Your Wings - Reader X Levi Ackerman

Your eyes flutter open, the world swimming into focus as your body is jostled awake. The sensation is urgent, insistent—someone's hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you with a desperation that sends a jolt of unease through your chest. You blink, disoriented, and turn your head to see Pieck kneeling beside you. Her usually calm, composed demeanor is shattered; her dark eyes are wide, frantic, and her breath comes in short, uneven gasps.

"(Y/N), wake up!" she urges, her voice low but urgent. "You need to get up—now. We're needed on the battlefield."

You sit up slowly, the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, but her tone cuts through the fog of sleep. "What's going on?" you ask, your voice hoarse as you wipe the tiredness from your eyes. "Did something happen?"

Pieck doesn't waste time. "The enemy—they've got new weapons. Something we've never seen before. They're tearing through the front lines. We're being called in to assist." She stands abruptly, her movements sharp and hurried. "Get changed and meet us outside General Magath's tent. I'll gather the others."

Before you can respond, she's gone, the tent flap swinging shut behind her. The silence she leaves in her wake feels heavy, oppressive. You sit there for a moment, the gravity of her words sinking in. New weapons. Front lines wiped out. The battlefield. Your stomach churns, but there's no time to dwell on it. You swing your legs over the side of the cot, your body moving on autopilot as you reach for your white uniform.

The camp outside is a maelstrom of activity. Soldiers rush past your tent, their boots kicking up clouds of dust as they shout orders and haul supplies. The air is thick with tension, the kind that makes your skin prickle and your chest tighten. You step out, your uniform hastily thrown on, and join the stream of bodies moving like a frantic current. Everywhere you look, there's chaos—men and women scrambling to prepare for a fight they might not return from.

You make your way to General Magath's tent, your heart pounding in your ears. Porco is already there, leaning against a wooden post with his arms crossed. His jaw is set, his expression cold and unreadable, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—unease, maybe even fear. He glances at you as you approach, and for a brief moment, his hardened demeanor softens, just enough to let you know he's glad you're here.

"Is it really that bad out there?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You already know the answer, but you need to hear it, to make it real.

Porco shrugs, his shoulders tense. "From what I've heard, it's worse than anything we've faced before. They're not holding back this time." His voice is steady, but you don't miss the way his fingers tighten around his arms, the faint tremor in his hands.

Before you can respond, a pair of soldiers rushes past, carrying a makeshift stretcher between them. The man lying on it is unconscious, his face pale and slick with sweat. His legs are gone—severed cleanly, the stumps wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Your breath catches in your throat, and you step aside to let them pass, your eyes following their retreating forms until they disappear into the medical tent. The sight leaves a hollow feeling in your chest, a grim reminder of what awaits you on the battlefield.

Porco exhales sharply, his composure slipping for just a moment. He looks at you, and for the first time, you see the fear he's been trying so hard to hide. Neither of you says a word. There's nothing to say.

The rest of the warriors arrive one by one, their presence doing little to ease the tension hanging heavy in the air. Reiner is the last to join, his broad shoulders slumped, his face etched with the weariness of a man who has seen too much bloodshed. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes, his gaze fixed on the ground as if he's already bracing himself for what's to come. Pieck stands beside him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She's doing her best to stay calm, but the faint tremor in her fingers betrays her unease. Zeke, as always, is the picture of composure. He leans casually against a crate, his glasses glinting in the dim light, his expression unreadable.