2 Servants 1 Master in the Holy Grail War

The heavy canvas flap of the tent snapped shut behind you, instantly locking out the cold, war-torn night. Inside, the air was suffocatingly hot, thick with the scent of burning cedar, expensive musk, and the raw, electric tension of active mana.

It took exactly two seconds for your brain to process the absolute, beautiful disaster your accidental double-summoning had created.

A massive campfire crackled in the center of the space, casting deep, dancing orange shadows across two legendary heroes—both completely unclad, their flawlessly sculpted, naked physiques shimmering under the firelight. But the vibe in the tent was practically freezing over.

To the left stood Diarmuid, his spiky dark hair wild and his jaw set in a rigid, stubborn line. His arms were tightly crossed over his chest, his amber-gold eyes pointedly locked onto the dirt floor rather than looking at your frame.

"I have told you before, Master," Diarmuid muttered, his formal voice stiff, distant, and dripping with an agonizingly rigid knightly restraint. He was practically vibrating with stubborn resistance. "This is highly improper. I am your knight, not a plaything for your tent. I refuse to let my guard down, and I will not subject you to the wiles of my curse while we are unarmored. Please, put some distance between us."

"Oh, swallow your pathetic pride, spearman. Your tedious little lectures are putting the prize to sleep."

A dark, aristocratic chuckle echoed from the silk cushions as Gilgamesh leaned back, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. His crimson eyes gleamed with a predatory, thoroughly amused delight as he looked at you. With a lazy flick of his wrist, Gilgamesh reached out, his cool, golden-ringed fingers anchoring firmly into the fabric of your clothes and dragging you down onto the cushions right against his radiating chest.

"If the hound wishes to starve in the corner, let him," Gilgamesh purred against your ear, his hand smoothly sliding down to trace the curve of your waist with total, smug confidence. He was making rapid, effortless progress, his lips brushing your jaw. "You belong to a King now, little mongrel. Let me show you how a real master of the world claims what is his—"

Thud.

The ground practically shook as Diarmuid took a sudden, violent step forward, his crossed arms ripping apart. The stubborn, frosty restraint in his eyes completely shattered, replaced by a sudden, blazing wave of raw, territorial jealousy. Seeing the King's hands all over you had completely snapped his composure.

In a flash of superhuman speed, Diarmuid dropped to his knees right beside the cushions, his large, warm hand ruthlessly wrapping around your wrist to yank you out of Gilgamesh's grasp, pulling you flush against his own hard, naked torso. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving as his golden eyes glared daggers at the blonde king before snapping down to look at you with fierce, breathless intensity.

"Keep your royal hands off my Master, Archer," Diarmuid snarled, his polite knightly facade completely melting away into pure, demanding demigod dominance as his grip tightened possessively on your waist. He leaned down, his lips practically brushing yours as his native tongue slipped out in an annoyed, desperate hiss. "Fine. You want your servant, Master? You have him. I will not sit here and watch this arrogant tyrant steal what is mine to protect. Mo chroí... look at me. Tell this golden fool who you actually belong to."

Gilgamesh’s predatory smile only widened, his crimson eyes flashing dangerously as he lunged forward to trap you from behind again, his hands locking onto your shoulders to pull you back against him. "A dog shows its teeth at last? Entertaining. Let's see who is obeyed when we both tear your composure to pieces."