#Colonel Brandon

[perioddramamen]

ALAN RICKMAN as Colonel Brandon SENSE & SENSIBILITY (1995) dir. Ang Lee

[dirbenaffleck]

ALAN RICKMAN as COL. BRANDON Sense and Sensibility ‧1995 ‧ Dir. Ang Lee

[didanagy]

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY (1995)

dir. ang lee

[smilingformoney]

Alan Rickman + IMDb trivia

[neick-hitlz]

study Alan Rickman's (my husband) face for my soul ! ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ

[firawren]

Sense and Sensibility 1995 text posts

[jaeausten]

A good match, for he is rich and she is handsome.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

"We need more male-female platonic friendships" y'all couldn't even handle Elinor and colonel Brandon

[hotjaneaustenmenpoll]

Third Place Poll

Propaganda...

Colonel Brandon (1995):

Alan Rickman has the sexiest voice. Just listen to him reading poetry to Marianne at the end to witness how hot he is.

Alan Rickman simply embodies the truth of Col. Brandon in a way that no one else every could. It's the perfect merging of actor and role. He brings the perfect combination of honor, decency, sensitivity and passion. He is the ultimate mensch.

Brandon propaganda in which even the film's director agrees that Brandon is sexy.

More Brandon propaganda! This photo could only be published in black and white because it would have been too powerful in color (the original color version is currently being used to provide electricity for a medium sized town in Devon. It's THAT powerful).

The brim of the hat falling over his eye. The casual lean. The hunting rifle slung across his leg. The puppy bestie. The fact you know he could row that boat while you watch and wish you were the boat.

From Emma Thompson's diaries which she kept while they were shooting Sense & Sensibility. Emma Thompson said vote Colonel Brandon.

The man has just heard her sing for a minute and he’s positively awestruck!

also adding his adorable adorable smile just bc i can.

Mr Knightley (2009):

Johnny Lee Miller as Knightley is JUST SO. I mean the way he says "if I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more" IS JUUUST. The dance scene. The tentative shy smiles. The fact you can see in his eyes the entire time " I am completely in love with this woman. She'll never love me back BUT I DO NOT CARE I'LL LOVE HER FROM A DISTANCE ANYWAY" IS JUUUUUUST

We need to appreciate Mr Knightley more for both his snark and for those soft eyes just so full of love for Emma

GIF by dearemma

I was just going to send in the actual dance but the little panic he has when Emma says she knows his secret is just soo charming. There was some thread on twitter a few years ago about how a romcom man's most important quality is knowing how to look at a woman and JLM is just the master of it in this Emma

I really feel like the pictures say it all. He stands there, head tilted to one side. He is listening to you. His posture is relaxed. His gaze open, frank, candid. He's not trying at all. He just is.And that's why he is Knightley.

GIF by night-unfurls-its-splendour

Some propaganda, not just for Jonny Lee Miller, but the general interpretation of 09 Knightley. I have some excerpts here from my review of the 09 adaptation:

What I really think is great about the 2009 interpretation of Mr. Knightley is what an easy and comforting presence he is, without being apologetic when he scolds Emma. I think this is communicated especially well by how often we are actually shown Mr. Knightley taking his almost-daily walks to Hartfield, how smoothly he comes and goes, and how happy Emma is every time she sees him coming up the path (usually, just at the perfect moment when she needs something to put her back to rights.)

64.media.tumblr.com

Here is Emma, feeling lonely after Miss Taylor's wedding. And in the background, walking up to Hartfield--there's Knightley. He's always been there for her, and he always will be.

And also this Mr. Knightley is as understated as ever, but I wanna highlight this outfit and why I love it: This is Knightley’s first appearance in the series and it’s the perfect establishing shot that shows the viewer everything they need to know about Emma and Knightley’s relationship and how it has always been. He sort of materializes, out of focus in the background, but Emma immediately knows he’s there. And to accentuate how much Knightley is part of her home and scenery, his clothes (similar shades of pale tan, white and minty green to the wall behind him) almost camouflage him and make him seem at one with the moulding of her home.

