A/N: I wanted to write some Bamon today but just didn't feel the inspiration to update any of my multi-chapter fics. The result is another one-shot BUT I've decided to split it into three short components.

P.S I have a serious teacher kink (secret confession whoops) but obviously disagree with anything underage etc hence why this is set in college/university and not a high-school. Enjoy!

"You know, you didn't have to go quiteeee so far for college, Bon."

She laughs at Caroline's tinny voice. "I'm living the English dream, Care. Don't take it away from me."

"Yeah, yeah, well you better come back with a sexy young Hugh Grant after all this."

Bonnie scans the lawn, "Not going to lie, the boy front is a little disappointing."

"Ugh. Typical."

She laughs again, "I miss you. You know, that right?"

"Naturally. Speak to you later?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

The call ends and like every time, Bonnie cringes in the swooping emptiness. She's in London and it's vibrant and beautiful and some days she feels so alive – meandering through art galleries, drinking cocktails along the river, pressing her fingers against centuries old stone – and some days she just wants to be at the Grill, sharing a plate of cheesy fries with Caroline and Elena. Bonnie pushes her mouth into a smile and glances at her phone, the laughing photo of the gang back in Virginia. Shit. She's late for Modernism.

After collecting the contents of her bag and throwing it over her shoulder, Bonnie begins a strange hybrid of running and walking, weaving her way through the crowds gathering outside the lecture hall. Room 1.05. She pauses at the door to catch her breath, then turns the handle.

The seminar room is small, intimate, and every head turns to disapprove at her tardiness. Bonnie swallows, manages a mumbled sorry, and slips into the nearest seat in the circle.

"Now our final member has been kind enough to join us, let's begin."

She looks up from unpacking her bag – a purple notebook and moth-eaten pencil case. The professor has his back to the class, a whiteboard marker in hand as he writes To the Lighthouse in slanted scrawl. He's American. Surprising.

Desk arranged; Bonnie takes the opportunity to inspect the rest of her classmates. They're mostly girls, all of them gazing at the back of the American professor in something she can only describe as lust. He's not particularly tall – in fact, his shoes appear to have a tiny heel. The detail makes Bonnie's mouth twitch. Whoever this dude is, he's over-compensating.

"Okayyyyy, To the Lighthouse. I hope you've all read it," he spins from the whiteboard with a smirk and oh, Bonnie sees it.

His shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing strong, tanned arms and his hair falls in two, perfect dark strands to frame an ice-blue stare, and wow, is she writing smutty fanfiction or is she trying to get an education?

"How about Miss Sorry-I'm-late?"

Bonnie finds her voice a beat too late. "Um, sorry, what was the question?"

The professor lets out a sigh and perches on the edge of the desk. His fingers flirt together on his lap – Bonnie steals her eyes away. "Have you read Virginia Woolf's masterpiece, To the Lighthouse?"

Did she read that? She vaguely remembers trying to wade through the slow-moving pages in the midst of a hang-over stupor. A wasted night really; she left the club two hours early.

"Yes, I did."

"Oh good," he pauses, his stare near undressing her, "I'm Professor Salvatore, by the way, but as you're all mature students, you can call me Damon."

There's something dangerously sarcastic in everything he says. An arrogance, definitely, which, evidenced by every girl's swelling stare and attention, is extremely attractive. Bonnie sinks back against her chair. And he knows it.

Damon picks up the book from his desk and turns it over in his hands – ringless, Bonnie observes. There's a breath and then he says, "Well," so suddenly, that the room jumps in a nervous titter. Damon lifts his brow.

He's got an audience and he's performing the hell out of it. Bonnie feels her eyes harden. Sexy or not, they're here to learn and this Professor Salvatore seems more interested in parading his sex-appeal to a bunch of thirsty twenty-somethings than unpicking the nuances of Woolf's narrative consciousness.

"You look unamused, Bonnie," his lips twitch in a playful smile, "It is Bonnie isn't it?"

"I'm just ready to learn," she tries for a smile in return, strained, "And yes, it's Bonnie."

The corners of his eyes fold, crinkling in quiet amusement. "Then learn we shall."

He begins with a discussion of what people made of the book. The other girls leap at the chance for his attention, monologuing about stream of consciousness and cadences and subtlety and isn't Mrs Ramsay an enigma? Bonnie resists the urge to roll her eyes at Damon's sitting position – stretched back against the chair, his hands playing with his hair. The girl talking stumbles over his words when he does that and his smirk is so infuriating Bonnie actually snorts. Shit. She tries to mask it with a cough and quickly drowns her embarrassment by taking a long dreg of water, all the while he's just watching her, brow raised, lip curled in a smirk.

"Anything to add, Bonnie?"

"No, I'm good," and, when Damon doesn't shift his gaze, she says, "Thank you."

"Enlightening. You know Bonnie, I think everyone should model their first paper on your answer. There's just… a lot to unpack there."

A couple of the girls' giggle and she blushes, mortified and furious. What. A. Dick.

At the turn of 5pm, her bag is already packed and she escapes the stuffy room before anyone else. Damon's immediately swarmed by students asking him questions about office hours and extra credit; she lets the door swing to a close.

Bonnie fumbles for her phone and clicks on Caroline's name. She picks up on the third ring.

"You okay, Bon?"

She speaks fast: "I just came out of my Modernism class and my professor is an actual dick."

There's a pause before Caroline chuckles, "Ah, the classic shitty English professor."

Bonnie finds a wall to lean against, pushing her foot in a figure of eight across the trodden carpet. "He's American actually and he's awful. Arrogant, belittling, you name it."

She can feel her friend's smirk. "He sounds hot." Bonnie doesn't say anything and Caroline squeals, "He's totally hot, isn't he!?"

"Fine, yes. He's stupidly attractive but his attitude ruins everything."

"Are you sure his attitude doesn't make everything?" Caroline teases and Bonnie groans.

"Caroline, we're meant to be empowering women. Arrogance shouldn't mean sexy."

"Oh, but it does, doesn't it? I think you have a crush on your professor." She sing-songs the last bit and Bonnie rolls her eyes.

"I do not."

"You've always been a terrible liar, Bonnie Bennett. Anyway, I've gotta go to work. Enjoy fantasising."

The line shuts off before she can protest. Damn you, Care. She turns from the wall and yelps. Damon's arms are folded, his mouth twisted in both anger and delight, and Bonnie's heart plummets like a stone to her stomach so fast she feels nauseous. Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.

He clears his throat. "I appreciate you finding me – what were your words exactly? – oh yes, stupidly attractive, but maybe calling your professor a dick after the first seminar isn't the smartest idea."

Bonnie fumbles for words, aware that her skin is reddening and there is no way out of this cavernous hole she's buried herself in. "I er- sorry – I just – you," she screws her eyes shut, "You weren't particularly nice."

Damon's brows are so far up his forehead he looks like a mime. "Are you serious?"

She nods, unsure where to look. There's a strong smell of pine emanating from his… neck? The redness intensifies.

"Word of advice, Bonnie, you don't get anywhere being nice."

And he walks away, shaking his head with laughter or irritation or both. Fuck.

A/N: Teeny-tiny chapter, I'm sorry! Follow for the next two chapters! I hope you like Professor! Damon as much as I do. *Heart eyes*