Just a little drawing I did of Milo, or should I say Miley. And a short story to go with it.
You may remember Graphic, http://www.furaffinity.net/view/25302692/ , the bluejay who could trap people in paper and tweak them how he saw fit? Well what happens when he finds a comic book that he is in and decides to mess with it without truly understanding what he was doing?

Milo is  loquaciousjango's guy...or girl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scrawny bluejay was pacing. There wasn’t much room in his messy studio apartment to pace in, but he did so anyways. Having to step over his bag and some stray laundry, he made his way between his old wooden door and his warmly lit desk framed in crumpled papers and old pizza boxes. Sitting there between all the dirty markers, crumpled drawings, and half written plans sat a little book. Just an innocent looking thing, but the little paperback lay there bound by an unseen force as if it was made of lead. A comic book. His comic book. Not the one he wrote but the one he was in. Milo had always had some kind of itching feeling that he was just some words on a page somewhere. It was a dumb notion he thought, a scratch at the back of his mind like the kind a madman would have. The notion reality was wrong. Just the idea that all these coincidences, all these super powered freaks, the manifestation of his own abilities to manipulate paper and drawings, it all seemed like a story from a comic. Everything in his life, all the exciting bits at least, followed a predictable structure that he had learned from his writing classes and his own experience reading and drafting comics. His life played out like one of those stories, the fantastical things and the melodramatic swings, it all fit in. It was an insane notion.
But there it was, the actual book. A meteoric piece of refuse from another reality, he told himself. It was insane. It was a joke, it had to be. But as he paced there in the warm and sticky August air that sang with the sound of fluorescent lights and cheap fans, he started to question whether or not he was insane. It was too real.
As mad as it sounds, the book was the most real thing he had ever seen. There was something about what it was that sank into the world and made everything else around it seem cartoonish and oversaturated. There was something just more real, it weighed more like a book than his books, it smelled more like a book than his books, it had a cheap glossy cover that felt more real than the glossy prints on the graphic novels he had. And he was on the cover, his name was on the cover, the cover that showed him pacing in his room with the book on his dirty desk.
Dull and distant sirens roared by in the distance, somewhere out beyond the muggy August twilight outside. He couldn’t see where they were or where they could be going, all he could see was the dreary brick building across the street and the gas station sign peeking up over the edge of it, framing the adjacent apartment building in a red glow.
Dare he open it? Dare he change it?
Milo, or Graphic as he went by, did have the ability to edit his own drawings and bring them to life altered. But his power, as versatile and profound as it was, couldn’t affect his own life. Graphic could never edit his own looks, his own thoughts. He could take others and redraw them, change their heights, their weights, or their genders, he could take small details and change them or rework them from the ground up. He could make them into other things, bits of clothes or trinkets for instance. He could add inking to make the changes more stable and last until he decreed otherwise. And he could add thought bubbles to their heads and word bubbles to their mouths. And Milo could do this to anyone but himself. How was he going to draw over himself anyways when he was trapped within his own pictures anyways? Would he even want to change himself though, he wondered? If Milo had to cite anything he hated about himself, aside from his neurotic tendencies, it was his situation.
Maybe he didn’t have to be a poor artist, drowning in debt and dirty clothes in some crummy apartment in the ass end of town. Stuck with nothing much more than what a poor college kid would have. Stuck with crappy food and clothes and supplies and no real consistent income to speak of. There were pops of cash here and there from commissions and small bits of theft, but he wished for something else. He was tempted. Even his powers were a blessing and a curse. Despite his love for them and their uses, ever since he had developed them he had been drawn into a growing world of weirdos. Weirdos like that fucking speed freak Casey, his insufferable old roommate who had gotten his speedy powers when Milo tried to teach him a lesson. Or the shadow llama bitch Rica, the last time they met he ended up blown up like a character from one of those weird old cartoon show gags. It was a life where his best days ended with him dealing confronting a super powered crazy person and not dying or blowing up in some humiliating way like some cartoon on the internet.
Milo wondered.
Cautiously he opened the book, peeking over pages as if the slightest insulting look or glare could implode his universe. The content inside paid him no heed, it merely showed him pacing with thought bubbles streaming out of his head, each one having the same notions he just pondered over. His thoughts, before he had them, had been printed in the book. Okay. So it was real. Suddenly the notion of looking further into the book scared him more than it ever had.
And the temptation to change one or two things at the start was stronger than it had ever been before. And he held it there, just looking at it. It weighed in his hands menacingly.
His powers might not even work on this thing. What could the harm be?
There was a narration. It described Milo, his poor apartment, his miserable lifestyle, his unsuccessful career as an artist.
