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The soil parts easily for his cock, soft and moist and ready for him. Drawing him in deeper, welcoming him. Like a lover parting their legs for him, like Viktor would always be ready for him, wanting, wet and hot.
But the soil isn’t hot - it’s cold. A poor imitation of Viktor’s body, but it’s all Jayce has left now, and it’s good enough. It has to be good enough.
He had stood by the foot of the freshly dug grave for a long time before not being able to take it anymore. Before he had fully come to realise what he’d been doing, he was tearing off his suit jacket and throwing it carelessly to the side. His crisp, white button up had come after, and he hadn’t cared about the fact that the buttons had broken off in his desperation to feel Viktor against his skin.
He isn’t sure what drove him to do it. Grief? Love? Obsession? Longing? Whatever it had been, it had overtaken him. The urge, no, the need to be close.
He had unbuckled his belt with trembling fingers. Reached into his underwear and wrapped his fingers around his hardening cock, gasped as his cold fingers touched warm skin.
He lifts his hips to shove his hand in between his body and the grave to wrap his fingers around the base of his cock. He fucks into his fist, fucks into the soil, fucks into the grave that is Viktor’s final resting place. He chokes out a sob, chest heaving. Grips his cock harder, almost to the point of painful. Claws at the loose soil, presses his forehead against the ground.
The images of Viktor blur together in his mind as he keeps working his hips up and down, fucking into the loose soil. Images of Viktor under him in bed, reaching out to pull him into a lover’s embrace. Viktor at the funeral, in the open casket, peaceful and cold. Viktor six feet below him, buried in the dirt.
Has the maggots gotten to him yet? Made their way into him?
A hot surge of rage and jealousy bubbles up inside of Jayce, filling his chest, making his limbs feel heavy. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his teeth hurt, and his cock aches. A migraine starts blooming at the base of his skull.
How dare they be inside Viktor when he cannot?
For a hot, delirious moment, Jayce considers clawing his way through the feet of dirt all the way down to the casket. He could do it. He’s strong. He imagines himself breaking open the casket and climbing inside to lie down next to Viktor, hold him close and never let go.
He sucks down a deep breath and pushes himself off the grave, pulling his cock free. He grabs a fistful of wet soil before putting his hand back on his cock. Then, he starts working himself over furiously, from root to tip every single time, fucking into his fist and the soil in it.
“Viktor, please-” He’s begging, choking on his tears. He squeezes his eyes shut, the muscles in his arm starting to burn with the frantic pace of his stroking. “Please, I can’t-”
If he did dig his way down to Viktor, would his body welcome him? Would he be as soft and pliant in death as he was in life?
That thought makes him come with a wet, pathetic whimper at the back of his throat. He curls in on himself as he paints the grave in rope after rope of come. After the last shudders of orgasm leaves his body, his arm gives out and he collapses forward.
The plush soil welcomes him fondly, like the embrace of an old friend.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
He drapes himself over the grave mound, presses the side of his face against it, buries his hands as deep into the dirt as he can. He cries hard, deep sobs wracking his large frame until there’s no more tears to cry and he’s completely exhausted.
A light rain starts falling from above, wetting his back until the fabric of the dress shirt clings to his skin. He imagines that he’s using his body to shield Viktor from it, uses his body to protect him in death.
He doesn’t know for how long he lies there, but it’s long enough for him to start shivering from the wet cold. He eventually turns his head and presses a desperate kiss to the ground, but he doesn’t taste Viktor.
He only tastes dirt.
“I will be with you soon,” he whispers before pushing himself off the ground with trembling arms. “Just a few more things I need to get in order, and then we will be together again.” He strokes the grave as one would the cheek of a lover, and then he stands.
He reads the name on the grave: Viktor Talis.
He looks down at his hands, stained dark and dirty. With a pained grimace, he removes the gold band from his left ring finger. He places it on top of the grave before turning to leave.
The rain keeps falling from above.