Month: April 2026

…She heard a loud crash followed by the security guard yelling, “I got it.” She worked alone, minus Oscar the guard, in St Huxley’s Library of Literature. After graduating with a Library Sciences degree, Eve found a job at the tree-filled, student-void university in the mountains of central Pennsylvania. It was peaceful, but lonely.

She was in the middle of modernizing the bar-coding system when she heard a lighter crash come from a bit closer. Again, “I’m on it,” echoed through the empty building.

Wind whipped through the halls as the October leaves shook off the swinging elm branches. She put a mustard cardigan on over her Dr Dog Farewell Tour T-shirt to keep warm. As she turned her eyes to the door, she locked eyes with a man wearing a well-warn baseball cap.

He held a finger to his lips as he slowly opened the door. And then, as if breaking character in the middle of a play, “Which show did you go to?” He said, pointing at her shirt.

“All of them.” With that, the black-clad vagabond approached the desk.

“My favorite album is Be the Void.” He looked into her twinkling green eyes and touched her hand. Adrenaline and lust rushed between them. Her shoulders tensed as he ran his hand through her soft auburn hair but loosened when he leaned in for a kiss, which she gleefully returned.

The guard’s clomps kept getting closer, and then the scamp rushed back to the door, leaving Eve out of breath and with a bosom heaving with pleasure and confusion.

He opened his bag to show Eve his prize, an original manuscript of “The Purloined Letter” by Edgar Allen Poe. She gasped, and he shushed. Before he left completely, he said loud enough for her to hear, “I’ll come back and see you soon, beautiful.” With that, he vanished into the night.

Oscar the guard approached Eve as her heart raced. “Who was you were talking to?”

“Just some guy. He wanted directions.” She didn’t want to be an accomplice, but that kiss made her feel more turned on than anything in years. His eyes and the way he touched her—like he knew her body and what she needed—got her heart aflutter and made her somehow very sexual crossword-puzzle undies very wet.

“You see him in here again, you tell me.” No response. “Yo, sweet cheeks,” he said snapping his fingers.

“Yeah, whatever. Get the fuck out of here with that sweet cheeks shit, Oscar.” As she got back into the business of barcoding, she kept one eye on the door. She knew her Robin Hood or petty thief or whatever would be back…

…Eve woke to the sound of a siren outside her apartment. She lived in a small studio (attic) that’s paid for by the university. It’s said that 5 hot librarians have lived there, and she made it 6. She heard boots trudging up 200-year-old stair and clomping down uneven hallways. By the time they knocked, she had put on a sweater and robe.

“Miss Eve Dartmouth?”

“Yup.”

“Did you happen to see this man last evening?” The cop asked as he handed her a black and white mugshot of the scoundrel. Eve never was one for miscreants, but his eyes, cheekbones, and big, strong hands made her feel a little butterlyish.

“Yeah, he robbed the library.”

“He’s a wanted felon with a rap sheet for petty thievery a mile long.”

“Any violent or creepy crimes?”

“Nah, just robbing from rich. He calls it reverse capitalism,” the cop said. While she didn’t agree with his methods, she could see herself being convinced he was doing good. But it would take a lot of convincing. Her mind drifted as she thought about his Mediterranean mustache tickling her labia as he made short work of her sexual inhibitions.

“Do you know the suspect?”

“No, why…”

“You talked to him for 1.5 seconds before he walked out—and he kissed you. According to the cameras.”

“Never met him before.”

“And he just up and kissed you.”

“Men are assholes like that, officer. So now that’s my crime? Any more questions?”

“What did he say?”

“Something about the futility of life.” With that, the cop left. She had a few hours before she was to meet with her cousin Edith for tea—it was weird. And before whatever that was going to be, she thought about the thief. His tongue. His touch. His boundless guile. Who was he and why did he kiss me? She wondered. Until she heard a gentle tap on her window and saw a familiar face…

…She unlatched the window 🪟 and in came the scoundrel, dressed in what could only be called burglar causal. He no longer wore his hat, so you could see the sprinkle of salt in his dark black hair. He wore a vest with lots of pockets, likely for thieving, and tasteful black pants that left little to the imagination—at least Eve’s. As she made her fast assessment, his luscious lips opened to say:

“Good morning, beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?!” she whisper-yelled.