Additionally, Jonny Lee Miller captures Knightley’s playful qualities, and his exasperation is so endearing

GIF by christophernolan

GIF by sashajames

GIF by christophernolan

I can’t be the only one tickled by this Knightley’s frustration with Emma! JLM FTW!

Jonny Lee Miller is mesmerizing in any role he inhabits. It’s 2009 Knightly all the way.

no but can you actually go vote for mr knightley he was FOUNDATIONAL for 16 year old me my favourite portrayal of my favourite austen man cannot fall at this hurdle!!!

He is my ultimate Austen Dream Man, I'm with him until the end. Honestly this adaptation is my very favorite of them all (P&P 1995 is a VERY close second) because it made me fall in love with Emma as a story? Honestly no other adaptation or indeed even my reading of the book made me love it quite as much. My crush on JLM goes back to 1995 and I do think he is one of the better actors of his generation - his range alone is just impeccable. The fact that he can go from Sick Boy to Mr. Knightley to Sherlock to Jordan Chase is really something. Of all the actors I know, his range is the most impressive. But i love how bright and sunny this adaptation is. The colors, it is as vibrant as Emma should be! The Kate Beckinsale Emma is dark and terrifying to me, not at all suitable an adaptation. I like the Paltrow Emma a lot, but it's got the same issue the 2005 P&P has for me -- it's just too short. This is tonally just right, and the casting is lovely, and JLM is just at his dashing best. His face is so expressive, he is so capable of communicating so much without saying a word. His open jealousy of Frank Churchill is delightful to watch. His face when Emma tells him his secret is out at the ball! JLM is maybe the most underrated actor of his generation and I LOVE that he has been multiple Austen heroes. I maintain that in a future adaptation of Pride & Prejudice, an older JLM would make an EXCELLENT Mr. Bennet. He would convey the right amount of grumpy but fond beautifully.

Look. Do people realize JLM hates wearing period clothing AND hates dancing? And yet in Emma he's sashaying around in pink jackets looking amazing and is THAT convincing? That's called BRILLIANT ACTING!!

A tiny bit of Mr Knightley 2009 propaganda but I love that they put in that bit from the book where he looks like he's going to kiss Emma's hand when he's saying goodbye but then he hesitates and doesn't and I just...it's such a tiny detail but conveys so much!

GIF by myforeverworldofmovie

It’s the only Emma adaptation that really hits the romance notes well. Knightley’s crowning moment of awesome really feels like it (when he rescues Harriet from humiliation) and his subsequent dancing with Emma does make you feel a shift in their relations. Love this adaptation. - This Knightley and Emma in particular are equals. They quarrel, not because he’s telling her off, but because they can have an argument because they know each other, trust each other and care about each others opinions, and there is never a sense of domination of one over the other. This adds so much fire to the romance, and it’s so unusual for a romance of that era (or even one written today!!). - Emma is rich, clever and beautiful and as powerful as a woman of her age and situation could be at the time and she married Knightley for no other reason but because he’s her best friend and his company for the rest of her life will enrich her. - He even leaves his house to move in with her!

GIF by elinordash

[dirbenaffleck]

Sense and Sensibility 1995 ‧ Dir. Ang Lee

[didanagy]

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY (1995)

dir. ang lee

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: The Pages You Fell Through

Summary: A soldier with no place left to call home. A book that never let go. And a world that shouldn’t exist, until you fall right through its pages.

Author's note: Hey dear readers, I can’t believe I’m finally sharing this, my very first story featuring Colonel Brandon (yes, the Colonel Brandon 🥺💐). He’s always been my favourite, and I’ve always felt he deserved more love than he ever got, especially more than Marianne ever gave him, let’s be honest. So let me know what you think, and hope you guys enjoy reading it.

