docholligay:

So I’ve been fighting a huge uphill battle with writing these past few months, and this is the longest thing I’ve written in forever. I am AU trash and we all know this, so let’s entertain a Catholic Boarding School AU for a few moments–I don’t know whether I’ll do anything else with this, but it was fun and it felt good, for once, so I’m satisfied. 3.497 words. 

The pink barrette in her hair was a concession to the constant
admonition that she needed to be more feminine. What defined femininity didn’t
make a lot of sense to Haruka, considering they had just finished studying an
entire book of the Bible where a woman commanded an army and another put a tent
peg through a man’s temple (Something she mused on often as she was being
lectured by Father Anthony), to say nothing of St. Joan of Arc and her men’s
clothing, but these protestations went ignored or explained away—God had a
certain way of denying Haruka pants—and so Haruka sat in the small chapel of
her dormitory, in a plaid skirt and knee socks, pink barrette in her hair.

She looked up at the small statue of St. Joan in the corner, her
selected personal saint. She still remembered stuttering to the sisters about
why she had chosen her, something about the strength to be a soldier in the war
for our lord or something, but that wasn’t true. Joan was a reminder, a
reminder that even the nuns and priests had forgotten. Haruka was just fine the
way she was. God didn’t care if she wore pants. She was still good and noble
and an instrument of God, just the way she was made, and it was this thought
that made the medallion a comfort on her neck as she walked through the halls.

Patroness of soldiers and France. Patroness of butch lesbians,
more like.

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