#Angle of refraction

[rajansmoorthy]

Experiment: Tracing the path of a Light Ray Through a Rectangular Glass Slab

Refraction of light through a glass slab Objective: To trace the path of a light ray passing through a rectangular glass slab for different angles of incidence, measure the angles of incidence, refraction and emergence and interpret the results. Materials Required: Rectangular glass slab Drawing board White paper Board pins Optical pins Protractor Measuring scales Pencil Refraction through a…

[carnation-damnation]

the cousins ever

terios was made in a laboratory by me and my associate @emdotcom

[flipchild]

this is so dumb but i confess that I smiled

[sigmastolen]

shower thought: for blue mutants like beast, nightcrawler, mystique, is that blue from pigment? or is it structural? like, there are only a handful of animals that produce an actual blue pigment and iirc they're all butterflies; any blue animal "with a backbone," as NPR put it, uses structural coloration

so if their blue is structural, is it pretty stable, like a macaw or a blue jay? or does it change from different angles, like a morpho butterfly or a hummingbird's gorget?

specifically: what if kurt has been iridescent this whole time ???

[dotstarstudios]

Ripple the Sky

[scalecallerpeak]

Fixation so bad I'm dming my old lab partner like we need to talk about the crystallography of soul mirrors NOW.

[sciencesolutions]

[wayti-blog]

"Seeing a rainbow can feel like a reward. After a violent thunderstorm, it's nice to spot a colorful arch crossing the calming sky. But you might (or might not) be surprised to know that rainbows aren't really arches, nor are they "bows." They're actually full circles.

So why do we only see an arch? Oftentimes, the rainbows we see are partly blocked by the ground and horizon. To observe one in all its circular glory, you'd have to find a nice high vantage point. We'll explain how the phenomenon happens."

"Mediums matter: In air, light cruises along at 186,000 miles per second (300,000 kilometers per second). But since liquid water is denser, light can't move through it as quickly. So once a beam of light that's been zipping through the air hits a body of water, it slows down quite a bit.

In the case of rainbows, sunlight that enters individual water droplets bends — or refracts — multiple times. First, it bends upon passing into a bead of H2O. After that, the light bounces off the inside wall at the far side of the droplet and reenters the air. The light gets refracted again while exiting.

Through refraction, the droplets separate sunlight into its component colors. Although it looks white, rays of sunshine are in fact a mixture of all the colors within the visible light spectrum."

"A key factor here is the location of the antisolar point. This is the spot in the sky — or on the ground — that's exactly 180 degrees away from the sun relative to your perspective. On a bright, sunny day, the head of your shadow marks the antisolar point. Every rainbow is a perfectly circular ring centered around this very spot.

Yet if you're standing at ground level, you won't be able to see the circle's lower half. Indeed, from this vantage point, basically any part of a rainbow that dips below the horizon is rendered invisible. One of the reasons for this is that the close proximity of Earth's surface limits the amount and concentration of raindrops within your line of sight.

As such, the percentage of a rainbow that's visible to most people is directly correlated with the sun's position. When our solar neighbor is just barely peeking over the horizon, the antisolar point will be fairly high up, affording you the chance to see a much bigger rainbow than you would when the sun climbs higher.

Conversely, if the sun is more than 42 degrees above the horizon, it becomes impossible for ground-based observers to see any portion of a rainbow whatsoever. But when you're soaring in an aircraft, things get more interesting. On rainy or misty days, airplane passengers and pilots occasionally see full circular rainbows. Better yet, in 2013, photographer Colin Leonhardt captured this picture of a circular double rainbow while flying around Australia's Cottesloe Beach."

continue article

[pixieliciousnippletassles]

I reckon you'd get your bestie to play prosecution on your behalf so they could embellish and elaborate upon all the badassery and general shit they've seen you do for 10 years, amping up the crowd who are booing because they're playing the jury but it's fun, it's like a panto, we love evey nefarious deed and act

researching 17th century piracy tonight. came across this:

One popular pastime amongst pirates was the mock trial.  Each man played a part be it jailer, lawyer, judge, juror, or hangman.  This sham court arrested, tried, convicted, and “carried out” the sentence to the amusement of all. (x)

how widespread could this have really been? how would it have gotten passed from ship to ship? can you imagine a pirate crew at a tavern, bragging to another pirate crew about how good they are at playing pretend? why was their go-to game “legal system”? were they performing incisive satire? is this some sort of pirates-only inside joke that’s been lost to the ages?

