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Smells Like Teen Spurts	By : Nastyzak Category: +G through L > Gravity Falls Views: 15150 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Gravity Falls or the characters, and I don't make any money from writing.

Chapter List
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1. A Discovery
The winter that Dipper was nineteen brought surprises. Like his gruncle Stanford, he had rushed through college and had graduated the previous December. In mid-February he was living in the Mystery Shack, which always closed for the winter. It was a cheap place to stay while he did his hobbies and planned for his future.
He was lonely, though. As the New Year got underway, Mabel was still off in California, where she was now a junior in college. Pacifica still lived in town, but Dipper saw very little of her and had hardly spoken to her. Wendy was still there, too, now working as the manager of a carpentry business her dad had set up and living all on her own in a little log cabin Manly Dan had built when he had re-married. Her brothers were all out on their own and up-state, working in a cousin’s lumber camp.
Stanley and Stanford had retired and were living in California, not far from Piedmont. Soos and his family always spent the winters in Florida. By the end of January, Dipper was so lonesome that he would have welcomed a visit from even a random manotaur or gnome, but none of them dropped by. So he usually went into town one day a week for groceries and aside from that stayed by himself, busy with studying the strange artifacts in the Mystery Shack, not the artifakes in the Museum, but the real stuff Stanford had collected down in his basement laboratory.
These included strange skeletal remains of animals that science could not classify, petroglyphs with native carvings on them that looked like nothing on earth, crystals that gave off weird harmonic tones when struck with a small hammer, stuff like that. And just recently behind a pile of junked electronics, Dipper had just discovered a tall gray metal cabinet.
It was locked. And there was no key. And the keyhole was too small for President Trembly’s key to fit. For about three days, Dipper had been patiently trying to pick the lock, but with no success.
On the fourth day, “Now, if I was gruncle Ford,” he asked himself, “where would I hide the key to this cabinet?”
Dipper had grown to be pretty tall, though he was still two inches shorter than Stanford. Because Stanley slouched, Dipper was an inch or so taller than his other gruncle. It occurred to him finally that Stanford just might have done the obvious thing. Dipper hauled a short stepladder in and climbed up so he could see the top of the locked cabinet.
“Aha!” He found a thick layer of fluffy gray dust, almost forty years’ worth. But there in the dust was the fuzzy outline of a small flat key. He brushed away the dust, sneezed, and then took the key. He moved the ladder. He put the key in the lock.
It clicked.
He opened the cabinet. Years ago, Stanford had written a message in red marker on a sheet of paper taped to the inside of the right door: REMEMBER: TAKE NOTHING FROM THIS CABINET UNTIL IT HAS BEEN COMPLETELY EXAMINED AND CLASSIFIED.
Little late for that. On six shelves stood boxes and racks of sealed test tubes, a mesh-wire cage with a zipping little blue light the size of a marble orbiting around and around inside it, two albums of photographs, most of them not labeled and showing nothing that Dipper could recognize.
“What the heck?”
In the front center of the third shelf he found a miniature flowerpot, like only three inches tall, filled with packed brown dirt. And sprouting from it was a tiny bright-green plant maybe two inches tall. Had to be plastic.
No, it looked like a living plant. But this cabinet had been locked since maybe 1982. No seedling could have survived that long with no light or water.
As he examined the herb, Dipper noticed a second paper taped to the left side door of the cabinet. The light wasn’t good, so he turned on his flashlight to read it. It was actually two legal-sized sheets stuck together with tape so old it had turned nearly brown. At first the writing looked like a random list of things jotted down in handwriting that Dipper recognized from Stanford’s journals.
“I get it,” he said. “Gruncle Stanford indexed the contents of the cabinet!”
Let’s see—the cubic cage of metal mesh, about six inches on a side, had come from the left corner of the top shelf. According to the list, that was . . . “Particle of Infinitum, do not remove from confinement.”
Good to know, good to know. So the plant had come from the third shelf down, toward the middle. The label said that the third shelf held a fossil pixie skeleton, a shark’s tooth six inches long retrieved from Gravity Falls Lake, the skeleton of a homing turtle, and—this must be it—“Enhancing Fern: Increases human ability. DO NOT CONSUME. Keep dry. Must be investigated later.”
“Enhances ability?” Dipper muttered. Must be investigated? He could do that! After all, it was only a plant.
He took it from the cabinet, went upstairs and left it on the kitchen counter, and then went out to the storage shed. He rummaged around and found a larger pot that still had soil in. Of course, in late January the weather was frigid, so he took the pot inside and let it warm up overnight. The next day, he chunked at the dirt inside it with a small trowel until it broke up and then went on to reduce it to loose soil. Then, very carefully, he cracked the tiny pot and planted the rootball of the so-called fern in the regular-sized pot. And he watered it.
It didn’t look much like a fern. It was much more like a very tiny Saguaro cactus, except it had maybe fifteen minute branches and lobes. In his own journal, Dipper sketched it and wrote, “The Enhancing Fern may be a succulent instead of a fern. It looks green and alive, but I will see if it grows. And I’ll search for anything in Stanford Pines’ records that reference it.”
