A courtroom of confession, obsession, and power plays.
NSFW | Dark Fic Friendly | Carisi x Reader Minors Do Not Interact.
“He calls it justice. I call it foreplay.”
🖤 Requests Open • 🧷 Dark Desires Only •
i literally fell asleep to reading “Dirty Mouth” and i was awoken to you updating 😛😛 welcome back, i hope you’re doing well mentally and settled into your new home 🫶🏾
I told y’all I’d be back, it just took me a hot minute
id love a follow up of your father carisi story where the reader gets punished for stealing his stole
Did someone ask for Daddy Father Carisi? It's soo hard to be a good Lamb and follow the word of the Lord when your Father is just so... Devine.
Yes, that's right, Father Carisi is back and he has some lessons for his little Lamb to learn - it's time to go to confessional baby.
The Cost of Devotion
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18+ MINORS DNI — 4.8K
Warnings: priest!au, catholic imagery, religious guilt, sacrilegious themes, blasphemous imagery, forbidden attraction, obsession, priest/parishioner dynamic, consensual power imbalance, spanking (bare hand), wrists bound with a priest's stole, punishment kink, praise & degradation, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal sex, creampie, dirty talk, rough sex, emotional manipulation, corruption kink, afab reader, age gap, reader insert, gothic romance, explicit religious symbolism, mention of death/dying parishioner
a/n: okay... i fear i let the catholic guilt win with this one 💀 i've had the image of a guilty little lamb returning a stolen stole stuck in my head for months, and it finally turned into this. if you're here for catholic guilt, forbidden obsession, sermons that sound suspiciously like foreplay, and father carisi trying (and spectacularly failing) to keep desire from masquerading as devotion... welcome to confession. enjoy, sinners 🖤
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The rectory hallway smells of old wood and the faint ghost of incense that never quite leaves these halls. Your coat is buttoned high against the evening chill; the stole you took folded tight against your ribs, the embroidered cross presses into the soft underside of your breast with every breath. The fabric is warm from your skin. The silk growing heavy with every step you take closer towards his office, laced the secret of what you did to it nights ago.
A faint amber glow emanates around the cracked door at the end of the hallway, clawing against the heavy darkness with the only light left burning, shining like a beacon of hope, rather than what it really is – a call to confession.
Pride; the first sin to stand, the last to kneel. It does not beg. It does not bargain. It simply assumes the world was written with its name already etched into every page. And when reality refuses to play its part, Pride would sooner shatter the stage than surrender the spotlight. The words from Father Carisi’s last sermon on echo in your mind, when he spoke last Sunday he stared straight in to your soul from the lectern – judging. You know what you did, he knows what you did, he was waiting for you to do the right thing. But you refused, didn’t you, little Lamb? You wanted the attention; you needed more than just longing gazes and whispered confessions. You need him.
“Pride whispers, ‘I am greater.’ Greed answers, ‘Then I must have greater.’ One corrupts the soul; the other empties the world” he said, and he was right. Pride corrupts the soul… or at least the guilt that stems from it does.
You knew it was wrong when you slipped in to the sacristy, and while Father was comforting a dying parishioner in hospital no less. You knew it was wrong when you found the stole draped over the back of the straight-backed chair he uses when he prepares for Mass and when your fingers closed around it before you could stop yourself. The silk was cooler than you expected, heavier, the embroidered cross rough under your thumb. You knew it was wrong to bring it to your face and inhale; the scent of sandalwood and clean cotton and the faintest trace of the skin at the back of his neck filling your nose and clouding you thoughts with desires hidden so deep it would make the Pope blush.
“Of all the battles fought beneath Heaven, few are as relentless as the battle against desire, little Lamb. It speaks with your own voice. It borrows your own dreams. It can make sin appear as mercy and ruin as relief.” He murmured against the lattice of the confessional booth a few months back, the words continuing to haunt you every night since.
