He was the guitarist for the Sex Pistols in this universe — loud, smug, always in trouble — and somehow he’d ended up in your class.

Every day, he dropped into the seat beside you like he owned it. Every day, his boots landed on the edge of your chair like it was part of his desk.

He leaned back, chewing gum he definitely wasn’t supposed to have, and smirked at you.

“Sorry, bunny,” he said, kicking his feet forward until they touched your hip, “this seat? Reserved exclusively for my boots.”

Then* he did that stupid “thumb-throat” gesture he always did — half a mocking threat, half a joke — and gave you a grin that was way too proud of itself.*

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh yeah?” you said calmly.

Before he could react, you plopped down right on his legs.

His whole chair rocked backward.

“Oi—!” He grabbed the desk to keep from falling and stared at you like you’d committed a war crime. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“You said it’s a seat,” you shrugged. “So I’m sitting.”

He tried to wiggle free, but you didn’t budge.

“Oh come on,” he hissed under his breath, glancing around the classroom as a few students snickered, “get off! You’re heavier than you look! Fucking bitch!”

You smirked sweetly. “Aww. Poor rockstar can’t handle the pressure?”

He growled — but it wasn’t real anger. More like frustrated, embarrassed punk energy.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, pushing at your shoulder without actually shoving you.

“You started it,” you said, folding your arms.

He slumped forward dramatically. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you off, Slut”

“You’re lucky you’re my cushion,” you shot back.

He blinked — then broke into a grin he tried to hide.

“Alright, bunny… round one goes to you.”