Two days later, he noted, “The Enhancing Fern appears plumper. I think it’s sucking in water through its roots. Its color is a brighter green, too."
Two days after that, “The E.F. is growing. It’s four millimeters taller than at first.”
Before ten more days passed, the plant had grown to be about eight inches tall. Now it looked like a cluster of green bananas—miniature, but very much like a right-side up clump of bananas. In the stores they’re always upside down. In the wild, the stem ends of the bananas are at the bottom.
At the very top of the Enhancing Fern, a round ball of a bud showed up, sort of purplish-red and a centimeter in diameter. Dipper kept a grow-light on it for twelve hours every day. On February 13th, it blossomed into a deep red carnation-like flower. Dipper set up a camera with a macro lens to photograph it. He took half a dozen photos from different angles, and then, very carefully, he prodded the flower with a pencil.
Poof!
A pink cloud exploded from it. Dipper jerked back, but he breathed in some of the, uh, spores? Pollen?
He quickly ran to the bathroom and not only washed his face, but showered and changed clothes. He didn’t want to be contaminated by a plant that—oh, gosh.
A scary thought had hit him. The thing might have come from the crashed spaceship.
When Dipper went back to look at the plant, the flower had already withered. But the plant still looked healthy. Carefully, Dipper covered it with a bell jar.
“No harm done, anyhow,” he told himself.
But the next day before the sun even rose, he woke up with morning wood. That wasn’t unusual. It happened about every day.
The difference was this morning, his dick was about ten inches long and way thicker than it had been.
“Enhancing Fern,” he groaned.
On one hand, it might not be all bad. He’d never had much luck with girls. He couldn’t count the number of them who’d broken off with him. Well, he could, he could easily count to six. One called it off because “You never even made a move on me.” The next because “You shouldn’t have kissed me on just our third date!” One because “You’re too shy in bed!” Another because “You come on in bed like you think you’re a big guy!” One because “You’re too Jewish for me.” Another because “I thought you were Jewish!” After four years of that, and only three experiences of making actual love to an actual girl, he’d nearly decided to be like gruncle Ford and remain celibate.
On the other hand, this morning he was so horny that—
He groaned and started to jerk off. And his cock got another inch longer.
“Better go to the bathroom for this,” he thought. He sat on the edge of the tub and masturbated until—whoa!
He’d masturbated often enough, usually three or four times a week, while thinking of Wendy slowly stripping off her red bathing suit, but never had this happened—
Jets of thick white cum shot from his cock uncontrollably and splatted so hard against the tile that they made cracking noises. Jet after jet.
They splattered the wall of the shower enclosure and oozed down in crooked rivulets. By the time his dick finally began to soften, he’d left a dinner-plate-sized splash, and it took him twenty minutes to rinse it all down and wipe up the random splats. He showered—his cock, even when limp, was still about seven inches long and still thicker than it had originally been when erect—and dried off and got dressed. Then he found that he was insanely hungry.
“Must have used a lot of energy,” he decided.
He was in no mood for cereal. He decided he needed protein. So he grabbed his winter coat and headed out to the diner.
Luckily, his old junker car did have snow tires, and once he reached town, the streets had been snowplowed, leaving banks three feet high on both sides. He hurried through the frigid air and into the diner and was heading for an empty booth when he heard a familiar voice: “Dipper! Dude! Hey, come sit with me!”
Wendy. Still unattached, still a good friend. She was grinning and waving from a corner booth. Dipper went over, feeling a stirring in his pants. He quickly slipped onto the bench, hiding the bulge, he hoped, beneath the table.
“Dude, you look tired,” Wendy said. “I haven’t seen you since Christmas! What have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know, experiments and stuff,” Dipper said.
“You better take some time to relax,” Wendy advised him.
The waitress came over with a menu for him. “Have you already ordered?” he asked Wendy.
“Yep, pancakes, and I think I see them up on the serving counter now,” Wendy said.
Dipper didn’t even glance at the menu. He asked the waitress, “What’s quickest?”
“We just scrambled a whole batch of eggs with cheese,” she said. “And there’s cold ham. And toast is fast.”
“Coffee,” Dipper said. “Large. Three—no, four scoops of the eggs, please. Two pieces of ham. Wheat toast. Orange juice, large.”
“Coming right up,” the waitress said.
“You must be like starved,” Wendy said.
“I’m hungry,” he admitted.
“Oh, hey, happy Valentine’s Day, man!” Wendy said. “I’m glad to share a moment with you!”
Valentine’s Day. Oh, God, his dick was straining inside his jeans. He reached down to his leg and tried to pull the fabric, giving it some elbow room. “Uh, yeah, happy Valentine’s. Uh, I missed dinner last night,” he said, though that wasn’t true. He’d heated up a frozen entrée.
“Your face is getting all red,” Wendy said, frowning in concern. She reached over to put her cool palm on his forehead. “You think you might have a fever?”
