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Chapter Text

The Book of Cursed Glitter

It started, as all terrible ideas do, with Bruce Wayne saying the words:

"He’ll be fine."

John Constantine stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Mate. He’s one of your kids. In my house. Surrounded by haunted shite I barely keep from killing me in my sleep. The boy smells like caffeine and repressed war crimes. Are you trying to get him possessed?”

Bruce gave his usual grunt, which might have been "He can handle himself" or "I forgot how to feel things in 2006." Either way, it wasn’t helpful.

Nightwing just smiled and slapped Constantine on the back.

“Relax, John. Tim’s the responsible one.”

In the background, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was currently staring at a locked glass case containing a very cursed, very sentient book that hummed when anyone with a soul walked past it. His eyes were wide, unblinking. His fingers twitched.

He looked like a Victorian orphan in front of a candy store window.

Or like someone who had personally collapsed the League of Assassins’ global infrastructure in a week using only burner phones and a spreadsheet.

John lit a cigarette.

“I give it ten minutes.”

Thirteen Minutes Later

The book, bound in something that was definitely not cow leather, purred when Tim cracked the case open.

Whispers spilled from it in long, sugar-glazed threads, curling into his ears like a lover’s breath and a Wikipedia rabbit hole at 3am.

“Timothy… Drake… Oh, seeker of forbidden truths… Wouldst thou like to learn the forgotten ways of glitter-based reality manipulation?”

Tim blinked slowly. “...Yes.”

“Wouldst thou like to become one with entropy and chaos and sparkles?”

“I already am, but go on.”

“Wouldst thou like to become the greatest annoyance the world has ever known, empowered by magic that bends the very fabric of logic and taste?”

Tim grinned. “You had me at 'annoyance.'”

When Constantine found them again, Batman and Nightwing were elbow-deep in a conversation about a rouge wizard and static in their comms.

"Where’s your boy?"

Bruce frowned. "Still exploring, I think."

John froze. Slowly turned.

The case was empty.

The Book of Pandemonium (abridged edition, volume six of the Eternal Nuisance Cycle, banned in five dimensions and one New Jersey county) was now a dead, leather husk. Smoking.

And Tim Drake, their quiet, calculated, workaholic gremlin, walked back into the room with stars in his eyes and a glitter bomb already ticking in his pocket.

“…You absolute wankers,” Constantine whispered. “He touched the bloody grimoire.”

That Night Back at Wayne Manor

It was Alfred’s annual day off. The one holy, sacred moment in the calendar where all Batkids tried to behave.

Bruce was already bunkered in his bedroom, trying to sleep through the chaos. Dick was playing peacemaker to a developing Nerf war between Jason and Damian. Cass was watching from the chandelier. Steph had replaced all the cereal boxes with glitter cannons two hours ago. Duke barricaded his room long ago.

And Tim?

Tim was in the attic.

Floating.

Reading ten books at once. None of them open. Surrounded by eldritch post-its scribbled in seven colors of magical ink. Laughing softly.

It had begun.

Tomorrow, the Prank War would reach levels unseen in Bat history.

Because this year, Tim wasn’t just a genius with insomnia and a grudge.
He was a chaos wizard.

He had learned to hex a room with salt, glitter, and passive-aggressive post-its.
He had enchanted the manor plumbing.
He had plans.

No one was safe.

Not Jason.
Not Damian.
Not even the cows on the Kent farm.

And certainly not Dick, who’d committed the greatest sin of all last year—hiding all the coffee in the manor and blaming it on “a ghost.”

This year, vengeance would be magical.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: The Nightmares Begin

The location? Wayne Manor. Time? 3:08 AM The Cursed Hour.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of the manor, a speaker clicked on.

“This is... the part when I say I don’t want ya…”

Ariana Grande’s “Break Free” started playing at full concert volume. But with… odd undertones. Was that a Theremin?

Robin plushies, hand-stitched, beady-eyed, six-inch bastards, erupted into flight.

They shot out of heating vents like bats from hell, leaving streaks of rainbow vapor and glitter farts in their wake. Their wings flapped with the sound of disappointed parental sighs. Their mouths opened not to sing, but to chant Tim’s to-do list for world domination.

The plushies circled the upstairs hallway like vultures high on Bath & Body Works body spray.

Next Location, Dick's Room

Dick jolted awake.

Something was wrong.

