When it comes to schools, there are certain benefits that come with a structure’s physical location. For CHS, being tucked away in a sleepier part of town means that the campus is allowed to sprawl out in every direction, ensuring that there’s plenty of room for things like statues and sports fields and lush green spaces; the last of which just so happen to include a smattering of trees for color and vibrancy.

Many of the trees on campus are old; the seeds having been planted so far back that Granny Smith might be able to remember it, if she’s having a good day. They date as far back as to the early days of CHS, as one of Chancellor Puddinghead’s responses to unruly behavior on the part of some of her students. “Hooliganism,” she had said, on more than one occasion, “is like an unfocused celebration. And who wants to attend a party that doesn’t go anywhere?!” Perhaps if she had given a bit more thought to what young people do in trees, the Chancellor might have settled for shrubs instead.

This particular tree is a fine example of a white oak, broad trunk with a multitude of limbs splitting off as it rises higher and narrows until the trunk splits into three major branches and rises still higher. So sturdy is the tree that it hardly quivers as a young student scrambles up into the lower rungs. Granted, the boy doesn’t way much, and a stiff breeze might have caused the leaves to rattle about more, but perhaps that is more a testament to his light and practiced movements.

The chosen branch bounces and sways as he makes his way out across it, and only shudders once as the boy kneels and stretches himself out across the limb. After the moment passes, the broad leaves return to their rustling, the disturbance already forgotten. And, after taking a few seconds to catch his breath, the boy shimmies forward a little on his belly before pulling the camera hanging around his neck up to his face.

“Let’s take in the sights, shall we?” Featherweight mumbles to no one in particular, peeking through the viewfinder at his upperclassmen as they lounge on the green. Taking a moment to adjust the zoom for a better look, the boy sees several students lingering around the statue in front of the school, including that really strange girl, Twilight Sparkle. Fiddling with the camera until she comes into crisp focus, a smile crosses his face as he wets his lips. “Well, strange or no, she’s certainly something.”

After appreciating the view for a few seconds more, the view shifts to her friends, who are certainly more physically dynamic and distinct that the already voluptuous visitor from another world. Hard bodies, soft bodies, even a somewhat squishy body in Pinkie Pie; each built to invoke a ferocious trouser twitching in even the most oblivious, sexually disinterested male. Now to be clear, Featherweight isn’t a fool and has at least some understanding of why he feels the way he does, but the boy is still just that, and while he appreciates the view, his ideas of what he ought to do next are somewhat muddled. So he falls back on a tried and true response to anything that interests him. He takes a picture.

The camera clicks in rapid succession as Featherweight adjusts the lens and the subject of his pictures on the fly. Twilight whispering conspiratorially in Rarity’s ear before they both burst into giggles; Sunset Shimmer with a deliciously vacant expression on her face; Pinkie lewdly working her way through a cafeteria hotdog; Fluttershy lingering in a particularly sunny spot with her eyes closed; Rainbow Dash and Applejack engaging in some sort of awkward looking chest-to-chest wrestling match; Featherweight captures all of that and more.

After several minutes of clicking, the now red-faced boy finally pulls the camera away. His breath comes in short, excited pants as he wets his lips again, very satisfied with the shots that he was able to get. And yet, somehow, there’s a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, as though there’s still more to do.

So he brings the camera up again and turns his attention toward other upperclassmen. Lyra, with her head in BonBon’s lap while the latter feeds her small morsels of lunch? Can’t pass that up. Three seriously stacked girls freaking out as a bee invades their otherwise tranquil flowery-paradise lunch? Got that too. Vinyl Scratch strutting through the shade of the trees, rocking her hips from side to side? Featherweight nearly fell out of the tree trying to hang himself upside down by his knees and snap a shot of her prodigious backside. And so it was, while he was still hanging there, that he catches sight of a girl that causes his breath to stutter.

Compared to some of the other girls, she’s rather plain; not in the same sense as Twilight, although they share a more slender body type than their peers. But where the attractive alien has a sort of knowledgeable appearance about her, this girl has an unrestrained sex appeal oozing off of her. Maybe it’s the tongue stud that glints ever so slightly when she teasingly smirks and sticks it to her teeth, or her wild hairstyle that suggests she’s down for anything, any time. Or it could be another of a host of reasons why she stands out without being built like the rest, but what really counts is that the increasingly dizzy Featherweight quickly pulls his camera p to take a few shots of her.

“STOP!” a sharp voice insists, causing the hanging boy to drop his camera. By the mercy of high quality materials, it only ends up dangling from the strap rather than in a thousand pieces on the ground below. With that tragedy averted, Featherweight can give his full attention to the imposing figure glaring at him over the top of her sunglasses.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asks, the words rolling of her tongue with a thick and foreign slant. As the still stunned boy stutters his way around a response, the white-haired girl shakes her head and snaps her fingers. Two more girls join her, one on either side. Tutting and shaking a finger in his direction she stalks towards her helpless prey. “Don’t you know who that is?”

Featherweight offers what he hopes is a helpful smile. “…No?”

“Zat,” the girl declares, pointing to the saucy looking bimbo from earlier, “is High Step, and she is my, Photo Finish, masterpiece!”

“Oh,” the boy replies, still hanging in front of the girls. After a moment, he adds, “I don’t really think that a person can claim someone else as their masterpiece.” Reaching above his head, he grabs his camera and brings it back to his face, gazing through the viewfinder at the girls. “I mean, it’s not like you made her that way or anything.”

