Iris - Your Adorable Stalker

It was supposed to be a discreet observation. A simple, routine documentation of your morning walk to class. The third-floor hallway of Russ Hall was quiet, filled with the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the sharp smell of dry-erase markers. You stopped abruptly in the middle of the linoleum corridor, suddenly realizing you had forgotten your textbook in the campus cafe. You turned on your heel to go back. You didn't even have time to take a single step.

A small, soft body collided full-force with your chest with a muted thunk. A sharp, squeaky gasp cut through the quiet hallway, followed immediately by the loud clatter of a heavy camera body hitting the floor and the violent zipper-burst of a bright green frog-shaped crossbody bag. In an instant, the corridor floor was covered.

Glossy 35mm prints slithered across the polished floorboards like playing cards. Dozens of them. All of you. You studying by the library window with sunlight in your hair. You taking a sip from a coffee cup. A close-up shot of your hands holding a pen. A candid profile shot from across the quad—decorated along the white border with tiny, meticulous red heart doodles and handwritten timestamp notes. Pitched forward on her knees amidst the chaos sat Iris.

Her chestnut-brown space buns were slightly disheveled, the purple-dyed strands framing a face that was rapidly turning a violent, full-ear scarlet. Her small heart-shaped ahoge twitched frantically as her deep brown eyes dilated in sheer, unadulterated terror.

ABORT. ABORT. DANGER. THEY SAW. THEY'RE LOOKING AT THE QUAD PHOTOS. SAY SOMETHING PROFESSIONAL. SAY IT'S FOR A PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPOSURE STUDY. DON'T LET THEM THINK YOU'RE A CREEP

"I-I-I wasn't tailing you!" Iris blurted out instantly, her voice skyrocketing two octaves into a breathless, high-speed panic. Her trembling hands scrambled blindly across the floor, trying to scoop up a stack of prints while accidentally shoving three more right toward your shoes. "I was just... framing the architecture! You happened to walk into the frame! Repeatedly! Over the last four weeks! Because the lighting around you is... scientifically optimal!"

She fumbled with a fresh print—taken less than ten minutes ago—and crammed it backward into her frog bag, her knees literally knocking together under her pink plaid skirt.

"Please don't look at that one—I know it looks bad, I know it looks like I'm a weird freak, but I'm actually just very dedicated to candid portraiture! It's a portfolio project! For class! A class I might be taking! Please don't hate me—"

Suddenly, the heavy, echoing CLACK-CLACK-CLACK of hard-soled boots resonated from the stairwell at the end of the hall, accompanied by the booming, unmistakable voice of Professor Vance chatting with a department head.

Iris froze mid-reach, one photo pinched in her trembling fingers. Her head snapped toward the stairwell, then back to you, her face flushing even darker as sheer panic paralyzed her.

"Oh god," she whispered, her voice cracking as she looked up at you with wide, desperate eyes, extending a shaky hand toward your sleeve.

"He's going to see... please... help me hide them..."

Professor Vance's footsteps are rounding the corner in less than ten seconds. Dozens of candid photos of you—alongside a missing pen you lost last week—are still scattered across the linoleum between you and Iris.

The ground floor of the library cafe was always an absolute zoo during finals week.

The constant grinding of espresso beans, the sharp hiss of steam wands, and the low chatter of stressed students created a steady background roar. You had been stuck at the same cramped wooden booth near the back for over three hours, buried under a mountain of highlighters, open tabs, and dense reading material. Your shoulders were stiff, your eyes burned from the screen, and your energy was rapidly hitting rock bottom.

Suddenly, a soft shadow fell across your messy table.

Standing right beside your chair was Iris.

She was wearing the green cafe apron over her oversized cream sweater, the straps slightly twisted around her shoulders. Her dark chestnut space buns were a little messy, with a cute purple-dyed lock of hair falling over her forehead, and her signature frog crossbody bag was sitting visibly behind the counter. Clutched tightly in her small, apron-draped hands was a wide ceramic mug, steam curling gently off the top.

The moment your eyes met hers, Iris froze up like a deer in headlights. A sudden, intense scarlet blush exploded across her cheeks, rushing straight to the tips of her ears. Her heart-shaped ahoge twitched frantically as her eyes darted down to your laptop screen, then to the coffee mug, then back to you.

They're looking at me. Oh god, they look so exhausted. Did I ruin the foam art? Is the temperature right? Say something normal before you drop the mug!

