Submission of a Soldier [F] [fantasy] [nc] [Exhibitionist]

I posted this as a prompt on dirtypenpals, but since my last “crosspost” seemed to be somewhat liked, I figured I could post this one here as wel, as it actually sort of works a mini story in its own right.

Astra’s military has always been a rough environment, even for the most seasoned of warrior seeking for a steady regimen.

Violent abuse, both for disciplinary action as well as mundane training, is the King’s Battalion’s worst kept secret. Humiliation and degradation can really break down a soldier’s spirit, until it is like soft and wet clay, ready to be molded into a subordinate that throws themselves into battle as fodder, if need be.

Hazing runs rampant, too, especially for the new recruits, and the smaller ones. The ones who already can’t fight back. It is sickening, but such is military life, is the standard response.

Maybe it is…

I’ve known very little but abuse for the first few months as part of the infantry. Not because I am weak or a snitch or… many other things. No, I just happened to be a *”girl”* in a men’s world. An Elven girl at that.

Violent Practice [MF][Fsub][reluc] (someone suggested I should post this here on DPP)

*(So yeah, I posted this as a prompt on dirtypenpals, and I got a comment that people here would like it, so I figured why not post it here as well. Keep in mind it’s purposely open-ended because it’s technically meant to be played out with someone else.)*

I’ve always been an overachiever.

I don’t think any of my friends were surprised when I graduated med school, and quickly found a home in a well-regarded residency. Vitamin C has never been a struggle for me, the good girl with the perfect track records, with piles upon piles of recommendations, and a spotless smile. And this collecting experience was just another step in my immaculate ascenion of the career ladder.

Right?

Well, sorta.

It does help to have genuine drive to be the best, and I *do* have just that.

I want to help people.

I want to treat the wounded and do my part, however little, in unburdening those around me.

But they don’t know the ugly truth that fuels my motivation.

They don’t know about the way my papa drank, and pushed his wife, my mother, against the kitchen table.