“I wanted to make sure you and I were on the same page about yesterday,” he said as he tucked his unruly, raven locks behind his ears. “What did you say to him?”

“Who? The cop? I told him I didn’t know you and that you kissed me out of nowhere because men are awful. Honestly, I don’t give a shit about you stealing shit, but you can’t be up and kissing me at work.”

“How about outside of work?”

“Fuck you,” she said playfully—not too playfully— “seriously, why are you here. If I told the cop something, were you going to—what—kill me?”

“Of course not!” The bounder exclaimed. “I just needed to know what he knows. Not much is my guess. That guard didn’t see shit, and you were too enamored with me to ID me.” A twinkle and a smirk was met with a bit of flirtatious incredulity:

“I didn’t want to get involved. Cops can cop and figure this shit out. They have security cameras. You weren’t so smart showing you face on the way out.”

“But who’s going to ID me? The infatuated and— I’d guess a little bored—librarian.”

“Infatuated? Please.” She guffawed.

“How many dreams did you have about me last night?” He asked, touching her shoulder.

“I don’t have to answer that,” she said with a smile.

“What happened in the best dream?”

“You came by the library the next night and made passionate something to me at the checkout desk while I continued to checkout books. It was hot and a little mundane.”

“Are you free tonight?”

“Working.”

“I’ll stop by later to make sure your dreams are satisfied.”

“So, you don’t care about getting caught?”

“You’re the only one who saw me, and you’re dreaming of having me inside you, deeply. Just sliding my massive manhood in and out while you tingle in delight. Your dreams, not mine.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tonight.” Her standoffishness was meant to hide the fact that she wanted to kiss his face all night and see what else might happen…

…It was another quiet night in the library, and Oscar had already made his 9th check in of the night: “Just want to make sure you’re doing okay after all that ruckus the other night.”

“Doing fine. Did you hear what he stole?”

“Something by that gloomy fuck, Edgar something.” She laughed…at his terribleness.

“I didn’t know we even had something valuable in here.”

“Oh, yah. Lots of valuable stuff. That’s why they got old Oscar on the job. There’s an extremely rare first edition of Canterbury Tales locked up in a vault in the sub-sub-basement. I only seen em bring it out once.”

“What for?”

“Bette Midler.”

“Bette Midler. Big Chaucer fan, that Bette Midler?”

“I can’t believe I’m the first one to tell you, but Bette Midler attended our university for 2 and a half semesters before dropping out and becoming famous.”

“But why would they bring it out for Bette?”

“The honor of it all.”

“Okay, Oscar. Time to secure the perimeter.”

As the security guard’s keys jingled down the hallway, she heard a gentle whistling…it was “Wind Beneath My Wings.” As she realized it, she saw the vagabond’s twinkly chocolate eyes.

“You know you are, right?” He said.

“The wind beneath my wings?” She said, and he gave an impish smile. “What are you here for?”

“You…and probably the Canterbury Tales once I sort some things out.”

“You’re joking.” She said, needing it to be true for now.

“Yes, my dear. I’m here just for you.”

“You know we can meet somewhere other than my job and my fire escape?”

“Where’s the fun in that,” he said as he approached her. She still wasn’t sure what to make of this rapscallion, so she manually closed her red cardigan over her vivacious and frankly inspirational cleavage. He leaned in for a kiss, but she slid her chair back.

“What’s your name?” She asked as she carefully stacked some books on a cart.

“Ezekiel.”

“Biblical. Last name, smart guy?” He stumbled as he said:

“Frankfortson.”

“Frankfortson. So, false identities aren’t really your strong suit.”

“What difference does it make if you know my real name.”

“A real name gets you a drink with me later. Another fake one gets you Oscar the best security guard ever.”

“Okay.” He looked around. “Phineas Goobleburg.”

“So your real name sounds like a fake name? You should have just told me your real name first and then I would have thought it was fake.”

“Maybe that’s what I did.”

“But you didn’t.” She said, and he shook his head. Now that she was confident he was no intellectual match, she walked back up to the desk and said: “Meet me at Jose’s 37 Taps at 11. You’ll recognize me since I’ll be wearing this.”

“Did I tell you how cute you look in that red cardigan?”