[randygrim]

yellow goldenrod mahogany ruby pink jade. kills you :3

AKGDLAGDLDGKSSKfkaakskajadKAG

KILLS U OMFG OMFG

Literally the SAME FUCKING ONES back at you

Let's go sit in a field and watch the sun rise

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: fic has been posted here <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

[lcfthaunted]

She hides on the roof, shivering under the sun. The anniversary took her by surprise, and she struggles to quiet the voice in her head telling her she's a horrible person for forgetting, that she's deserved every awful thing that's happened to her. She'll probably end up badly sunburned from her time on the roof, but at the moment she can't bring herself to care—believes she deserves it, on some level. The heat of the desert sun still isn't enough to chase away the chill in her bones, the ice in her heart.

Mazie's eyes squeeze shut, then blink rapidly open again. She's been trying not to cry for nearly an hour now, and has been mostly successful. Her breathing is uneven and just a touch too rapid; she's developing a headache from it, but doesn't have enough presence of mind to change. Another hard shiver wracks her body, and a quiet moan tears free from her chest.

[dugaodna]

just an all timer homer simpson still. He does look silly but his refraction through the glass really makes you consider him at an angle that gives you a fresh perspective on his character that you just don't see that often on the show

[kedreeva]

if peafowl colouring comes from the way their feathers are structured, how does pie and white eye happen, since those are a lack of pigmentation?

So, "color" is actually "light wavelengths as perceived by our eyes" and pigment is "substance which reflect certain wavelengths and absorb certain wavelengths." Peafowl don't lack /pigment/ but what light is reflected from it depends heavily on how the light is refracted before/after it reaches any pigment. That refraction is what we can see, and is the "coloring that comes from the way their feathers are structured."

A bluejay's feathers are not blue by pigment. They use a brown pigment. But the structure of the barbules on the vanes causes the feathers to appear blue to our eyes. Here's a bluejay feather, lit two different ways.

The same is true of peafowl feathers, in complex ways. The pigment used to color the feathers is almost certainly a brown or black pigment, and the structure of the feathers refracts the light to create different colors. This is how ALL iridescence works in birds, by refracting light through barbule and barb structure. Different angles produce different colors to our eyes because we see different... like "stages" of refraction or angles of it.

Here's a video of what I mean, of Orion showing the blue-to-purple shift that happens when you view a purple peafowl.

If the light is behind you shining directly onto them, they appear blue. If the bird is between you and the sun, up to a 90* angle, it appears purple. Without full-spectrum lighting, the bird appears blue. The bird is still black/brown, but we don't/can't see that because of the structure. The PIGMENT of the bird is not changing just because I walked 6 feet. They don't have chromatophores in their feathers that react specifically to my changing my position. But what color we perceive them as changes due to the structure of the feathers. Except in matte birds like cameo, we don't see the actual pigment color of the bird, we see the iridescent color created by the structure.

So, the leucistic mutations are removing that underlying pigment, and without pigment, the structure of the feathers doesn't matter, since there's no substance to absorb any wavelength of light, and so we see the full spectrum reflected, and see white.

[bees-with-swords]

It was really good art too. Like. You see the guy on his phone on the train and in his double reflection in the window behind him, he's decked out in full bondage. A trick of refraction between the tram rearview mirror and the window shows a pair of otherwise innocuous friends completely nude together.

Fell asleep on the bus and dreamed of a Japanese erotic art movement based entirely around voyeuristic glimpses of people's deepest desires as seen reflected in the windows of public transit

[dollishmehrayan]

# “ME AND MY HUSBAND WE’RE STICKING TOGETHER.” ── .✦ ( this just a brainrot drabble of bruce wayne && mrs. wayne because I’m obsessed with this mini series ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

a/n: i love infecting this type of brain-rot into you guys omg like genuinely it’s a slight problem i have to stop for a while because it GETS to a point😭😭, anywayss here i guess 🧍🏻‍♀️tags: (bruce wayne x fem!reader/batmom)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

The lights of Gotham’s grandest ballroom sparkled like stars fallen to earth, casting an ethereal glow over the sea of designer gowns, sharp suits, and dazzling jewelry. The annual Wayne Foundation Gala was in full swing, a spectacle of wealth and power that captured the city’s fascination every year. Reporters lined the velvet ropes outside, cameras flashing as Gotham’s elite ascended the marble steps of the historic venue.

