supercut of us - chapter one.
The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - nothing really, just the obvious pregnancy
main masterlist // supercut of us masterlist
The bed is well and truly cold by the time you come to.
It takes a second to orient yourself - for last night to come crashing back to you. Jack, his hands, that stupid cowboy hat, the way it felt when he-
You cut yourself off.
This isn’t the start of something. Absolutely not. You were looking for a quick fling to get over Seth, and you found one. Jack made it very clear he wasn’t looking for anything either, and you’re not about to beg him for more.
If your paths cross again organically, then that would be another thing entirely.
You reach for your dress, and take a second to look around his room as you try and gather your bearings. It’s a lot cleaner than some of the frat rooms you’ve spent time in.
There are textbooks stacked on the desk instead of empty beer cans. A chemistry textbook sits open beneath a notebook full of cramped handwriting and highlighted diagrams. Another book - something biology-related - has so many sticky notes poking out of the pages it looks like it's growing feathers.
You hadn’t thought Jack was lying last night when he told you he was pre-med, but you certainly hadn’t thought he was serious about it. You figured he was probably some trust-fund kid who was going to get daddy to buy his way into medical school.
Jack apparently doesn’t fit into Cornell’s usual stereotypes.
He’s not a selfish prick the way most of the hockey team is. He’s also not a moron either - not by a long-shot. You know his music taste is pretty refined - on one date, after telling a guy that The Doors were your favourite band, he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.
Needless to say, there hadn’t been a second date.
And he’s funny. You’d laughed more last night than the entirety of summer. You think potentially more than your entire relationship with Seth.
God, you need to get a grip. You look around the room, almost praying to find something that’ll ruin the spark for you. Maybe a list of all the girls he’s slept with, or some Playboys under the bed. Some mouldy food perhaps?
Anything to get him off your mind.
You pull your dress over your head and glance around again.
The walls are covered in hockey.
Photos pinned to a corkboard. Team pictures from what looks like every stage of his life. A tiny kid missing his front teeth. A gangly teenager holding a trophy. A more recent photo where he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of teammates, grinning like an idiot.
There's a shelf lined with medals and a couple of plaques.
Your gaze lingers on a more recent picture - a slightly younger Jack’s first year on the Cornell hockey team. It looks familiar, and suddenly you realise why, heart sinking. Your step-brother Michael stands right by his side, smiles wide as the team poses for the camera.
Fuck.
You’d thought that the hockey team would be safe from Michael’s claws given that he’s been at medical school for the past three years. The last thing you want is to have slept with one of his friends.
While technically a step-brother, your mom met his dad while she was still pregnant with you. With your biological father out of the picture, the Robinavitch family very quickly became your own. Michael’s father is the only father you’ve ever known.
In all ways but blood, he’s your brother.
He’s the entire reason you’d ended up at Cornell. You’ve always wanted to grow up to be like Michael. Even if he’s grown a stupid beard, and goes by Robby these days.
His single piece of advice to you when you’d started college was to run a mile from anybody on the college’s sports teams.
Basketball? Bad.
Football? The worst, if Robby is to be believed.
Hockey? Good guys, but not boyfriend material. Steer clear at all costs.
Maybe they were just teammates. You have lots of group photos with people you don’t even like, much less consider a friend.
Jack seems like the kind of guy who would be friendly to just about everyone. But it could have just felt that way because he was trying to get into your pants. He could have a playbook of flattery, and you’re simply the most recent sucker to fall for it.
You realise with a snort that you don’t know much about Jack at all.
Which, to be fair, was intentional.
The whole point had been not getting to know each other. He could be
No strings. No personal questions. No expectations.
For all you know, he's seeing someone back home. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who never stays single for long. Maybe there are half a dozen girls on campus who'd roll their eyes if they heard you were thinking this much about him.
You wouldn't know.
All you know is that his name is Jack.
He plays hockey.
He's pre-med.
He’s a fan of classic rock - particularly Led Zeppelin and the Eagles, but he’s also partial to some eighties punk.
You don't know if he has siblings, or if he's close with his parents.
You move toward the desk, spotting a framed picture tucked beside a lamp.
