Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at

Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid
Grace Chasity/Stephanie Lauter, Minor or Background Relationship(s), bg steph/pete
Grace Chasity, Stephanie Lauter
Additional Tags:
Canon Compliant, ish, Post-Canon, Musical: Nerdy Prudes Must Die, Nerdy Prudes Must Die Spoilers, Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Religious Guilt, Christianity, Prom, Pining, Lesbian Grace Chasity, The Black Book (Hatchetfield), The Lords in Black (Hatchetfield), (implied) - Freeform
Part 1 of lautity week 2023
Published: 2023-12-03 Words: 1,494 Chapters: 1/1



A voice spins in her head, her entire world — confined to a small bathroom stall, barely lit with the colorful hallway lights, set up there by the student committee — swaying, and the voice keeps spinning, and it’s not one voice but a myriad of them, high and low, screaming and hollering like they're at a high school football game.






warning - there are heavy themes of christianity, internalized homophobia, comphet and purity culture in this !!


running into ao3, panting, papers flying from my hands . I DID IT !!!!! ITS STILL DECEMBER 3RD SOMEWHERE

will i ever write a happy graph fic? the answer is no. enjoy one more fic of grace suffering.


Grace Chasity would like to have one pure teenage experience, please. Without the sin pouring out of everywhere, every teenage body, every movement of them and disgusting, slimy kiss exchanged during lunch break, every TV show and book that targeted them. Her parents would be quite proud of her if she managed to have just one.

She was absolutely sure that nothing bad would happen at the prom. (It’s not like she could tell her mom or her preacher everything, like she usually would. She just had her own conscience and the sin–filled Steph and Pete, who were usually too busy sucking their faces to pay attention to her, to make appropriate choices.)

She and her friends have already drained the amount of bad things that could happen to three teenagers in a small, boring town in the middle of nowhere that has a three–sentences long description on Wikipedia.

“It’s going to be good.” Steph assured her through texts last night, and Grace held onto her words like a velcro strap. She always does that with Steph’s words, believing in them like she’s a child again, listening to the preacher’s words and believing so fervently it feels like any criticism might snap her faith in half. “It’s going to be so fucking good, Grace.”

Her mother helped her into the prom dress and white thighs, clicking her cross necklace back on once everything was in place. The dress was borrowed from her grandmother’s younger sister, whose own prom was held in 1977, and who gave birth to five sons, year after year, and never got to pass the dress onto anyone. And then Grace appeared, yearning for a dress that didn’t show her shoulder or legs, and the awful, tulle and cotton nightmare seemed to be her dream.

Her mother kissed her forehead, told her to have fun, and Jason came to pick her up in his father’s car. It was good for Grace, big and dark blue, and decent enough for Grace’s father to nod and shake his hand while Jason almost sweated through his lended suit.

They went to some fast–food chain before the prom itself with a few of Jason’s football friends. Grace didn’t have the greatest time, to be honest, but she’s been in worse situations — namely, the entire there–is–a–dead–football–star–wanting–us–dead thing — and she can deal with a few awkward laughs and eating fries while the others talk animatedly.

Jason opens the car door for her to step outside once they're outside Hatchetfield High, and she might have even smiled and blushed at him, like a proper girl should. (She doesn’t touch his hand, though.) She walks into the gym, arm in arm with Jason — not touching, no skin–to–skin contact, that's how sin travles — and sees Steph and Pete in too–close–for–comfort embrace, a deserted part of the dance floor.

She’s half a step to walking towards them, arm half raised in a greeting wave when their lips touch, and Grace’s mind blanks.

It’s not really an uncomfortable feeling. More like when you’re really tired at some family function, and you’re five years old, so you find a dark and quiet closet and curl up in the heavy, thick coats and close your eyes.

It feels like she’s floating with her feet bound to stones. Something weighing down on her stomach. Her eyelids are heavy as they press on her eyes, but then there’s a sensation she’s not familiar with — wet and warm, then only warm, something soft and even sticky, like she’s trying to wage through a labyrinth made of jelly. She opens her eyes nonetheless, despite the sticky protest.

