PUNCHING BAG
jud duplenticy x wife!reader
AO3 LINK HERE
a/n: missed you guys. the knives out franchise has been my favorite since its release in 2019, so i figured it was fitting that it gave me inspiration for the first time in weeks 6 years later in 2025. not my best work, but it's work. i hope y'all enjoy :)
warnings: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR WAKE UP DEAD MAN. SMUT 18+, religious imagery, angst with fluff and smut, slight emotional grapples with catholicism, i am not catholic so inaccuracies are very much possible, this is not proofread because i just don't want to
There was plenty of evidence to help you understand how he was feeling. It was in the heaviness of his breath; the stomp of his feet against the floor; the scowl that had frozen his warm smile over; the deep, deep trouble behind his usually calm eyes. It could have been any of that. But truly, what it was, was the dust particles floating through the air, catching in the light that slipped through the garage’s single window. They only flew with each thud of his bare fist against the punching bag, the one that had sat, untouched, for years now.
When you married him, he had suggested to just throw it away or donate it—no need to have a visual reminder of the violence he was so desperate to leave behind. He had found God, and He had helped him find you. The new Reverend was not interested in letting his sinful, hateful past thread between the fibers of his new life. You, however, had insisted he keep it. Let it take up space. Let it be there, ‘just in case.’ And today, years, later, case there was.
He could feel your presence in the doorway. You knew it, too, that your presence, leaning against the doorway, filled his peripherals with each grunt that escaped him. You didn’t dare speak, though. Not out of fear, but out of respect for him, his emotions, and his commitment to his calling. He wouldn’t share with you. He couldn’t. The sacramental seal was the last thing he would betray. But still, you’d wait for him to say anything. And as the first, slow tear trickled down from his eye, mingling with the sweat that had dripped into the collar he had yet to remove, his mouth finally opened.
“I can’t tell y—”
“I know.”
He finally stopped punching, his head sagging forward against the bag. You stepped into the garage, stopping just in front of him, and erached toward his throat. With sharp, efficient care, you undid the small, brass clasp. The damp, rigid plastic of the Roman collar came away, peeling off his neck like a useless bandage. You let it drop. It made a tacky, pathetic sound hitting the floor.
“Monsignor Wicks, isn’t it?” you ask slowly, your voice quiet before you meet his eyes. “It’s obvious how much he doesn’t want you there.”
Jud sighs, going to go sit on the workbench on the side of the garage. Your wedding ring catches the sunlight as you follow him.
“Every week, it’s the same shit that he forces me to listen to,” Jud breathes, letting his head fall to his hands. “I am happy to take his confession. It’s my job to help him reconcile with God. It’s my job to be the shepherd. But they expect the shepherd to be a silent, stainless vessel. And they forget that sometimes, the vessel can crack.”
“You’re shaking,” you remark, catching the tremble of his hands.
“I’m still angry,” he replies, clenching his fists. “And I wouldn’t have to be here if I had just been less hateful in the first place.”
“The deacon deserved it,” you quickly retort, rolling your eyes. “He sucked. He got what he had coming.” You reach for one of his clenched fists, forcing it open to place your hand in it. He finally lifts his head, meeting your eyes. “You don’t have to be the Reverend, or the shepherd, or the father, right now,” you say quietly. “You can just be Jud, if you want.” Your fingers thread between his.
The instant those words leave your mouth, his eyes flash. Not quite hope, but certainly bent in that direction by the strength of his tension. “Your husband,” he breathes. “Just Jud.”
You nod, a thin smile on your face.
Marriage had saved Jud. You two were young when you made your vows, barely 20 years old. Somehow, though, wise enough beyond your years to have married as soulmates. Plenty of time had passed, and still, those vows rang as true as the day they had been spoken before the lord.
“Your husband,” he breathes once more, before letting his lips crash to yours. “It’s everywhere,” he pants between desperate kisses, leaning over you. “His words. They’re everywhere. In my head. In my mouth. I can taste his hatred. I need to make it stop. It needs to stop.”
