#rwby james

[shadydirt]

[montycheckmate]

maybe having a lighter workload would’ve done him some good

[disabled-character-of-the-day]

James Ironwood from RWBY is disabled

James is a double amputee and missing half of his torso.

Day 36

(Requested by @jayfeathers-neo-bumbleby)

[frickingnerd]

yandere james ironwood

pairing: james ironwood x gn!reader

tags: posessive yandere!ironwood, ironwood keeping his darling weak & submissive, mentions of punishment (for brat!reader)

a/n: ironwood screams yandere to me, so i had to write some headcanons for him! <3

james is a possessive yandere!

as long as you obey, he'll treat you well. but that also means you have to follow his every command, like a good little darling

and one thing he's not a fan of is seeing you anywhere near other men! even his own subordinates have to stay away from you

it can be quite lonely to have you be so isolated, but james is willing to always make time for you!

or at least, almost always! his work is quite important and while he wishes you could always be his top priority, he sometimes has to be put his work before you

though when it came down between you and his work, as well as all of his subordinates, he'd always choose you!

he'd burn down the whole planet, if that is what you'd ask of him! but if you were to go this far, he'd make sure to remind you that you are just as messed up as he is…

truthfully, james likes his darling to be sweet, innocent and obedient! he doesn't like brats who make things difficult and he'll punish you, if you ever talk back at him

while he's possessive of you, there is a way to escape him! if you were to upset him too much and be a brat, james would simply throw you away and find a new darling

though that's only early on into the relationship. if you were to become a brat later on, you would be severely punished and shown where your place is; underneath him!

[lemon-butters]

A/N: Took me forever to finally write again after procrastinating. I also named my Ironwitch baby girl from my last story. (her name's revealed in this story)

The wail of a newborn tore through the stillness of the night, fracturing the silence that had settled over the household like a delicate frost. James' eyelids fluttered open, his senses immediately on high alert. Duty called, not as a Headmaster or General but as a father, from the small nursery down the hall, where his daughter's cries echoed with an urgency that tugged at his heartstrings.

With the grace of a man who'd navigated far darker terrains, he slipped from beneath the warmth of the covers, leaving behind the softness of shared slumber with his wife. The hardwood floor greeted his bare feet as he padded silently across the room. His tall frame, often clad in the crisp uniform of command, now bore only the rumpled edges of his pajamas, which whispered against his skin as he moved.

Upon entering the nursery, the soft glow of the nightlight painted shadows that danced along the walls, and for a moment. James approached the crib where his daughter lay, her tiny fists clenched and flailing as she continued to cry out into the darkness.

James reached down, his large hands cradling her tiny body with a tenderness that belied his imposing stature. As he lifted her, her wails subsided into sniffles, as if she recognized the safety enveloping her. And when her large blue eyes—mirror images of his own—found his face, something within him shifted like tectonic plates deep beneath the earth's surface.

In those wide, innocent eyes, he saw reflected not only his features but also the weight of a newfound love that was both exhilarating and terrifying in its intensity. It was a love that made him feel vulnerable in ways no enemy ever had, breaking through his armor and reaching the very core of his being.

"Hey there, my brave girl," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he held her close, feeling her heart beat against his own. Her gaze locked onto his and at that moment. A father was awed by the life he held in his arms—a life he would protect with every fiber of his being.

James descended the stairs with a grace that belied his towering height, the weight of his daughter cradled gently in his arms. Each step was taken with the care of a man navigating uncharted territory, every bit the seasoned soldier on a nocturnal mission of utmost importance.

He crept into the kitchen's dim light, fetching the bottle and formula. As he scooped and measured, the silence was perforated by the soft rustle of her squirming movements, her tiny fists waving like flags of ceaseless determination.

With calculated precision, James tested the warmth of the milk against the back of his hand.

Turning, he made his way to the living room, where the black recliner sat in the muted glow of the nightlights. He eased into the chair, the leather calm and unyielding beneath him, and brought the baby to his chest. Her blue eyes peered up at him with an intensity that commanded his full attention.

"Shh," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as he offered her the bottle. She latched on eagerly, her hunger momentarily quelling the restlessness that had stirred her from sleep.

James studied her features as she fed—the delicate arch of her brow, the sweep of her lashes casting crescent shadows on her cheeks. With each suckling sound, a profound sense of wonder washed over him. He was lost in contemplation, adrift in the vast ocean of her needs and desires in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours.

His thumb brushed her cheek, a gentle gesture that spoke volumes. The darkness around them seemed to recede.

The house's quiet enveloped them, a cocoon from which James hoped neither would have to emerge too soon.

