For a brief moment Scotland tried to remember how it had happened.
National Dress Week
One of those silly bonding things that somebody (like Italy probably) had came up with, meaning that he had to go in his kilt. Naturally. He missed most of the first day of meetings due to it not being devolved issues though the silence whenever he came in made it worth it...kinda.
They had all filed into the nearest pub once it was over, most of the regulars knowing to ignore the oddly dressed group. "So Ecosse," France had purred as he slid up beside him, twenty drinks in to the evening, "Are you being a true Scotsman?"
Scotland had smirked, pulling his kilt far enough up to reveal a milky white thigh with a dusting of ginger hairs and freckles before flicking it back down, "As much as your gonna see frog."
Most had laugh though England claimed that what was shown was better than the eyeful he use to get. "He use to fight naked, I prefer this to...that." he explained, giving a mock shudder before returning to his pint.
There was more drink and banter before Scotland eventually called it night, having drank most of the pub's supply of whisky (with a bit of help from Ireland) and promising to meet up with Australia for breakfast. "Proper breakfast," he said, slurring his words as he put an arm around the younger nation's neck, "That means lots of bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs and it's all fried, even the fucking bread."
Australia had just laughed before pushing him out of the lift and continuing up to his own floor. "Night you bastard!" he had yelled as the doors closed.
That was when it started to go wrong.
He had just gotten his room door unlock when he found himself being pushed inside and onto the bed, banging his head hard against the headboard. Between that and the drink it started to become a bit of a blur.
Hands went under his kilt, "Do you think this is what France meant by 'true Scotsman'?" Someone asked, laughing as they flicked the fabric up before running a finger along Scotland's ass, "No wonder everyone watched him come in during the meeting!"
The finger went in and Scotland yelped, trying to squirm away desperately but he was pinned down to the bed by another nation. "Don't act shy now Scotty." they muttered, petting his hair patronisingly, "You must of wanted it, why else for the no underwear and teasing France?"
The protest that was on Scotland's tongue became a chocked scream as something, much larger than a finger, pushed inside. "He's so tight." one of the assailants groaned against his ear.
The other one laughed, "He heals faster, that's why he's good in a fight according to England but..." hands went on his hips, pushing them down and forcing the cock all the way inside, tearing him painfully before the numbing sensation of his body repairing itself took over. "Don't move, I'll bet he gets tighter."
Scotland's mind started to hide at that point, going back to when he was young, when he had fled Ireland's motherly embrace to prove himself and failed. He never did make out who his attackers were, his mind insisting who it had to of been. It was too much like the past to be anyone else.
"Oh! Is there room for one more?" they laughed as Scotland bucked as a hand wrapped around his cock, while a second pushed inside.
He just managed kept a hold of his senses long enough to bite into one of the assailants shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.
A True Scotsman [1a/?]
National Dress Week
One of those silly bonding things that somebody (like Italy probably) had came up with, meaning that he had to go in his kilt. Naturally. He missed most of the first day of meetings due to it not being devolved issues though the silence whenever he came in made it worth it...kinda.
They had all filed into the nearest pub once it was over, most of the regulars knowing to ignore the oddly dressed group. "So Ecosse," France had purred as he slid up beside him, twenty drinks in to the evening, "Are you being a true Scotsman?"
Scotland had smirked, pulling his kilt far enough up to reveal a milky white thigh with a dusting of ginger hairs and freckles before flicking it back down, "As much as your gonna see frog."
Most had laugh though England claimed that what was shown was better than the eyeful he use to get. "He use to fight naked, I prefer this to...that." he explained, giving a mock shudder before returning to his pint.
There was more drink and banter before Scotland eventually called it night, having drank most of the pub's supply of whisky (with a bit of help from Ireland) and promising to meet up with Australia for breakfast. "Proper breakfast," he said, slurring his words as he put an arm around the younger nation's neck, "That means lots of bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs and it's all fried, even the fucking bread."
Australia had just laughed before pushing him out of the lift and continuing up to his own floor. "Night you bastard!" he had yelled as the doors closed.
That was when it started to go wrong.
He had just gotten his room door unlock when he found himself being pushed inside and onto the bed, banging his head hard against the headboard. Between that and the drink it started to become a bit of a blur.
Hands went under his kilt, "Do you think this is what France meant by 'true Scotsman'?" Someone asked, laughing as they flicked the fabric up before running a finger along Scotland's ass, "No wonder everyone watched him come in during the meeting!"
The finger went in and Scotland yelped, trying to squirm away desperately but he was pinned down to the bed by another nation. "Don't act shy now Scotty." they muttered, petting his hair patronisingly, "You must of wanted it, why else for the no underwear and teasing France?"
The protest that was on Scotland's tongue became a chocked scream as something, much larger than a finger, pushed inside. "He's so tight." one of the assailants groaned against his ear.
The other one laughed, "He heals faster, that's why he's good in a fight according to England but..." hands went on his hips, pushing them down and forcing the cock all the way inside, tearing him painfully before the numbing sensation of his body repairing itself took over. "Don't move, I'll bet he gets tighter."
Scotland's mind started to hide at that point, going back to when he was young, when he had fled Ireland's motherly embrace to prove himself and failed. He never did make out who his attackers were, his mind insisting who it had to of been. It was too much like the past to be anyone else.
"Oh! Is there room for one more?" they laughed as Scotland bucked as a hand wrapped around his cock, while a second pushed inside.
He just managed kept a hold of his senses long enough to bite into one of the assailants shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.
Everything went dark after that.