For one: his bedroom furniture had been replaced by weird ambience that looked like the lovechild between a gym and a disco dance floor.
For two: he was wearing the Discowing suit.
For three: everything felt like sparkles and lies.

“…No,” he whispered, already halfway to denial. “No, no, no, I burned this. Jason helped me burn it. This isn’t real—”

“Salve, princeps nates,” a voice purred from the darkness.

Latin.

From under his bed, twelve anatomically cursed dolls of himself emerged. All in the Discowing costume. Except somehow… worse. All of them had glitter abs.

They surrounded him, flexing plastic arms and cracking their necks like tiny malevolent gym rats.

"Toxic" by Britney Spears began to play, backwards.

“Modicus est pectus tuum!” one barked.

Dick’s eyes widened. “Did you just say I have a mid chest?!”

Another doll threw a dumbbell at his foot. A third screamed, “Leg day is sacred, you impure hamstringed disgrace!”

He ran for the door.

They chased.

He made it five steps before he tripped over a yoga mat that hadn’t been there before, hit a glittery beanbag, and rolled directly into the…

Ball pit.

The one that was definitely not in his room an hour ago.

It had depth.
It had currents.
It had a pirate ship.
It had a cursed giraffe floaty with murder in its button eyes.

“NOOOOO” Dick screamed as the dolls began to sing an off-key remix of “Womanizer” in Gregorian chant.

He sank into the pit, arms flailing, swallowed by plastic balls and shame.

Elsewhere in the Manor: The Bunker in the Batcave

Jason Todd sat in the bunker chewing a protein bar aggressively.

“...You heard that, right?”

From the vents above, a soft hiss of laughter curled through the air.

Tim’s laughter.

Steph gripped Damian’s cape. “He’s in the walls. He’s gone full gremlin.”

“I TOLD THEM,” Jason snapped. “You do not leave Timbo alone with occult books, Especially on Alfred’s Day Off! That’s when the shenanigans happen!”

Cass nodded gravely. She had war paint on. It was just concealer but the intent was there.

“I say we reinforce the bunker,” said Damian, grabbing his katana. “No one leaves. No one enters. We ration supplies. We wait out the glitter storm.”

“We can’t just abandon Dick,” Duke argued.

Jason snorted. “That man’s been body-shamed by haunted dolls. He’s lost to us now.”

A second shriek echoed from upstairs.

“My glutes are immaculate, YOU LITTLE PLASTIC DEMONS!”

Duke made the sign of the cross.

They needed a plan.

Steph paced like a general on a glittery battlefield. “Okay. Okay. We bunker down. We survive until Alfred returns.”

Jason nodded. “Exactly. Alfred’s the only one Tim still fears. He has ancient butler magic. Maybe… maybe he can de-curse him.”

“Or just spray him with the hose,” Duke muttered.

Cass signed: "We should write a will."

They all froze.

A small, plush Robin floated past the vent, trailing sparkles.

On its chest was a note. Written in glowing ink.

You’re next.

Tim’s laughter slithered down from the attic again, accompanied by the hum of a reality-warping prank ritual, and maybe a remix of Call Me Maybe featuring Gregorian monks.

Somewhere, the plumbing gurgled ominously.

Jason looked up holding his protein bar. “...We’re so screwed.”

Everyone bolted out of the cave, it was compromised, little did they know that was Tim’s plan all along.

To Be Continued...

Chapter Text

Chapter Three — The Glittering Doom Marches On

Wayne Manor, 3:47 AM

The storm had not passed.

It had evolved.

Somewhere in the plumbing, a kazoo orchestra played the Jaws theme in D minor.
Jason could hear the pipes crying. The walls hummed with malicious energy.
Tim's eldritch cackle echoed through the house like a deranged carousel of doom.

And the plushies were still farting glitter.

Jason crept from the bunker with the expression of a war veteran who’d just been told that his greatest enemy now had a clear shot on his back.

He had two knives, a flashbang, and a can of dry shampoo.

The hallway greeted him with silence.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Just grab B and tell him to leash his magic raccoon before the house explodes.”

He took one step.

A mirror popped up on the wall. He wasn’t there. Just a long string of past Jason haircuts projected into the void—like ghosts of barbershop crimes past.

There was bowl cut Robin.
There was Helmet Hair 1.0
There was That One Time With Frosted Tips.

“Hell no,” Jason snarled, turning—only to be hit in the face with a cloud of glitter foundation and contour powder.

