Summary: You should always start training your pet from day one.
Or, Agatha steals a bunny and decides conditioning is the best way to train it.
Authors notes: hiiiii welcome to the series I’ve been working on :) I’ve always wanted to get more into the conditioning side of things when reading these sort of dark fics and then I started writing fics and went OH!!!!! I can do it!! So here we are :3 Pls enjoy.
* This is a series of 10 interconnected one shots instead of chapters. They’re still in chronological order, but more in a ‘how each rule is learned’ way instead of a complete day-by-day.
Minors DNI. This is a dark series. It contains kidnapping and conditioning. Every one shot will have its associated tags and warnings. You are responsible for your own internet experience.
ao3 | masterlist
Water for a Word
-> obedience is the first step to teaching a bunny
No Pets on the Furniture
-> a bunny needs to know its place
Soft Bunny, Warm Bunny, Little Ball of Fur
-> a good bunny deserves a good burrow
Chocolate Kisses
-> a treat for bunny is a treat for mistress
Bunny Dreams
-> a bunny should never trust a dream
The Unsubtle Rabbit
-> a bunny can’t lie for long, even to itself
Rabbit Season
-> a bunny has needs after being denied for so long
Out of the Burrow
-> a bunny needs to stretch its legs every now and then
being traumatized is so embarrassing sometimes like oooogh my mom was mean to me when i was little so now i want to eviscerate myself anytime i think i’ve done something wrong. fuck you
parents will be like "We're good parents! We did our best!" while their child is alone in their room, terrified of footsteps, unable to conceptualize being loved by anyone.
A/N: I’m in my Brienne era, dreaming of a female Knight in shining armour—vowing their life to me. Ha, a girl can dream! I hope you’ll enjoy this fic, I sure did giggle and kick my feet writing it!
The sun burned low in the sky, stretching the shadows of the field long and gold. Dust curled in lazy plumes where hooves had pounded earlier in the day, and the crowd now buzzed for the final match, eager for blood, for victory, for the thrill of steel meeting steel.
Brienne of Tarth stood tall in the centre of the arena, a vision of quiet strength, her armour catching the last of the light. Her grip on the sword was firm, but her stance relaxed, confident, composed. She was favoured to win. Of course she was.
You watched her from across the field, adjusting your helmet. The weight of it grounded you, familiar and steady. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, steady but hard. You hadn’t fought her before. Not like this. Not in front of so many eyes. Not with your identity buried beneath plate and leather.
No one knew what you were about to do—not even her.
Especially not her.
Your armour bore no sigil. No name. You were simply a late entry, a nameless challenger allowed into the ring thanks to coin, anonymity, and the chaos of an already packed roster. Your heart clenched, not with nerves—but with something hotter. Heavier. You had something to prove. Something to feel.
You wanted to face her. Not as her lover. Not as the woman she kissed behind tent flaps and starlight. But as her equal.
The horn sounded.
You advanced.
Brienne’s expression shifted at once. Curiosity narrowed her eyes as she raised her sword, taking you in with a practiced gaze. You knew that gaze. It had scanned battlefields and challengers, had lingered on your face in candlelight.
She didn’t recognize you.
Yet.
The first strike was yours. Fast, clean, testing. She met it with ease, parried with the grace of someone who’d fought all her life. But there was no condescension. She didn’t underestimate you.
Steel rang as she countered, a measured blow that caught your side and sent you staggering back a step.
You grinned beneath your helmet and lunged again.
The crowd roared at the speed of your retaliation, your blade clashing with hers in a flurry of sparks. She blocked high, then low, pivoting around you with growing focus. Her brows drew tighter, suspicion creeping in.
You fought harder. Pushed her. She was taller, stronger—but you were fast, fluid, unpredictable. You circled, ducked, feinted, then struck low to draw her balance. Her blade scraped your vambrace. Yours barely missed her thigh.
She grunted softly, more in surprise than pain.
“You’re quick,” she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear. “But reckless.”
You danced away, giving her nothing.
She came at you again, this time with real force behind the blade. You blocked, barely, the impact jarring through your wrists. Brienne pressed forward, step after step, until you were nearly at the edge of the ring.
Her sword pressed lightly to your shoulder.
“Yield,” she ordered sharply.
Still, you said nothing.
You dropped and rolled out of her reach instead, dust clouding up in your wake. The crowd erupted again, some cheering for you now, others laughing at the way you'd ducked a knight like her with no name, no house, no honor.
