He was going to kill those bastards. Fucking Mike. Fucking Ingo. Fucking Roman, the ice fucking princess. And fucking, motherfucking Deniz.

Bulle tried to breathe evenly as he pulled the tutu up his thighs, feeling the coarse material scratch on his hair through the thin tights. he'd been relieved to find the locker-room deserted, but he could sense the upcoming humiliation. He gritted his teeth. Someone would pay; he didn't care who.

Because this wasn't his fault. He wasn't some fag, like the Wild guy, who pranced around flaunting his perversions shamelessly.

It wasn't his fault that he was wearing this fucking hung. Because if it were his fault, his choice, then he'd have absolutely no excuse for liking it.