You knew it was wrong when the need to feel him against your skin continued to grow. Guilt consumed you as you pressed the stole between your thighs for one reckless second, grinding the sacred fabric against the heat already soaking through your underwear, a low sound escaped your throat. The friction was barely enough, yet oh so deliberate as you rocked – once, twice, imagining the weight of his body pinning you instead of this stolen length of silk.
You knew it was downright sinful when your cunt clenched around nothing as the gold thread scraped lightly over your clit through the thin cotton of your panties and a sharp, bitten-off moan slipped free.
“Father forgive me…” you whispered in to the air upon forcing yourself to stop. When the stole came away damp at the centre, you folded it with shaking hands, careful, almost reverent, and slipped it inside your bag beneath a scarf to hide the immediate shame of what you had done.
And now here you are… a lamb returning to its shepherd, ready to confess, to atone.
Father Carisi sits behind the desk, black clerical shirt open at the throat, the white collar already loosened and hanging by a single stud. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms. One hand rests on an open ledger he clearly having stopped reading the moment he heard your footsteps echo down the hall. His other arm hangs loose over the arm of the chair. Those familiar blue eyes lift and lock onto yours the second the door seals shut behind you, sharp as stained glass, filled with the same look that pinned you from the lectern. Disappointment.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. He can see the guilt forming on your face the moment you stand in front of his desk like a scolded schoolgirl.
You stand there longer than you mean to, pulse thick in your throat. The stole suddenly feels alive under your coat, like a brand against your skin. Your fingers find the top button and work it free. Then the next. The coat slides down your arms in a slow whisper of fabric. You catch the stole before it can fall, the long length of silk spilling over your palms like a secret finally dragged into the light.
You cross the last few steps to the desk. The polished wood gleams under the single lamp, the silence stretching between you both until the only noticeable sound is the quiet tick of the old clock on the shelf and the soft rush of your own blood in your ears. Only then does he lean forward, elbows settling on the desk, and extend one open hand across the wood.
Palm up. Waiting.
“Father… I’m so–”
“That’s enough, Lamb,” he sighs curling the fingers in his outstretched hand, a silent command to hand over what doesn’t belong to you.
You set the stole into his open palm. The stole lies across his fingers with solemn elegance, its gold thread burning softly in the lamplight. He doesn’t look at you yet. His thumb moves slowly along the fabric, tracing the raised cross, then the slightly crusted centre where your heat had soaked through earlier in the week. The corner of his mouth tightens.
When his eyes finally lift, they are as cold and unyielding as the saints watching from the wall behind him. He folds the stole once, carefully, with the same measured precision he brings to everything, and sets it aside on the desk without ever looking away.
“Strip.”
The single word lands heavier than any raised voice could. There is no anger in it. No performance. Just the same quiet authority that filled the church each Sunday, now reserved wholly for you.
Then, slowly, you obey; starting with the blouse, buttons give under your fingers one by one until the fabric slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet. Then your bra follows; the catch stiff, the straps dragging across your skin before the cups fall away and leave your tits bare to the cool office air. Your nipples tighten under his gaze.
Slowly, piece by piece, the rest falls away – skirt next, then the soaked underwear, folding each item carefully, stacking them neat on the chair beside the desk. The air finds every newly exposed inch of you; the soft underside of your breasts, the wet seam of your cunt, the backs of your thighs.
You stand naked in front of him. He lets the silence stretch long enough that your pulse becomes the loudest sound in the room. Then he tips his chin once, the smallest motion.
“Kneel.”
Your knees meet the thin carpet. The position forces your spine straight, chest pressed up and forward, hands resting open on your thighs because in surrender. He stays seated, looking down at you over the desk, the stole still within reach of his right hand. The only movement he makes is the slow flex of his fingers against the wood, as he draws a solemn, disapproving breath.
“Do y’know what you’ve done, Lamb? Hmm? What you have taken? Who you have taken it from?” he muses lazily as he stands, rounding his desk, refusing to give you the grace of responding. “This…” he sighs picking up the stole between two fingers “Is not just a cloth. It is not a costume. It is not some relic to be tucked away in a drawer because it smells faintly of incense and cedar and the man who wore it.” A bitter smile ghosts across his face.
