If you were to assemble a list of places one is likely to be attacked, the average back alley would probably be high on your list.

There are a number of reasons for this popular conception. Perhaps most commonly, popular media. We've all seen countless, movies, TV shows, and books where some innocent is ambushed by marauders in a dark alley. Or the grisly aftermath thereof.

But in reality, most violent criminals actually knew their victims. And a great deal of assaults actually happen in the home.

Or at least, that's what Jerome told himself, as he hurried through the twilight.

It wasn't really his fault. The parking options in the area were somewhat limited. And if he needed to make his date on time, he could not stick to the standard highways and byways.

He was also rather familiar with the area. It didn't have a lot of crime. The most dangerous thing was probably the biohazard container in the alley from some sort of laboratory.

Or maybe the potholes,

And so, Jerome took a wide berth around the bright yellow box with the scary insignia on the side.

This would turn out to be what is classically known as, "a big mistake".

Jerome's first indication of his mistake was the moment he felt his rather nice shoes sink into a puddle of something that was rather reluctant to let go.

He stopped, and looked down.

This was, unfortunately, not the first time he had put his foot in something he would rather not. Therefore, he knew had basically two options.

1: try to get his his foot free.

2; abandon his shoe and turn up at his date hopping on one foot.

Given that the latter would substantially reduce the chances of the date's success, and Jerome's certain fondness for that particular pair of oxfords (and certain aversion to putting his stockinged foot down in the alley), he decided to go for the former.

(After a certain number of caustic words that are not, strictly, relevant to this narrative.)

And so, he carefully balanced himself and leaned away from the puddle. Then he carefully tugged his shoe way as far as he was willing to risk.

...So option number 1 would not swiftly became option number 2.

The mysterious liquid in the paddle stretched from the bottom of his shoe to the ground, much like gum. And as Jerome looked at it in the falling light, realization struck him.

"Slicks," he growled, with a certain degree of venom.

The question of what produced the substance was of rather less material relevance then the question of how he was going to free himself. He could already feel he was reaching some point of maximum tension, where the liquid would either snap, or pull back.

And as his foot slammed back down into the puddle, he had his answer.

The worst part? Some of the liquid splashed on his other foot. And on the original foot.

His chances of a successful date were quickly receding into the rear view mirror.

When he tried to remove his original foot a second time, he found that the liquid already held it fast.

So he put one hand on the large container the liquid leaked out of, tried to raise his second foot, and immediately felt over.

Just before he hit the ground, it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to sue the pants off the laboratory. At least report them to OSHA.

Assuming he didn't get super cancer or something.

...Actually, that would make his lawsuit even more profitable.

He landed on his chest. Even though it knocked the wind out of him, he had just enough presence of mind to put his arms out, land on his elbows with a jarring thump, and keep his head above the "water".

Which was about the only bright side, because his shirt and slacks were definitely ruined. In fact, he was was fairly certain he could feel it soaking through to his chest.

Ew.

He made a face at the liquid inches from his nose, thought of rat glue traps as motivation, planted his hands, and pushed up.

The sticky strands yanked his shirt and pants toward the pavement. He held the position for as long as he could, before he surrendered to their tug.

Good. Now he had a baseline.

The shirt felt heavier on his chest. The pants felt heavier on his legs . Probably something to do with the amount of liquid soaking in.

He wasn't even sure what colour it was. It was hard to see in that alley, in that light.

For his next attempt, it felt like he'd gotten further from the ground. When he splashed, down it felt softer.

Maybe...if he went to the side?

He held his position for a few seconds, until the burning in his arms stopped and the burning in his abs was just starting. Then he planted his hands, and pushed up, and leaned over to his right away from the dumpster.

This got him farther than ever.

Unfortunately, due to the laws of physics, this also meant that he splashed down harder than ever. The impact went up his elbows, and his right hand nearly slipped.

Which was arguably not the worst of his problems.

That would arguably be the sudden lack of weight he felt below his waist.

