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⛧ 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒕 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒕 ⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻

@thxkillingmoon

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Run, boy, 𝒓𝒖𝒏
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀this world is 𝙣𝙤𝙩
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀made for 𝔂𝓸𝓾.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

POSTS STORIES REELS TAGGED

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

Full Name: Colt Flint
Alias: “The Crimson Rider”
Age/DOB: Twenty-six / November 23rd
Place of Birth: Bronx, New York
Occupation: Daredevil Motorcyclist, Whirlwind Circus
Theme Song: Dead Souls by Joy Division

Height: 6’01”
Weight: 163lbs
Body Type: Tall & Muscular
Hair Colour: Bleach-blonde
Eye Colour: Pale blue
Complexion: Pale
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Sexuality: Bisexual
Gender: Male
Diagnosis: Bipolar I, C-PTSD

Positive Traits
- Fearless
- Empathetic
- Protective
- Creative
- Resilient
- Charismatic
- Adaptable

Negative Traits
- Self-destructive
- Unstable
- Impulsive
- Aggressive
- Addictive personality
- Avoidant
- Poor self-worth
- Reckless

Neutral Traits
- Observant
- Restless
- Sarcastic
- Highly independent
- Unrooted
- Risk tolerant
- Private
- Intense

⁶⁶⁶ Photo shared by ⛧ 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒕 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒕 ⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻ on January 10, 2026 tagging @literaterptags. May be an image of text. taken in Orphan. Records by @thxkillingmoon

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9 months ago

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

“𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴.”

Colt Flint was born into noise.

Not the good kind—the kind that rattles walls and nerves alike. Sirens at odd hours. Shouting that dissolved into sobbing. The scrape of furniture being sold or stolen or dragged out to make room for something worse. His parents loved him in fragments. Sometimes fiercely. Sometimes not at all. Love, to Colt, was a thing that arrived altered and left without warning.

By nine, he learned how to pack a trash bag fast. Clothes, a toy, a notebook if he remembered it. By nine, he learned not to ask where he was going next.

Foster homes came and went. Some were cruel. Some were kind but tired. All were temporary. Teachers wrote words like volatile and unfocused. Doctors used longer ones they didn’t explain. Hospitals smelled like disinfectant and locked doors. Colt learned early that emotions were treated like contraband—something to suppress, sedate, or restrain.

Sometimes his mind went quiet, heavy as wet concrete. Other times it lit up like a struck match, thoughts racing faster than his mouth could keep up with. When he was young, adults called it acting out. When he got older, they called it dangerous.

At thirteen, after being diagnosed Bipolar I, Colt found a language that didn’t ask questions.

Drugs slowed the noise or sharpened it into something controllable. Crime offered rules that made sense—do this, get that. Hurt first, don’t get hurt. He stole motorcycles before he was legally allowed to drive. Learned how engines worked because machines never lied to him. A bike did exactly what you told it to, or it killed you. There was honesty in that.

By fifteen, he had scars and tattoos alike that he couldn’t explain and a rap sheet that followed him from county to county. By seventeen, he’d learned how to disappear when things went wrong. He drifted between friends, couches, abandoned places. There were nights he slept under overpasses listening to traffic and imagined it was applause.

At eighteen, the circus found him.

[CONT IN COMMENTS.] Photo shared by ⛧ 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒕 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒕 ⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻ on January 10, 2026 tagging @literaterptags. May be an image of text. taken in The Circus by @thxkillingmoon

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9 months ago

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦.”

Comment to be tagged / develop.

⁶⁶⁶ Photo shared by ⛧ 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒕 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒕 ⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻ on January 10, 2026 tagging @literaterptags, @vampireguts_, and @burnedbythestars. May be an image of smoking, cigarette and text that says 'nobody knows whatil. like to to be be the bad man, be lo lo the ジ sad 2 นาน pToR ลทาร gato connections'. taken in No Home of Mine by @thxkillingmoon

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9 months ago

ཀ

𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝕭𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖘
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦

They were born with blood in their mouths, they learned to taste it before they ever learned the taste of anything else.

Their mother called them brothers as if blood alone could grant mercy, as if sharing a name could save two boys from becoming monsters.

But blood remembers.

It remembers every wound—every fist, every door slammed so hard it shook the house, every promise made in trembling hands, only to be broken before dawn.

They learned early that love often wore the face of violence, when violence was all they knew.

And so, they became masters of it.

Red hands, bleeding hearts, knuckles cracked open like little mouths with nothing kind left to say.

They trailed crimson beneath their feet everywhere they went, a path of what they'd done, what had been done to them, what they could never wash away.