Glynda Goodwitch stirred, the sheets whispering against her skin as she turned in bed. The world was still shrouded in the soft hues of dawn, painting the room with a tender light that promised a new day. Her mind lingered in the remnants of sleep, those precious moments before full consciousness took hold. But tranquility was short-lived; a cramp tightened in her chest, pulling her from the cusp of dreams into stark reality.

She placed a hand on her breast, the sensation both achingly familiar and startling—a reminder of the life depending on her. With sudden clarity, Glynda realized she had slept through the night without tending to her daughter's needs. The rhythm of motherhood had been disrupted, and her body responded with insistent discomfort.

Rising from the warmth of their shared bed, the cool morning air brushed against her skin. She slipped into her slippers, the soft padding sound following her as she glided across the wooden floor towards the nursery. Her heart, usually so composed under pressure, now beat with a different urgency.

The nursery door creaked gently as Glynda opened it, but the crib lay empty, untouched by the slumbering innocence she expected to find. A flicker of concern sparked within her but was quickly extinguished by her trust in James. He would be there for their daughter as he stood steadfast for all who relied on him.

Descending the staircase, Glynda's senses heightened. The faintest aroma of sterilized bottles mingled with the comforting scent of home. As she reached the last step, her gaze fell upon the living room, where shadows and light played in a quiet dance.

In the embrace of the black recliner was James, his tall frame softened in repose. Their daughter lay nestled against his chest, her tiny form rising and falling with each peaceful breath. In this tableau of fatherly devotion, the strength and scars of the man she knew blurred into the moment's tenderness.

"James," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

His eyelids fluttered open, an instinctual response from a man whose life demanded constant vigilance. Even in the depths of fatigue, he was always the protector, ready to awaken at the slightest call. His dark blue eyes met hers, clouded with sleep but clear with affection.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with the remnants of rest.

"Let me take Artemisia," Glynda said softly, her hands reaching out with practiced ease.

[xkiramel]

Old Horseshoe sketches

[anironwitch]

I am posting a short part of my fic: Some aftercare after Valentines day. In the attempts to finish this fic, this year. (OCPD and Dsygraphia make writing fics and my confidence a bitch.)

Here's a 270 word ficlet of a Florist and Tattoo Palour Ironwitch AU:

Valentine's Day is always a busy period for a flower shop.

This is THE peak holiday after the winter solstice and other holidays, with the shift from cuetlaxochitl, mistletoe, and holly to the invasion of roses soaking everything in the shop. Luckily, there were early commissions that kept the fridge. 

All filled to the brim and prepared to fend off anyone with a slight pollen allergy.

 Though some of the customers can be vexing, especially the walk-ins, it was always fun to see the regulars. 

The elementary school students clinging to their parents while buying flowers for their teachers, someone surprising their partner or friend with flowers, someone buying flowers for them themselves, and the plant parent collecting a new child.

Valentine's Day was busy in the tattoo parlor.

G O D S, there was a policy of no walk-ins her apprenticeship taught her that.. At the start of the month, there were appointments for the month, especially for Saints' Day. So she had a list of her work for the month set. In keeping with the holiday, it was usually a bombardment of roses, hearts, and "I love yous." There was the occasional inside joke and the cover-ups of an old lover's name.

As the month rolled on, both of them faded into the backstage crew to keep the holiday running as the influx of hearts and roses the question always came up.

"What are we doing for Valentine's Day?”

It was a natural question to ask, but honestly to avoid the nonstop reminder of work of someone who was in the thick of it,

 Until this year.

[awkward-tension-art]

James Ironwood sick Headcanons

@ironwoodprotectionsquad thank you for your followers giving me this idea.

For starters, this man refuses to admit he’s sick.

If James gets sick, which is rare, it’ll last longer than normal because he doesn’t rest when he should

He can wake up coughing up blood and he’ll say “just need some coffee, I’ll be in my office”

If he’s feeling terrible enough, Mettle may kick in and he’ll work until he passes out or his work is done

Usually the former happens first

First time that happened it gave his s/o a heart attack

If you give him gentle reminders to rest, he may be more willing to listen, though it’s rare when he does

His people come before his health

You’ll have to supply him with tea and medicine rather than coffee and determination

If you think he’s had enough, you’ll have to fake being sick

James will feel slightly guilty because he’ll think HE got you sick

You can lay in bed, fake coughing, and say “I can only feel better if my husband is next to me”

He’ll reluctantly oblige

The general tells himself that he’ll go back to work after you fall asleep, but usually his own sickness and fatigue win out and HE falls asleep before you

Winter and Clover support your acting, just because it gets their boss to rest

After some time James notices that you and him seem to get better at the exact same time

He also notices that his work miraculously gets done, even if he’s in bed with you all day

You couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it. Not with your innocent smile. It’s a coincidence that Clover/Winter’s handwriting is on the documents and paperwork he needed to get done.