#lsotw

Unironically about to start working on horribly overdue assignments to de-stress

A/N: Ah Ironfist, my underrated boy. I would love to write something for him. I hope I do right by him :] ( Also you're in luck I alway try write my readers GN.)

[#1 Fan Pt 1] IDW Ironfist x Reader - Word Count: 765

WARNINGS: Guns & Ballistics mentioned (that's kind of Ironfist's whole job) He's gonna get an online partner

Ironfist loved his blog; it was his one passion. When he wasn’t at work, he was working on his next entry or responding to other users' comments. It really had taken a life of its own. He poured precious time and energy into it, and in turn, it brought him joy. The blog took almost every ounce of his free time, but it was worth it.

With a flourish of his digits, the datapad came to life, displaying the paragraph he left off on. The newest file release on the Wreckers was juicy, and Ironfist was obsessed. He had read through each file with care, annotating his thoughts in the margins and highlighting the important plot points. They were so action-packed, requiring his utmost attention to detail to catalogue them with any type of justice. Just as he was settling in for another stint of reading, his datapad pinged with a message request.

The message read: ‘Have you seen the newest release of Wrecker files?! Absolutely crazy! Can’t wait to see what Fisitron writes about it! Xoxo Your #1 Fan’

Ironfist’s spark stuttered; he couldn’t believe he was receiving fan mail! He was used to comments and likes, with an occasional dip into the deep forums; he was not used to direct messages fawning over his work. This was new. 

And exciting. 

Quickly opening the chat, he typed a quick message back. ‘I completely agree! So many details to fit into one post… I may have to split it up into a multipart.’

The response was immediate. ‘Yesssss! I know you’ll do a great job.’

Ironfist wanted to kick his peds like a youngling, but resisted the urge. He was a grown mech, and he could handle this professionally. But he did allow himself a second to relish in the fact that he was popular enough to have fans who were bold enough to call themselves #1 before focusing back on the task at hand. These files needed to be read and written into manuscripts with commentary.

This task took him a few days, as always. Ironfist was thorough with his original read-through and annotation of the files. With these notes, he would write out his blog posts, which were practically full dissertations complete with footnotes. By the time he finished his writing for this section of the files, he realized he was correct: it would have to be split into multiple parts. Because Ironfist had a bad habit of not being able to stop himself once he started. The words would fly from his fingertips, and his processor would produce sentence after sentence of pure gold. Everything would weave together into a graphic telling of the events that even a simple bot could understand. It was impressive, even to Ironfist, but always resulted in huge blog posts that he often had to splice into parts.

With a satisfied vent, he started formatting his writing into sections (making sure to leave off on convenient cliffhangers to keep his readers coming back). Headers were added, and footnotes inserted. Then he plugged them into his blog, queuing one part to post each day, with the first section posting immediately. Before hitting the final submit button, he paused. Impulsively, he added a little blurb at the top of the first section, ‘For my #1 Fan’s consideration.’ Then hit post before he could overthink it.

Insecurity coiled somewhere deep within his tanks, underneath all the false confidence. Finally, he picked himself up off his habsuite floor and went to the wash racks. Giving himself something to do was better than unchecked dreading. He needed a clean anyway, he had gone straight from work to blog writing. If he didn’t clean the ballistic residue off his plating, his berth would smell like guns and sterilizer; something he loathed. Ironfist preferred to keep work and home life separate; it made for a better night's sleep. (Dreams of offline bots were haunting, to say the least.)

After a wash, he made his way back to his habsuite, where his datapad was waiting. It sat there menacingly staring at him, daring him to unlock it. One half of him wanted to, and the other feared that his anonymous #1 Fan hated his latest piece of work. Ironfist was 100% certain that if they rejected his newest installation, he would quit his blog altogether. Why did he have to go and dedicate this piece to an internet stranger?