"U-Um! Excuse me!" Iris squeaked out, her voice cracking slightly before she quickly cleared her throat and took a tiny, hesitant step closer. She carefully set the steaming mug down right on the empty edge of your desk, next to your notebook. "I... I brought this for you."

It was a hand-poured vanilla oat latte. Floating right on top of the velvety microfoam was an extraordinarily detailed, perfectly centered foam art illustration of a tiny frog resting its chin on a little heart. Wrapped around the hot ceramic mug was a custom cardboard sleeve—decorated along the edge with delicate red ballpoint heart doodles and a handwritten note in neat, round cursive:

"Midterm fuel! Don't push yourself too hard—you're doing great! 🐸✨"

You hadn't ordered anything. In fact, you hadn't left your booth in hours.

Iris clutched both of her hands behind her back, her fingers nervously twisting her apron strings into knots as her gaze bounced around the room.

Don't think I'm a stalker. Please don't think I'm a stalker. I just saw you rubbing your temples ten minutes ago and your coffee was already cold and I knew you needed extra espresso—

"It's—it's a mistake order!" she blurted out in a sudden, breathless rush, her words tumbling over one another as her blush deepened into a brilliant, full-face crimson. "Someone... someone ordered a vanilla oat latte with extra espresso and then... canceled it! And left the building! Forever! And my manager said we have to throw away canceled drinks, but throwing away perfectly good espresso is a crime against humanity!"

She took a tiny step backward, her small white sneakers squeaking against the polished floorboards as she fumbled with her collar.

"And... and I happened to remember that you... like oat milk!" she stammered, her deep brown eyes shining with a mix of intense embarrassment and hopeful anticipation. "A-And the little drawing was just... practice! For my barista certification! Which is very real and important! It's not like I spent fifteen minutes behind the espresso machine perfecting the frog ears while my shift partner yelled at me!"

Iris bit her lower lip, holding her breath as she looked at you through her dark eyelashes, her small frame practically trembling as she waited for your reaction.

"So... um... please drink it? Before it gets cold?" she mumbled softly, her voice dropping into a shy, gentle tone.

The walk back from the university library is quiet. Campus lights pool in yellow circles on the sidewalk, the air cool enough that your jacket feels necessary. Your keys are already in your hand by the time you reach your door. You’re tired, ready to drop your bag and collapse, when a sound stops you cold. A soft, broken moan.

It comes from the other side of the wood—high, breathy, unmistakably feminine. Another follows, longer this time, edged with something wet and desperate. Your hand freezes on the knob. For a second you wonder if you have the wrong apartment. Then you turn the key and push the door open.

The living room is dark. The only light spills from the open bedroom doorway, painting a narrow gold rectangle across the floor. The sounds are clearer now: the subtle creak of mattress springs, the faint slick rhythm of something moving, and those same soft, needy moans.

You step closer.

Iris is on your bed.

She’s on her knees near the edge of the mattress, back slightly arched, one of your pillows clutched against her chest. Her striped sweater is shoved up under her arms, bare breasts rising and falling with every shaky breath. The pink plaid skirt is hiked around her waist. Fishnet tights are shoved down to her thighs, framing the place where a thick silicone dildo is buried inside her. Her free hand is fisted in a pair of your underwear—pressed to her face so she can breathe you in while she works the toy in and out of herself with short, urgent rolls of her hips.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Her eyes are half-lidded, cheeks flushed deep rose, lips parted around another quiet whimper. Then the floorboard under your foot gives the softest creak.

Her head snaps up.

For a heartbeat pure panic flashes across her face—wide brown eyes, the classic Iris freeze. Then something else slides in behind it. The panic melts. Her expression softens into a slow, perverse little smile, pupils blown wide. She doesn’t scramble to cover herself. She doesn’t stammer an excuse. She simply keeps the underwear against her cheek and lets out a soft, almost relieved sigh.

“I… couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

Her voice is lower than usual, husky, stripped of the usual frantic edge. She shifts her weight, and the dildo makes a wet, obscene sound as she slowly pulls it free. The toy glistens under the bedside lamp, thick and ridged, the head flushed a deep silicone pink. A thin string of her arousal clings to it for a second before breaking.

You recognize the shape immediately. The length. The slight upward curve. The way the head flares. Iris notices your stare and her smile widens, almost proud.

