#ironmax

[madmanwonder]

Crossover Crack Ship: Ironmax/Steel & Sillk/Orderly Chaos

James Ironwood:

X

Mad Moxxi:

[madmanwonder]

Guns, Glamour, and Ghosts (RWBY/Borderlands)

X-xx-X

James Ironwood wasn’t built for the chaos of Pandora. Order, discipline, and straight lines—those were his creed. So naturally, the first person he ran into at Moxxi’s Bar was the one woman capable of shattering all three.

“Sugar, if it isn’t the tin soldier himself,” purred Mad Moxxi, leaning over the counter with that infamous smirk that had launched a thousand bad decisions. “You look like you’ve swallowed a gearbox.”

James sighed, adjusting his immaculate coat like it could armor him from her. “Moxxi. I didn’t come here for games.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, brushing a gloved finger down his arm, “that’s exactly what you said last time.”

The Vault Hunters nearby pretended not to watch, though one snorted when Moxxi slid a cocktail his way—a glass shaped like a bullet casing, rimmed with neon sugar and regret.

“I’m here for information,” Ironwood said. “You’re the only one who knows where the Dahl shipment landed.”

Moxxi laughed. “Always business. Never pleasure. Tragic, really. You could use a little… disarray in your life.”

“Disarray is what got us in trouble,” he muttered.

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “And yet, you came back.”

For a rare moment, the noise of Pandora dulled—the clatter of guns, the howls of psychos, even Claptrap’s endless monologue outside. Just the two of them, with too much history and too little sense.

She slid a small datachip across the counter. “Your shipment, darling. No charge. Consider it… a nostalgia tax.”

He hesitated before taking it. “You never do anything without a price.”

Moxxi’s voice softened. “Oh, sugar, I already paid mine.”

For a moment, his gloved hand covered hers—firm, calloused, and fleeting. Then he turned, metal boots clicking against the bar floor.

“Take care of yourself, Moxxi.”

She smiled, watching him go, her reflection in the mirror lined with empty bottles and half-lived dreams. “Always do, handsome. Always do.”

Behind her, a Vault Hunter whispered, “Was that her ex?”

“Yeah,” said another. “He’s doomed.”

And somewhere outside, as Pandora roared to life again, James Ironwood allowed himself the faintest, most dangerous thing of all—a smile.

[yccoskun]

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[yccoskun]

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[yccoskun]

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[yccoskun]

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[djjosefranco]

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[evrencakin]

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