“All right, Casanova. Save your game for tonight. Do you have a plan?”

“For tonight?”

“No, for the” and then she whispered “Chaucer.”

“No plan yet.”

“We’ll, I’ve got one,” said the mild mannered librarian to the immediately impressed and humbled, erection-sporting thief.

“Um. Jose’s?” He said as his heart beat faster. He loved the sudden shift. If only she’d let her hair down from that oppressive bun. He wanted her brain…bad. And he’d take good care of her kissably smooth body along the way…

The air at the convention center was thick with the scent of spirit gum, hairspray, and the electric hum of thousands of fans. Trevor’s hands practically shook with anticipation as he took his seat in the front row of the main ballroom. He had been a devotee of her craft for years, following every tutorial and costume breakdown she posted, but he was finally about to see the undisputed queen of the pinup aesthetic: Sally.

She didn’t just wear costumes; she inhabited them. As she stepped onto the stage for her panel on “The Architecture of the Mid-Century Silhouette,” the room went silent. She was a vision in high-waisted leopard print and a bustier that defied gravity, her crimson curls set in perfect victory rolls. Sally wasn’t just a cosplayer; she was a powerful, sexual being who commanded the gaze of every person in the room.

He loved the way her mind worked, how she broke down the engineering of a vintage girdle with the same precision an architect might describe a skyscraper. As she discussed how the hyper-feminine imagery of the 1950s was used to reclaim domestic power, Trevor felt his manhood begin to swell. He hadn’t expected to be so physically undone by a history lesson, but there was something deeply erotic about all that mastery pouring from such a lush, buxom vessel.

From the stage, Sally scanned the sea of capes and spandex. She hated the “Guest Star” pedestal sometimes; to everyone here, she was a character or a brand. She craved someone who saw the woman behind the seams. Suddenly, she caught the eye of a man in the front row. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a simple shirt, but his attention was so sincere—so focused on her words rather than just her cleavage—that it sent a flush through her chest. She gave an unexpectedly sheepish smile, a brief crack in her bombshell mask, before averting her eyes. She noted the “VIP” gold on his badge and hoped he’d be at the after-party.

After the panel, Trevor retreated to his hotel room to freshen up. He usually skipped the official mixers—too much posturing—but tonight he intended to meet Sally. He wanted her to sign his vintage pinup coffee table book and, if he was bold enough, win her over with a conversation that went deeper than “great outfit.”

In the shower, he let the fantasy take hold. He imagined saying something clever that would make her green eyes light up. He remembered her laughter on stage—the way her nose scrunched and her breasts bounced with each chuckle. He felt his cock growing stiff. He imagined what she would look like out of that restrictive boning, how her skin would taste once the body makeup was washed away. He stroked himself hard, imagining his lips traveling down her neck to those magnificent, silk-encased breasts. As he imagined finally plunging deep into her soft, wet heat, he came hard against the tile, the relief leaving him breathless.

In her own suite, Sally let her robe hang open as she poured a glass of bourbon. She was exhausted from being “on.” Everyone wanted a piece of her, a photo, a signature. She thought back to the man with the kind eyes. He’d looked at her like she was the only person in the building. Her loins pulsed with a sudden, sharp excitement. She let her hand slip between her thighs, imagining those sincere eyes watching her as she touched herself. Her pussy got slick instantly. She pictured his hands pulling her soft, curvy body against a heavy, throbbing cock. She pressed her fingers against her clit, sliding and teasing until she moaned, her vulva twitching in a powerful orgasm. She licked the nectar from her fingers, a predatory glint in her eyes, and began to dress for the mixer.
When Sally arrived at the ballroom, the party was in full swing. She had changed into a sheer, floor-length gown that left little to the imagination, her hips swinging with a deliberate, hypnotic rhythm. She felt amorous, empowered by her earlier release, and watched with inner amusement as a young man in a superhero suit nearly tripped over his own cape as she passed.

Trevor was waiting by the bar. When he saw her, his breath caught. The dress hugged every curve, her ass shaking rhythmically as she moved toward the center of the room. When she suddenly turned and locked eyes with him, he had to adjust his stance to hide the immediate tension in his pants.