“This is the yoke I accepted when I stood before God. It is the mark of vows spoken aloud with the full knowledge that they would cost me somethin’. Every time I drape it across my shoulders, I do so as His servant; not as a man seekin’ admiration, affection, or possession.” His jaw tightens. “Do y’know what this represents? It rests upon the shoulders of a priest when he hears confession. It is worn when sins are absolved, when the dyin’ are anointed, when promises are witnessed before God. It is a symbol of service, of sacrifice, of a burden carried willingly. A burden I carry willingly.”
“And yet... you stole it.” The declaration hangs heavy in the silence. “Why? Was it because you wanted something that belonged to me? Or because you wanted a piece of the life that forever stands between us?”
His eyes drop to the stole, for the briefest instant a look of disappointment and something much darker flashing across his face, before lifting to your face again.
His voice grows lower, gritter with every passing moment as the months of tension between the two of you finally begin to unravel at the seams.
“Three nights ago, while I was bringing the final moments of peace to a dyin' woman, you decided that you needed this more than I did, and you took it, not by accident, but by desire. You allowed your desire to feed your pride and your greed and you stole it. Not just from me, but from God. Do you understand what you have done, little Lamb?”
A long pause fills the room as he tries to calm himself.
“The sheer brazenness to steal from a House of God! I mean not the object itself o’course; objects can be returned. And have been returned…” he says as he holds the stole inches from your face “ya guilt ensured that.”
His expression hardens, as though something pained flickers beneath it, like his very own war between righteousness and desire wages on deep inside his chest.
“What should frighten you about what you did is; you didn’t steal this for its beauty. You stole it because every time you looked at it, you saw me." The confession pours from him like something unwillingly dragged it into the light.
"And God help me..."
He closes his eyes for only a heartbeat.
"... God help me, Lamb, because I know exactly why." He murmurs, his gaze burning with the same desire that betrays your own, though buried beneath the conviction of a man who knows exactly how wrong he ought to be.
“Desire has a terrible way of disguisin’ itself as devotion, little one. It tells us that because somethin’ is sacred, possessin’ it will quiet the ache. It never does. It only teaches the heart to reach further. And further. And further. Until it can no longer find its way home.”
His eyes find yours once more, tired but sure.
“So I’ll ask ya again. Do you understand what ya've taken?”
“Father Carisi, please. I just–” you plead futilely.
“That’s a no then, isn’t it, Lamb?” he sighs as though your pleas are only prolonging the inevitable.
You stay on your knees, eyes level with the black fabric of his trousers, the faint outline of his cock already thickening behind the zipper.
“Wrists. Behind ya back. Hands together, while we pray.” He instructs firmly.
With no room for argument you offer your wrists behind your back. Pressing your palms together in a downward prayer motion, Father Carisi wraps the stole twice, pulls the knot tight enough that the embroidered cross digs into the soft underside of one wrist and the gold thread bites the other. The long ends hang down the length of your spine, cool silk brushing against fever-hot skin. He tests the binding with a sharp tug; your shoulders roll forward, tits pushed out, and a small whimper escapes your throat.
He hauls you up by the free ends and bends you over the desk in one continuous motion. Your cheek presses to the polished wood; your bound arms forcing your back into a hard arch, ass lifted, thighs already trembling. The first open-handed slap cracks across your ass cheeks without warning. The sting blooms white-hot as he begins to pray, voice rough with that familiar grit that makes your thighs clench during Mass.
“Lord, look with mercy upon the soul standing before You. You know her heart more completely than she ever shall. You know the longin’ she has mistaken for love, the desire she has dressed in the garments of devotion.”
The second lands harder, overlapping the first. Heat floods the skin. Your cunt clenches, a wet sound escaping as your hips jolt forward against the edge of the desk.
“And forgive her, Father... for she has taken what was never hers to claim. She has laid her hands upon a stole without understandin’ the weight it bears. She saw cloth where You placed a burden. She saw a keepsake where You entrusted a vow.”