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

===============================================

The rain had stopped sometime in the early morning, leaving the air damp and heavy with the scent of old stone and rose bushes. Inside the Carrington manor, the silence was so precise it felt staged—an unspoken ritual of control, all sharp corners and polished judgment. Even the wallpaper seemed to stare.

You sat motionless in your childhood bedroom, perched on the edge of a bed that looked like it had never been slept in. The pale drapes hadn’t moved since your mother had them tailored to match your debutante gown. The furniture gleamed, untouched by affection or time.

The only thing out of place was the military bag on your bed.

And the letter of acceptance folded inside it.

Your fingers didn’t reach for it. Instead, they brushed against something older. Softer. The worn leather spine of a book that had traveled with you through storms far worse than this.

Sense and Sensibility.

It had been tucked into a chest in your grandfather’s attic when you were ten. You weren’t supposed to be exploring, let alone snooping through heirlooms. But when you found the little volume wrapped in old linen, it felt like fate. You'd spent the entire summer hiding under an oak tree, reading it beneath the leaves and branches, heart pounding at every footstep like you might be caught stealing treasure.

But you hadn’t been caught.

He’d found you.

“That one’s got more heart than a regiment of men, my little one,” your grandfather had said with a crooked grin, ruffling your hair as you clutched the book to your chest. “Keep that close. It’s braver than half this bloodline.”

He’d been your compass ever since. Your shield when the rest of the family stared down their noses. He never asked you to be more polite, more polished, more perfect. He just asked you to be you.

Little One. That was his name for you. No one else ever used it, and you never let them try.

You curled your fingers around the book now like a lifeline. You hadn’t told him about the letter yet. Part of you wanted to see the look on his face—proud, defiant, unshaken by the scandal it would cause. Another part of you wondered if this time, even he wouldn’t be able to protect you from the storm that was coming.

But you’d already made up your mind.

Tonight, the Carrington family would host yet another gala in a ballroom of chandeliers and champagne smiles. And when it ended, after the masks slipped and the guests departed, you would do what no Carrington ever dared.

You would tell them the truth.

You were joining the military.

Not because they wanted you to.

Because they didn’t.

And you were done pretending.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and empty praise.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled above heads bowed in performative laughter. Silver trays floated through the crowd, gloved hands serving champagne to people who cared more about appearances than substance.

You stood at the edge of the chaos, wrapped in emerald silk that your mother insisted on. The dress pinched your ribs and flattened your spirit—polished, perfect, and so very not you.

Across the room, your siblings glided from conversation to conversation like they were born for this. The golden children. Their futures lined in silver spoons and framed degrees.

You? You were a decoration. A tolerated presence.

A disappointment.

Your mother’s hand landed lightly on your arm. “Smile, dear. You’re frightening the Earl’s daughter.”

You didn’t look at her. “She should be frightened.”

“Don’t be childish,” she hissed. “We agreed. No scenes.”

We had agreed on nothing. You were just playing along—for now.

“I said I’d wait until the end of the evening,” you replied coolly. “I’m keeping my word.”

Her grip tightened, nails digging into your skin beneath the sleeve. “You’ll ruin everything.”

You turned, meeting her gaze head-on. “Maybe everything needs ruining.”

Across the room, you caught your grandfather watching. He raised a brow over his glass. You gave him the faintest nod.

Soon.

So, you waited patiently till the party ended.

Hours later, the guests were gone. The music had faded. The room was empty but for the scent of roses and whiskey and long-buried resentment.

You stood in the drawing room, shoulders back, facing the three people who had shaped your life in vastly different ways.

Your father was already drinking.

“You’ve embarrassed this family,” he snapped before you could speak. “All this—this rebellion. This stunt. The military? Do you understand how that reflects on us?”

You did. Perfectly.

“I understand that it finally reflects me,” you said. “And I’m done living as someone else’s ideal.”

Your mother, seated stiffly beside him, dabbed her eyes but said nothing.

Cowardice, dressed in lace.

“You’ve always been difficult,” your father sneered. “Ungrateful. You could’ve had anything.”

