There it Goes - Jean X Reader

Washing Machine Heart

hello, and welcome to my first ever fic <3 If you're reading this, then a huge thank you from me, the author, to you, the reader. This fic has been a fun, light-hearted way for me to heal my heart after the AOT finale and re-immerse myself within the world of the characters without thinking too much about how much trauma they now have. Or don't have. (Some of them are dead after all.) There was no beta reader for this, (we die like men) and I rarely proofread, so please allow for silly mistakes and awkward pacing at times. When starting the fic I was determined to write in second-person, present tense but swiftly gave it up for second-person, past tense because I found myself writing in that automatically, so I ask that you be lenient with switching of tenses in the first few chapters - I promise it irons itself out. Once again, huge thank you and enjoy the fic!

em <3

Chapter One:

Despite packing much lighter than you'd have liked, it's still taken you several trips up the stairs to bring it all into your new flat.

'Why did we decide to settle for a top floor flat?' you mutter under your breath, selectively choosing to ignore the fact that you had been so enamoured by the view from your room that you had begged your housemates to sign the lease with you. How were you to know that none of them would be around at the moment you moved in? Regardless, here you were, cursing your shallow nature that had refused to settle for one of the basement flats that had been available and dragging multiple large suitcases up five flights of stairs. A sweaty, exhausting end to a sweaty, exhausting day that had begun at 6am that morning with a 'oh god we're stuck in morning rush hour traffic' kind of drive to the train station, and had been followed by a 'oh why yes, that is my giant bag taking up the whole luggage rack,' kind of day, and finally a 'no wait, I can pay for my taxi I promise, I just can't remember which pocket my phone is in,' ride across the city to your new second year flat. But finally, you'd made it and now you, and your huge pile of things, were staring at a large green door with a brass number: 17E. You just hope it's as pretty inside as you remembered. Your parents hadn't been thrilled at how much rent you were paying this year, but you'd reminded them about your part time job, and won them over by describing your bedroom view.

Fumbling around in your many pockets, you pull out the key that the landlord had given to you at your last viewing and push it into the lock. Hearing the key turn and click, you place a hand on the door, turn the handle, and step inside, dragging your things behind you. The wheels of your suitcase scrape across the threshold and the corners of your bags catch and crash against the doorframe. You wince. Good job you hadn't been thinking poetic things about how you were stepping into your new life, stepping into the first of many happy memories to be made within these walls. If you had, your inability to do anything without making a gigantic ruckus would have brought you down to earth with a thud.

Your room was straight ahead, next to the kitchen and leaving your stuff in a pile on the landing, you walk over and into your room. It was a decent size and brightly light; a large window along the back wall letting in the warm August sun. A double bed was pushed along one long side with a desk and some bookshelves against the other. A large pinboard on the wall to your right as you came in through the door gave you somewhere to stick your photographs and posters. The walls were an inoffensive beige colour, turning orange in the blushing evening light that tumbled through the window. It was nothing special yet. But it would be. You had big plans to make it look cosy with books and fairy lights and your many blankets and cushions. Besides, the main attraction was the view. Heading over to the window you rest your hands on the sill and stare through the glass at the city beyond.

Paradis truly was the prettiest city you knew. Off in the distance, the highlands stretch away, the horizon melting into the hazy periwinkle of the evening. But closer to home, rows and rows of pretty sand coloured buildings just like this one line the winding streets and alleys, their windows lit up purple, green, red, by LED lights marking them as student houses. If you look down at the street below your window, you'll see twenty-something year olds tumbling out of almost every front door in twos and threes, bottles of wine or cans of beer in their hands and making their way loudly and jubilantly towards the meadows, where already you could see smoke rising from little barbeques. If you open the window, you're sure that you'd hear the soft thwack of a bat against a rounders ball, the cries of the batting team as their batter ran his go.