She’s kissing Steph. (It doesn't feel like kissing Max, at all. It's not the feeling of nothing, tinted with disgust. She comes into kissing Steph like it's something she was always supposed to do.)

She feels it all — from how Steph’s lips are warm where they meet Grace’s, how her lipstick feels when it coats them, how they feel when she smiles. Slightly cold nose pressing against Grace’s cheek. Steph’s dress against Grace’s, how the material of it slides against Grace’s bare arms and she shivers, and Steph laughs.

It’s not a bad laugh, and Grace melts and freezes at the same time. Her body melts. Her mind freezes.

Steph’s hands are on Grace’s waist and Grace’s hands are on the back of Steph’s head, in the curls. They’re soft and don’t knot between Grace’s hands, and they burn.

They burn so bad, but Grace is sucked into the feeling, and she can’t stop, and it’s getting warmer, and she can’t handle it anymore but Steph is everything and she’s just Grace and she’s not pure she’s not good and Steph is kissing her, hands rubbing tiny circles into Grace’s waist—

Grace falls back down. Like an angel expelled out of heaven.

Her legs are still on the floor. She’s still standing next to Jason. He's not even looking at her, too focused on finding his other football friends somewhere in the crowded gym.

Steph’s lips are still on Pete’s. Her hands are on his waist, his hands in her hair.

Purple and blue lights dance around the room. Steph and Pete separate, and Steph smiles so lovingly at Pete, who, in turn, looks at her like she just put up all the stars in the sky. They look so beautiful in the colors, like they were made for this. Proms, birthday parties, weddings.

Grace might throw up.

(She never looked good in family functions photos.)


Grace Chasity would like to be forgiven.

If she was forgiven, all of this would stop. If she was pure and only listened, if she didn’t try to put up a fight, if she didn’t try to get to heaven so desperately, like a puppy biting at the child–safe fence in front of a staircase, like a customer on Black Friday, trampling everyone else in a queue. If she only tried more, tried less, if she was better.

All she ever needed was forgiveness.

All she ever wanted was to be pure.

Pureness, she learned when she was about five and still so stupid and naive, still believing that God was all–loving and wanted the best from people, not the best of people, was the ticket to heaven. So she quickly realized she would be loved and liked and appreciated if she kept completely pure. Because that’s what that meant, for five-or-so–year–old Grace who was still her daddy’s Cece and who loved collecting frogs outside when it rained and danced to Dolly Parton in the kitchen.

Cece who had a pink rosary, and who prayed before bed every night so long her floor had two dents where her knees would be. Who still managed to have friends outside church, no matter how weird and off–putting her behavior was, how often she talked about her God and church.

Her hands are shaking as she flips the Black Book, the dress slipping of one shoulder, and her hands shake so badly she would be a really good McDonald’s shake machine.

There has to be.

A voice spins in her head, her entire world — confined to a small bathroom stall, barely lit with the colorful hallway lights, set up there by the student committee — swaying, and the voice keeps spinning, and it’s not one voice but a myriad of them, high and low, screaming and hollering like they're at a high school football game.


There’s not a single answer to her question.

This is not right. She’s a good girl. She begged for forgiveness for the act of laying with Max Jägerman, and she told God everything. She told Him more than she told the police, for heck’s sake! He’s supposed to po

She knows. It’s a punishment, a test for her faith.

She won’t ever get to kiss Steph. That’s the only way things can go — she will stay pure, despite Max’s sinful temptation, and now against the Devil trying to lead both her and Steph down to Hell.

She’s not going to be bad. She can’t.


The back cover of the Black Book appears in front of Grace’s hands. The darkness seems to be laughing at her, mocking her. What, you can’t even find a stupid spell? No wonder you’re—

She slams her head against the bathroom stall. The crack resounds through the empty room like a lighting bolt falling on earth.

And then there it is.

She can still do one more thing.

There is still Jason.

There’s still hope.

Her heart whirrs back to life, beating wildly behind the layer of tulle and cotton, and her hands tremble in the rhythm of her heartbeat.

She still can be good. She just needs a chance to prove how obedient she can be.

“You’re doing really great, Gracie—pea.”


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