The sudden feeling of his most sensitive flesh getting wet directly.

And the feeling of the liquid pushing into the tip.

Quite naturally, he bucked his hips. This did not help him very much, as the invader was already some way down his length.

And past it.

Past the base, past his balls, through the lower section of his torso, and it pushed at his back door from the inside.

Which was - like so many things that afternoon - quite impossible.

He tried to turn his head and look over his shoulder. But he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

Slowly, trembling, he looked down at his chest.

At the two distinctive mounds on it.

His first thought? Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe it was not a slick-related incident.

Maybe it was some super advanced experimental glue, and the fumes were getting to him. Perhaps he had simply had a schizophrenic bre-

The thing at his back door pulsed, and he snapped his head around to look over his shoulder.

That felt pretty real.

Which was probably common for schizophrenic hallucinations.

And it wasn't exactly like he could whip out his phone and check.

The bubble - for lack of a better term - was visibly pushing at the inside of his pants. It seemed to be the same indistinct dark color as the rest of the muck. And it seemed to be soaking into the seat of his pants.

In fact, it looked more and more like a balloon as he watched.

Great. Perfect. Was there anything else that could go wrong?

His feet scraped on the pavement.

Which was strange. Because his feet had been in shoes noted for their lack of slipperiness.

He twisted his body to get a better look, and did his best to move his foot into view.

This had an unfortunate side effect of pulling the remains of his pants off, but that was a secondary concern.

Compared to the fact that he now sported claws where his shoes had been.

He stared at the claws, until he realized his mouth was hanging open. Then he flexed a muscle experimentally. The claws moved a little.

They reminded him, somewhat, of a raptor's claws from those dinosaur movie from when he was six. Every tree branch rubbing against the side of the house that night had been a pitiless prehistoric predator, seeking a way in for a quick, pre-pubescent snack.

And, now that he was looking, he noticed some other changes. Like the way his legs tapered toward the feet. Which was mostly because his hips had substantially widened.

The dark liquid seemed to run down at the middle in a solid block, and wrapped "straps" around his legs horizontally. To show enticing, vertical lengths of skin.

Like one of those flashy outfits a woman would wear to a club.

All that was missing was the leopard print.

With his pants missing, he could see the strange bubble emerging from his back door. How it got bigger and bigger, until he realized it was longer than it was wide.

Sort of like a slug's shell, If it was covered in Saran Wr-

The bubble, suddenly, popped like a balloon. He flinched and turned his head away-

And nothing happened.

Carefully, very carefully, Jerome opened one eye. Then he opened the other. Then carefully, very carefully, He looked over his shoulder again.

The bubble had popped into a tail. One that was presumably attached to his backside.

Jerome did not have much of an opportunity to take a closer look, given that the tip of the tail was accelerating directly toward his face.

Before he could dodge, or blink, or do anything but feel his stomach drop out, The tip of the tail hit him in the face.

And his elbows slipped.

And then he opened his eyes.

Which were only a few inches above the muck.

He blinked once or twice.

It was still there.

And if the right side of his head felt...wet.

He swallowed once.

Planted his hands.

And pushed up.

This time, he didn't just feel weight on his chest, waving above his rear. This time the mysterious liquid tugged at the hairs on his head, tugged at his ear, his neck-

And he tried, very, very hard not to panic.

He still managed to get his elbows under him. Even though those elbows knocked into his swelling chest.

A mildly hysterical laugh clawed its way out of his throat.

They would be fantastic boobs, if they were on somebody else.

He glanced down, and looked at his hands for the first time in a while. He'd trimmed his nails just before he called the Uber, so he was fairly certain they weren't supposed to be that long.

Or pointy.

As far as impossibilities went, it was one of the milder ones for that evening.

His shirt dropped off. He rolled his shoulders, his neck, which still had goo dripping into the pud-

Something briefly cinched tight around his waist, and squeezed the breath from his body. His head spun for a few seconds, And when he looked back, it seemed his waist was noticeably thinner.