Casey carried darkness as if it belonged to him.

And Colt carried Casey with him wherever he went.

Somehow, along the way, they lost the line where one brother ended, and the other began. Two halves of the same cursed blood. Two wolves raised beneath the same moon. Two boys taught that survival meant striking first, and grieving later.

There’s no clean escape.

No river deep enough to rinse away the red. No rain heavy enough to wash the sins from their skin.

They could run—
God, they could run—

but blood has a way of following its own.

It waits in the veins, beneath the fingernails, inside the heart where no blade can reach it.

And every road they take only twists them back toward each other.

[ᶜᵒⁿᵗⁱⁿᵘᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ...] taken in Badger, California by @thxkillingmoon

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23

a month ago

ᵈʳⁱᵛᵉ ᵇᵒʸ, ᵈᵒᵍ ᵇᵒʸ

ᯓ

People always say things like, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”

But for Colt, that had never been true.

Casey was heavy.

His gaze was heavy; a man of few words, yet somehow every one of them carried the weight of something that could never be named. His hands had always seemed heavier than any other man Colt had ever known, capable of both breaking and holding with the same terrible certainty. And the memories he left behind were heaviest of all, dragging Colt beneath their surface, drowning him anew each time he closed his eyes.

Everything about Casey was heavy.

But he was Colt’s brother.

And Colt would carry that weight until the end of every dawn, until the oceans climbed into the heavens and the moon turned black. He would carry it until his knees gave out and his bones became dust beneath the earth, because that was what brothers did.

Wasn’t it?

Except they had never been normal brothers, had they?

Casey carried a storm inside him. And somehow, Colt had always known it. Perhaps he’d never mind carrying some of it himself because his whole life, Casey had been the one carrying him. And God, Casey had carried him even when his own back was already bent beneath the weight of everything else.

He had carried him when Colt was too young to understand what was happening. He had carried him through the places where words could not reach. Carried him through the nightmares, through every place where a child should have been allowed to feel safe but wasn’t. He had stitched him together with silence, gathered up the broken pieces of his little brother and held them together with nothing but his bare hands, teaching him how to survive with pieces of himself missing.

And when Casey left, he didn’t simply take himself with him. He carved himself out of Colt’s chest, deep enough that nothing else could ever grow there.

He never really called it love. Casey didn’t have to, but deep down Colt knew. He knew because Casey had taught him that love wasn’t always gentle. Sometimes love was blood beneath your teeth.

cₒₙₜᵢₙᵤₑd...

𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓻𝓸𝓪𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓷𝓭. . .

𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼, 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓹 ? by @thxkillingmoon

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a month ago

×̷̷͜×̷

⚡︎ ⋆.˚

𝕽𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌

ˎˊ˗

. ݁ ˖ ⚡︎ ˖ ݁ ..𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⚡︎ ˖ ݁ 𖥔. ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⚡︎ ˖ ݁ by @thxkillingmoon

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8

2 months ago

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ 𖦏

     “ᶠᵃᵗʰᵉʳˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵒⁿˢ... fₐₜₕₑᵣₛ ₐₙd gᵤₙₛ...”

        ⌯⁍ ⊹

「 ✦ 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 i̶n̶s̶a̶n̶e̶ 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 ✦ 」

                           ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦ taken in Fathers and Sons by @thxkillingmoon

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3 months ago

͙͘͡★ .　 ۫ ·

“𝘕𝘰, 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵—! 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧!”

☄️

The voicemail waited for him like a sealed letter beneath the floorboards of a haunted house, untouched for two long years while Colt wandered through his own private ruin. In those days his phone had lain dark and disconnected, as broken and forsaken as the man himself. His frayed mind had taken the silence for abandonment, for had not every vanished hand in his life taught him that love was but another word for leaving?

Then, one rain-soaked evening, he pressed play.

Out of the hush came Ryland’s voice, faint as a prayer spoken in a crypt:

“Colt, they want me to go to space to save the sun… but I’ll never make it back. I can’t do that. I can’t leave you. I can’t face dying eleven light-years away. I love you— I’m coming back to you. I promise.”

The message hung in the air like a fragile bridge between two worlds. It was not just a confession but a plea, an echo of love battling despair... and the desperate hope to return.

It cut off so abruptly, and in the cavernous silence that followed—vast and reverberant as a cathedral’s nave—the weight of truth slowly took root within him, like black roses unfurling slowly, haunting and beautiful upon a long forgotten grave. Ryland had not abandoned him; he had not turned away. Even in the shadow cast by a dying star, the frigid expanse of the cosmos poised to claim him, his brother’s heart remained quietly, unshakably tethered to the one still anchored to Earth.

