paneled wall

teen wolf as dads

derek hale

Originally posted by stilessderek

  • intimidating dad
  • “i want my daughter home by exactly 9 pm. are we clear on that?”
  • kind of distant / doesn’t talk much
  • not really the greatest at expressing his love for his children
  • but his kids know he loves them unconditionally anyway
  • doesn’t engage his children in the supernatural part of life
  • acts as his kids’ bodyguard
  • even as adults, his kids are afraid of incurring his wrath
  • hot dad
  • all his kids’ friends are shook over how his age compares to his beauty

liam dunbar

Originally posted by apollosdawntreader

  • overprotective dad
  • takes his father role very seriously
  • “always look both ways before crossing the road, okay?”
  • “dad, i’m 19.”
  • tries to be strict about going to school and getting good grades
  • because he doesn’t want his kids to suffer like he did in school
  • tries to act mature for his age but is low-key a child at heart
  • braggy dad
  • tells strangers at the park about all of the great things his kids have accomplished
  •  posts videos and photos of his kids all the time on facebook

kira yukimura

  • awkwardly adorable dad
  • trys to be cool
  • trys to keep up with the slang
  • probably will say “dope” in 2029
  • will definitely dab on her children without having any idea what a dab is
  • burns the bbq at the pool party and scraps it off without anyone seeing before serving it to guests
  • hiker dad
  • nature! camping! animals! trees!
  • builds a house in the middle of the woods
  • installs glass panel walls in her house so she gets that sense of being “one with nature”

theo raeken

Originally posted by wolfiehunters

  • life coach dad
  • “there’s a lesson for everything”
  • after all he’s been through, he’s become a super reflective person
  • charming dad
  • that smile can lure in even those super mean principals and get his kids out of suspension
  • “you’re not mad at us?”
  • “no. because i know that you know that what you did was the wrong thing to do and that you won’t make that mistake again.”
  • mechanic dad
  • can fix anything his kids break and not get upset at them
  • basically, he just wants to raise his kids so they don’t end up like him as a teen

It was the early 1940s, when 12-year-old Charles “Bob” Martin, a Washington, D.C., kid who had always loved the water, decided to try to rent a boat. So he headed down to the waterfront to ask about the cost. A white man working there told him it would cost $5 to reserve a rowboat, plus a quarter for every hour on the water.

The next week Martin headed back to the waterfront with money he’d cobbled together from his job at a local pharmacy. He saw the same man with the boats for rent.

What happened next remains seared into his memory.

“This man broke my heart,” he said. “I said, ‘I got the quarter,’ and the man looked at me, and I’m quoting him now. He says: 'I don’t know why you keep running around down here to rent a boat, because we do not rent these boats to no — the n-word — so you can just leave here and just not even come back.’ ”

The encounter broke Martin’s heart. But not his resolve. “I’m going home crying to my mom,” Martin remembers. “I said 'Mom, I’m gonna get me a boat.’ ”

Around that same time, just upriver from where Martin was turned away, Lewis T. Green, a shop teacher at a D.C. high school, was trying to create a boat club for himself and other black boaters in the city. Green asked federal officials for permission to use land for his fledgling group, but didn’t have much luck. He eventually got the attention of the philanthropist Mary McLeod Bethune, who in turn contacted her friend, Eleanor Roosevelt, who was then-first lady of the United States. Soon enough, the Interior Department allowed Green the use of a small plot by the railroad tracks near the Anacostia River. It’s where Seafarers Boat Club — now Seafarers Yacht Club — began and where it still stands.

They Built Their Own Boating 'Shangri-La.’ Preserving It May Be Just As Hard

Photos: Beck Harlan

Her Boys

It was a stormy night. Ravaging winds and eviscerating rain had swept in from the West, following a summer of nothing but eternal sunshine and hot spells. The skies were dark and swirling, and the road shone slick with water.

The old manor house stood largely unaffected, solid and unwavering in the face of such an onslaught. The trees groaned, shifting with the weight of the wind ploughing into their trunks, and there was a little broom shed that’s foundations looked as though they would be pulled from the earth and the wooden panels of the walls would go splintering. Other than that, there was nothing.

Until a figure appeared out of nowhere.

It was largely unremarkable, for the wind made one’s eyes hard to trust, but one minute there was solitude and silence, and with the next bout of storm, a boy stood in its place.

He was relatively tall, though his body was racked, and he was shivering violently. He ran with fear lacing his strides, clutching tightly at the thick cloak wrapped around him and lugging after his heels an old leather trunk.

The boy stopped only when he got to the house, collapsing against the doorway, gasping sharply for air. He knocked desperately.

There was no answer. Nobody even stirred.

But then, a light flickered on above him. And another. It was like a game of dominos, each light lit quicker than the last, until the door was flung open and a yellow warmth devoured him.


James Potter stood in the house, glasses shoved onto his nose, tired eyes slowly widening. His hair was stuck up in all possible directions.

Sirius tried to smile, but he could taste blood and knew it was more of a grimace.

“Dear Merlin,” James whispered.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Sirius offered quietly.

It was only then that James noticed the trunk behind him. He didn’t waste another second, throwing the door wider and ushering his friend inside, taking the trunk from his cold and clammy hands and hauling it into the entryway. The door slammed shut behind them.