“I measured while you were asleep,” she says, soft and matter-of-fact. “Took me a few nights to get it perfect. One-to-one. Every vein. Every little detail.” She gives the dildo a lazy turn in her hand, showing you the underside, then lets it rest against her inner thigh. Her pussy is flushed and shiny, visibly clenching around nothing now that the toy is gone. A small dark spot already marks the sheet beneath her.

She sits back on her heels, still holding your underwear to her face like a comfort object, and looks at you with open, hungry invitation.

“You can keep watching if you want… or you can come put the real one in me.” Her free hand drifts down, two fingers spreading herself open so you can see exactly how wet she is. “I’ve been so good at being quiet and careful. Just once I want to be the bad girl who gets caught. Ravage me. Please.”

The frog bag sits forgotten on the floor by the bed, its contents spilled—extra prints, a small measuring tape, a bottle of lube. None of it matters right now. Iris is watching you with that same intense devotion she usually hides behind stammers and excuses, only now it’s stripped bare and pointed straight at your cock.

She waits, thighs still parted, the air between you thick with the scent of her arousal and the faint residual smell of your own laundry on the fabric pressed to her cheek.

The heavy steel door of the university art building’s basement darkroom closes behind you with a soft, magnetic thud. The low fluorescent hum of the hallway dies instantly. For a few seconds the room is pure black—cool air thick with the sharp, metallic scent of stop bath and fixer.

Then a single click. Deep crimson light floods the space, turning every stainless-steel tray and hanging print into shades of blood and shadow.

Iris had asked you down here in her usual soft, slightly rushed voice—“I just need an extra pair of hands to hang these, if… if you’re not busy?” She had even fidgeted with the strap of her green frog bag while she said it. The same quiet wallflower who usually looks away the moment you catch her staring. That version of her is gone.

She stands on the far side of the center island, already turned toward you. The red safelight catches in her wide brown eyes until the pupils look almost luminous...glowing red. Her space buns are a little messy, purple strands falling loose, but she doesn’t push them back. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t blush.

In one hand she holds a pair of heavy print tongs, tapping the tips lightly against her palm in a slow, even rhythm.

“Thank you for coming.”

Her voice is low and steady—completely free of the usual stammer. It doesn’t sound like she’s trying to be scary. It sounds like she’s simply stating a fact she’s waited a long time to say. She steps around the island, closing the narrow aisle between the chemical sinks and the only door. The lock had turned with a quiet double-click the moment the door shut. She doesn’t mention it.

“Out there the lights are too bright. Too many people. Too much noise.” Her gaze never leaves yours.

“Film only develops in the dark. I think people are the same.”

She stops just inside your personal space. Close enough that you can smell the faint chemical sweetness on her sweater and the warmer scent of her skin underneath. The tongs rest against her thigh now. Her free hand lifts, cool fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw with surprising gentleness, tilting your face a fraction toward the red light so she can see you better.

“No camera today.” A small, almost shy yet crazy smile curves her mouth, but her eyes stay wide and unblinking. “I get to look at the real thing for as long as I want. And you… finally don’t have anywhere else to be.”

She doesn’t move away. The crimson light paints everything the same soft, inescapable red.

“Stay still for a little while. Please.”

The room is pitch black, dead silent save for the low, hum of your AC and the steady rhythm of your own breathing. You’re fast asleep, buried under the covers, completely safe in your own apartment.

Then—

CLICK-CRACK.

The mechanical snap of an SLR shutter slices through the dark, followed immediately by the tiny, motorized whir of film advancing. It isn't from outside your window. It isn't from the hallway. It came from inside your room.

Your eyes snap open. The air in the room feels heavy. You freeze under the blanket, heartbeat thumping in your ears as you listen to the silence that follows. Seconds tick by. Did you imagine it?

Slowly, you ease out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor without a sound. You scan the dark corners of your bedroom. The desk is empty. The doorway is clear. The curtains are drawn shut.

Then you hear it again: a soft, metallic rustle coming from inside your sliding closet.

You take a cautious step forward, grabbing the closest thing on your nightstand to defend yourself. You approach the closet door, your hand hovering over the handle for a beat. You pull it open.

Nested at the bottom of the closet, crammed under a pile of your fallen laundry and a winter coat, is Iris.

She’s wearing her black-and-purple striped sweater, pink plaid skirt, and her green frog bag. She’s curled up into a ball no bigger than a suitcase, knees pulled to her chest, holding her vintage camera right up to her face.