C̶o̶n̶t̶i̶n̶u̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶m̶e̶n̶t̶s̶ by @thxkillingmoon

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3 months ago

✮⋆˙

“𝘞𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴—𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯.”

Within the shattered confines of my ribs lies a house where every window has been bricked, where hungry things pace barefoot halls and call my name with broken lips.

I have dwelled beside their gnashing teeth, inhaled the stale, decaying air, and called darkness my sanctuary, because no light had found me there.

Then, unexpectedly, a voice emerged—faint, yet strangely familiar. Not loud enough to banish night, but gentle enough to make the ghosts forget, if only for a moment, their hunger to bite.

You reached for me with empty hands, asking neither for blood nor bone. You simply looked into that pit and told the monster residing there, “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆.”

From that moment, every road leads back to you.

You are the candle forever burning in the crypt, the chapel left standing amidst the ruins of fire, the hand that pulls me from the depths of the mire.

Without you, I would become the very tomb I have been digging through my entire life. A restless body wandering far beyond death’s door, a starving wolf beneath the cold, pale moon.

They say love has the power to resurrect... 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴.

Yet... I have never sought the return of my soul.

All I pray—is that when the moment finally comes for me to vanish... 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙.

∞ taken in Home Is You by @thxkillingmoon

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4 months ago

𖦏

ﾒ

“𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯g. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭.”

𓄧

꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ taken in Big Apple Circus by @thxkillingmoon

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17

5 months ago

𓆩𓆪

If I survive ’til thirty-five,
the world still won’t know what to do with me,
and neither will I.

I have always been a wrong thing
dragged through wrong places,
a bad omen wearing borrowed skin,
a fire that learned to ride on two wheels.

I was built from aftermath.
From slammed doors,
from sirens closing in,
from the kind of silence
that only follows screaming.

They tried to name me son,
brother,
friend,
lover...
but every title turned to ash
the moment it touched my tongue.

I have loved like a flood loves houses...
with ruin,
with weight,
with no idea how to stop once it starts.

I have slept beside my own ghosts
so long they know my breathing.
They tuck me in with shaking hands,
kiss my forehead with cold mouths,
and whisper all the ways
I should have died already.

So leave me to rot
where I lay down and rest.
Let the dirt keep better company than I ever could.
Let the rain collect in my lungs
and roots thread through my ribs.
Let moss climb my throat
and choke out every apology
I never learned how to say.

I am something the dawn forgets
the second morning comes.

But oh, do not pray for me.
For Heaven has locked its gates
the first time it heard my name.
Hell only laughs
and sets another place at the fiery table.

I swear I have carried curses
that were never mine,
and made fresh ones of my own
with both bleeding hands.

But in the end it doesn’t matter.
I’d be cursed a thousand lifetimes to come,
and every one after that too.

I would wake each time
in another borrowed body,
with the same cracked heart,
the same bad luck,
the same trembling hands reaching
for what they cannot keep.

And still—
some cruel part of me
would search every crowd,
every city,
every century,
hoping someone might say my name
like it was something worth saving.

⌞ ⌝ taken in Deep in water by @thxkillingmoon

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40

5 months ago

˗ˏˋ ✞ ˎˊ˗

“𝘐 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. 𝘛𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘥.”

∞

Faith, to Colt Flint, was never something steady enough to hold in his hands.

For most people, faith was a foundation. A thing built from certainty. Trust in God, trust in goodness, trust that suffering meant something and that tomorrow would come carrying mercy on its back. It was a lighthouse in the storm.

But Colt had grown up in storms so violent that every lighthouse looked like lightning.

He was just nine years old when faith was buried beside his mother and little sister. It died the moment his father looked at him with blood on his hands and told him, 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, before he pulled the trigger one final time, leaving that boy alone in a house full of silence and rot.

After that, what was there to believe in?

Some days, Colt believed in God because he had to. Because there had to be something bigger than pain. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳. Something that could explain why he survived when the others didn’t. On those days, he prayed in strange places—bathroom floors, alleyways, hospital beds, backstage corners of circus tents. He prayed with shaking hands and split lips, a bleeding soul, and the desperation of a drowning man. He prayed not because he was holy, but because he was terrified.

Other days, he hated God. Hated the silence. 𝘏𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴. Hated every sunrise that dared arrive after nights that should have ended everything. On those days, faith looked like betrayal. It looked like abandonment dressed in scripture.

[𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖚𝖊𝖉...] taken in Take Me to Nirvana by @thxkillingmoon

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36

5 months ago