Written while pondering poetry, so the words are my brain attempting poet-y-ness. I think?
Fem!RoChu - Russia is named Ivana, China is named Wang Yin.
China's name - As I recall, 'yin' is the female energy of yin/yang. also, I don't like the official Nyotalia China because she looks like she's 8 years old. My version is almost identical to male!China, with longer hair and small boobs added. My version, my name.
Wang Yin sits in the December car, her shoulders swathed in Iggy's woolen western coat. Her breath puffs across the dashboard; her arms cross on her slim chest. She smiles a black smile. Iggy Kirkland loves Allison F Jones. Why else would Yin be left in the winter street while her mistress goes into a warm house? Why else would Yin be sleeping sitting while her mistress takes a tumble with a better western woman? Wang Yin closes her almond eyes and curls over. She does not love Iggy Kirkland, oh no. But she cannot be free.
There is the sound on the street of doors slamming, shouting. Wang Yin does not look up.
Footsteps and shots. Wang Yin hears them through the fog of almost-sleep. She does not look up.
The never-locked door opens and a body weights the driver's seat. Yin looks up for pigtails, flushed face, blustering denials, ignition. Instead, a hooded figure in that place. Violet eyes catch her movement and a gun meets her forehead.
"Don' move, da?" says a silken voice, a woman by the pitch and by the long eyelashes. Silver-blonde hair swoops across that pale forehead from under a black hood. Wang Yin is still.
"Got keys?" says the blonde one, gun relaxing but ready. Yin indicates the glove compartment. A black-clad arm crosses her lap to reach inside. Spare keys meet long white fingers with a jingle. The hand is withdrawn, taking a small patch of warmth with it.
"Just don't make me sit in the street, aru," says Yin, her voice the softest whisper. Violet eyes survey, and determine her no threat. With a sharp nod, keys turn in the ignition and the car leaps alive. With one pedal pushed, Wang Yin is stolen, along with Iggy's car.
The woman stops in the dark dock alley. Sirens still blaze behind the buildings.
"Safe," she says. Wang Yin is still. The blonde puts the keys in her pocket and goes out of the car. Yin slumps lower, shivering in the stolen seat. The door opens, and a warm white hand grips her slim wrist.
"You come, da," says the black-clad blonde, and pulls Yin out onto the night pavement. They cross a corner, and go in a hidden door in the wharf-ward wall. Inside is a dark dank room, stumbling stairs, then a warm room. Yin lets the coat be slid from her slight shoulders. A lamp is lit. The room is yellow like sunflower light. The blonde puts down her hood; her hair is long and bright.
"I am Ivana," she says, as the door lock clicks. She takes Yin by each wrist, and holds her at arms reach. Violet eyes survey, and start to smirk. She removes her coat fully. Yin sees a gray turtleneck stretching over soft curves, black pants, combat boots. Ivana sees her eyes watching and smiles broadly.
"Want some?" she says, shark smirk on a fair face.
Wang Yin hesitates, and is suddenly pushed. She finds herself crushed to a carpet, her flat chest brushed by heavy curves. The swish of a pony tail brushes her cheek, leaving a tingling trail. Violet eyes survey, and find something worth seeing. Wang Yin is still.