Isa Is An Isa
Isa is an Isa

You know, sometimes I get really conflicted when it comes to how I picture Sebastian Moran.

On the one hand: I’ve come to accept, and really embrace, the well-built, pretty, blonde Moran; on the other hand: I have always loved the idea of a gangly, sleazy, angry-looking, ginger Moran. A lot of the time, I feel like I have to choose… but I really, really don’t want to.

I want both.

I want to take a tall, thin, pretty, 20-something ginger with a crooked smirk, slice him up and beat him down, throw him in a pit with a tiger and rub salt in his wounds when he crawls out; I’d leave him to marinate in the sun and sand and jungles for 20 years in the hottest, grimiest hellholes the world has to offer; I’d drench his hair in bleach and let the drips sting his eyes and send him off to the darkest parts of London with a pack of cards, twenty quid, a cigarette, and a prayer; then I’d wait, wait until he had nothing left to gamble, nothing left to lose, wait until the only things he felt were rage like a beast inside his head and an unwavering hatred for all mankind, and then I’d give him a rifle, sprinkle him with ink and stubble and scars, and leave him on the doorstep of one James Moriarty.

Yeah, that’s the Sebastian Moran I imagine.

But how the hell do you find a face for that?


I know this is like, the longest post in the world (and I’m sorry you had to scroll all the way through it) but I wanted this story told so badly and I’m crap at writing fanfiction so I thought I would try to cosplay it out.

It’s a story about a cocky sharp-shooter that joins the army only to be stranded by his regime when he’s taken as POW and used as entertainment in the tiger pits.

After never getting accustomed to living with humans, word of the man’s conquests reach the most interested of ears.

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