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.

I will never not love Bulle in drag. NEVER. <3333333333333333333333333

Yeah. This is hilarious.

Come on, Bulle, you know you want to.

Oh this! God, that's good. Because yes, hilarious, and OF COURSE HE LIKES IT (bloody closet case), but it also made my chest go all tight because yeah, Ingo's awesome humiliation strategy is totally what could've pushed Bulle over the edge and made him decide for sure that he was going to fuck Roman up. Not that he probably wouldn't have if Ingo HADN'T done something, because people like Bulle don't work that way, and I did so love Ingo for doing this. But at the same time they're unquestionably tangled up in each other and I'm just babbling now, but gah, Giorgia. This made me feel things. *wibbles and clings*

I love you. And yes, poor Bulle! But bad Bulle. And bad Ingo. Maybe. Or not. IDK IT IS ALL SO CONFUSING.