Jack stands with a woman who shares the exact same smile. Must be a mother, though she looks pretty young. Upon further inspection, his mom is in a lot of the photos. For someone who spent half of last night pretending he didn't care about anything except having a good time, Jack seems surprisingly sentimental.
Maybe because you'd spent all of last night mentally filing Jack under Fun-Mistake. Good-Lay-Who’s-Definitely-A-Bit-Of-A-Whore.
Not Son-Who-Keeps-Pictures-Of-His-Mom-On-His-Desk.
You force yourself to look away.
This is ridiculous. You have to get out of here. At the desk, a notepad sits beside a cup full of pens, and your eyes catch on it just for a second.
You could leave your number.
Not for a date. Just to say ‘hey, that was good sex and we should do it again sometime. I’m not clingy, nor am I looking for a boyfriend, but you’re hot and I have a pushy ex.’
As soon as your brain catches up with your thoughts, you realise how pathetic you sound.
You’ve spent your entire college career avoiding becoming a stereotype. You’re not a stuck-up teacher’s pet because you get good grades, you’re not a stoner because you’re in a rock band, and you’re certainly not a Puck Bunny because you want to fuck a hockey player.
You grab your boots, and try to get the hell out of there. The frat house is mostly empty this early. For that, you’re grateful. A couple of people linger in the kitchen, nursing coffees and hangovers, but thankfully, nobody pays much attention as you head for the front door.
You slip outside.
The morning air is cool against your skin. A welcome change from the heat of Jack’s bedroom.
You don’t have a class until lunchtime, but band practice starts in forty-five minutes, and you’d like the shower before braving the heat of the Cornell Music Building.
The campus is dead at this hour, just empty brick paths and ivy before the mid-morning rush. Your boots click on the concrete, locking into the tempo of the bassline you keep looping in your head. It’s a new composition, one that you’re pretty sure goes with Jesse’s latest favourite drum-fill.
You hadn’t really meant to join a band, but when Jesse Van Horn is your next-door neighbour in freshman year, it’s hard to avoid the music.
Half the floor hated him, because he had an acoustic drum-kit set up in his room, and had no qualms about practicing at seven in the morning before his classes.
You didn’t ever mind.
Alarm clocks didn’t do the trick for you, but Immigrant Song sure did. Eventually, Jesse’s roommate had packed it in, found somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, you and he were becoming closer every day. You’d pass records back and forth, and roll your eyes over student housing politics.
When your roommate started allowing her boyfriend to practically live with you both, it had been a natural decision. One box at a time, over a week, you moved into Jesse’s spare room.
Despite the rumours, it’s never been sexual - you’re both walking proof that men and women can, in fact, just be friends.
You started jamming together, before he’d finally proposed that a band could earn you some extra cash. Outside of tutoring, you didn’t have any other income, so money got tight fast.
The only issue was that you absolutely refused to sing in front of a crowd. It’s not that you couldn’t - you’ve always had quite a nice voice, especially for folk, but the idea of singing solo in front of crowds made you want to cry.
Besides, you’d argued, you needed a guitarist anyway. You’d just find someone who could sing and play.
Jesse had placed a couple of ads across campus, and you got a lot more interest than you were expecting. Your answer came in the form of Nick Bradley - a biology major who could shred like Slash.
He agreed to sing too, as long as you’d do harmonies and take lead occasionally.
Like Fleetwood Mac, except none of you were sleeping together.
Now, a year on, you’re pretty successful. Good enough to get booked for a lot of the parties around campus, and a Saturday night slot at the local bar.
You’re still living with Jesse this year, in an apartment just off-campus, while Nick lives two streets over with his girlfriend Princess.
Were it not for Seth, you’d be having the time of your life.
Your first college relationship, you’d met Seth at a party in your first month of being at Cornell. He was a freshman too, but a business major, and loved the sound of his own voice.
Of course, at the time, he was hot, and paying you considerable amounts of attention. You were hooked.
Your entire relationship was cyclical - you’d date for a few months, and then have a huge blowout fight, and break up. You’d both sleep with other people out of pettiness, before he’d come crawling back a month later.
