Cyclonus cries out at the sting of teeth on his neck, and his own scrape against Galvatron's helm.

He wants to resist the command, just to show that he can. Just to show that he doesn't follow Galvatron's orders anymore. But the heat in his body is too much, the pressure of Galvatron's spike against him too familiar. Even as he digs his claws deeper into his ex-lord's metal his panel slides open, lubricant spilling down his thighs.

Rolling his hips, he grinds his slick mesh over Galvatron's thick cord, hissing with delight at the scrape of the studs.

"Satisfy me," he snarls, grasping for any scrap of control he can.