I never thought a single glance could rewrite my entire world. But that's exactly what happened the day I met Raven. Or, more accurately, the day she burned herself into my soul without even trying.
My name is Elliot, and up until that point, my life as a college sophomore was pretty straightforward. I was the guy everyone wanted a piece of—tall, broad-shouldered from years of casual gym sessions, with that messy dark hair and easy smile that apparently made girls melt. I'd lost count of the invitations to parties, the flirty texts, the not-so-subtle hints in class. But I friend-zoned them all. Every single one. It wasn't that I was playing hard to get; I just knew deep down I was waiting for something real. Someone who didn't just see the surface, who sparked that fire in my chest that no one else had. Until her.
It was a typical afternoon in Art History 101, the kind of class where half the room doodled on their notebooks while the professor droned on about Renaissance masters. I was slouched in my seat near the back, surrounded by my usual crew—Mia, the bubbly blonde who acted like my unofficial wingwoman, and a couple of other girls who laughed a little too hard at my jokes. We were killing time before the lecture wrapped, whispering about weekend plans.
Mia nudged me, her eyes lighting up with that gossipy gleam. "Look over there," she said, pointing discreetly to the far corner of the room. "That's the freak I was telling you about. Raven. No one even gets near her, except the bullies. She's gonna die a virgin, I swear."
I followed her gaze, and there she was. Raven. She was hunched over a canvas, her short, jet-black hair styled in this sharp, asymmetrical cut that framed her pale face like a raven's wings—edgy, almost defiant. Gothic style, I guessed, though I'd never given much thought to that scene before. She wore a black lace top that hugged her curves, the kind of outfit that screamed "stay away" to most people, but damn if it didn't accentuate her figure. Her breasts were full, straining against the fabric in a way that was impossible to ignore, even from across the room. But it wasn't just that—she had this intense focus as she sketched, her dark-lined eyes narrowed, black nail polish chipping slightly on the edges of her fingers. She looked like she belonged in some underground club, not this bland lecture hall.
The girls around me snickered, but I didn't join in. Something about it felt off. "Don't say things like that," I muttered, keeping my voice low. "I mean, yeah, it's freaky. But it's her choice."
Mia rolled her eyes, flipping her hair. "Forget about her, Elliot. Do you want to go to the party tonight? It's gonna be epic—kegs, music, and I heard Sarah's bringing her hot roommate."
Before I could answer, a commotion erupted near Raven's spot. A group of girls—led by Lexi, the queen bee with her peroxide-blonde hair and perpetual smirk—sauntered over. One of them "accidentally" kicked Raven's desk, sending it toppling. Ink pots, paint tubes, and brushes scattered across the floor in a chaotic splash of color against the dull linoleum.
Raven shot to her feet, her face flushing with anger. Her eyes—deep, stormy gray rimmed with thick black liner—flashed like lightning. She was shorter than I expected, maybe 5'4", but she carried herself with this quiet intensity that made her seem taller. Goth through and through: fishnet sleeves peeking out from her top, a silver ankh necklace dangling between her cleavage, and those combat boots that looked like they could stomp through anything.
"Be careful, freak," Lexi sneered, crossing her arms. "No one will come to save you. Not even the teachers."
The classroom went quiet, everyone watching. Raven stared her down for a long moment, her jaw clenched, but she didn't say a word. Instead, she knelt down and started gathering her things, her movements deliberate, like she was forcing herself not to explode. The bullies laughed, high-fiving each other as they walked away.
Something snapped in me. I stood up and clapped slowly, drawing all eyes. "That's very brave of you, Lexi. Four versus one. Very brave, very mature."
Lexi whipped around, her smirk turning predatory. She eyed me up and down, licking her lips in that over-the-top way she thought was sexy. "Shut up, Elliot. If you want to see how brave I can be, come with me to the back of the canteen." She flicked her tongue suggestively.
The room erupted in "Oooooohs," like we were back in high school.
I shook my head, not even tempted. "No thank you."
