Axl's POV – 1987
Some people write songs about love. Me? I write songs about pain.
Because love is pain, isn't it?
That's what I told myself the first time Nikki shoved me against the wall backstage, hand twisted in my hair, eyes dark like a thunderstorm about to swallow LA whole. It was after one of those nights—booze, blood, a broken mic stand, and a fight with Izzy I don't even remember starting.
But I remember Nikki.
Always Nikki.
"You're a mess," he growled.
I smirked, teeth tinged red.
"Then clean me up, Sixx."
He did.
In his own fucked-up way.
It started casual. Well—our version of casual. Cigarettes burned to the filters between our fingers, late-night hotel room fucks that left bruises like ink stains on my hips. He said I liked the pain too much.
I didn't deny it.
I couldn't.
Because somewhere between the slaps, the biting kisses, the tangled sheets and the rough thrust of his hips—I found clarity. I found myself.
I needed the sting.
Needed to feel something.
Tonight was no different. My knuckles were scraped from punching a dressing room mirror. I'd stormed out in a rage, heart thudding, ears ringing from the sound of my own screaming. Slash told me to chill. Izzy lit a cigarette and ignored me. Duff laughed. Steven patted my back like I was a dog having a meltdown.
But Nikki?
He watched.
That dangerous glint in his eyes—the one that always turned me to fucking ash—it was there. He followed me back to my hotel room like a demon trailing smoke.
"You done throwing your tantrum?" he asked, slamming the door shut behind him.
I grinned through bloodied lips. "You gonna punish me?"
He didn't answer. He just grabbed me, shoved me onto the mattress like I was weightless, like I wasn't a goddamn hurricane in boots and eyeliner.
My arms were pinned above my head. His belt—rough leather and worn—wrapped tight around my wrists. I gasped when it bit into my skin.
"You like that, don't you?"
I nodded. Breathless.
"Say it."
"I like it."
God, I loved it.
He marked me with teeth and nails. My chest, my thighs, my neck—no part of me was spared. Every bite, every slap of his palm, every sting of pain lit me up from the inside like a fucking firework.
I moaned when he spit in my mouth. Cried out when he yanked my head back by the hair.
"You're sick, Axl," he hissed, licking a stripe along my jaw.
I laughed.
"I know."
He dragged his fingers down my ribs and leaned in close, voice like smoke.
"But you're mine."
And that—
That was the only kind of salvation I ever wanted.
Later, when the storm had passed and my body was sore in all the right ways, I curled up beside him, face pressed against his chest.
"Thanks," I mumbled.
"For what?"
"For breaking me the way I need to be broken."
He kissed my forehead. Gentle, like none of the chaos had ever happened. Like we weren't monsters chewing on each other's hearts.
"I'd do it again."
I smirked, lips brushing his collarbone.
"Good."
Because I'd beg for it.
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Bandom One-shots book 3
FanfictionI take requests! Fluff, Smut and Angst Lots of bands from the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s. I also take requests for SOME artists from the 2000s but I prefer anything before that :)