Much to all your friends’ chagrin, you always took him back.
This is the longest you’ve ever been separated since you first met.
It had happened over summer - an incident in New York City which had resulted in you sobbing down the phone, and Robby driving three hours in the middle of the night to come to your rescue.
You’re determined the break is sticking this time.
The cold walk back to your apartment finally wakes you up. You drop your keys on the counter, shed yesterday's clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water cuts through the smell of Jack's cedarwood cologne and the leftover stuffiness of his bedroom.
Ten minutes later, you're out and dressed in fresh black jeans and a beat-up band tee. Cream. You tell yourself it’s a total coincidence, and not because it’s a Clapton band. Your hair is still wet, but with five minutes until your practice starts, Jesse is ushering you into his car without pause.
*****
You think about Jack at random intervals throughout the day over the next few weeks.
When you're walking to class.
When you see someone wearing a hockey sweatshirt.
When a cowboy hat appears in the background of a TikTok, embarrassingly.
But thinking isn't the same thing as doing. And you've managed not to do anything.
No Instagram searches. No asking around. No stalking fraternity pages. No investigating.
Which means you're doing great.
Objectively.
You haven’t seen him around campus, but you figure that’s to be expected, given he’s pre-med and on the hockey team. You wouldn’t wish either on your worst enemy, much less both. Thankfully, Seth has been a complete non-entity too.
Maybe you’ll be able to live your entire Junior year in peace.
You're walking back from class with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear while Robby complains about med school.
Again.
Apparently today's crisis is pathology.
Yesterday's crisis was anatomy.
Tomorrow's will probably be something equally horrifying - he’s no longer allowed to tell you any stories that involve burns, toe-nails, or eye stuff, but you're sure he'll find something else that makes you feel sick just hearing about it.
"I haven't slept in two days."
You snort. "That's healthy."
"I hate you."
You hadn’t realised that Robby going to med school would somehow be your problem too. When your parents are sick of him whinging, they send his calls your way.
"Do you know how many pathways there are for clotting?" He asks.
"No. Why would I know that? I’m pre-law."
"There are too many."
"Okay."
He groans. "I'm serious."
"Congratulations? I don't know what you want me to say to that, to be honest."
There’s a pause, and you can just imagine him rubbing his neck, regretting calling you entirely. "You don't care."
"I care deeply about many things. Clotting factors? Unfortunately not one of them. Why aren’t you moaning to Noelle?"
"She’s sick of it," He replies, sounding so miserable that you almost want to laugh.
“Just think about all the money you’ll be making.”
“Yeah, in like fifteen years.” Without taking a breath, Robby launches into another story about one of his professors, and you half-listen as you weave through campus.
Then he mentions hockey. "Honestly, sometimes I miss the team."
Your stomach does an immediate, traitorous flip. It’s been approximately two hours since you last thought about Jack, and the reminder is not a welcome one. It’s a battle to keep your voice neutral. "Yeah?"
"Not the practices,” He clarifies immediately.
"Obviously."
"Or the conditioning."
"Also obviously."
"But the guys."
You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t care about Jack. You shouldn’t ask anything else. Change the subject, and…. "Do you still talk to any of them?"
You immediately regret it, but it’s too late.
Fortunately, Robby doesn't seem to notice the odd cadence in your tone.
"Some of them."
You hum. "Who?"
He pauses. “Most of us are scattered now, but I talk to some of the guys on the current team. You know, one of them's applying to med school right now.”
"So?"
Robby laughs. "So?"
"Yeah."
You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, wondering if you should just fake bad service and hang up.
"Lots of people apply to med school."
"Not while playing a college sport."
"Oh."
"He asked me to look over his application."
Your grip tightens on your phone. "That's nice."
"I know. I’m a nice guy." Robby sounds genuinely pleased. Which is odd. He's usually much stingier with compliments. "Actually, his application's pretty solid."
You stare straight ahead.
Heart beating a little faster. “Must be smart, then.”
“Everything okay?”
Curse Robby and his insane perception skills. “Uh, yeah - just thought I saw Seth.”
