#pro james ironwood

[helena-and-helena-meta]

*Kicks in door*

YA'LL, Y'KNOW HOW JAMES IRONWOOD LOVES ASTRONOMY RIGHT?

Like we see it with the constellations, right? So like, imagine Atlas or anywhere on Remnant gaining access to Earth tech, how? Idk, ANYWAYS-

Imagine giving James Ironwood access to deep space telescopes or those videos on exoplanets and different stars. I WANNA SEE HIM SMILE! He deserves it!

[ironwoodprotectionsquad]

Nitpick November Day 5

Why does James get a round table when his arc is supposedly doesn’t trust anyone and is supposedly someone who unfairly wields his power.

A round table symbolically represents an equality of power as they have no head of the table, everyone at the table are equals. Unfortunately the rule of cool overshadow everything even if it contradicts what the show is trying to say.

All this to say, this is further proof also of just a lack of planning at all and that James's turn was very last minute and thrown in for no real good reason.

[the-path-to-redemption]

Me reading the tags as I cradle a bottle of water in my hand, pretending that it's vodka. I hate it here

[branch-sys]

Part two to this team. Aka team horribly written and or wronged by the writers

[ click for better quality ]

[camerawhoisalsocam]

Wait... this isnt Jacques? This is Ironwood?

RT, why? Why do you keep bringing him up? You saw how slandering him has divided your fans worse than your bee ship your so desperate to use as queer bait so why do you constantly drag him through the mud? Are you just going to flat out admit you hate Asians and amputee's?

Alright my fellow Pro Ironwood protectors, gather, we aint gonna let this slide. Yall wanna start a new Hashtag called #LetRWBYDIE

[lemon-butters]

A/N: What's supposed to be simple 500 short escaped me, all this stemmed from Malcc art. (I have more in the works)

Glynda lies nestled on a plush sofa, the contours of her form relaxed into the soft cushions. Her swollen belly asserts itself, an audacious curve interrupting the line of her body; it rises like a gentle hillock from the valley of her reclining figure. Atop this mound rests a tome, its pages splayed wide open, though the words seem to blur and dance under Glynda's half-focused gaze.

"Settle down, little one," she murmurs with a fond chuckle as if addressing a mischievous student rather than the life stirring within her. The baby responds not in obedience but with a series of gentle flutters against the inner wall of her womb, like the delicate wings of a butterfly trapped in cupped hands.

"Always so active when I try to read," she whispers, her voice tinged with both exasperation and wonder. She imagines she can almost discern patterns in the movement. A secret language of nudges and bumps that only she is privy to decipher.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Glynda's bright green eyes squint as she ponders the sensation, her thin ovular glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. With a sigh, she adjusts them back into place, yet her focus isn't on the lines of text. It's inward, attuned to the tiny dancer.

A powerful kick interrupts her reverie, drawing a gasp from her lips.

"Oh!" The fluttering evolved into more assertive taps now, commanding her full attention. Glynda places her hand gently on the epicenter of the activity,

"Easy now," Glynda murmurs.

Her tranquility fractures when she attempts to rise from the sofa, an action once simple now a feat of sheer willpower. Glynda exhales sharply, bracing herself against the cushions' soft resistance. Her muscles contract, protesting against the shift in gravity as she leans forward, seeking leverage. A pang of discomfort arcs across her lower back, drawing a tight line between her shoulder blades.

With an effort that leaves her breathless, she plants her feet firmly on the floor and pushes upward. The book that had been her companion slides off her belly and thumps onto the cushion beside her, its pages fluttering like captive birds eager for release.

Finally upright, Glynda allows herself a small smile of triumph. Her hand, still resting on her abdomen, feels the echo of the earlier kick.

Glynda's ascent begins each stair, a gentle peak to summit. She places her foot on the first step, weight shifting forward as she pulls herself up with a measured grace that belies the strain it imposes on her body. Her breath is steady, a cadence marking her progress, and her green eyes focus on the landing above.

The nursery door stands ajar, a sliver of light promising a haven. As Glynda nears the top, her gaze lifts to find James, his back to her, standing on a step ladder. Immersed in his task, the careful strokes of the brush against the ceiling painting clouds of a gentle storm grey.