He keeps going. Each strike measured, heavier than the last, the sharp crack of palm on reddening skin filling the quiet office.
“If she believed she was stealin’ a piece of me, then forgive her ignorance. For this does not belong to me. It belongs to You.”
By spank number five your skin is burning, the flesh of your cheeks swelling under his hand.
“Teach her, Lord, that sacred things are not made holy because they are desired. They are made holy because they are consecrated. And if she believed that by takin’ this stole she might lessen the distance between us... forgive that hope also. For no hand can steal a vow from the man who made it, nor unravel a covenant stitched together by Your name.”
By eight the blows force more slick, obscene noises from between your legs every time your body rocks.
“Teach her that love without reverence becomes hunger... and hunger without restraint becomes theft. And if she can’t yet understand why she has taken this stole, then let her at least understand what it is she carries in her hands. Not fabric. Not memory. Not the scent of incense or the warmth left by another's shoulders. But a promise made before Heaven.”
The ninth and tenth blow come in quick succession – rougher and rawer than the strikes before.
“Have mercy upon her, Lord; not because her sin is small, but because Your mercy is greater. Turn her heart away from possession and toward repentance. Let her seek not to keep what is sacred for herself, but to honour it enough to let it go.”
The stole stays locked around your wrists; when you try to shift he simply yanks the free ends upward, pulling your arms higher and locking you in place so the next slap lands clean and full.
“Amen.”
He stops only when your ass is a deep, throbbing red and your thighs are shiny with the mess dripping from your cunt. The free ends of the stole tighten in his fist once more as he hauls you upright by the wrists, spins you, and drops you back to your knees in front of him without ever loosening the knot. The apples of your cheeks burn in embarrassment as he brings your face to rest against the black fabric of his trousers. His cock is fully hard now, thick and heavy behind the zipper, the shape of it pressing against your jaw as he looks down at you.
“Answer me.” He murmurs, eyes pitch black as though the war within him between desire and righteousness had been fought, and desire had emerged the bloodied victor. “I asked if you understand what you took, Lamb. Confess and all will be forgiven.”
You try to form the right words, but his hands are already there; one tangled in your hair, the other steady at the back of your neck, holding you against his bludge with nowhere left to run.
“I-I wanted it. Wanted something that had been on you.”
Father Carisi hums; your half-assed attempt at a confession drawing an amused, breathy chuckle from his lips as his thumb gently caresses the side of your neck.
“That it?” he muses, grinning down at you. The smile is all teeth, the satisfied look of a cat that knows the chase is over and the mouse has nowhere left to run. “Ya don’t get to stop at pretty half-truths, Lamb. You should know that by now. Confess properly.”
“I stole it because every time I watched you put it on I imagined you putting it on me instead. I wanted the weight of it. I wanted the smell of you still in the silk. I…” Your voice breaks on in to a moan when the hand in your hair tugs you closer, pressing your face harder against his cock. “I rubbed it against my… against my pussy… until I came… in the sacristy…”
He goes still for half a second, the weight of your shame evident in the way you hang your head with what little room he allows. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the faint wet noise of your thighs shifting together.
“You defiled it.” Not a question. “You used something consecrated to get yourself off while I was anointing the dyin’, and in God’s House, nonetheless. That what you’re tellin’ me, Lamb?”
“Yes.” The confession is meek and filled with shame, earning you another sharp yank to the hair, making you wince. “Yes, Father. I wanted a piece of you I could keep. I wanted to feel like I owned something of yours the same way you already own every thought I have.”
He yanks your head backwards by the hair, forcing your back into a sharper arch, breasts pressing against his muscular thighs. There’s nothing left to say, you could say sorry, but you’re not. Not when your cunt clenches so hard at the flash of pain in your skull that a fresh trickle of slick runs down the inside of one thigh.
“Anythin’ else?”
“I slept with it the first night. Wrapped it around my throat like a collar and fucked myself with three fingers until I came so hard I cried… then the second night I put it between my legs and rode it, grinding my clit against the embroidery until the gold thread was wet and shiny. I said your name the whole time, Father Carisi. Over and over. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.”