“Hello,” he said, his voice steady despite his racing heart. “I’m Trevor. Your lecture was the highlight of my weekend. I’ve followed your work for a long time, but hearing the philosophy behind the aesthetic was… incredible.”

Sally’s nipples tingled. “Most people just come for the photo op,” she said, giving him a sly, predatory smile. “But you were actually listening. I like that, Trevor.”
She took the book from his hand, her fingers lingering against his as she signed it. She watched his gaze drop to her cleavage, where a diamond pendant was nestled deep between her breasts. She bit her lip, her labia beginning to pulse.

“The party is getting a bit loud,” she whispered, leaning in so the scent of her perfume—vanilla and musk—enveloped him. “I have a private bar in my suite. We could continue this conversation there.”
The elevator ride was a blur of friction. They stood back-to-chest, and Sally pressed her round ass firmly into him, feeling the unmistakable hardness of his cock through his slacks. The moment the door to her suite clicked shut,

Trevor’s hands were on her waist, sliding down to the fullness of her hips.
He unzipped her gown, letting it pool at her feet. She stood before him in nothing but stockings and heels, her bare breasts heavy and beautiful. “Yes,” she breathed, pulling him toward the bed.
She sat on the edge, watching with primal satisfaction as he undressed. When he revealed his thick, hard cock, already beaded with precum, she leaned forward to claim it. She took him deep, her tongue swirling around the head, savoring the size of him. Trevor groaned, his hands buried in her crimson curls.
When she finally lay back, opening her legs wide, the invitation was absolute. He eased into her, the stretch of her tight, wet pussy drawing a low growl from his throat. Sally arched her back, her breasts heaving as she met his rhythm. She was a storm of soft skin and fierce demand, tilting her hips until he hit the exact spot that sent her over the edge.

“I’m cumming!” she cried out, her internal muscles squeezing him in a delicious, rhythmic vice. Trevor exploded inside her seconds later, his weight collapsing into the pillowy softness of her chest.
As they lay there, the sounds of the convention muffled in the distance, Sally ran her fingers through his hair. She wasn’t a guest star or an icon here; she was just a woman, satisfied and powerful, nestled in the arms of the only man who had really seen her.

A cosplayfacials.com original by Velma

The mystery of the “perfect suitor” was one Velma Dinkley intended to solve with scientific precision. For a month, he had appeared every Tuesday cry and Thursday at her check-out desk. He was a dashing, gray-swept mix of Han Solo’s swagger and the adorable, cannabis-scented goofiness of Seth Rogen. He always had a witty remark for the other clerks, but with Velma, he lingered. He had transitioned from David Foster Wallace doorstops to Jane Austen’s Persuasion, a tactical shift Velma noted with a quirk of her brow.

Velma sat behind the desk, her signature orange turtleneck swapped for a cleavage-hugging, mustard-colored cardigan that did little to hide her “busty bounty.” Her hair was pulled into its habitual, tight bun, though a few rebellious strands framed her square-framed glasses. She looked like the quintessential “bountiful baroness of books,” watching this stranger with cautious interest.

The turning point came when she spotted a term paper peeking out of his vegan-leather man-satchel: “A Feminist Critique of Gender Norms in Persuasion and Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

Velma felt a simultaneous jolt to her brain and her core. The sublime absurdity of the topic made her want to investigate his citations—and perhaps his person—immediately. She looked into his bespectacled eyes and saw a knowing smirk. A wave of sensation flooded her, down to her tingling, ink-stained fingertips.

“I found the undersexualization of Anne Elliot to be a vestige of the era—but also a lost opportunity for Austen,” he said, sipping a very specific non-Earl Grey tea.

“Bold claim,” Velma laughed, her hand “accidentally” brushing his arm. Her mind, usually occupied with physics and ancient runes, was now vividly imagining those fingers exploring her “quivering librarian form.”

The Stacks and the Spark
Thursday arrived. Velma had prepared. She wore a sweater so tight the hue of her nipples was left entirely to the imagination. At 11:59, time slowed as she locked eyes with her stubbly paramour.

“This book is way in the back on the third floor. I’ll be right back,” she said, adjusting her knee-length pencil skirt—which hid thick, cable-knit wool stockings.

“Can I come with?” he asked.

“Jinkies… I mean, sure,” she replied, her voice breathy.

