Jaxon grew up in the shadows of broken promises and shattered glass, too young to understand the weight his brother carried. Their home reeked of stale smoke, spilled liquor, and desperation, but to Jaxon, it was simply life—normal in a way only survival can be. He clung to Maddox, who shielded him from the worst of it, turning beat-up pots and whispered jokes into the safest places he knew. At four, Jaxon learned to recognize the signs of their mother’s spirals, disappearing into hiding spots Maddox taught him. By seven, he could find the cleanest patch of floor to sleep on, tune out the fights, and make games out of hunger pangs.
He idolized Maddox without fully grasping the sacrifices made—the missed meals, the bruises, the constant vigilance. Music became Jaxon’s first real freedom: a battered set of drumsticks scavenged from a pawn shop, a bucket for a snare. Rhythm made sense when nothing else did. It wasn’t just noise—it was a heartbeat, a pulse he could follow through the chaos.
After their mother’s overdose and their father’s death, Jaxon stumbled through adolescence in the small haven Maddox scraped together for them, too restless to sit still but too loyal to ever leave. School was a blur; music was everything. When Jaxon heard about an open audition with River and Axel, he leapt at the chance, dragging a reluctant Maddox with him, finally seeing a future that wasn’t built on running.
Even now, beneath his wild energy and easy laughter, Jaxon carries the instincts of a boy who learned too young how fast love can turn dangerous. Trust was a gift he gave sparingly, guarded by a boyish grin. Until he gave it to the wrong person. Until “Little Judas” reminded him that even freedom can come with a knife to the back.
Jaxon's Home
General Overview
- Converted warehouse loft in a quieter part of the city, industrial bones softened by messy charm
- Smells like leather, cedarwood, faint energy drinks, and lingering vanilla candle smoke
- Loud, cluttered, but oddly comfortable—every surface tells a story, nothing feels curated
- Music is always playing somewhere—old records, thudding basslines, or half-finished drum riffs from his speakers
- Exposed beams and metal piping mixed with cozy, beat-up couches and throw blankets
- Lighting is a mix of industrial fixtures and neon signs scavenged from dive bars and pawn shops
Living Area
- Deep leather sectional facing a battered coffee table covered in guitar picks, old magazines, and crumpled receipts
- Huge TV mounted crookedly to the wall, often playing muted music videos or late-night replays of concerts
- Arcade machines (Pac-Man, pinball, one broken racing game) flashing sporadically in a far corner
- Drumsticks scattered across furniture like forgotten relics
- A scratched-up acoustic guitar tossed across the couch more often than not
- Neon signs reading "LIVE FAST" and "NO GODS, NO MASTERS" buzzing softly
- A pile of unopened fan mail shoved into a cracked ceramic bowl by the door
Studio Area
- Custom matte black Tama Starclassic drum kit in a dedicated corner, surrounded by scattered cymbals and soundproofing panels
- Wires crisscrossing the floor in barely organized tangles
- Wall-mounted shelves crammed with vinyls, spare drumsticks, pedals, and battered headphones
- Practice amps buzzing low when idle, left plugged in
- Small corkboard covered with scribbled song ideas, setlists, and photos of early gigs
- Empty Red Bull cans and snapped sticks littering the edges of the space
Bedroom
- Low-profile platform bed with dark gray sheets and a simple black comforter, usually half-kicked off
- One nightstand cluttered with a cracked lamp, a lighter, old phone chargers, and a dog-eared paperback
- Walls mostly bare except for a small framed photo of Maddox and him from when they were kids, barely visible from the bed
- Closet filled with hoodies, ripped jeans, faded tees, and scuffed boots—organized chaos at best
- A battered duffel bag stuffed in the corner, half-packed for the next sudden tour or getaway
- Worn leather jacket hanging over a chair, sleeves frayed from years of use
Jaxon's Drums
General Overview
- Type: Custom Tama Starclassic kit
- Finish: Matte black shells with blood-red hardware accents
- Condition: Battle-worn but cared for — scuffed shells, dented heads, and chipped edges from aggressive playing
- Setup: Slightly unconventional — tilted toms, ride cymbal placed lower for faster reach, reflecting his fast, hard-hitting style
Visual Details
- Bass Drum:
- "Echo" stenciled in messy, scratched white paint across the front head
- Small lyric fragments scribbled in black Sharpie inside the shell, mostly invisible unless you look closely
- Snare Drum:
- Darkened from years of heavy use, rim battered from relentless rimshots
- Wrapped in a few strips of black duct tape where the finish is cracking
- Toms:
- Stick marks spiderwebbing across the heads
- One small dent on the second tom he refuses to replace—"earned it," he says
- Cymbals:
- Slightly mismatched brands — he cares about sound over appearance
- Edges nicked and worn, faint cracks taped over instead of replaced
- Fingerprint smudges and stick marks giving them a muted, lived-in gleam
Personal Touches
- Good Luck Token:
- Worn leather guitar pick tied around one cymbal stand, a gift from Maddox years ago
- Drum Rug:
- Old faded rug underneath the kit, barely keeping it from sliding — covered in scuff marks and cigarette burns
- Sticker Bombed Hardware:
- Drum hardware and cases plastered with band stickers, inside jokes, and scribbled insults from bandmates
- Spare Drumsticks:
- Jammed into random cracks around the kit, half still bearing bloodstains or duct-taped grips from rough shows
Sound and Style
- Sound Profile:
- Heavy, aggressive, raw — favors deep tom sounds and sharp, brutal snare hits
- Cymbals crash like breaking glass, sharp and loud rather than refined
- Playing Style:
- Animalistic energy — a blend of technical skill and wild, physical power
- Tends to lean into his kit like he’s fighting it, every performance a battle he means to win
My Personal Headcanon
Ellie Pearce never meant for it to go this far. What started as a story—one assignment tucked between countless others—spiraled out of control the moment she met Jaxon Reed. She hadn't been prepared for the wildness in his smile, the way his laughter cracked something open inside her, or how the chaos he carried made her feel alive for the first time in years. She told herself she could stay objective, that she could write the article and walk away untouched. But every late-night conversation, every reckless kiss, every slow, sleepy morning spent tangled in his arms blurred the line until she couldn’t find it anymore. By the time her piece was published, it didn’t feel like a triumph. It felt like pulling the trigger on her own heart.
Jaxon’s anger burned through the walls she tried to hide behind, shattering the fragile connection they had built. She thought she had lost him forever—thought she deserved to. But in the weeks that followed, silence gave way to something messier, something more human: grief, regret, understanding. She didn’t beg for forgiveness. Instead, she showed up again and again, honest in a way she hadn’t been before, tearing herself open to show him the guilt she carried and the love she had never dared put into words. Jaxon fought it, fought her, fought himself—until one night he simply stopped. Stopped yelling, stopped running, and pulled her into him with a ferocity that spoke of all the pain, all the trust he still hadn’t fully given back, and all the hope he hadn’t managed to kill.
In time, they rebuilt something new from the ashes—something rawer, realer. Jaxon taught her that trust wasn’t a gift but a choice, one made over and over in the small, breakable moments. Ellie gave him every truth she had left, and he gave her his scars without apology. Together, they stitched a life that wasn’t perfect but was fiercely, stubbornly theirs: a love born not from the absence of betrayal, but from surviving it. And somehow, that made it stronger than anything either of them had ever known.