Glynda's breath hitches as she crosses the threshold, her gaze sweeping over the nursery. The room is a midnight canvas, the dark walls serving as the night sky for an array of bright constellations that twinkle with vivid hues of sapphire and emerald. Each star seems to pulse with life, a cosmic dance frozen in time beneath the gentle glow of a crescent moon decal. On the lower half, a lush valley stretches across the walls, painted in verdant greens and earthen tones, a tranquil landscape under the watchful eyes of the heavens.

"James," she whispers, the words barely escaping her lips, caught between admiration and awe.

James perches precariously atop the step ladder, paintbrush in hand, as he etches the final touches on a particularly ornate cloud. The bristles dance delicately across the matte expanse, each stroke adding to the tranquil ambiance of the nursery. He steps back, his eyes scrutinizing the ceiling with an artist's critical gaze, ensuring every detail contributes to the serene tableau he envisions for their child.

"Is it too much?" he mutters.

"James, it's breathtaking," she whispers, the words barely escaping her lips, caught between admiration and awe.

A sharp jolt seizes her attention, a sudden kick from within that draws a low groan from her throat. Glynda's hand flies to her lower abdomen, pressing gently against the fabric of her blouse. The baby asserts its presence with another robust movement, shifting restlessly inside her.

"Let's sit you down," James suggests, guiding her gently toward the rocking chair nestled in the corner of the room. The celestial tapestry they've created surrounds them, stars and comets bearing witness to the quiet strength of their bond.

She breathes out, sinking into the chair with a relieved sigh. "I just need a moment."

"Stubborn, just like their father," Glynda remarks a wry smile, the tension easing from her features. Her humor, a balm to his concern, prompts a chuckle from him.

"Or their mother," he counters playfully, the warmth in his voice wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. The baby chooses that moment to kick again, a firm nudge against James' hand. His eyes widen.

Glynda leans back in the chair, her breath quickening as James' hand settles protectively on her belly. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of his touch, the familiar warmth of his skin against hers, but it's difficult with the baby kicking so insistently. The little one seems to know exactly what it's doing; every nudge and wiggle sends a wave of joy through her body. It's like a dance between them—the baby leads, and they follow, their hearts syncing in rhythm. The rocking chair creaks softly under their weight, providing a gentle sway that matches the movements within her womb.

The celestial tapestry hangs above them, its colors shimmering in the soft light from the nearby lamp. A shooting star flashes across the fabric, leaving behind a trail of silver dust before fading away into nothingness.

---

The first light of dawn barely creeps through the curtains when Glynda shifts restlessly, her body heavy and cumbersome. The bed creaks softly as she turns, a deft hand nudging James. He stirs from his slumber with a groggy grunt, his eyes struggling against sleep's sticky tendrils.

"James," she whispers, urgency etched into her voice, a thin thread of panic weaving through it.

He blinks at her, his brain foggy, not yet catching the gravity of the moment. But then he sees it—the dampness spreading across the sheets like a silent alarm—and he's instantly awake. His heart hammers in his chest, a mix of fear and awe seizing him.

"Your water…" James murmurs, the words trailing off, his voice thick with emotion. He sits up, suddenly wide-eyed, every cell in his body on high alert.

"James," Glynda says again, this time a clear command. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, each movement deliberate, fought for against the weight of her belly. Small beads of sweat glisten on her skin, a testament to the effort and the pain that is just beginning to announce itself.

"Okay, okay," James replies, scrambling to his feet. He rushes to her side, his hands hovering over her as if he’s afraid to touch her, afraid to somehow make things worse. His mind races—hospital bag, car keys, call the doctor—but he forces himself to focus on Glynda.

"Are you alright? Can you stand?" His voice is steady now, the military man within finding his footing even amidst the chaos of impending fatherhood.

Glynda nods, grimacing slightly as she places a hand on her swollen stomach, feeling the stirrings of life within battling to greet the world. "I can stand," she asserts, though her voice betrays the rising tide of discomfort.

"Good, good." James is all efficiency now, his training kicking in, guiding him through the protocol of emergencies, even one as personal as this. He tries to steady his breathing, to match the calm he knows Glynda needs from him.