He walked behind her, watching the “sweet peach” dance of her hips as she sauntered up the stairs. In the deep stacks, Velma became a book detective, navigating the Library of Congress System with a mastery that made him weak. When she finally pulled the volume, she turned to find him inches away. He ran his hands through her hair, ruining the bun she’d spent ten minutes perfecting, and kissed her passionately.

His hardened manhood pressed against her, and Velma let out a moan that echoed through the quiet aisles. As he lifted her skirt, finding a “lush lady garden” with no underwear to impede him, Velma’s knees trembled. His fingers found her clit with effortless precision.

She reached into his pants, discovering a “rock-hard lance” that took a delightful amount of time to traverse. He lifted her onto a book cart (locking the wheels with a practiced click) and hiked up her skirt. He was about to take a “taste of her sweetness” when the PA system crackled: “We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.”

“It makes me so wet to feel how hard I make you,” Velma whispered, biting her lip.

He groaned, his grip tightening as she moved her fingers up and down his length. He kissed down her chest, squeezing her breasts through the wool of her sweater. He wanted more, but Velma had a responsibility to the collection. She had to close up shop.

The Archive and the Truth

The next day, Velma was a wreck of anticipation. She’d spent the morning with her vibrator and the memory of his hands. She wore her hair in a side-braid, her mustard cardigan barely containing her. When he finally arrived, he looked forlorn, hanging up an intense phone call.

“Just here for more critical theory,” he sighed.

“The archive in the basement is quieter,” Velma countered with a wink. “No one but me goes down there.”

“Is that right?” his dimples blazed.
Down in the dim light of the basement, amidst the smell of coconut conditioner and old parchment, the truth came out.

“I’m Llewelyn, with seven L’s,” he joked.

“And I’m Velma,” she replied, tapping her name tag.

“Rough night?” he asked, noticing her distraction.

“A guy kept asking for the Dewey Decimal 69. I told him we use Library of Congress and then told him to fuck off.”

Llewelyn looked like he’d fallen in love. He confessed the phone call was his ex-girlfriend—a “meth dealer” who was trying to keep his dog, Bruno. He’d broken it off weeks ago because he couldn’t stop thinking about a certain beautiful librarian.

“So you came for me? Not just Jane Austen?” Velma twisted her hair around her finger.
“I came to make you come… and research Jane Austen.”

He laid her back on a cold wood desk. He kissed her from her lips to her collarbones, eventually tearing off her jeans. His tongue met her clit with rhythmic passion. Velma bit down on her scarf to muffled her screams as she entered a state of orgasmic bliss.

“No one’s ever gotten me there before,” she confessed, breathless, as she reached for his belt. She wanted all of him. She knelt before him, taking him in with a “long, enjoyable journey” from base to tip. But then, her phone alarm chirped.

“Break’s over,” she said, patting his cheek and buttoning her jeans. 

“Librarians gotta library. See you tomorrow night?”

The Clean Slate
That evening, Velma stopped by her boyfriend Daryl’s apartment. Daryl—a blonde-bearded gamer who lived off his father’s wealth—didn’t even look up from his screen. He’d bought her a Crunchwrap but forgot the Fire Sauce.

“I’m leaving, Daryl. I’m done,” Velma said, packing her electric toothbrush.

She didn’t do it just for Llewelyn. She did it because she realized she was a “badass with a rocking body” who deserved more than mild sauce and a loser.

The Grand Finale

They met at a bar at 8:00 PM. Velma wore a scarlet dress—flowy, tight, and “fabric-free in all the right spots.” Her glasses twinkled under the streetlights.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Vodka and… actually, it’s just seltzer. I don’t drink.”
“Me neither,” Velma smiled. “You smoke?”

“I have three joints and two gummies in my satchel.”

“I have a lighter. And I live two blocks away.”

At her apartment, amidst Cyndi Lauper deep cuts, things escalated quickly. Velma took a hit of the joint, coughed, and then pounced. Soon, she was on the bed, her scarlet dress a memory.

“Now fuck me from behind,” she commanded.

Llewelyn complied with vigor. Velma felt “complete of dick” as he pushed deep inside her. “Slap my ass and fuck me hard,” she whispered. The rhythm was like a drop forge. She eventually flipped over, straddling him, riding him with a “mischievous smile.”