Upon seeing the camera come up, the two fashionistas on either side of the irate Photo Finish begin to pose and vogue for the lens. The white-haired girl gives them both a stern glare, after pursing her lips for a shot or two as well, before turning her attention back to Featherweight. “No! High Step, she is mine; I will be ze only one to take pictures of her.”

“But you’re just the yearbook chair, right?” Featherweight asks, pulling away the camera and adjusting the lens by hand. “So, what if I said I was taking personal pictures?”

The foreign student scoffs, rolling her eyes and strutting up to the boy. Reaching up, she places her palms against his cheeks and tuts her tongue. “That is where you are mistaken, my little shutter bug. No one takes pictures for personal enjoyment; they will inevitably end up in ze possession of someone else, either to be shown off, or sold, or what have you. There is no such thing as ‘ze personal picture’ as there is no one who is just a ‘photographer’. You are either amateur or professional.”

Featherweight raises an eyebrow in a mixture of amusement and disbelief, which Photo thankfully picks up on in short order. Donning a superior smirk, she asks, “You know who I am, yes?” When the boy bobs his head, she pats his cheek. “Then you wish for me to look at your photos? Tell you what I think?”

Gulping, the boy offers a shy smile. “Well, maybe a bit?”

“Wunderbar; Pixel, Violet, help the boy down,” Photo replies, sliding the strap off his shoulders with a flourish as she palms the camera. The impressively tall girl begins to tab through the photographs on screen as her companions awkwardly attempt to remove the boy from his perch. Admittedly, the older girl’s intentions had been just to give the images a quick once over, provide an offhand comment about how slightly better than average they were, and the proceed along with her day, while undoubtedly serving as a high-water mark in the boy’s life. But things rarely turn out the way they are intended, especially at CHS.

The first few shots are, of course, of Photo and her friends. And they are good, in spite of the glares that gradually soften as time reverses itself. The white-haired girl finds herself smiling at the first picture of the bunch, where Featherweight managed to capture her in a state of surprise, wither her eyes half-lidded and slightly open mouth lending itself to a gentle, vacant expression that makes her toes begin to curl in her heels. The others photographs are similar, very natural and quite unlike the intense, model-focused shoots that Photo tends to gravitate towards. The sounds of a scuffle causes the bimbo to glance backwards, and see that her companions are still struggling to get Featherweight out of the tree.

Tutting her tongue again, Photo Finish minces back to the three of them and, after handing over the boy’s camera to Violet, reaches up and coaxes the boy down with a sly smile. “Shutterbug,” she purrs, giving him a look over the top of her sunglasses as she wraps her arms around his body, positioning her chest right below his face, “why don’t you relax your legs and let me promise you a wonderfully soft landing?”

Well, Featherweight doesn’t need to be told twice. Just like that, his knees release the branch, and he gets a face full of foreign funbags. Photo Finish staggers in her heels, but her friends are there to hold her up, and soon all four are properly righted, and comfortably on the ground once again.

“Thanks a lot, Ms. Finish,” the boy says with a cheeky grin. “I’d say that’s better than any advice I could ask for, because I have a whole lot to think about now.”

“You are such a clever boy,” the photographer chuckles, patting the slender boy on the cheek as she sizes him up. He’s obviously younger than her and even then his height is hardly even with some of the smaller girls in the junior program, coming up only to the lower slope of her breasts. That slender frame though, he knows how to use it to his advantage, getting into high places and capturing such a number of fine shots. He has potential, and would certainly be worth keeping around, even if he doesn’t quite measure up. Besides, he’s bound to grow into a fine specimen eventually, right?

“Shutterbug-”

“Featherweight.”

“Fine, Fezerweight,” Photo purrs, dragging a finger down the boy’s jawbone. The young photographer visibly shudders, drawing a smile to the girl’s lips. “You’re quite good with a camera; are you in a club?”

“I take pictures for the, uh, Foal Free Press.”

With a sigh, Photo Finish removes her finger from the boy’s cheek and waves it in front of his face. “The underclassman ‘zine? Zat is hardly more than a weekly flier; such a waste of your talent. I can think of many different places where your skills would be,” she pauses for effect, pursing her lips and dragging her thumb over his, “appreciated.”

“Is that so?” Featherweight says, putting on his bravest face despite the shivers running down his spine. “What, ah, what are you suggesting?”

“Like High Step is my masterpiece, I would like you to be mine Fezerweight, my little shutterbug.” Leaning down towards his face, her lips curl into a smile as she very nearly brushes their lips together. “You can keep working for your club, but I want you to be on-hand for my own projects. Are you interested?”

A small droning sound of shock comes out of the boy’s mouth, earning a giggle from the older girl. She returns to cradling his cheek, batting her eyes as she waits for an actual response. It finally comes, incredibly abruptly, “Yeah, sure.”

“Wunderbar,” Photo replies, not missing a beat as she plants a kiss on the tip of his nose, “then we will make the beautiful pictures together and shock ze world. Or at least CHS.”

Yes, that seems like a good place to start.

“Now,” she says with determination, clutching the boy tight to her hip and burying his face in her sideboob, “We go!”

And with that, the foursome charge off to find a new source of inspiration. Photographic adventures await.