HURRICANE vs SHREDDER — "Sizing Him Up"

Hurricane has seen plenty of cocky young pups come through this garage, and the second he lays eyes on Shredder he can't help himself — the grizzled, tattooed muscle-bull runs his hand right up the kid's flexed bicep, sizing up the merchandise with a smirk. Cute. He's been carved out of granite and he knows it. The blond in the loud trunks is about to learn it.

Except the kid bites back early. They knuckle into a test of strength, all trembling biceps and gritted teeth, and when Hurricane bulls in close Shredder slips down and snaps a head scissors on him — those colorful thighs clamped around the bearded skull, squeezing until the muscle-god's face mashes flat and twists up in real pain. Not posing. Hurting.

But you don't put a man this big away with one hold. Hurricane powers free, hauls the kid up and crushes him in a standing bearhug, chest-to-chest and grinding, then flattens him on the mat and mounts him — one big paw clamped over Shredder's throat while the blond bucks and gasps underneath. He sits back into a Boston crab next, bending the kid in half, that enormous tattooed chest thrust out and flexing for the camera while Shredder claws at the mat and groans.

The kid just won't quit. Shredder weathers it, waits, and turns the tables — climbing onto Hurricane's back and wrenching him into a camel clutch, hauling the bearded head and those thick arms back until the muscle-bull's face contorts and a deep growl rips out of him. Hurricane fights it, strains, refuses to give… so the kid switches it up. Body scissors, legs cinched around that granite waist, squeezing while Hurricane arches and resists, veins popping, sweat running off both of them.

Back and forth it goes — rack, scissors, crab, clutch — two slick bodies tangled and grinding, neither man giving an inch, both flexing through the pain just to prove who's prettier under pressure.

Then Shredder finds the back. He slips behind all that beef, sinks the sleeper deep under the bearded jaw, and pours it on — chest to Hurricane's sweaty spine, mouth at his ear. The big man strains, claws, fights it standing… and slowly the lights go out on the muscle-god. His huge frame sags, his eyes flutter, and Shredder rides him all the way down. Hurricane lands face-down, ass-up, then rolls flat — that magnificent body sprawled out cold, red boots twitching, not a flex left in him.

Shredder stands over the wreckage and throws up the same double-bicep pose the veteran greeted him with. Sizing him up now. Turns out the merchandise was the muscle-bull all along.

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