“I’ve never come from just one of these,” she teased, using his penis for emphasis.

“You probably never fucked a man who cared enough,” he replied, grabbing her hips to find the perfect angle. He rubbed her “sweet macadamia” with his thumb while his cock hit a rarely visited layer of her soul.

Velma let out a yell that surely woke the neighbors. She shuddered, released him, and fell back. “That was… really nice.”

“You cum?”

“Yeah,” she said, gripping him. 

“Now… how do you want to cum?”

“Missionary. I want to see those beautiful eyes.”

He filled the condom with a groan, pushing deep one last time. They lay together, catching their breath.
“You’re so beautiful, Velma,” he whispered.

 
The next morning, they ate blueberry muffins (which they agreed were just “breakfast cakes”) and chatted. It felt real. As she watched him leave, Velma didn’t wait the “36-hour rule.”
Text from Velma: Muffins are just breakfast cake, right?

Text from Llewelyn: Hahaha. Yes, and clothes are just complicated blankets. Glad you didn’t wait 67 more hours.

Velma smiled, adjusting her glasses. Mystery solved.

Cosplayfacials.com original

Dorothy sat at the modernizing station, the orange knit of her turtleneck a sharp contrast against the sterile library lighting. After graduating with her degree, she’d found solace in St. Huxley’s Library of Literature. It was peaceful, student-void, and perfect for someone who preferred the company of ancient vellum to rowdy frat stars.

She was deep into the digital archives when she heard a heavy crash, followed by Oscar the guard shouting, “I got it!” She sighed, adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses, and pulled her mustard cardigan tight. Wind rattled the elm branches outside, casting dancing shadows across the mahogany shelves. When she looked up, she didn’t see Oscar. She saw a man in a worn baseball cap, his dark eyes locked onto hers with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief.

“Which show did you go to?” he asked, nodding toward the Dr. Dog shirt peeking out from her cardigan.

“All of them,” Velma replied, her voice steadier than her racing heart. He approached the desk, his presence filling the small space between them.

“My favorite album is Be the Void,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her hand. The contact was electric. Velma’s breath hitched as he ran a hand through her bobbed hair, leaning in to press a firm, hungry kiss against her lips. Before she could process the heat blooming in her chest, he pulled away, flashing a glimpse of an original Edgar Allan Poe manuscript tucked in his bag. 

“I’ll come back for you, beautiful,” he promised, vanishing into the shadows just as Oscar’s heavy boots rounded the corner.

The next morning, the police were at Velma’s attic studio. They showed her a mugshot of the “Scoundrel”—a man the officer described as a practitioner of “reverse capitalism.” Velma played the part of the innocent librarian perfectly, hiding the fact that her mind was stuck on the memory of his Mediterranean mustache and the way his hands felt on her skin.

“Men are assholes, officer. He just kissed me and ran,” she lied, her face flushed. Once the police left, she didn’t have long to wait. A gentle tap at her window revealed the thief, now capless, his dark hair messy and his “burglar casual” attire leaving very little to Velma’s vivid imagination.

“How many dreams did you have about me last night?” he asked, stepping into her room with a smirk that made her knees weak.

“I don’t have to answer that,” Velma countered, though her body was already betraying her. They traded barbs—half-flirtatious, half-serious—until they made a plan to meet later. She was the brains; he was the brawn. And tonight, they weren’t just planning a heist for a rare Chaucer manuscript; they were planning an encounter that had been simmering since that first stolen kiss.

Back at the library, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and anticipation. After sending Oscar on a wild goose chase to “secure the perimeter,” Velma met Ezekiel—or Phineas, or whatever his name actually was—near the restricted archives.

“You look even better when you’re being bad, Velma,” he rasped, pinning her against a shelf of leather-bound classics.

She didn’t pull away this time. She reached up, grabbed his lapels, and pulled him down into a kiss that tasted of rebellion. “Less talking,” she commanded, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his vest. He groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, hoisting her up onto the sturdy oak library table.

Velma kicked off her shoes, her legs wrapping firmly around his waist. As he shed his clothes, the moonlight filtered through the high windows, illuminating the strength in his back and the hunger in his eyes. He moved between her legs, his “massive manhood”—just as he had bragged—pressing against her. When he finally slid inside her, Velma let out a muffled cry against his neck, the friction of the wood beneath her and the heat of him within her creating a sensory overload.

