He can't be quiet. He fucking can't. Jiang's weight leans into his shoulder and all he can do is fucking take it. He can feel the mess he is; he can hear it. Before they're done he knows his thighs are going to be slick with his need.

And it feels so fucking good.

Proko tries to ride his hips back to meet him, he lets his knees slide apart like he can open up more. "Will," he moans his name like a fucking prayer; he mewls it.