Wait, he thought, where did it go?

Something drove into his back door.

Something long, flexible, and powerful.

The impact of the tail's thrust seemed to push all the way up his back and terminate in his...neck?

Another squeeze around his waist.

Another thrust.

The mass wasn't just going up. Jerome could swear that everyone added a little more jiggle down below. His new boobs rubbed along the slickened alley floor. It even felt like they had nipples.

He looked down again and they seemed bigger. But also smaller somehow.

Because...

Because his head was farther away.

Because his neck was longer.

Because the thrust from his tail was, somehow, making his neck long.

And the ooze was somehow wrapping around his neck. His chin. It called up toward his ears, his eyes. He tried shaking it, but it didn't help.

And just when he realized what he should have done all along, and opened his mouth to shout, the slime gleefully crawled in, and, finally, enveloped his head in a shining, featureless mask.

If you had been walking down the alley at that time, and you didn't have AirPods on, you might, barely, have been able to hear him screaming.

But then again, you might not.

After some time, the blank mask began to grow a lump. A symmetrical lump. Most prominently where Jerome's mouth had been. This large lump grew and grew, and then stopped.

And started to wiggle.

A line grew in this lump. It started as a barely visible disturbance, and then grew into a depression.

And then a seam.

And then, finally, a mouth.

A mouth filled with sharp teeth, and a long, flexible tongue.

The tongue curled around the head, and licked at a certain spot on the upper half. And when it moved away, a golden, slitted eye gazed onto the world.

The head turned on its flexible neck to look down the body. Specifically the back. The eye narrowed, and a hiss emerged from the mouth.

That mouth breathed heavily for a few seconds, then the creature...flexed all along its length.

And spikes emerged from its back in a line reaching from its shoulder blades, down to its shapely hips, and the tip of its tail, and up to the crown of its head.

And it smiled.

And it said, "That's better."

This time when it pulled away, the dark goop proved no problem at all.

The creature that had been Jerome steadied itself against the dumpster.

The liquid had drawn a broad line down the center of its body. It's head neck chest and inner thighs were all coated but the rest of it had not escaped unscathed. The creature had a rather spectacular set of curves, and the slickness on his hand formed sort of "opera gloves", that connected to the main body at the underarms.

But-

It reached down between its legs.

But the most important part was still there. And rather enhanced.

Perhaps she could find some uses for the new and exotic shape.

"But first," the liquid lizard said, "I'm going to find a lawyer."

ENDFILE

Alley Goop

2026 Nequ

CC By-SA-NC

Reposting, commissions, and derivative works are all allowed, as long as you give credit. Preferably a link.

Inspirations included a pic I saw once of a goofur girl lying in a puddle. I think she was grey with a purple belly. Might've had a witch's hat on. Went back 9 years in my favs and I couldn't find it. Then I had an idea, and went in again.

The closest I could find was

• https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24651085/

• https://www.furaffinity.net/view/32940705/

• https://www.furaffinity.net/view/32940731/

• https://www.furaffinity.net/view/59105353/

• https://www.furaffinity.net/view/52915101/

• https://www.furaffinity.net/view/54214649/

I guess I confabulated multiple pieces with the same subject? And got the color wrong?

This story was an exercise;. Could I write a first draft almost exclusively with voice typing?

The answer is yes. With great difficulty.

Until I remembered that you get much better results if you throw a coat over your head.

In case you didn't notice, I speak-write much differently than I normally write. Much more...maximalist. But still not as much as some writers I've seen.

I also managed to finish this story in an afternoon. Which is much faster than usual.

I felt mildly guilty for going back to the "latex herm lizard" well, then I remembered I didn't actually care. A lot of artists draw, write, and commission dozens of pieces with the same characters, and very similar situations.

Why can't I really indulge myself once in a while?

(Yes, I'm implying [the Xenomorph invasion story](../..//) was exercising restraint.)