They moved together in a rhythmic, desperate dance, the quiet of the library punctuated only by the sound of their breathing and the occasional rustle of pages. In that moment, the mystery was solved: she didn’t just want the thrill of the heist; she wanted the man who had stolen her composure. As they reached a shuddering climax together, Velma realized that for once, she didn’t need her magnifying glass to see exactly what she’d been missing.

A Cosplayfacials.com original by Velma

The Tuesday and Thursday routine had become the highlight of my week at the library. He always arrived with that specific mix of Han Solo confidence and a goofy, Seth Rogen-esque charm. I’d watched him toss witty remarks at the other checkout girls for a month, but lately, he’d been lingering at my desk. Usually, he was into David Foster Wallace, but recently he’d pivoted to Jane Austen’s Persuasion.

I kept my hair in its signature tight bun and tried to stay modest in my usual cardigans, though they did little to hide my curves. I was playing the role of the cautious librarian until I saw a term paper peeking out of his vegan-leather satchel: “A Feminist Critique of Gender Norms in Persuasion and Rocky Horror Picture Show.” My brain—and other parts of me—instantly reacted to the sheer, sublime absurdity of that topic. I desperately wanted to investigate his citations.

I looked into his bespectacled eyes and saw a knowing smirk. A wave of heat flooded my body, tingling all the way to my fingertips. My lip quivered, but I made sure to keep my “professional” mask on.

“I found the undersexualization of Anne Elliot to be a vestige of the era—but also a lost opportunity for Austen,” he said, sipping a very specific non-Earl Grey tea.

“Bold claim,” I laughed, letting my hand graze his arm. The only thing undersexualized in this building was me, and I was currently melting. As he smoothed a robust eyebrow with his finger, I found myself imagining that finger exploring my “library” in ways not found in the Dewey Decimal System.

Thursday arrived. Despite my better judgment, I chose a sweater that left very little to the imagination. At 11:59, time seemed to slow as I locked eyes with my stubbly paramour.

“This book is way in the back on the third floor. I’ll be right back,” I said, adjusting my pencil skirt over my wool stockings.

“Can I come with?” he asked.

I hoped you’d ask, I thought. “Sure,” I said, keeping my voice level.

I led the way, fully aware he was watching the sway of my hips as we climbed the stairs. Deep in the stacks, I turned into a book detective, navigating the Library of Congress Classification System until I found the spine I was looking for. But as I turned to hand it to him, he saw me biting my lip. He didn’t hesitate. He ran his hands through my hair and kissed me with a passion that made my knees tremble. His hardness pressed perfectly against me, and I let out a moan of pure ecstasy.

The next day, I was back on the late shift. I’d spent the morning in bed with my vibrator and the phantom memory of his hands. I was wearing a side braid and a mustard-colored cardigan that was struggling to contain me. I knew I looked hot. I was just waiting for my salt-and-pepper mountain man to return.

I saw him at the entrance, looking forlorn after a phone call. He walked up to my desk. “Just here to read more critical theory about Jane Austen.”

“Sure you are,” I said with a wink.

“I’ll be up in the biography section.”

“You should check out the archive in the basement,” I countered. “It’s quieter. No one other than me ever goes down there.”

“Is that right?” He gave me a dimpled grin.

I headed down a few minutes later, my brass bracelets jangling. When I reached him, he was already seated.

“Hey… guy,” I said.

He looked up, clearly affected by my low-cut sweater. “I’m Llewelyn, with seven L’s.” I laughed. He looked at my chest, then at my face. “It’s nice to meet you, Velma.”

I tapped my name tag, the motion causing a ripple across my cleavage. I sat next to him. “Rough night?”

“Not too bad,” I sighed. “But there was this guy who kept asking me what 69 was in the Dewey Decimal System. I explained we were Library of Congress.”

“And that didn’t stop him?” he smirked.

“Me telling him to fuck off got him to stop.”

His eyes widened; he clearly liked the “badass librarian” persona. “Who were you talking to on the phone earlier?” I asked. “You looked like you were talking to your meth dealer.”