Ignoring the stares, I grabbed my water bottle and handkerchief from my bag and walked over to Raven. She was on her knees, scrubbing at a ink stain with her sleeve. I knelt down beside her, wetting the cloth and starting to wipe up the mess. The colors smeared under my hands—blacks and reds bleeding into the floor like some abstract painting.
Raven didn't look at me. "Leave me alone. I can do it by myself."
Someone from the back shouted, "Your pity's wasted on that bitch!"
I ignored them, focusing on her. Up close, she smelled like vanilla and something darker, like incense. Her breasts rose and fell with her frustrated breaths, the lace of her top dipping low enough to tease, but I forced my eyes up. This wasn't about that. "I know you can," I said softly. "I'm just helping you."
She paused, her hands freezing mid-reach for a brush. "First your friends make this mess, then you come to show pity toward me. Look, the most handsome guy in the class has pity for the freak!"
Her voice was low, edged with sarcasm, but there was a vulnerability under it—like a shield she wasn't quite ready to drop. I could tell she was used to this, the isolation, the labels. Goth girls like her, from what little I knew, were often misunderstood: introspective, creative souls who found beauty in the shadows, with a dark humor that masked deeper emotions. Raven fit that perfectly—quiet confidence mixed with cynicism, like she expected the world to disappoint her but dared it to try anyway.
"Hey, slow down," I replied, keeping my tone even. "What my friends do doesn't define me. And what I'm doing here isn't pity or kindness out of obligation. I don't care about your interests or your style. I saw you needed help, and that's why I'm here—to help a person. There's a fine difference between showing pity and helping someone in need. To me, you're not a freak like my friends say. You're just a person. If I can help a person who's in need, I'll do it regardless of their interests or nature."
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me then. Really looked. Her gray eyes met mine, and for that split second, the world stopped. There was surprise there, maybe a flicker of something softer—gratitude? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it hit me like a freight train. My heart pounded, heat rushing through me in a way I'd never felt. Obsession? Yeah, that's what it was. Instant, burning obsession. I wanted to know everything about her—the way her mind worked, the stories behind her sketches, what made her laugh in that dark, wry way I imagined she did. And god, her body... those full breasts, the curve of her hips in those tight black jeans... but it was more than that. She was a mystery, a challenge, and I was hooked.
She broke the gaze first, looking away as she gathered the last of her things. Without another word, she stood and left the room, her boots echoing down the hall.
I stayed there on the floor like a statue, the wet handkerchief dripping in my hand. My mind raced with images of her— that stare, her pale skin, the way her lips parted slightly in surprise. I was done waiting for "the one." She'd just walked out the door.
Mia's voice cut through the haze. "Seriously, Elliot? Her?"
I didn't answer. But inside, I knew: Yeah. Her.
I tried to talk to her after that. Every fucking day.
Caught her in the hallway the next morning: "Hey, Raven—"
She walked straight past me like I was air.
Tried again outside the library: "About yesterday, I just wanted to—"
Cold shoulder. Earbuds in, eyes forward.
Cornered her by the dead oak tree on Thursday: "Can we talk for two seconds?"
She looked me dead in the eye, said, "No," and kept sketching.
The next two weeks I turned full stalker.
Library at four, mythology section, sketching monsters that looked like heartbreak.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, behind the art building, feeding stray cats with soft fingers and a voice that made my cock twitch.
Under the dead oak tree, wind flipping her skirt just enough to flash black lace panties and pale thighs.
Every night I locked my dorm door, lights off, hand wrapped around my cock, picturing her on her knees in that spilled ink.
Imagined dragging that silver lip ring down my shaft.
Imagined her black lipstick smeared around the base while she choked and drooled and looked up at me with those storm eyes.
Imagined her swallowing every drop while I groaned her name like a prayer.
Raven.
Raven.
Raven.
I came so hard some nights I saw stars.
She could give me the cold shoulder all she wanted.
I was already stained black.
I just hadn't touched her yet.
But I was going to.
And when I did, I wasn't ever letting go.