Brienne turned to face you, her lips parted, breath rising. Her eyes had narrowed in recognition—not of you, not yet—but of something familiar. The way you moved. The way you tested her limits.
She was starting to sense it.
“You fight like someone I know,” she said quietly.
You didn’t answer.
You just struck again.
The fight continued, longer than anyone expected. Sweat beaded beneath your armor, trickling down your spine. Brienne’s hair stuck to her forehead in golden strands. Your limbs were aching, breath coming harder now, but neither of you relented.
She locked your blade in a twist and leaned close, her voice low and urgent.
“Yield, damn it. You’ll get yourself hurt.”
Still, you didn’t break. Didn’t speak. You shoved back with a surge of strength, forcing her off-balance for just a second.
It earned you one final clash—one last, desperate flurry that ended in a brutal pivot and the flat of her sword knocking yours from your hands.
The crowd howled as your blade hit the ground with a thud.
Brienne stepped in fast, placing her sword to your chest, her shoulders heaving. “Yield.”
This time, you did.
You dropped to one knee, panting beneath your helm. “I yield.”
Relief rippled across her face. She lowered her sword an inch—but didn’t step back.
You reached up slowly and removed your helmet.
The shift in her face was instant.
Shock, horror, disbelief.
Her mouth parted, but no sound came. Her eyes swept over your face like she couldn’t trust it, like she wasn’t sure she was seeing you at all.
“Gods,” she whispered.
You gave her a slow, crooked smile.
“Told you I’d find a way to fight you.”
Her sword lowered all the way now, slipping to her side like she'd forgotten she was holding it.
“You can’t— What were you thinking?” Her voice trembled slightly, but not with fear. With anger. With disbelief. “If they knew—if anyone knew—”
“They don’t,” you said calmly, getting to your feet. “They won’t.”
“But you could’ve— I could’ve hurt you.”
“You were supposed to try.”
She stared at you like she didn’t know whether to kiss you or drag you out of the arena by your collar.
You stepped a little closer, letting your smile soften just enough to cut through the tension. “You beat me fair and square, Ser Brienne.”
The official was announcing her victory in the background. The crowd roared her name.
But she wasn’t looking at them.
She was only looking at you.
And there was something in her eyes—rage and heat and longing all tangled up beneath the armor.
You let the tension hang there between you as the moment passed.
Later, when the moon had risen and the wine had quieted the campfires, you’d find her again.
You didn’t return to your own tent after the match.
Not right away.
You wandered the edges of camp instead, letting the quiet settle back into your limbs, into your chest. The tournament had drawn to a close with laughter and mead and the clang of mugs against steel, but you kept to the shadows, avoiding the firelight and the curious questions.
No one had recognized you. No one had pieced it together.
Except her.
She hadn’t looked at you during the celebration. Not once. Hadn’t approached while the other knights clapped her on the back, praising her victory. Her smile had been hollow, her eyes always fixed somewhere just beyond the crowd.
You knew that look.
Brienne was angry. Not because you’d lost. Not because you’d surprised her. But because she couldn’t say what she wanted to say.
Not there. Not in front of them.
Which was why you weren’t surprised to find her in your tent.
You slipped inside quietly, lifting the flap with a practiced hand. The lantern was already lit. She sat on the edge of your narrow cot, legs apart, elbows on her knees, hands clasped like she was trying to hold herself together.
She’d removed her armor, though the padded tunic beneath still clung to her frame. Her hair was damp from a rushed wash, curling slightly at the edges.
She didn’t look at you when you entered.
“I could’ve hurt you,” she said, voice low and tight.
You closed the flap behind you. “You didn’t.”
“You could’ve broken something. Your wrist. Your ribs.”
“I didn’t.”
“You could’ve ruined us.” Her voice rose then, only slightly—but enough to twist the air taut between you.
You stood still. “But I didn’t.”
Brienne finally looked up.
Her eyes, storm-dark, caught yours like a snare.
“You’re reckless.”
“I wanted to know if I could hold my own against you.”
“That wasn’t the way.”
You stepped closer, slow and quiet, like you might spook her.
“It was the only way. If I asked, you would’ve said no.”
She looked away.
“That’s not true.”
“It is. You’d have said no to protect me.” You crouched before her then, knees aching a little from the day’s battle. “And I love you for it. But I needed to do this. I needed to see.”
Brienne’s eyes flicked back to yours. “You could’ve said something.”
“In front of all those people? Who still think I’m only the King’s niece with a fondness for swords? You know what they’d do if they found out about us. About you.”
Silence stretched.
Long and heavy.