James springs into action, his military training kicking in as he retrieves clean clothes from the dresser. His hands are steady, belying the tempest of emotions inside him. Glynda, with the grace of a dancer even in her ungainly state, attempts to stand. He's at her side in an instant, guiding her gently to her feet.

"Deep breaths, love," he murmurs, slipping a soft maternity dress over her head. The fabric cascades down her body, a gentle wave of comfort. Her hands clutch at his forearms, her grip ironclad.

A contraction grips her then, fierce and unyielding. Glynda folds inward, a sharp inhalation marking the pain that etches across her features. "James…" she gasps out, and he feels the tremor in her voice.

"Right here, Glynda. I've got you." His words are a lifeline as he steadies her, his own heart pounding a relentless rhythm against his ribs. She leans into him, her body racked with the effort of birthing new life.

The world contracts to this single moment.

They reach the hospital, the early morning calm shattered by the urgency of their arrival. James' arm is firm around her waist, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back. Each step is measured, a testament to their shared determination.

"Almost there," he assures her, though it's more for his sake than hers. The pain is a live thing between them, a third presence that demands attention.

"I know," Glynda breathes out through clenched teeth, her nails leaving crescent moons imprinted on his skin. The sensation is grounding, a reminder of the here and now - of the life they're about to welcome.

The hospital room hums with the quietude of exhaustion and elation. Glynda, now a depository of tranquility, cradles the monumental bundle that is their daughter. Her eyes, twin emeralds softened by tears and fatigue, never leave the infant's face — a visage so new yet already etched into her heart.

"James," she whispers, "come meet your girl."

"Hey there, little one…" James begins, his voice a cocktail of awe and fear. He reaches out with his left hand, flesh and blood, trembling as it hovers above the child.

"James?" Glynda prompts, her brow arching in concern.

"Your hand won't hurt her," Glynda assures him, her tone gentle, yet edged with the steel that defines her. "She needs her father."

Taking a deep breath, James extends his flesh hand once more; his movements are deliberate, mindful of the precious cargo he's about to receive. The metal hand remains aloof, tucked against his side, a silent sentinel.

"Okay, okay." James’s internal mantra pulses with each heartbeat. "You can do this."

Glynda lifts the girl, guiding her towards James with practiced ease. Gossamer strands of black hair crown the baby's head, and her tiny nose, unmistakably his, scrunches in slumber. When the weight of his daughter settles into his arms, a rush of warmth floods through him, drowning all fears.

"Hi there, sweetheart," he murmurs, drinking in every detail. His thumb, cautiously, tenderly, strokes her cheek. She stirs, a small sigh escaping her lips, and James feels the seismic shift within him. This fragile being, part him, part Glynda, is theirs. Completely theirs.

"Look at you," James breathes, his throat tight, "you're perfect."

"Hello, my brave little girl," he says, vision blurring as he leans down, pressing a kiss so full of promise to her forehead. "Daddy's here."

[kitkatopinions]

Ironwood haters literally just need to accept that some people don't think the RWBY writers wrote him well and they liked him as a good guy and they don't believe that every single thing he's ever done makes him a villainous monster - or that "bringing an army to the Olympics" (as if a sporting event in rwby that they knew was going to be attacked by the soldiers of an evil immortal witch in a world where evil monster beasts attack and destroy villages when people feel badly can be compared to a sporting event in real like and as if sporting events irl don't have security) suddenly makes every writing choice automatically not badly written.

[jamesbranwen]

2% brain, 9% heart, 89% tits

[jjacqualope]

First time therapy for James goes about as well as everyone expected lmao

[penny-the-pissed-poltergeist]

if they really wanted ironwood losing his humanity, they could have just put him in a set of big scary power armor to represent that, instead of being... ableist.

[helena-and-helena-meta]

My favorite James Ironwood moments :3

[ironwoodprotectionsquad]

Instagram introduced me to a new template and I had some fun with it lolZ.

[dowhatteverer]

The day and night difference between Ironwood in Volume 3 and Ironwood in Volume 7 simultaneously hurts and is so much fun to play with.

[spect-era]

I got my friends to say what they thought about RWBY characters <3

[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.

[branch-sys]

A random assortment of positive ironwood doodles because of all the shit going on in the tag ^^’