[ Once upon a time, sitting in a circle of plastic chairs in a heavily guarded military facility, a man who no longer exists asked whether anyone had considered manipulating the fabric of the dream so that the players themselves are perceived differently to the subject. They hadn't thought it possible, but then again none of them had gone to theatre school, and that man who no longer exists was willing to give it a shot. The suggestion had lead him to learn and understand the way his own body moved, the way his muscles and bones sat under his skin on a particularly intimate level. He came to understand his own concept of body, and the next logical step was to slip on a pair of high heels and see how far he could shift his skin, just to see if he could.
That was a lifetime ago now, and Mr. Eames knows his way around pair of heels so well that he knows exactly how his hips should move in the dream for the facade to never slip, for the dreamer to never realize that something is wrong. His own fluidity helps in leaps and bounds, and he enjoys the odd foray into his own femininity, in spite of the bulk he'd put on over the years. The garter belt and the louboutins in his size live in Arthur's Parisian apartment; They're too rich a luxury for Mumbai or Lagos where he keeps his own property. He slid them on and stockings in his size to go with it, with panties and a boutique-made cincher stopping just below his ribcage. It's not for Arthur, though his on-again-off-again partner (for lack of a more fitting term) has been considered. It's all for himself, a spur of the moment decision to put his forged handwriting practice to the side for the moment in favor of treating himself to something nice.
By the time Arthur get back, Eames' face is clean shaven, testing a new lipstick in the bathroom mirror with his weight heavy on Louboutin heels. He doesn't call out a greeting when he hears the door open, focused almost entirely on himself. ]
no subject
That was a lifetime ago now, and Mr. Eames knows his way around pair of heels so well that he knows exactly how his hips should move in the dream for the facade to never slip, for the dreamer to never realize that something is wrong. His own fluidity helps in leaps and bounds, and he enjoys the odd foray into his own femininity, in spite of the bulk he'd put on over the years. The garter belt and the louboutins in his size live in Arthur's Parisian apartment; They're too rich a luxury for Mumbai or Lagos where he keeps his own property. He slid them on and stockings in his size to go with it, with panties and a boutique-made cincher stopping just below his ribcage. It's not for Arthur, though his on-again-off-again partner (for lack of a more fitting term) has been considered. It's all for himself, a spur of the moment decision to put his forged handwriting practice to the side for the moment in favor of treating himself to something nice.
By the time Arthur get back, Eames' face is clean shaven, testing a new lipstick in the bathroom mirror with his weight heavy on Louboutin heels. He doesn't call out a greeting when he hears the door open, focused almost entirely on himself. ]