Bruce Wayne had faced down gods, monsters, and the occasional rogue Amazonian demigod—but nothing could have prepared him for this.

Clark and Lois had asked (read: begged) you both to help with Jon’s birthday party. And because Bruce had the world’s weakest poker face when it came to saying no to you, here he was:

Stuffed into a Beast costume, complete with faux fur, plastic fangs, and a very tight corset that made his Bat-voice sound more like a disgruntled Muppet. That corset? Limiting 30% of his lung capacity. The tail? Already tugged by six kids.

You, meanwhile, looked obscenely adorable as Belle—gold dress and a grin that promised "I’m never letting you live this down."

"ROAR," Bruce deadpanned, lifting a clawed paw as a circle of wide-eyed six-year-olds stared up at him.

Jon Kent, dressed as a tiny Spider-Man (because of course, Marvel is a thing here), frowned. "That’s not how the Beast sounds."

"Oh?" Bruce’s plastic ears twitched. "How should he sound?"

"Like this!" Jon screeched, launching into a feral impression that made three kids burst into tears.

You swooped in, stage-whispering to Bruce: "Ten bucks says Clark’s allergic to the fur."

Bruce’s tail flicked indignantly. "Twenty says Diana takes pictures." Behind the snack table, the real Wonder Woman was indeed snapping photos, her smile brighter than her lasso.