He didn’t have to be poor, he thought as he took out the cheap plastic pen. He didn’t have to be miserable he thought, as he started writing. And he didn't have to be an unsuccessful artist, he thought as he crossed out words and added his own.
Even if this didn’t accomplish anything it was at least mildly cathartic.
And with a hollow and wooden sounding tap he punctuated the end of the opening narration with a violent flourish. The book was slammed closed and pushed back away from him, as if he feared the ire of the thing. He stared at it, waiting for it to scream or do something with how he forced his own words into it, his greedy words that asked for money and success and fame and power and happiness. Outside rain started to fall, dulling the pale orange light that streamed in from the streetlamps.
Nothing seemed to happen.
With a sigh he stood up, the air filling with the sound of his frustrated pen clicks as he pondered over the minute or so of time he just tossed out the window. Waste of time, he thought, as he realized the pen he was holding felt colder. It was a metal pen, a nice one. He had gotten it in a meeting with Davis at the gallery last week. Holding it like this reminded him of how he felt when he signed the final bit of paperwork to get his exhibit in. Since then he had been somewhat afraid to go to the gallery, he’d see people judging his work in person after all. Someone would recognize him as the artist. With a bit of a sigh, Milo placed the pen back down on his neatly organized desk. But he couldn’t ignore the opening dinner for the gallery. Hell, it was free food.
Milo took a step over to the window overlooking the park, watching the rain dance down the glass in the orange light of the distant street lamps. His reflection stared back darkly at him. Milo was sure he wasn’t going to be able to clean himself up much more than he currently had. With his previous commission to do the painting for the mayor’s office he was able to set himself up with a nice new suit. He wasn’t sure about the tie though, it never seemed to settle down straight.
He decided if he was going to be staring at his reflection he may as well use the mirror. Freshly polished shoes clacking against the hardwood floor as Milo made his way through the tidy corner apartment, past his flatscreen and neat little contemporary living room set up. It was a lot of black furniture on black flooring, it definitely had the crisp look to it that he wanted. All the clean and reflective surfaces shined his crisp and well dressed reflection back at him. A tall and thin man, confident, clad in a dark blue suit that was nearly black. That is what he saw in the dark bathroom mirror as he fiddled with his red necktie in the cool air.
He never really learned how to tie these things very well. Milo just didn’t have the practice. Fancy parties were just not his thing. Even if he did keep getting invited. But still, he couldn’t complain. He looked presentable enough. And as he picked at wrinkles and creases in his shirt, his phone wrang. Milo reached down to the small clutch purse she had put down on the marble counter and quietly pulled her phone out.
“Davis.” Miley frowned down at the screen. The corpulent blue jay had just finished stuffing herself into this tight dress and Davis was already breathing down her neck. Impatient jerk. She wasn’t late, and besides, he wasn’t running this show. It was her party and it starts when she gets there, she thought as a thin smile crossed her beak.
With a click she closed her purse, letting the call go to voicemail as she daintily waddled back into the living room of her penthouse. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the dress was perhaps a little too tight with how it clung to her hips and struggled to contain her chest, but she wasn’t about to straight out admit it. And besides, if someone else did, she would be ready. It’d been a while since she properly ruined someone, be it with words or with her powers. That was always such fun, she thought. Her huge penthouse had little trophies and framed newspapers to cover the more dramatic or noteworthy times she had dealt with people who had just caused a bit too much trouble or found some way to make Miley think she had been insulted or wronged. Though her favorite, and perhaps most notable success, was dealing with the shadow witch, Rica. Once a serious thorn in just about everyone’s side, Miley had reduced her down to something much more manageable with her powers. Something she kept very close.
With some creativity and some inking to make the change last, Miley had redrawn Rica as a little ring. Miley never left home without the glossy little black ring. Not only was it stylish with the glossy black tungsten looking metal and the polished crimson ruby, but it was just so fun to torture Rica like this. Even while she was imprisoned in her metal body, completely inanimate and helpless, she still felt everything and was aware of everything. Miley couldn’t help but happily sigh as she looked the little thing over, searching for the elusive and illusive distant reflection of the llama’s true face in the jewel that sat on her hand. Serves that bitch right for insulting her too many times. Which was one time. She flexed her thick fingers, feeling the pressure of the ring and quietly she imagined how uncomfortable it must feel to have your body wrapped so tightly around a woman you hate. Her fat hands straining against your only just barely metal body, always filling you with a pressure that just wouldn’t relent. Fuck. That. Bitch. Miley just adored the fact she could make her enemies into these little play things.
Miley wouldn’t have done it for any other reason. She wasn’t a hero after all.
