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.
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