Immediately, Robby’s in dad mode. “Don’t go near him.”
“I’m not! Jesus, Mikey - what do you take me for?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
You want to be offended, but you’re mostly just glad the conversation isn’t on Jack anymore. “Screw you.”
“Love you too!”
*****
The bathroom tile is freezing against your forehead.You trace the grout lines with your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the rhythmic, violent heaving in your stomach. It’s 4:00 AM, six weeks since term started, and you’re currently paying the price for the sketchy food truck tacos you ate after last night's gig.
Your throat burns, tasting like stomach acid and cheap tequila.
This cannot be the rockstar life everybody is so desperate for.
You groan, pulling yourself up onto your knees to lean over the toilet bowl again. Your body shakes, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck and back. Every muscle in your core is tightly knotted, exhausted from the last two hours of purging.
You reach up and flush, the loud roar of the water echoing painfully in the quiet apartment. Jesse’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met - there’s no way he’s waking up from a couple of retches.
You wake up on Friday morning convinced you're finally over the worst of it. The constant, violent nausea has faded into a dull, low-grade ache, and you manage to keep down half a bagel and some black coffee. Robby informs you that sometimes food poisoning takes it’s sweet time clearing up.
By Sunday, you can't lie to yourself anymore.
You’re still exhausted. The smell of the deli on the corner makes your stomach violently drop, and you spent twenty minutes this morning dizzy on the bathroom floor just from standing up too fast. It’s not a stomach bug.
You decide eventually that you can manage a trip to the grocery store for some crackers and ginger ale, in the hopes of filling your stomach a little.
Standing in the chip aisle, you glance over at the bakery counter. A woman is standing there, waiting for a loaf of bread. She’s wearing a soft knit sweater, and one of her hands rests naturally over a very obvious, rounded baby bump.
Your heart stops.
You can’t be.
You’re on the pill, and Jack used a condom. Statistically, there’s got to be no chance of that happening.
Panic floods your chest, hot and sharp.
You drop the crackers and sprint two aisles over to the pharmacy section. Your eyes scan the shelves frantically until you spot the boxes. You grab a digital two-pack, not even looking at the price, and tuck it flat against your stomach beneath your denim jacket.
You keep your head down, eyes darting left and right. The campus grocery store is a minefield; the last thing you need is a classmate, or Seth, or even Jack himself seeing you.
Running the three blocks back, the plastic bag crinkles loudly against your thigh. Your hands shake so badly that you drop your keys on the concrete before finally forcing the lock.
Jesse is on the couch, a laptop open on his knees and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He blinks up at you, surprised. "Hey, did you get the-"
"Bathroom," you choke out, barging straight past the couch. You don’t look at him, keeping the plastic bag bunched tight against your side.
"Whoa, okay. All yours," he mutters, turning back to his screen.
You throw yourself into the bathroom, slam the door, and click the lock. In the sudden quiet, your breathing sounds deafening. You rip the box open, tearing the cardboard with your fingernails until the two plastic sticks tumble onto the counter.
You’re on the pill. Jack used a condom.
You repeat it in your head like a mantra, trying to block out the terror pressing down on your chest. You read the instructions on the crumpled paper, the tiny text blurring. Wash hands. Remove cap. Hold the tip in the stream for five seconds.
You go through the motions on pure autopilot, your fingers icy cold.
When it's done, you lay the stick flat on the edge of the sink, turning the digital screen face-down against the white porcelain. You step back, gripping the edges of the counter until your knuckles turn white. On the side of the plastic casing, the tiny hourglass icon starts blinking, counting down the three longest minutes of your life.
You can’t be pregnant. You still have two more years of college, and then law school. How the hell would you do that with a baby?
Especially when the father is someone you don’t even know?
When you finally build the courage to turn the test over, you think you might cry.
“Shit,” You curse. “Shit, shit, shit!”
No amount of staring makes the line disappear, and you can feel tears start to prick at your periphery when a knock sounds at the door. “Everything okay? You’ve been gone forever.”
You swallow heavily. “Fine, Jess.” Looking back at the very positive test, and the words that flash on the screen.
Six Weeks Pregnant.
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