But tonight, all eyes were on you and Bruce Wayne.

When the two of you arrived, the murmur of the crowd outside turned into a roar. The whispers started almost immediately, a ripple of surprise and intrigue as the media scrambled to capture every angle of your entrance.

You walked beside Bruce, your hand resting lightly on his arm. Your gown a masterpiece in midnight blue satin clung to your frame with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly, the fabric shimmering faintly under the streetlights. The diamond earrings you wore caught the light with every step, but it was the confidence in your stride and the warmth in your expression that truly captivated the crowd.

Bruce, ever the enigma, looked every bit the part of Gotham’s most eligible billionaire and bachelor. His tailored black suit was immaculate, and his usually reserved demeanor seemed to soften when he looked at you. It was a subtle thing the way his gaze lingered on you as you ascended the stairs, the faint smile tugging at his lips—but the cameras caught it all.

The tabloids were going to have a field day.

Inside the ballroom, the air was heavy with the scent of fresh roses and expensive champagne. Crystal chandeliers hung high above, their light refracting in a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished floors. Bruce guided you through the throng of guests, his hand firm at the small of your back, as if silently promising to shield you from the inevitable onslaught of questions.

And they came, as they always did.

The whispers were relentless as you mingled, weaving through the crowd like threads in a tapestry. Who was she? Where had she come from? How long had she and Bruce been together? Speculation about your background and your relationship with Gotham’s most elusive bachelor flooded the room.

“She’s stunning,” someone murmured behind a raised champagne flute.

“But where did she come from? She’s not one of the usual socialites,” another voice responded, tinged with curiosity.

Bruce ignored the comments with his usual stoic grace, but you couldn’t help catching fragments of the conversations as you moved through the room. You were used to the scrutiny, though. Being with Bruce meant living under a microscope, and while the attention could be suffocating, you’d learned to wear it like armor.

“Smile,” Bruce whispered into your ear as the two of you paused near a towering floral arrangement. His voice was low and teasing, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “You’re doing great, make sure to keep your eyes focused on the camera’s slightly.

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, offering him a wry smile. “I wasn’t aware I was being graded.”

He laughed softly, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting gesture of reassurance. “You’re acing it.”, “really? Am i bruce??”

── .✦

Despite the intensity of the evening, Bruce never strayed far from your side. His presence was a constant, grounding you amid the whirlwind of flashing cameras and probing questions. Every time a journalist approached, Bruce would deftly redirect the conversation, shielding you from anything too invasive.

But the media frenzy outside was relentless. The headlines were already being written:

"Bruce Wayne’s Mystery Date Stuns at the Wayne Gala"

"Who is Gotham’s New It Girl?"

"A Love Story in the Making? Inside Bruce Wayne’s Relationship with (your name) Wayne"

As the night wore on, you found yourself on the balcony, stealing a moment of quiet away from the crowd. The cold air bit at your skin, but the solitude was worth it. Bruce joined you moments later, his jacket draped over his arm. Without a word, he slipped it around your shoulders, the warmth of the fabric a welcome relief from the chill, you weren’t gonna lie you got why every celebrity seemed to ‘hate’ paparazzi && fame.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft in the quiet.

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the city skyline. “Just needed a breather. It’s… a lot.”

He leaned against the railing beside you, his expression thoughtful. “They’ll talk. They always do. But none of it matters.”

You turned to face him, your lips curving into a small smile. “I know. It’s just… overwhelming sometimes, not used to this kind of attention..”

Bruce reached out, his fingers brushing against yours before wrapping them in his warm grip. “You don’t have to face it alone,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

For a moment, the rest of the world faded away. It was just the two of you, standing under the Gotham sky, the distant hum of the gala forgotten. And as Bruce pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, you realized that no headline, no rumor, no amount of scrutiny could ever overshadow the quiet, steadfast connection you shared.

Inside, the gala continued, the music and laughter spilling out into the night. But out on the balcony, you and Bruce found something far more valuable peace, however fleeting, in each other’s company.