“I wanted purpose, not pearls.”

The glass in his hand shattered against the hearth.

And then he raised it.

But his hand never reached you.

A sharp crack filled the room as a cane smacked hard against your father’s wrist. The drink clattered to the floor.

“Touch her again,” your grandfather said coldly, “and I’ll forget you’re my son.”

Everyone froze.

“I may be an old man, but I’m not blind. She’s the only one in this house with the guts to live her own life. You should all be ashamed.”

You stood taller as he crossed the room and laid a hand on your shoulder.

“You go be a soldier, Little One. And don’t you dare apologize for it.”

The manor was cold the morning you left. Not from the weather, but from the people inside it.

No one came to see you off.No mother wringing her hands.No father pretending to be proud. No siblings sneaking one last hug.

Just your grandfather—waiting in the driveway in his pressed coat and polished boots, as if he were heading to war again instead of saying goodbye to his granddaughter.

You’d packed light. A duffel, your issued gear, and the worn copy of Sense and Sensibility tucked safely in your jacket pocket, right where it belonged. The only thing brought from home or your previous life.

The drive to the station was quiet. Familiar roads blurred past, the silence heavy but comforting. He didn’t speak until he parked beneath an old oak tree on the outskirts of the estate, right around the corner from the station—your reading tree.

Without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter, bound with a delicate, faded ribbon.

“I meant to give you this sooner,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual. “It belonged to your grandmother. She tied it around every letter she wrote me while I was deployed. Said it was her promise I’d always come home.”

You took it carefully, fingers brushing the soft silk. It smelled faintly of lavender and unfolded the letter by carefully removing the ribbon. You read the words written in his careful handwriting:

You will always be my little one no matter where you are and keep the book and this letter, with you. Even steel needs a heartbeat. Love you dearly, Grandpa.

“I thought,” he continued, “you might need something to hold you steady when things get loud.”

The letter was light in your palm, but it felt like it carried a thousand memories.

“I already have the book,” you whispered, throat tight.

His eyes crinkled in that way they did when he was proud but trying not to show it. “Books are for when the fight is over. Letters… they’re for the middle of the storm.”

You hugged him fiercely, that ribbon pressed between your hearts, and he just laughed and whispered, “You’ve got the soul of a soldier and the heart of an angel. “Go make them eat their words, Little One.”

You didn’t look back when you boarded that train.

You knew he was watching until you disappeared.

Months later....

You didn’t check the mail anymore. Not since you cut contact with everyone back home— Everyone except him.

So when you spotted the crisp cream-colored envelope tucked between supply reports and terrain maps, your breath caught.

Your family crest. Wax seal intact. Cold. Precise. As if your last name alone still demanded respect you’d long since abandoned.

It couldn’t be—

No.

Your fingers hesitated before tearing it open, dread crawling up your spine.

Miss,It is with regret that we inform you of the passing of General Alexander Carrington.Services will be held privately. Attendance not required.

No signature. No warmth. Not even a “sincerely.”

Just a death notice delivered like an invoice.

Your knees went weak. You sat hard on the edge of your cot, the world tilting sideways. The barracks buzzed around you, but it all felt muted, wrong. Like the ground had shifted beneath your boots.

You clutched the letter in one hand, the ribbon your grandfather had given you in the other.

No “Little One.”No memory.No him.

He was the last real piece of home. The only one who ever saw you for who you were. Who looked past the dirt under your nails and the steel in your spine and called it bravery, not rebellion.

You'd already lost your place at the dinner table. Now you'd lost your anchor.

You didn’t cry. Not really.

But the ache settled in your chest like a second heartbeat. A quiet throb of grief pulsing just beneath the surface.

“Lieutenant?”

You blinked. Lewis, your partner, stood in the doorway, holding two coffees and a protein bar. His expression softened the moment he saw your face.

“What happened?”

You looked away, forcing your voice even. “Just some mail.”

He didn’t push. Just handed you the coffee, clapped a hand to your shoulder, and sat in silence.

