AN: Warning for noncon elements.

Lucy had known she was a lesbian since she was fifteen. She'd never had a boyfriend, never even kissed a boy. She'd never been on birth control. Getting pregnant had simply never been a concern in her life...until the day she and Emily had decided they wanted a baby.

The day she'd started fertility treatments, she'd been filled with a sense of overwhelming joy and anticipation. Now, though, she feared they'd be her undoing...

Please don't let me get pregnant, she prayed every single day. And every single day, a traitorous little part of her mind reminded her of the odds – afterall, her body thought that was the goal, had spent the last several weeks preparing to be pregnant. Chances were, Doyle was going to get exactly what he wanted...

Please don't let me get pregnant, she prayed every single day, even as the primal part of her brain shut off as he found all the right spots on her body with his hands, the rough, gun-calloused tips of his fingers. As he left bruises on her neck, on her hips, encircling her wrists. As he made her buck up against him, made her cry out, made her come.

Please don't let me get pregnant, she prayed every single day, even as her body betrayed her and she came. He took great pleasure in being her first – the first man to enter her, to bring her to orgasm, and ultimately, come inside her – the hot rush of his release inside her feeling all at once so good and so repulsive.

Please don't let me get pregnant, she prayed every single day, even as he pulled out of her and locked the door behind him, leaving her sobbing silently at the feeling of being used, of being exploited. She had no illusions about what he thought of her: she was an animal he was trying to breed, chattel plain and simple. She felt so dirty, so disgusting.

Please don't let me get pregnant, she prayed every single day as she moved about her daily life as a prisoner, trying to convince herself that any day now, the team would come knocking on the door of the cell and free her, bringing her back to Emily's arms. Even as she tried to ignore the little voice at the back of her mind that questioned whether she'd even want her anymore...

Please don't let me get pregnant, she prayed as she tried to decipher how long she'd been there, even as she felt a churning in her gut when, day after day, her period failed to show up. Because no matter how hard she tried to convince herself it was because of stress or weight loss or literally anything else, she just knew...

She got her answer, then, when he showed up one day with a pregnancy test in his hand, confirming what she already suspected. He handed it to her wordlessly and, hands shaking so hard her fingers could barely keep hold of it, she shut herself in the little bathroom where she promptly broke down in tears because this was not the way this was supposed to happen.

This moment was supposed to be a time of joy and eager anticipation and a shaky hug from her wife as they waited to see if their lives were about to change forever. She was supposed to feel an overwhelming combination of excitement and nervousness and love, instead of this all-consuming dread.

The following five minutes were the longest of her life. She sat perched on the lid of the toilet, head in her quivering hands to hide the silent tears dribbling down her cheeks, already knowing her prayers had gone unanswered. Ian paced and he almost seemed like he actually cared about the result and she couldn't help but wonder if he actually cared at all about the child she knew was growing in her womb or if it was simply a means to an end.

When the second little pink line appeared, she actually saw him smile for the first time since she'd been there. The expression was unsettling, sinister, almost, and it did nothing to ease the palpitations of fear pounding in her chest.

"I want my baby, Lucy," he said. "Emily wouldn't give me my son, you'll give me a replacement."

The next day when he brought her breakfast, there was a bottle of prenatal vitamins next to her orange juice. It was thoughtful, in a strange, twisted way. It was the closest to being cared about she'd felt after weeks of being treated like a sex object rather than an actual person.

He always stayed to watch her eat, making sure she wasn't about to die of starvation. She wasn't particularly hungry, pushing the scrambled eggs around her plate, the idea of actually eating making her stomach turn, whether from morning sickness or anxiety, she couldn't be sure. The orange juice she'd dutifully drank – along with the vitamin – sat in her stomach like a rock, the acid still burning her tongue like bile.

"You seem awfully confident that I'm just going to stay put," she said bitterly, staring down at her plate, feeling his eyes intently on her.

"You could try to escape if you want," he informed her simply, almost conversationally. "I'm not stopping you." He waved at the door as if daring her to go. As if there weren't armed guards waiting outside to recapture her the moment she set foot outside.

She looked up then, daring to stare straight into his eyes, refusing to succumb to his shows of authority. "I could slit my wrists," she said plainly. 'Hold my head under the water of the bath until I drown,' she thought. 'Rip the sheets off the bed and hang myself with them.'

"But you wouldn't do that to your baby, would you?" He kept his eyes locked with hers, challenging her almost.

She said nothing because there was nothing to say.

He smiled patronizingly, leaned over to stroke her cheek. "I always knew you'd be a good mother."