And then—very slowly—Brienne lifted one hand, rough and callused, to your face. Her thumb brushed the curve of your cheek, soft as a breath.
“I knew it was you,” she murmured. “Not at first. But something about the way you moved. I kept thinking: she fights like someone I know. Someone I—”
She stopped herself, but you heard it in the space between the words.
Someone I love.
You leaned into her touch. Let her feel you, warm and real and unbroken beneath her fingers.
“I never meant to frighten you,” you whispered.
Brienne let out a soft exhale. “You didn’t. You just… undid me.”
You stood then, slow and deliberate, your eyes locked with hers. Her hand dropped to her lap as you stepped between her knees. Her breath caught when your fingers gently found her jaw.
You kissed her—softly at first. Testing. A question.
She answered in kind, her hands finding your hips, her mouth moving against yours with slow, desperate hunger. Like she’d been waiting all day to touch you. To taste you.
When you broke the kiss, your lips barely brushed hers as you whispered:
“Yield.”
Her breath shuddered against your mouth.
And then she did.
She slid from the cot, dropping to her knees before you with a grace that made your stomach twist. Her hands smoothed over the backs of your thighs, reverent. Her eyes stayed on yours, blue and burning.
No hesitation. No shame. Only need.
“I would,” she murmured. “Only for you.”
You threaded your fingers into her hair and smiled, the kind of smile meant for no one else but her.
The kind that said mine.
Her breath hitched softly when your fingers curled tighter in her hair. She looked up at you from her knees—flushed, devoted, undone. No armor. No titles. Just Brienne.
Your Brienne.
You stroked your thumb across her cheek, marveling at the heat in her skin, the way her pupils stayed fixed on you like you were a star and she, a knight who’d spent a lifetime following the wrong light.
“Take your time,” you murmured. “No one’s watching now.”
Her lips parted slightly. You saw the hesitation flicker in her expression—respect, restraint, reverence—but you didn’t want reverence tonight. You wanted to be known.
You stepped back, just enough to unlace the front of your trousers, fingers a little clumsy from the nerves still buzzing under your skin. Brienne didn’t help. She waited, watching, breathing unevenly through parted lips.
When you bared yourself to her, you saw the change in her eyes—how they went darker, heavier with want. Still, she didn’t move. Not until you whispered:
“Please.”
That single word undid her.
She leaned forward, kissing the inside of your thigh first, just above your knee, soft and reverent. Then higher. Another kiss. Then a third, closer now, her breath warming your skin until your legs trembled beneath her. Her hands slid up to hold your hips—firm, grounding you—just before her mouth finally found you.
You gasped.
Her tongue moved slow, deliberate, drawing a long stroke through your folds like she meant to memorize you. She groaned low in her throat at the taste, the vibration sparking deep in your belly. Her hands gripped your thighs tighter as she licked again, pressing firmer now, more sure.
“Gods, Brienne—” Your head fell back, knees threatening to buckle, but she didn’t let you fall. Her arms wrapped around your legs, keeping you steady, holding you right where she wanted you.
Her mouth worshipped you like she was praying—gentle, rhythmic, unrelenting. Every flick of her tongue pulled another sound from you, raw and breathless, until you were panting her name in broken syllables.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Everything she wanted to say was in the way her lips wrapped around your clit, the way her tongue flattened and lapped, the way she kept moaning softly between your thighs like this—you—was the only thing that had ever made her feel alive.
When your fingers tangled tighter in her hair and your hips began to rock against her mouth, she didn’t stop. She adjusted. Let you chase it. Let you grind against her tongue as if nothing in the world mattered but getting closer.
You came with a cry muffled against your own knuckles, stars bursting behind your eyes, thighs shaking around her shoulders. She held you through it. Steady, patient, reverent still—as you rode the wave down, gasping her name.
When you finally opened your eyes, she was still on her knees, lips wet, eyes burning.
You tugged her up to you by the front of her tunic, crashing your mouth into hers, tasting yourself on her tongue. She kissed you back, deep and hungry, like she needed to remind herself you were real.
You pulled away just enough to murmur against her lips, “Lie with me.”
Brienne didn’t answer. She simply scooped you into her arms and settled you both onto the narrow cot like you weighed nothing at all. Her hand found yours between your bodies, fingers lacing together.
And in the dark, tangled in sweat and breath and silence, you pressed your forehead to hers and whispered:
Instead of this whole "unlearning shame" bullshit, we should really be teaching people to distinguish between when you feel bad because you genuinely did wrong and when you're just beating yourself up for no good reason.
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