But there was no time to mourn. Not here. Not now.

“Lewis,” you called out sharply. “Let’s move. Command tent. Now.”

He blinked at your voice—low, strained—but followed without hesitation. No questions.

Inside, mission chatter had already begun.

“Target coordinates shifted again,” Lewis muttered as you rolled out the new map overlay. “That’s the third time this week.”

You frowned, eyes narrowing at the movement patterns. “That’s not random.”

“Intel says recon team’s pinned. We’re extraction. Sector Echo.”

“Too hot,” you said under your breath. “They know we’re coming.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

Your commanding officer stormed in, barking orders before you could dig deeper. “You leave in ten. Locked and loaded.”

And just like that, there was no more time to grieve.

Minutes later, you were armored, armed, and climbing into the back of a tactical truck with five others. Desert wind lashed at your face. The weight of your gear was second only to the weight in your chest.

Lewis smirked beside you. “Lieutenant,” he said, voice low, “you ready to kick some ass ?”

You managed a tight grin. “Only if you don’t slow me down.”

Twenty clicks out, the first blast hit.

A ripple in the earth. A sound like the world tearing itself open.

The vehicle behind you flipped into the sky—metal and flame in a single breath. Screams followed. Smoke and sand swallowed the horizon.

“AMBUSH!” someone roared.

You hit the ground hard. Rolled. Came up on your knees, gun raised. You fired. Moved. Fired again.

Too many hostiles. Too fast.

Lewis was dragging a rookie behind a broken dune wall. You followed, diving beside him as bullets chewed through the air above your head.

“THEY JAMMED COMMS!” someone shouted.

Of course they had. This wasn’t bad luck. This was a trap.

Your hand instinctively moved to your chest—not for your weapon, but for the letter. The book.

He wouldn’t have run. You wouldn’t either.

“Cover me,” you growled to Lewis.

He opened fire. You sprinted forward. Dodged left and and then you heard it.

A whirring. A click. And then,

BOOM.

The impact sent you flying backwards. Dirt and concrete screamed around you.

Pain shot through your abdomen you slammed into the wreckage. Your ears rang, your vision blurred by brilliant, blinding flash.

A noise that didn’t belong. A rip through space, like time itself had cracked.

You felt your body lift off the ground, weightless.

You clutched at your jacket, at the book. At the last thing you had left.

Then darkness.

You didn’t remember falling. Only the heat and the fire—and then suddenly, quiet.

Your cheek was pressed to damp grass, not hot sand. The air was cool, scented with wildflowers and pine, not diesel fuel and gunpowder. Your lashes fluttered open, blurry with pain and confusion, and the sun that filtered through the trees above you was soft. Golden. Gentle.

You blinked.

Birds.

Birds were singing.

No comms chatter. No drone of engines. No shouted commands.

Just… the breeze.

Your hand instinctively reached for your side. Warm, sticky blood clung to your fingers. The wound burned beneath your ribs, radiating into your shoulder and neck. You sucked in a hiss between your teeth.

Training kicked in. You pulled off your outer jacket and tied it tight around your middle. A crude pressure bandage. It would do for now.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up to your knees, vision swimming. The clearing stretched out in front of you, edged by dense woods. No sign of your team. No smoke. No gear.

No wreckage.

You stood unsteadily, boots crunching softly against leaves and gravel, and staggered forward. Your body screamed with every step, but confusion numbed the worst of it. Trees gave way to an open path, and ahead, rising beyond a gentle slope—was a town.

A real, actual town.

Not the run down outposts you were used to, but a cluster of charming buildings with thatched roofs, ivy-covered chimneys, and cobblestone streets. You crouched in the brush, eyes wide.

A horse-drawn carriage passed by.

What the actual hell?

You rubbed your eyes and looked again. Women in bonnets and gowns. Men in coats and cravats. No cars. No phones. No modern anything.

Your breath caught in your throat.