His eyes close briefly as he lets out a slow breath, almost as if he’s silently asking God for the restraint that won’t come.
“And now you’re here,” he says, eyes snapping open, almost reflective. “Returned the stolen property. Waitin’ for the consequences you knew were comin’. That right?”
“Yes.”
A low sound leaves him. He opens his belt with one hand, the other still gripping your hair tight. The zipper follows. His cock springs free; heavy, flushed, the head already slick. He gathers your hair in to a makeshift ponytail to pull you forward until your lips brush the hot length of him.
“Open up, Lamb,” he orders quietly. “Time to take ya penance.”
You do. He feeds the thick head past your lips and straight over your tongue, not stopping until the blunt weight of him presses the back of your throat. You gag around him. Tears spring to your eyes.
“That’s it. Such a dirty little Lamb.” he holds you there a second longer, then begins to move; slow, controlled strokes that match the measured way he uses to speak the Mass, only now the prayer is the wet sound of your throat taking every inch.
He fucks your mouth with the stole still binding your wrists, resting both hands in your hair now to control the angle of your head. Each time you try to pull back he simply tightens his grip and pushes deeper. Spit runs down your chin. Your eyes water more, tears spilling down your cheeks. Your cunt clenching on nothing, still dripping from the spanking.
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice rough. “Take it. You wanna piece of me so badly? Here it is, Lamb. Here it fuckin’ is.”
He grunts with every thrust, keeping the pace steady until your throat is raw and your mascara is streaking. Only then does he pull free with a wet pop, a string of spit still connects your bottom lip to the head of his cock. He hauls you up by the stole, spinning you around, and bending you back over the desk in one hard motion. Your cheek hits the wood. He lifts your bound arms slightly forcing your back into a sharper arch that keeps your burning ass high and your soaked cunt on full display.
He notches the thick head against your entrance and drives in to the hilt in a single brutal thrust. The stretch is sudden and complete. A broken cry tears out of you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, the wet slap of his hips against your sore ass filling the office.
“This is what you were chasing?” he growls, accent thick, the stole ends still clenched in his fist so he can yank your arms back and force you tighter onto his cock with every thrust. “Not the silk. Not the symbol. This? This sinful, earthly desire? I am a man of God, Lamb. I am a good Shepherd. I tend to my Flock. You wanna repent, right, Lamb? Then repent, baby. Say ‘I’m sorry Father Carisi, it won’t happen again’,” he grunts nipping the hinge of your jaw.
“I’m… I’m sorry Fath- fuck! I’m sorry Father Carisi, it won’t happen again!” you stutter out, but he doesn’t slow.
Every thrust drives the full length of his cock deep into your soaked cunt, the wet slap of his hips against your burning ass obscene in the otherwise silent office. The stole ends stay locked in his fist; each time he yanks it your arms pull tighter behind you, forcing your tits flat against the polished wood, your sensitive nipples dragging against the grain with every hard stroke. The stretch is relentless. You feel every thick inch of him dragging along your walls, the head of his cock punching deep enough to make your breath catch on a broken moan.
“You gotta understand somethin’ for me, Lamb. This cunt? It’s no longer yours to offer around,” he says, voice low and rough, accent thick with the effort of holding back. “Not anymore. You stole from me. You used what’s consecrated to get yourself off. Now you take what I give you an’ you say thank you. An’ you’re gonna keep takin’ it until I say otherwise, yeah?”
He changes the angle, grinding in hard enough that the desk creaks. Your clit scrapes against the edge of the wood, causing a wanton scream to fall from your lips and one large, firm hand to slap over your mouth.
“Shut it.” He grits out as your pleasure spikes sharp and sudden. You try to rock back onto him and he simply tightens the stole, locking you in place so you can only take what he decides to give.
“Don’t you dare come yet.” The order is quiet, absolute. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in to the root. Your cry is muffled against his palm. He does it again. And again. Each time the coil in your belly tightens, each time he feels your walls start to flutter he eases off just enough to leave you shaking and empty.