James had seen many things in the five years he’d spent being friends with Sirius Black. He had seen him thrash around in the dead of night, pleading to an invisible man to stop, flinching and crying out when they didn’t. He had seen him determined and loving ferociously, stopping at nothing to make sure that Remus Lupin was not alone when the rest of society seemed to believe he should be. He had seen him cold, when the hatred burned through him, black as his namesake and eyes. He had seen him euphoric and free, laughing like nothing in the world could touch him and at one time, James had believed that to be true.

He had never seen him like this.

Sirius’ eye was swollen, purple and bulging, protruding from his ashen face like a stone from water. His lip was bust, still oozing blood, and there was a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, ugly and grey and pink. James knew that if he lifted Sirius’ shirt, even a fraction, he’d see identical bruises, like a meadow spreading up his skin.

He was shaking, trembling so vigorously, James was sure he would burst. He was convinced that Sirius would explode and everything he’d ever felt, everything he’d held inside of him, would come ricocheting out, all the red and gold and black traversing through his veins.

Sirius,” whispered James, and he felt his throat close up. Without saying another word (he wasn’t sure he could), he pulled the smaller boy into his arms, hugging him so closely, so tightly, as if this embrace would make all of Sirius’ broken parts fit back together. But then James wondered if he wasn’t whole to begin with.

The two boys stood there, clutching onto one another so firmly they left marks. Sirius sobbed into James’ shoulder, fingers clenched around the material of his pyjamas and James didn’t mind that he was now as drenched and cold as the storm outside. His brother was safe in here, in his arms, and if it meant he had to hold him for an eternity, James would do so in a heartbeat.

“James, darling, what-?”

Euphemia Potter stopped at the foot of the stairs. She breathed in sharply, and her words were lost.

“Sirius, love, is that you? What’s happened? What’s-? Oh my.”

She didn’t wait any longer, rushing over and she bundled both boys into her arms, hugging them to her body as though they were till children in need of a mother’s embrace, and she felt Sirius cling to her, melt into her warmth.

Euphemia realised he had probably never felt the love of a mother’s embrace before. She made sure to hug him tighter.

She patted his back to let her go, pulling away and wiping at her eyes, sniffing resolutely. She cast a drying and warming charm on him, smiling softly, holding his face tenderly in her hands. “Love, we need to get you out of these clothes. You’ll freeze to death if not. James, run and get him some of your pyjamas.”

James seemed hesitant to leave his friend, but his mother’s eyes urged him and he set off at a sprint, returning mere seconds later with a pair of clean Quidditch nightclothes, emblazoned with snitches and Puddlemere United. Sirius hardly had the effort to jab at James’ shocking allegiances.

“Can you walk, dear?” Euphemia asked him, brushing away some hair by his eyes. Though her face didn’t show it, she wanted to flinch at the sight of him. A child. And yet, here he was, beaten and bloody, almost a pulp. She tried to lead him upstairs, but he collapsed in her arms. “No, it’s okay. We’ll get you on the settee for tonight and move you upstairs to your room tomorrow.”

With James’ help, they gently led Sirius over to the settee, and Euphemia procured blankets and pillows to wrap him up with. She flicked her wand and a fire leapt in the hearth, bathing the room immediately in heat.

“I’ll just go and get some balm for his eye, and see if we have any potions for his bruises. I-”

“Mum,” James cut her off.

She fell quiet and the two looked at the broken boy on their settee. He had settled into the cushions, burrowing into their warmth, with the blanket tucked right up to his chin. In the firelight, the purple of his face made him look haunted, nearly dead. James’ throat clenched up at the thought and he cast it away instantly, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

Euphemia felt her heart melt. A sad smile formed at her lips. “I’ll be right back.”

Luckily, because they had a son as danger prone as James, their medical cupboard was well-stocked, and she was returning in no time with the necessary balms and potions and a warm cloth to wipe away any blood, but as she stepped back into their living room, she stopped in her tracks.

James had climbed under the covers beside Sirius, and was snoring peacefully, the smaller boy tucked against his chest. He had his arm draped over her son’s waist, and every now and then, his hand would seize into a fist and he’d clutch the material of James’ shirt. James absently stroked Sirius’ hair.

Euphemia faltered.

She and Fleamont had always had trouble having children. They had thought, as old as they were, that they might be condemned to live in a big, empty house, happy and in love, though missing something, missing the echoing of laughter and the high-pitched glee that followed it, spiralling out of control, and yelling after ghosts that sprinted down the hallways and slammed doors and made messes in the kitchen, and trailed mud into the house after a day spent dancing in the rain-

The day she found out she was pregnant with James was the happiest of her life, and though he was her blessing and her joy, it had come at a cost, and she was warned that another childbirth would kill her. And so, the dreams of a big family with several children had bubbled down to one child, whom she loved with all her heart.

Now, however, she thought that wasn’t true.

She laid the tray of medicines down on the coffee table, before quietly moving over to her boys. She pressed a lingering kiss to each of their foreheads, and pulled the blanket further up, making sure it covered their feet.

Euphemia stopped in the doorway, looking back once more at her sons.

No, she didn’t have one child. She had two.