This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. Or I’m concussed. Maybe this is the afterlife.

But then your hand reached inside your jacket on instinct. Felt for the only thing that ever brought you calm.

The book. Still there. Still real. Sense and Sensibility.

Your breath hitched.

Stone, elegant, towering. With wide green lawns, proud columns, and the precise silhouette you’d traced a thousand times with your eyes across your favourite pages.

The manor....Delaford.

You nearly sobbed.

You knew the outline of every pillar. Every tree. Every carved window frame. Not because you’d seen it, but because you’d imagined it. Lived it. Through pages. Through your grandfather’s voice.

This wasn’t just a hallucination. It was something more, something deeper.

It was real.

But your body was failing you now. Your legs buckled just outside the estate grounds. The pressure from the wound throbbed relentlessly, your breathing ragged.

Behind you, the distant barking of a dog.

Voices.

Panic kicked in.

You stumbled behind a thick copse of trees and bushes, crouching low, breath shallow. Your vision blurred again.

Footsteps.

A man's voice. Low, cultured. Concerned.

And then… darkness crept at the edges of your mind as your knees gave out fully, your hand clutching the book even as you fell. The final image burned into your brain before everything went black was of that same magnificent estate,its silhouette against the golden sky like a memory you’d never lived.

A dream. A page comes to life.

And then, nothing.

The early morning air was heavy with mist as Colonel Brandon guided his horse along the familiar outskirts of Delaford. The countryside, though lush and peaceful, did little to soothe the restlessness that had plagued him of late.

He had woken before dawn again. Another dreamless night. Another empty breakfast. Another letter from Sir John, urging him—kindly, persistently—to make an appearance at Barton Park. “The Dashwoods have come,” the note had read. “Charming ladies, Brandon, you must visit!”

Brandon sighed. It was not that he disliked company. But too often, the laughter and warmth of others only reminded him how long it had been since he'd felt either.

His life, though well-ordered and respectable, often felt… unfinished. As if something had once begun and never found its way to the end.

Lost in thought, he might’ve missed the hounds barking if they hadn’t grown frantic. One of them darted sharply toward a thicket near the boundary line.

“Down, Caesar,” he called, reining in his horse.

But what he saw next made him freeze mid-step.

There, crumpled beneath the gnarled branches of an old oak, lay a woman.

At first, he thought she was a servant, perhaps, or some injured traveller. But as he drew closer, the sight unsettled him. She wore no dress, but trousers, oddly cut and unfamiliar. Her jacket was strange too, stained with blood on the side. Her boots looked more suited to war than to walking. And clutched tightly in her hand was a small, worn book.

He crouched beside her, careful not to startle. Her breathing was shallow, her brow damp with fever. And she was young. Far too young to be out here alone, and dressed like—well, like no one he had ever seen.

He pried the book gently from her fingers. The cover was plain, smudged with dirt and barely legible. He turned it over in his hands, finding no name, no inscription. Just well-worn pages and a folded corner where she’d last stopped reading.

Brandon frowned, unsettled by a strange, inexplicable tug at his chest. Something about her felt… important. As if the universe had just dropped a question in his lap and dared him to ignore it.

He lifted her carefully, surprised by how light she was, and how tightly her fingers had gripped the book, even unconscious.

Who was she? And what in God’s name had happened to her?

As he turned back toward Delaford, Brandon cast one last glance at the thicket behind him, now silent again. The morning had begun like any other.

But something told him—it would not end that way.

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[neick-hitlz]

- We miss you ❤️‍🩹

[panakinthedisco]

i haven’t updated anything in here coz irl BUT just coming back that people should stop remaking pride and prejudice when sense and sensibility is right there (tho i’m a big fan of ang lee’s S&S)…..

and PEDRO PASCAL AS COLONEL BRANDON 😭

we got the material LIKE SERIOUSLY. GIVE HIM A REGENCY ERA ROLE PLEASE

[vintageisbest]

Brandon, the sweetheart of sweethearts. ❤️