#pure 100% cowshit

[jynzandtonic]

When will you pay for your heinous crimes.

For anyone reading this, I would like to apologize in advance. 

This is not part of your regularly-scheduled programming.

This is in reference to the Father Garupe Coffee Shop/Fluff/Kid-Fic/Cattle-Farming AU that some shitty anon (read: me, it was me) provoked G into writing.

Here you go, @ohiobluetip​. Consider this my Hail Mary.

You pound at the door of the humble thatch-and-stone cottage, sweat dripping from your sun-beaten brow.

The harrowing climb up the slopes of Mt. Yasumandake had made every muscle in your body scream with pain—or that could just be from the scurvy you developed on the boat journey to Hirado Island—and humidity clings to the overpriced lingerie you wear under your 17th-century nun’s habit, but you don’t give a flying fuck. You squeeze the INTERPOL badge at your hip. This is your God-given duty.   

You’re met with the black eyes of Father Francisco Garupe as the weathered wooden door creaks open, but his face is changed since you last saw him; while his slim frame and angular features remain the same, his cheeks are much plumpened from Japanese cow’s milk.

“You know what I’ve come for,” you say, your voice cold as iron.

Garupe nods somberly. “I do, sister.” 

Good. You’d worried that he would protest, that he would refuse, that he’d rather drown in the ocean than—oh, err, sorry. Too soon to joke?

“Give me but a moment, sister,” he says, peering over his shoulder into the cottage. You hear shuffling about inside. “Adoración Agustina Encarnación de Francisca! Come here.”

Confused, you watch as a young, black-eyed girl emerges from behind Garupe, offering up a small, swaddled bundle. Garupe plucks it from her tiny arms and transfers it to you. 

“The fuck?!” you ask as he places a newborn baby in your arms.

“Please hold my youngest, sister. His name is… Charlie. I will return shortly.” He turns on his heel and disappears into the interior.

Stunned, you stare down at baby!Charlie. He coos up at you softly, then promptly and violently shits his thin cloth diaper.

Before you can find a flowerbox to leave the baby in, Father Garupe returns with a perfectly-frothed whole-milk matcha latte. 

“I hope this is to your liking, sister,” he says, plucking baby!Charlie from your grip and handing you the warm, artisanal ceramic mug. “It is drinking-temperature. Jyn milked the cows this morning.”

You notice the latte art is an intricate and extremely adorable panda flipping you off.

“But pandas don’t even fucking LIVE in Japan,” you snarl.

He exhales deeply. “Jyn told me you’d say that during our morning fingerblasting session today. But pandas also don’t have fingers, yet you did not comment on that.”

“JYN NEEDS TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE!”  

He hands baby!Charlie to Adoración Agustina Encarnación de Francisca and gently shoos her off, probably to go fall down a hillside or get eaten by pandas or something.

“Jyn is a child of God, now. All sins are forgiven,” he says.

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Frisco,” you sneer.

“TAKE ME INSTEAD! TAKE ME INSTEAD! YOU HAVE A WHOLE CREEPY BAD PRIEST AU TO FINISH! TAKE ME INSTEAD!” He’s screaming like a madman, and it’s hurting your ears. Hmm, or maybe that’s the scurvy, too.

“SHUT! THE FUCK! UP!” you yell, sounding an awful lot like Adam Sackler from some season of HBO Girls I can’t remember the number of. “I have to get out of this shitpost right now.” 

Oh no, Jyn thinks, have I fucked this up by breaking the fourth wall and using two different ‘I’s in the same paragraph?

“Shut up, Jyn,” you say.

You can hear me?! Jyn thinks.

“Yeah, I can. And I’m outta here. Why don’t you fill some ACTUAL prompts while I respond to your 47 other shitty asks?”

I’m sick of this callout culture, Jyn thinks, but I think Garupe has some more shit to say to you.

“Fine,” you say.

“Kneel, sweet sister.” Garupe’s words are like poisoned wine dripping down your throat—intoxicating, irresistible, deadly. “I wish to bless you before you go.”

In spite of yourself, you sink down before him, the cold, rough limestone of the cottage’s threshold biting into your shins.

Parting his long, black robes, he exposes his matchstick thighs clad in acid-wash denim short-shorts. In one swift motion, he shucks the jorts down to his ankles, revealing his veiny, purple, one-and-a-half-foot long Jesuit cock. “I heard you like watersports, Sister G. Let me offer you some of my... Holy Water.”