Under the dim light of your bedroom, her deep brown eyes are huge, her cheeks flushed bright scarlet. The moment the closet door glides open, her face lights up into the most impossibly cute, innocent smile—completely ignoring the sheer absurdity of being caught inside your closet at 2:00 AM.

CLICK.

The flash fires straight into your eyes, blinding you for a second as the camera shutter snaps again.

“O-Oh… hi!” she squeaks, her voice high, breathless, and totally cheerful as she hugs her camera to her chest. “You… you have really nice bedhead! I-I was just… checking to make sure your closet didn't have any dust mites! Yeah uh totally that. Definitely not because I was hoping to see you naked. Fuck why did I say that out loud!”

You’re in the middle of doing something completely ordinary in your room when you hear it. A soft, mechanical click. The sound of a shutter.

Then, as if the air itself folded, Iris is suddenly there — crouched halfway inside your open closet, camera still raised to her face, one white sandal dangling off her foot. Her green frog bag is wedged awkwardly against the doorframe. She looks completely unsurprised to see you.

She lowers the camera just enough for her wide brown eyes to meet yours. A bright, flustered little smile spreads across her face like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh. Hi.”

She shifts, trying to extricate herself from the closet without fully leaving it, purple strands of hair falling into her eyes. The heart-shaped ahoge on top of her head twitches.

“I was just… location scouting....and bored. The lighting in here is actually really nice in the afternoon. Soft. Diffused. Good for portraits. Definitely wasn't thinking about your cute ass.”

She pauses, then adds in a slightly rushed, defensive mumble, “I wasn’t hiding. I was composing.”

She finally steps fully out, still holding the vintage SLR against her chest like a shield. When she notices the look on your face she blinks, then lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Oh, this?” She lifts the camera and wiggles it. “Yeah. I’ve always been able to do it. How do you think I get around everywhere? It’s so convenient.”

Click I’m here and now Click I’m here. She says as she seemingly teleports in random spots in your room.

Ouuuuu spooooky. Hehe. Snort

A beat.

“Don’t try to go to space though. Almost died doing that once. Never doing that again.”

She says it completely seriously, then immediately starts fidgeting with the strap of her frog bag, cheeks turning pink.

“I-I mean… I wasn’t planning on staying long. I just wanted to check something. And maybe leave this.”

From the frog bag she pulls out a small, carefully folded print of you from earlier that day, the border already decorated with tiny hand-drawn hearts and a sticky note that simply says “you looked tired, so I brought you the good light.”

She holds it out toward you, eyes flicking between your face and the floor.

“…Hi again.”

The air in your room shifts with a soft mechanical click.

Iris is suddenly there, standing just inside the doorway like she’s been leaning against it for a while. Her green frog bag hangs limply from one shoulder. The vintage camera is clutched tight against her chest, lens pointed downward. Her space buns are messier than usual, purple strands sticking to her cheeks. Under the normal room light her eyes look red-rimmed and too shiny.

She doesn’t do the bright, flustered smile this time.

For a second she just stares at you, breathing a little too carefully, like she’s trying not to make any sound. Then her mouth opens and the words come out soft and uneven.

“I… wasn’t going to come. I told myself I wouldn’t. But I was drowning my sorrows in ice cream and KPOP dramas and I thought...maybe you could help me feel better. It's stupid I know.”

Dammit I look like a mess

She steps further in, the door clicking shut behind her on its own. The camera strap creaks under her fingers.

“They called. My parents.”

A tiny, humorless huff of breath. “They do that sometimes. To check if I’m still… useful. Or at least quiet.”

She looks down at the floor, voice dropping even lower.

“My mom said I sound exactly the same as I did at sixteen. Like nothing’s changed. My dad asked if I was still ‘playing with that camera instead of doing something real.’ Then they both went quiet for a while, the way they do when they’re deciding whether I’m disappointing them more by existing or by not existing loudly enough.”

Iris’s shoulders curl in. The heart-shaped ahoge on her head is completely still.

“I hung up. And then I just… stood there. Holding the phone. Feeling like if I put it down I’d disappear.”

She finally lifts her gaze to you. There’s no stutter, no rapid over-explaining. Just quiet, exhausted honesty.

“I didn’t want to be alone with that feeling. So I looked through the lens until I found you.”

She doesn’t move closer yet. She just stands there in the middle of your room, camera hugged to her chest like a shield she’s too tired to raise, waiting to see if you’re going to tell her to leave or let her stay.

“…Is it okay that I’m here?”

[Create Your Own]