A mystery

Ethan woke to the sound of humming. Nasal, upbeat, distinctly out of place in his wrecked dorm room.

He shoved his glasses on, blinking.

And froze.

There she was. Sitting cross-legged on his desk like it was the Mystery Machine, fiddling with a Rubik’s cube she must have pulled out of his junk pile. Orange sweater, pleated skirt, knee socks. Short, blunt bob with a headband. And those glasses, sliding halfway down her nose as she peered at him with wide brown eyes.

Velma.

From Scooby-Doo.

“Jinkies,” she said, pushing her glasses up with one finger. “You’re awake. Good. Because I’ve already found some… interesting evidence.”

Ethan sat bolt upright. “What the fuck—”

Velma hopped down, tugging her skirt straight, and marched right over to the side of his bed. Her sneakers squeaked on the floor. She pointed accusingly at his crotch.

“Exhibit A.”

Ethan looked down. Morning wood straining his boxers. He yanked the blanket over himself, mortified. “Jesus Christ—”

“Language,” she scolded, already tugging the blanket free like it was a red herring. “Now let’s examine this properly.”

Her small hands yanked at his waistband, peering inside like a detective lifting evidence tape. Ethan squeaked, grabbing her wrist. “Velma—what are you doing?”

She smirked. “Looking for clues. And it seems I’ve found the culprit.” Her eyes flicked back up to him, full of mischief. “You’re hiding a mystery under here.”

His face burned. “This is insane.”

“Correction,” she said, already sliding her hand over the bulge. “This is science. A very… hands-on experiment.”

Ethan gasped as her palm pressed against him. Warm. Firm. She tilted her head, analytical. “Hmm. Rigid. Throbbing. Definitely consistent with arousal.” She gave him a squeeze that made him jerk. “Case closed.”

He groaned, covering his face. “Oh my god.”

Velma pushed her glasses up again and knelt between his legs, lifting the waistband of his boxers like a curtain. Her expression was mock-serious, but her cheeks were flushed pink. “Let’s gather more… oral testimony.”

Ethan’s heart nearly exploded. “You—you’re not—”

“Shh,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “The investigator is working.”

When her mouth wrapped around him, Ethan’s brain short-circuited. It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t practiced — it was Velma, enthusiastic and nerdy and humming like she was cataloguing the taste in her mental notebook. Her glasses slid down her nose again, her eyes peering up at him as if daring him to deny how much he liked it.

Every little flick of her tongue, every muffled sound, made him twitch and gasp. His hands clawed at the sheets, his legs trembling.

“Velma—fuck—”

She popped off for just a second, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning wickedly. “Mmm. Salty. Tastes like… Scooby Snacks.”

He almost came just from that.

She dove back down, sloppy and relentless now, and Ethan couldn’t hold it. His whole body shook, his voice breaking into a strangled cry as pleasure ripped through him.

When it was over, Velma sat back on her knees, licking her lips, looking way too smug for someone in a turtleneck. She adjusted her glasses, like she’d just solved the case of a century.

“Conclusion,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You, Ethan, are guilty of being… delicious.”

Ethan slumped back against his pillow, dizzy and drained. He tried to pull himself together however the realisation hit him, he hadn't left the emerald against a picture of Velma!!!