Sure, Jay has taser titties, blades that shoot out from his forearms like wings, excellent marksman skills with an arsenal of weapons, training from batman himself, and the whole “I-died-but-now-I’m-back-to-fuck-some-shit-up-because-I-didn’t-even-want-to-be-back-here” factor, but I still imagine him strutting down Gotham’s streets to “Holla Back Girl.“
A lot of fics and prompts and ideas and what have you have Draco and Harry hyphenate their last name when they’re married. For example: Malfoy-Potter.
Well. Imagine they were avidly against double-barrelled surnames (because they couldn’t agree whose should come first), but they also couldn’t really settle on just one surname, so they each go by their own–Draco uses “Malfoy”, Harry uses “Potter”, and it’s fine. Most of the time, that is.
It’s fine until one of them pisses the other off, and then a quick way to make them even more pissed is to switch the surnames–especially in public.
Consider: Harry cuts into Draco’s primping time before a ministry function, and Draco is prickly the whole night because he has a ritual, okay, it takes time to look as good as he does, Harry. So. Draco’s peeved, and they get to the ministry thing.
Harry has the odious pleasure of various meet-and-greets with the attendees.
“Harry P–” he starts to say, but Draco jumps in smoothly.
“Malfoy. We’re married now, dear, remember?”
Harry glares at him, but can’t say anything right there in the middle of the auditorium, and the couple Harry’s been introducing himself to titter into their hands and exchange meaningful looks that make both Harry and Draco want to gag.
“Harry Malfoy,” the man greets him, and for the rest of the night, that’s all anyone will call him because it’s spread, or Draco has ensured every time he opens his mouth to introduce himself, he gets there first.
In retaliation, Harry signs Draco up for as many ridiculous mail-order shopping subscriptions he can get his hands on, because that’ll surely drive Draco mad.
The poor shop attendants who are in charge of these things scratch their heads confusedly at the order, but no, when they check, the slip is very firm on what it wants. They shrug but send the subscription out anyway.
For the next two weeks, an alarming number of owls arrive with booklets and pamphlets and magazines and instructional leaflets addressed to Mr. Draco Potter on all manner of topics from the latest maternity fashion to hair loss products and treatments.
Draco, of course, works himself up into a progressively bigger and nastier snit with each one that arrives while Harry sits back and watches, amused.
(Of course, until Draco comes after him, and they do say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Whatever–it’s close enough.)