“Please!” The word tears out of you; raw, stifled, utterly broken. “Father, please, I can’t–”
“You can.” He fucks you through the denial, deep and steady, the stole cutting into your wrists every time he yanks you back onto his cock. “You’ll take it until I say. You’ll feel every inch of me and you’ll remember; desire is a sin. Pride is a sin. Greed is a sin. And theft. Is. A. Fuckin’. Sin.” He grits out, fingers now digging in to the raw flesh of your ass either side of the stole as his thrusts punctuate each word.
Your thighs tremble, desperately trying to hold back the orgasm that’s building rapidly in your gut. Slick coats his cock with every thrust. The burn in your ass and the stretch in your cunt blur together until the only thing left is the thick slide of him and the sound of his breathing growing harsher above you.
He leans over your back, chest pressing you harder into the wood, and drives in one final time; buried to the hilt, hips locked tight against your sore cheeks.
“Now, Lamb. You may cum now,” he grunts in to your hair as the first hot pulse of his cum floods you. He keeps grinding through it, shallow and possessive, forcing every drop deeper while your own orgasm finally rips free, walls clamping down around him in helpless, rhythmic waves. You sob his title into the desk, body shaking, the stole still biting into your wrists as he empties himself inside you.
Father, Father, Oh God… Thank you Father…
He stays inside you long after the last pulse fades, thumb moving absentmindedly against the small of your back, almost tender, like he’s giving you the closest thing he can give to the embrace of a lover after sex.
His cock softens slowly, still thick enough that you feel every small shift as he breathes against the back of your neck. The stole remains knotted around your wrists, the embroidered cross pressed deep into the skin. Neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the quiet tick of the office clock and the soft, wet noise of him finally easing free.
A thick trickle of his cum follows, warm against the inside of your thigh. He reaches into the desk drawer without looking, pulls out a clean white cloth, and wipes you with the same careful attention he uses to dry the chalice after communion. The cloth is cool, his hand steady. He cleans the mess from between your legs, then the flushed, still-burning skin of your ass. Each pass of the cloth is deliberate, almost gentle, the violence of the last half hour folded away without comment.
Only when you are clean does he loosen the knot.
The stole slides free. Blood returns to your fingers in a sharp prickle. He turns your wrists over in his hands, examining the red marks left by the gold thread, then lifts the long white length of fabric and settles it around his own neck the way he has done a thousand times before Mass. The embroidered cross rests once more against his torso. He smooths it flat with both palms, the gesture automatic, sacred.
He looks down at you still bent over the desk, naked, marked, quiet.
“Tell me...” His voice is quiet now. “Do you understand?”
He pauses only long enough to tuck himself back in to his trousers.
“The cost of devotion?” he continues, his gaze flickering briefly to the stole before returning to your naked form.
“It is never measured in silk or thread. Not in the things we wear, nor in the symbols we carry. Rather, it is measured in what we surrender.”
His jaw tightens.
“In the desires we bury. In the prayers that go unanswered. In the doors we choose not to open, no matter how desperately we long to cross their threshold.”
He draw a slow breath.
“That is the burden of every vow. To love God enough that there are parts of yourself you willingly lay upon His altar, knowing you will never take them back. That is the burden you must learn to live with, Lamb. That is the burden we must all learn to live with.”
“Next time the urge comes,” he says, voice low and even, “you don’t take. You walk through that door, you kneel, and you ask. No more stealing what isn’t yours.”
He tips your chin up with two fingers so your eyes meet his.
“I am a good Shepherd, Lamb. But even a shepherd cannot guide what refuses to come home.”
You guys.... i know i keep saying I'm back and then never post anything and I'm so sorry 🥺
I've been struggling a lot over the last year with my mental health and moving across the country and I've also been planning my wedding this year which is taking up sooo much of my time.
I've also been working on my writing style and developing it a bit more (because I lost confidence in my work tbh) so I'm hoping you'll be able to enjoy what's to come
TL;DR - I'm sorry. I'm gonna get back to posting. Love y'all ❤️
