He stops talking, sort of. Proko pushes his face against his arm but every thrust forces another noise out of him. "Fuck, Jiang," he whines, clutching the seat to avoid sliding down too far. He feels like a rag doll but he manages to brace one hand against the seat, straightening his arm so he's pushed back against Jiang's chest. His free hand slides back, grabbing Jiang's hair tightly.