Cyclonus would like to think that if he was at the top of his game rather than addled with lust, then he wouldn't find himself so easily pinned to the floor, held down and venting heavily. But the mech he so unexpectedly fell in to bed with is definitely skilled.

He flexes against Wing's hold, testing it. The warrior in him wants to keep fighting, to keep wrestling with this stranger across the floor until victory or exhaustion. But there's a spike between his legs rubbing oh-so-deliciously across his external mesh, brushing over his anterior node, and the blazing heat inside him wants nothing more than to be pounded into the ground.

It's been a long time since he allowed himself to be dominated by a strong fighter. He's not going to admit that part of him missed it.

"I yield," he says, voice husky. His smirk only grows more wicked.