Fat Molly
hufflepuff hobbit
Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Apollo flattered himself that he was a sage leader, if an imperfect one. But one of his flaws was growing, so to speak, in preeminence.
He sighed at the sight of himself in the mirror. He had always tended towards the heavier side of fit, but previously this had more to do with his muscles. Now, those muscles had turned soft, and expanded to fat during the colonization of New Caprica. This was helped in no small part by his depression, not to mention the availability of a wide variety of foods no longer restricted by the ship's stock.
Indeed, at this time, he found that his secret past - that of a chubby twelve year old - had made a reappearance. And for some reason, didn't seem to be disappearing like it had before, under the auspices of pyramid-ball and youth metabolism.
*Maybe I'm just growing old,* he solemnly considered, looking at the bags under his eyes. True, he did look like his thirty extra pounds had accompanied thirty extra years, and while his belly was taut and wrinkleless, his face was almost cavernous compared to that with which he'd entered the service.
He threw off the jacket that fit too snugly and it landed on the back of the couch. Commander or not, he had no reason to respect the man that wore that thrice-let-out uniform. Being fat was the least of the reasons Apollo didn't respect himself, but it was one tangible symptom of his own frailty and fallibility.
He settled himself in the wide ass-shaped dent that had formed in his chair, picked up a tabloid from the table, and crunched at the plate of vegetables he'd restricted himself to for the evening. Too soon they were gone. Despite being weird fracking things collected from the wilds of this new planet. They were edible but not very delicious. And still hed eaten them all.
He sat with a glass of water, mulling over his misfortune, until the tinge of loneliness in his stomach grew too significant to ignore, and he walked back to the bags of produce he'd picked up and pulled out a quiche that he had been saving for once his wife got back. If she got back.
"I've done this to myself," he told himself, and repeated it. "I've grown soft. I've lost my edge."
With a sigh of longing and despair, he tucked into the whole pie.
He both cared and didn't care what his dad thought.
Chapter Text
Apollo flattered himself that he was a sage leader, if an imperfect one. But one of his flaws was growing, so to speak, in preeminence.
He sighed at the sight of himself in the mirror. He had always tended towards the heavier side of fit, but previously this had more to do with his muscles. Now, those muscles had turned soft, and expanded to fat during the colonization of New Caprica. This was helped in no small part by his depression, not to mention the availability of a wide variety of foods no longer restricted by the ship's stock.
Indeed, at this time, he found that his secret past - that of a chubby twelve year old - had made a reappearance. And for some reason, didn't seem to be disappearing like it had before, under the auspices of pyramid-ball and youth metabolism.
*Maybe I'm just growing old,* he solemnly considered, looking at the bags under his eyes. True, he did look like his thirty extra pounds had accompanied thirty extra years, and while his belly was taut and wrinkleless, his face was almost cavernous compared to that with which he'd entered the service.
He threw off the jacket that fit too snugly and it landed on the back of the couch. Commander or not, he had no reason to respect the man that wore that thrice-let-out uniform. Being fat was the least of the reasons Apollo didn't respect himself, but it was one tangible symptom of his own frailty and fallibility.
He settled himself in the wide ass-shaped dent that had formed in his chair, picked up a tabloid from the table, and crunched at the plate of vegetables he'd restricted himself to for the evening. Too soon they were gone. Despite being weird fracking things collected from the wilds of this new planet. They were edible but not very delicious. And still hed eaten them all.
He sat with a glass of water, mulling over his misfortune, until the tinge of loneliness in his stomach grew too significant to ignore, and he walked back to the bags of produce he'd picked up and pulled out a quiche that he had been saving for once his wife got back. If she got back.
"I've done this to myself," he told himself, and repeated it. "I've grown soft. I've lost my edge."
With a sigh of longing and despair, he tucked into the whole pie.
He both cared and didn't care what his dad thought.
