Somebody stop me from writing a billion-page Mary Sue fic with myself as the shy yet endearingly brainy registrar for Tony Stark's private art collection, wherein he lets down my hair, says, "Why, Miss Mystic, you're beautiful!" and then we proceed with the sexin'.
Because otherwise I'll do it. Anything is better than sitting here contemplating how sore my forearms are from hefting bookboxes all morning.
Because otherwise I'll do it. Anything is better than sitting here contemplating how sore my forearms are from hefting bookboxes all morning.