“HELLO GORGEOUS!” sang a dozen disembodied voices in unison.

He turned to run. A trapdoor opened under him.

He dropped into what could only be described as a nightmare out of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Spotlights. Mirrors. Runway music.

Jason Todd, Red Hood, former assassin and current living corpse, had been dragged into the Catwalk of Judgment.

Robo-mannequins, each styled like Tim in various “Fashion Disaster but Make It Arcane” outfits, began circling him. One smeared lip gloss across his face. Another glued on glitter lashes.

He fought.

He screamed.

He lost.

Minutes later, the manor security camera caught Jason kicking down Bruce’s door wearing:

• A full drag outfit named “Glam Penance”
  
  
• Knee-high stiletto boots
  
  
• Contoured cheekbones sharp enough to pierce the veil
  
  
• And a perfectly snatched cherry red lace front wig
  
  

Bruce, finally awake, blinked once. Then again. Then stared.

Jason panted. “Control your hellion. NOW.”

Damian knew something was wrong the moment he stepped outside.

The yard… sparkled.

No. Not sparkled. Glimmered. Like the ground had been bedazzled by an eldritch raccoon on a Michael’s spree.

He followed the strange humming to the barn.

Inside, a tea party was in progress.

At the head of the table was a Tim-shaped haunted doll, complete with glowing blue eyes, a tiny sweater vest, and a murderous aura.

It banged cymbals together like a metronome for pain, while humming “Starships” by Nicki Minaj in a minor key.

Around it sat… 

Damian stopped cold.

Titus. Batcow. Alfred the Cat. Jerry the Turkey. Ace.

All of them.

Bedazzled. Wearing party hats.

“...You traitors,” Damian breathed.

Then the doll turned.

“VENI, BELLUM LUDICRUM INIQUITATIS,” it croaked. (“COME, GLITTER WAR OF WICKEDNESS.”)

Damian turned to flee.

Batcow kicked the barn door shut behind him.

“Wait”

Ace tackled him.

Titus threw glitter.

The animals descended in a glimmering fury, bleating and barking and gobbling to the tempo of Tim’s cursed cymbals of doom.

Damian’s screams were muffled by a sparkly party hat jammed onto his head.

Steph tried the hallway. Normal. Quiet.

Too quiet.

She opened the first door.

A heart-shaped bed. Rose petals. “Careless Whisper” playing softly.

“Oh hell no,” she muttered.

A mannequin stood beside the bed. It was… her ex. One of them. She wasn’t even sure which. They kind of blurred together. It held a bouquet of dying roses and a heart-shaped pizza box that said "Our Love is Extra Cheese."

The door slammed behind her.

Welcome to Rom-Com Hell
Sponsored by Chaos Magic and Regret

Room after room, scenario after scenario.

Beach Disaster Date.
Prom Night Redo.
Fake Dating at the Wayne-Gala.

Mannequin after mannequin appeared. Each worse than the last.

“Why did I date a guy who wore three polos at once?” she wailed, slapping a bachelor mannequin labeled ‘Kyle: Likes Crypto and Juice Cleanses’.

Finally, a mannequin in a Red Robin hoodie leaned forward.

It looked like Tim. Spoke in a cursed robot voice.

“Tuus gustus in viris est putidus,” it droned. (“Your taste in men is garbage.”)

Steph threw a cursed teddy bear at him.

"OH, I dated you, you haunted IKEA display!"

The lights flickered. A hundred mannequin Tims chanted:

"It's not me, it's you."
"You could do better, but you won’t."
"Latin is sexy, you coward."

She screamed. And kept running.

Meanwhile… In the Attic of Tim the Terrible

Tim floated in mid-air, glittering in soft lunar glow.

He had summoned a rubber duck.

It was glowing.

Its name was Gregory.

Behind him, a glowing battle map of Wayne Manor shimmered with LED stickies and cursed pathways. A list of completed pranks floated next to him in neon pink cursive.

• Dick: Ball Pit of Shame
• Jason: Drag Me to Hell
• Damian: Betrayed by Barn
• Steph: Love Is a Battlefield

Below it, two names remained.

Cass. Duke.

Tim's eyes gleamed. His voice whispered like a whispering book in a haunted library:

"It’s your move, my beloved prank nemeses."

The duck honked.

The manor trembled.

To Be Continued…