Whumptober 2025 Day 10: Secrets
Oct. 10th, 2025 07:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicusWithout Consent | Lips Sewn Shut | Secrets
So in the Steeley book Murder by Air there's a side character called Helene who is [SPOILERS] almost immediately supposed (by Steeley) to be a man crossdressing as a disguise. However, within the canon of the book there's plenty of opportunities for Helene/Constantino to pull back the curtain and return to dressing in a socially expected way, and they don't! So I have adopted the headcanon that Helene/Constantino is exploring some transgender feelings, which is the point of this fic.
It hadn't been as if he'd jumped at the chance, at first.
His father, the count, had lamented the loss of the actress they'd engaged to play Helene, and with so little time left before she would be missed it was vital that he find someone to step in. Someone he trusted, or had leverage over, or — as was so often the case with his father — both.
Then he'd turned to look at Constantino, and made a thoughtful noise.
"Yes, father?" He asked, when he noticed the look.
"You have a certain willowy frame, my boy," said the Count. "It suggests an idea to me, if you would not find it too demeaning."
Constantino had never learned how to deny his father. By the following day he had been set up with false papers, a wardrobe of suitable clothing and a dressing table covered in cosmetics he had no idea how to use.
The first time he tried to use the mascara, he poked himself quite forcefully in the eye. He had to train himself to look upwards into the mirror, stooping his shoulders to accommodate the angle. His eyelashes ended up thicker but not too dark, when he did it right, and the handkerchief with the remnants of attempts one through four was a job for the laundress.
A touch of rouge on his cheeks and a swipe of lipstick made him not quite a perfect imitation, but would do well enough while he tried on the wig, and some of the clothes.
His stomach felt tight as he put the net over his hair, then settled the hairpiece into place. The black curls were already set in place, such that they framed his face and brushed lightly against his cheek when he shifted in place. His reflection was growing further away from his familiar image of himself. It should have been unnerving.
The wardrobe revealed a choice of neatly made and well tailored clothing, a mixture of dresses, blouses and skirts. His father the Count was far too traditional to support a woman in trousers, Constantino supposed. He'd never worn a skirt before. It was odd to look at his feet poking out from beneath the soft fabric, feeling ungainly and out of proportion.
There was a full length mirror inside the wardrobe door. Constantino hadn't looked at himself in it just yet. He couldn't decide on a blouse to go with the skirt he'd chosen, a dark blue piece, and dithered for an unforgivable period between a cream with ivory buttons and a white with cream. It was bizarre. When he dressed himself in the mornings, he took the first suit in the wardrobe and buttoned it without a thought. He rarely inspected himself in the mirror. He would quite happily shave without a mirror, if such a thing wouldn't result in serious injury.
The cream blouse, then. He slipped it on over the brassiere with its included padding, a contraption he had taken a long moment to comprehend, and the wide elasticated band which altered his silhouette. Buttoning it was the work of seconds, even in the opposite direction to the usual, and he tucked the excess into the waistband of the skirt. It felt good against his fingers.
He realised with a very unfeminine curse that he had forgotten to put on the garterbelt before the skirt. He considered taking it off and starting again, just for practice. It seemed like it would be a good idea. But he couldn't quite make himself unbutton the skirt again so soon.
The mirror beckoned. A tall, slim woman looked back at him. Her makeup was poorly done, her hair not quite modern in style. She wore a cream blouse and a navy blue skirt, and her bare feet were square and flat.
A glance at her nails revealed nicotine stains and badly treated cuticles. She made a mental note to find a manicurist, who might paint them in a colour which matched her outfit.
It was a sudden jolt to remember that this was a disguise. That the woman in the mirror, the Helene he was pretending to be, was not actually Constantino. That he should not be wearing these clothes, or makeup, or thinking about what colour to paint his nails.
Constantino ran his palms over his hips. He wondered how long his father expected him to keep up this ruse; he wanted, suddenly, for it to last forever.
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Date: 2025-10-11 09:38 pm (UTC)