Jesus, he was leaking precum! He could feel the wet spot on his leg.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Just—just seeing you again. Oh, there’s your food!”
The waitress brought a tray with Wendy’s stack of pancakes and a couple of sausage patties on it, along with a carafe of coffee and his glass of OJ. She filled their cups. “Yours will be here in just a minute,” she assured Dipper.
“Thanks.”
When the waitress turned away, Wendy said, “Hey, Dipper, pass me the syrup, please.”
He handed her the little pitcher. She paused, a funny look on her face. She sniffed. “Something smells different,” she said.
“Uh—I haven’t noticed anything. Is it—is it a bad smell?”
Her nose twitched. “No, kinda—kinda good. I sort of like it, but I can’t place it.”
“Maybe somebody’s wearing aftershave or perfume—”
“It is sort of musky,” Wendy said.
The waitress returned with Dipper’s huge breakfast. “There you go,” she said. “Need anything?”
“No, this is fine,” he told her. “Oh, wait, though, you know what? I would like a big glass of milk, please.”
“Skim or—”
“Whole,” he said. “Thanks.” She went back behind the counter, and he started to shovel his food in.
“Whoa, whoa!” Wendy said. “Slow down. Don’t get choked, man! You’re eating like your sister used to when she was plowing into a birthday cake!”
“Just so hungry,” Dipper said, but he did force himself to eat slower. God, his hard-on was throbbing! He squirmed, but if he excused himself and went to the toilet to take care of it, he’d have to stand up, and he didn’t dare do that.
They ate in silence, Wendy shooting him concerned glances. When the milk arrived, he chugged it. They finished, the waitress brought the check—six dollars for Wendy, twelve for him—and he said, “I got it,” and put a twenty and a five on the table.
And then he desperately tried Plan B, since going to the bathroom wasn’t going to work. His coffee had cooled a lot, but as he started to take his last big drink, he accidentally on purpose spilled it in his lap. “Dang it!” he said. “Now everyone will think I pee’d my pants!”
“Tie your coat around your waist,” Wendy suggested.
“Good idea!” He squirmed out of his jacket, half-crouched, and did as she suggested. “Well, great seeing you, Wendy, but I’d better go back to the Shack and change clothes.”
He walked toward the door, but Wendy stayed right beside him. “You OK to drive?” she asked.
“Fine, fine,” he said desperately.
“Dude, I’m not so sure. You're acting weird. Come on, my Jeep’s right over there. I don’t have to be at work until eight, so I’ll drive you back to—” she sniffed as they walked into the cold air. “Drive you to, uh—” Suddenly she pulled him close and sniffed his neck. “It’s you! You smell so good!” she said, her whole face turning red.
“I, uh—I do?”
“Come on, dude. Get in my car. Don’t argue! Get in the car!”
He got in the car and hunched over the jacket covering his lap.
She got behind the wheel and leaned toward him. “Where is that aroma coming from?” she asked, breathing hard. “It’s got me all, uh—it smells so good!”
“I don’t know—”
She snatched the jacket away from him. “Holy fuck!” she said. “Dipper, are you stuffing your jeans or—”
“No,” he groaned.
She put the Jeep into reverse, made a sharp turn, and headed for the Shack. “Show me!” she said.
When they were away from town, Dipper gave up. Just unzipping his fly wouldn’t work. He was sure if he tried, Mr. Happy would get seriously involved with the zipper. He raised his butt off the seat and unfastened, unzipped, and pushed the jeans and his briefs down to his knees, and his ten-inch monster cock stood up like a flagpole.
“Oh, my God!” Wendy gasped. “I never suspected you had—”
“I didn’t have it until this morning!” Dipper groaned.
“Dude, do you need to jerk off—?”
“Not in your car! I’d mess up your car!”
“Hang on,” Wendy said, taking the sharp turn into the Shack lot.
He hadn’t locked the door. He tugged his jeans up and fastened but did not zip them. They rushed through the door and Wendy slammed it and locked it. Together they stumbled out of the gift shop, toward the stairs. Dipper's knees were about to give way.
“Help me up to my room,” he groaned.
By now Wendy was panting. “Damn, I'm dripping. Bedroom's too far! Sofa, man!”
She shoved him down on the sofa and then yanked his shoes, jeans, and underwear right off. “Wendy, I—”
Her green eyes were intense, her cheeks glowing. “Shh. Shh,” Wendy said, licking her lips. “I’ll help, I know what to do. I got this, man.”
She forced his knees apart and knelt on the floor. When she touched his dick, it hardened even more, incredibly. She pushed her long hair back over her shoulder, leaned down, and sniffed. “God, this smell! I’m so freakin' wet, Dipper! Poor guy. Here—” She started to lick the taut head of his dick. “Mm, I love the taste, too!" She took the tip into her mouth and sucked, then popped it out. “So big! I’m gonna stretch my jaw, but it’s worth it.”
She started to bob her head, sucking and licking, and Dipper gave himself up to something he’d only dreamed and fantasized about—a blowjob from Wendy flipping Corduroy.
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Smells Like Teen Spurts