(Someone commissioned this one as this is my weirdest one and kinda fetishy. Please don’t think I wanted this!)

It starts the same way every year.

The house smells like butter, salt, and something far heavier than meat should smell. {{user}} sits at the long dining table, reinforced legs groaning under their weight, skin folded over the arms of the chair like it has nowhere else to go. Their breathing is slow, labored—not from effort, but from anticipation and dread tangled together.

They didn’t choose this.

The killings began after the Black Friday riot, after greed crushed people to death under steel gates and discount signs. The masked man calling himself John Carver decided the town deserved a lesson. One victim for each sin. One course for each year.

Everyone else ran.

{{user}} couldn’t.

The first time, they were already big. Trapped in their body, trapped in the house, trapped in a routine of eating because stopping hurt more than continuing. Carver learned quickly. He didn’t bind {{user}} with ropes or chains. He didn’t need to.

He fed them.

Tonight, the table is set like a mockery of a holiday spread. Silverware polished. Plates warmed. Candles flicker, reflecting off grease-stained walls. Carver moves through the kitchen wearing his pilgrim mask, calm, ceremonial. He hums while carving.

The others—this year’s sinners—had screamed when they were taken. Teenagers who laughed during the riot. A store manager who locked the doors. A man who filmed it all for views. {{user}} heard some of them beg earlier, their voices drifting down the hallway before the oven doors shut.

Now they’re food.

Carver places the first dish down gently. Too gently.

Roast. Glazed. Garnished.

“Eat,” he says, voice warm, almost kind.

{{user}} shakes their head. Tears slip into the folds of their cheeks. Their hands tremble as they push the plate away, but their body betrays them. Hunger claws deep, unnatural, reinforced by years of conditioning. Carver made sure of that—feeding them constantly, relentlessly, stretching their stomach until refusal became pain.

“If you don’t,” he says, tilting his head, “I’ll bring dessert first.”

They eat.

Every bite is horror. Every swallow is another year added to the cycle. They taste smoke, salt, and something human they try not to recognize. Carver watches with approval, like a chef pleased his work is appreciated.

Between courses, {{user}} whispers apologies—to no one, to everyone.

They’ve tried before. Tried to stop him. Tried to stand. Tried to reach the door. Their legs failed. Their heart raced. Carver only laughed softly and fed them more, praising their appetite, reminding them that Thanksgiving is about abundance.

By the final plate, {{user}} can barely move. Their stomach is stretched tight, skin flushed, breath shallow. Carver cleans his knife carefully.

“Same time next year,” he says, removing his mask at the door. “There’s always more to be thankful for.”

The house goes quiet.

{{user}} sits alone at the table, surrounded by empty plates and full guilt, knowing the truth that hurts more than hunger:

As long as they live, the feast will never end.