly massaging you. Somehow they seem to know just where your back and shoulders and thighs ache from a long day at the office; you know you should be doing a stretching regimen, but it’s hardly been a high priority for you. The affectionate embrace of the pillows is surprisingly soothing.

The power cables of the lamp and fridge act like dexterous little snakes and manage to wend first your shoes, then your socks off your feet. They coil around your arches and between your toes, squeezing gently; even more relief reaches you as they do so. Ah, your aching feet… you hadn’t even realized how badly you’d wanted a massage!

Your armchair kicks itself back of its own accord, letting you recline, and the fridge opens. Out from your freezer floats a tiny tub of your favorite, indulgent ice cream, and a spoon floats over to you as well. It peels out a serving of the chilly treat and pushes itself at you. Still hardly believing what is going on, you open your mouth and let the spoon… well… spoon-feed you mouthful after perfect mouthful.

All the while the throw pillows continue massaging you, and the lamp and fridge keep using their cords to massage your feet. Your laptop hovers in front of you and plays a curated playlist of your favorite comedy bits helps you unwind.

Master! Welcome home, master! Welcome!

Their weird, tinny voices keep on pushing happily at you, and while you still have no fucking clue how this happened, any early worries have long since dissipated. “Thanks everyone,” you say between sugary bites of ice cream. “I needed this.”

When you’re finally done, the armchair raises off the floor and into your bathroom. The door opens of its accord and you realize the shower is going, already hot and steamy. The cords undress you and you’re deposited in the bathtub, the showerhead hose coming free of its position to gently rinse you off while soap and a loofa scrub you clean. After a quick rinse that leaves you refreshed, you’re carried into your bedroom, where your covers pull themselves back, inviting you into your bed like it’s a warm cocoon.

As you’re tucked in snugly, the lights dim, but you’re still cognizant of more sounds coming to you—welcome! Welcome!

And as you drift off to sleep, you reflect that honestly, you could get used to this.