A quiet storm raged outside in the distant city streets below, the details of the cars and people passing by in the early twilight were lost to the distance and growing fog. Dozens of stories up, Miley paid them no mind. They were all like little ants anyways.
…
Where was her stupid date?
With a huff she dropped herself down on her oversized couch which looked across to an equally oversized television screen. The action of her plopping down made the whole couch moan as it suddenly had the mass of three people slammed into it. The bird’s rear, tightly clad in that navy blue dress, took up a greedy amount of furniture as Miley’s avarice flaunted itself through her pampered and well fed hips. Crossing her thick arms, she forced her pearl framed hill of a chest further into her field of view as the seconds passed her by, eagerly awaiting a knock at her door.
Despite her wealth, lavish spending, her fame and her respect, her power and how people feared it, something didn’t feel right. It was a kind of gnawing feeling that itched at the back of her mind whenever she was alone and in the quiet for too long. Something wasn’t right. Several things weren’t right. Why wasn’t she happy or comfortable? Sure she was… happy and comfortable, but not in the ways she wanted, not in the ways that gave her any peace, not in the ways that satisfied the creeping feeling that something was wrong with this world. It was a restless feeling that crept around her head, but it at least was one easily snuffed out (briefly) by big toys, good food, and boys.
The knock came a minute later as she was idly playing with her pearls. Finally.
With as much grace as her waddling and high heels would allow she made her way to her door. And on the other side of that door was her date. There he was, smiling with a beaming white pointed teeth, clad in an all black suit, all prim and proper and surprising well presented for the poor boy he was, was the neon green snow leopard Casey. Wait Casey, the same Casey from when they were both just poor slobs in college, the same asshole that Milo had- Miley smiled warmly.
“Heeeey.” With a flash of his super speed he was at her side, his arm struggling to wrap around her.
“Hey yourself, greenboy.” With a quick motion she reached out and gave him a little kiss on-
It was like a bucket of ice water was thrown over his head as Milo suddenly had his own REAL identity snap back into focus. No was he real anymore? What was... As he pulled his beak away from Casey the dire reality of the situation spilled over onto him with its countless alien feelings that invaded his body and mind. Everything was soft, heavy, clean feeling and tight, and his voice wasn’t- Oh God he just kissed Casey. That asshole, that ever constant prick that just wouldn’t… his eyes caught them in the full length mirror near the door.
It didn’t even contain his… her whole body. She was… Milo was huge. What the fuck was…
“Give… give me a moment, hon.” Milo stuttered, the playful nickname for Casey came out at the end of the sentence unbidden, and it physically nauseated him as his cute and airy voice dropped the word so lovingly.
Milo stumbled back clumsily into the living room, struggling with both his high heels and his body that had to be swung out in huge waddling arcs to make any sort of progress And, despite that, he couldn’t help but feel like a dainty grace was invasively invading his most basic movements without a care for how he was feeling. Panic was setting in, he could feel his heart racing. This wasn’t right. He felt so… flustered, pretty, prim... And he smelled good. Seriously he couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t smell like dirty clothes or body spray. And this, what the hell was he wearing. Did he have pants on? Not only was it tight but… oh jeez, fuck, okay, so he was a woman for sure. Fucking breasts bigger than my head crammed into this dress he thought as he cupped them in his jewelry clad hands. He… what the fuck was any of this. None of this looked familiar or felt familiar at all, this room, this body, this...anything. But it felt like it was right? No it was right, he was what was wrong. Milo clutched his head, the hints of a migraine coming on as he realized his world made even less sense than it did before.
What was he doing before?
…
The book!
The comic book, he changed it! He wanted to be rich and successful and this… oh no this was as close as it could get him wasn’t it? Was there really no other way to get everything he wanted? Was this the easiest way, becoming this…. fat woman? Was this really a life or timeline that worked out better for him? If it was then maybe there is a way he can change himself back and keep everything else the same. There has to be, he can edit it to say anything he wants! Fuck whatever reality thought was easiest! Now the problem was, Milo thought, that he had to change stuff fast while he was still lucid. He had to act before this reality reasserted itself over his identity. Okay, okay, where was the book… his room maybe? Was it even in this reality? Did he-
“Are you alright, Miley?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She blinked, realizing she had spaced out a bit. “I was just… ah I had to grab... something.” For some reason she couldn’t remember what she came back in here for, but it left her feeling somewhat anxious. But the feeling faded quickly as Casey zapped over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and suddenly she was feeling excited for several reasons.
“Don’t worry about it, babe. If you’re nervous about the premier, we can just stay for the free food… then we can just zip right on back here for a bit of fun.”
“Mmm, Casey.” She tapped his nose. “You speak my language.”