“That ‘meth dealer’ is my ex-girlfriend,” he admitted, looking down. “She wants the dog, but she can’t take care of him.”

“Well, not with all the meth, at least,” I joked. He chuckled, meeting my eyes. “You didn’t seem like the girlfriend type the other night.”

“I broke it off weeks ago… and then I remembered this beautiful librarian I saw twice a week.”

“So you came to see me, not just Jane Austen?” I twisted a lock of hair around my finger. He put a hand on my thigh.

“I came by to make you come—and research Jane Austen.”

After our encounter in the archives, I stopped by my current “long-term” boyfriend Daryl’s apartment. He was in his gaming chair, dusted in Cheeto orange, eating KFC Taco Bell.

“Daryl… you go outside today?”

“Picked up some food. Got you a Crunchwrap.”

“You get any fire sauce?” I asked.

“Got mild.”

That was the final straw. “Fuck, man. Fire sauce. I tell you every time.” I ate in silence, realizing I was passing time with a loser. I stood up, grabbed my things from his bathroom, and looked at him. “I’m leaving.”

“Call me tomorrow,” he commanded, eyes glued to the screen.

“No, I’m done. I’m not coming back.” I walked out feeling lighter. I didn’t do it for Llewelyn; I did it because I realized I deserved more than “mild.”

The next night, we met for a drink. I wore a scarlet dress that was tight in all the right places.

“What are you drinking?” I asked, sliding onto the barstool.

“Vodka and… actually, just seltzer. I don’t drink.”

“Me neither.” We shared a look. “You smoke?”

“I have three joints and two gummies in my satchel.”

“I have a lighter,” I said without hesitation. “And I live two blocks away.”

Back at my place, Cyndi Lauper was playing on my laptop. We shared a joint, and then I pounced. We made out on the loveseat, my hands lost in his salt-and-pepper hair. I could feel his heart racing against mine.

“Now,” I whispered, biting my lip as I looked at him. “Fuck me from behind.”

It was everything I’d imagined. I felt completely full, connected to him in a way I hadn’t felt with anyone else. “Slap my ass and fuck me hard,” I urged. He complied with vigor, and I bit down on a pillow to stifle my screams of “Holy fuck!”

I eventually turned around to ride him, looking down at him with a devious smile. I wanted every bit of him. When I finally reached my peak, my knees shook and I collapsed against his chest, breathless.

The next morning, I woke up to find Llewelyn sitting up in bed, wearing a loose T-shirt and reading Jane Austen. It was the most irresistible thing I’d ever seen.

He went out to get coffee and blueberry muffins. When he came back, I was dancing around my kitchen like a Disney princess. He just smiled. “Adorable.”

When he left, we shared a passionate kiss and a mutual ass-grab. I sat on my bed afterward, debating the “rules” of texting. Screw it, I thought.

“Muffins are just breakfast cake, right?” I sent.

He replied almost instantly: “Hahaha. Yes and clothes are just complicated blankets. Glad you didn’t wait 67 more hours.”

I was back at the library for another eight-hour shift, adjusting my bun and trying to focus on Persuasion. I went to the top floor to shelve some books and found Llewelyn there, buried under five different open volumes. He looked frazzled.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “I know it’s fucked up I didn’t say hi,” he stammered. “I needed to study, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist you if we talked. You look cute, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, popping my hip. “Say hi next time, you dashing son of a bitch.”

“Can I see you later?”

“I thought you were immersed in study.”

“I want to immerse myself in something else tonight.”

I laughed and walked away, knowing his eyes were on me. I sent him a quick 🍑👀 text just to keep him distracted.

When my shift finally ended, Llewelyn was waiting at the desk. I slid my bookmark into my book—and I could tell even that simple motion was driving him crazy.

“10 minutes,” I said. “What do you want to do?”

“It’s a full moon. We could walk to my place.”

“So I finally get to see the mystery apartment?”

“Yes. You’ll learn everything. I have dancing Grateful Dead bear tapestries.”

“I am not impressed,” I teased.

“I’m kidding. The walls are covered with pictures of you.”

“Smooth. You really know how to make a lady want to come… over.”

“I can make it up to you with a world-ending orgasm.”

“Deal,” I said, ignoring the stares of my coworkers. I didn’t care about anyone else. I was falling in love.

was