He moves with the practiced, coiled speed of a boxer, seizing you. The bench you sat on was forgotten. He maneuvers you against the cold concrete wall, his body caging yours, blocking the humiliating light of the overhead utility strip.
His hands, thick and strong, go to his own clothing first. Once he rips his shirt off, he throws it. The motion is an aggressive rejection of the spiritual uniform, a physical act of defiance against the man who misused the collar's authority.
He doesn’t remove your clothes so much as he simply displaced them, urgently creating skin-to-skin contact. His movements are rough, driven by the frantic need to replace the vile, lingering residue of Wicks's presence with something pure, honest, and real—the reality of his wife, the reality of his marriage.
His lips fall to yours once more, his hands sliding anywhere they can, desperate to anchor himself to his greatest salvation: you. With a ragged gasp, he pulls back, but immediately brings his kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and to your waiting breasts.
“Is this what you need from me?” you softly pant, your eyes wide with both want and concern.
“I need to feel you,” he replies. “I’m so mad.” His hands travel between your parted thighs, rubbing at the growing wetness of your pussy, eager to get you ready for him. “I need you,” he hisses again, tongue swirling around your peaking nipple.
“Bed,” you reply. The snap in your tone makes him look up. “It’s cold in here!” you sheepishly reply. He can’t help the whisper of a smile that takes over his lips at that moment. He lifts you against his naked body, leaving the pile of both of your clothes behind as he treks to the bedroom.
He wastes no time when he places you down, spreading yout legs wide open to slide one finger into your waiting heat. A short gasp escapes you, your hands finding his toned chest, sliding down to his rippling abs.
“Lean down,” you huff as he slides the second finger in. “Let me kiss you.”
He smiles, endeared, as he brings his face closer to yours, his fingers thrusting at an angry pace. Your lips flutter over his neck, tracing the lines of his tattoo and down his throat.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he pants, thumb rolling your clit, now. “I need to be inside you, but I’m so upset. I don’t think I can be nice.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you’re quick to reply. “And you don’t have to confess anything to me. I want you to feel better. I want to help you feel better.”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” he practically whines. “I can’t hold it back.”
“I couldn’t be mad if I tried.”
One final look of assurance is all it takes before Jud is sliding his hands to your hips, his thick, wide cock thrusting into you with the anger and speed of a man truly scorned.
“He shouldn’t be allowed,” Jud grunts out, though you can barely hear him over your own moans and the slap of his skin against yours. “He shouldn’t be allowed to run a church. He’s so selfish. He’s terrible. He’s—he’s scum.”
It’s hard to focus on Jud’s emotional rant when you’re already close to seeing stars, but you try your best. “Mhm,” you manage to whine out. “He’s a poor excuse for a priest. I’m so sorry—oh my goodness—!”
The cries that you’re unable to contain bring him back to what’s in front of him: his loving, caring wife, who’s inches from a mind-boggling orgasm.
“Don’t even think about him right now, Jud,” you gasp out. “Just focus on this. And yourself. Does it feel good?”
“So good,” he mutters, his eyes relaxing as he hears you. “You feel so good. You’re everything. You’re perfect.” He pulls out slowly, chest heaving, before slamming back into you, hard enough to steal your breath. His eyes lock on yours as he begins to drive himself even harder than before. "You," he gasps out with every thrust. "I need you. This is the truth. This is the only truth."
The rage was now completely subsumed by desire. The roughness wasn't about pain, but about absolute, uncontrolled passion—the kind of messy, glorious, release that only a deeply bonded couple could share. His face was a mask of sweat and agony and intense satisfaction, his back muscles pulling tight with the strain.
You felt the tension coiling impossibly tight inside you. You were seconds away from breaking, propelled by his furious devotion.
“So close,” he groans, his head falling to your neck, hot pants escaping onto your skin. “You’re so good. You feel so good.” His eyes are shut in bliss and concentration as his hips grow impossibly faster, both of you inches from your release.
Finally, it hits him. The sound that tears from his chest is a deep, ragged groan of pure relief, a primal sound that has nothing to do with collars or churches, and everything to do with being twenty-something, furious, and utterly loved. He trembles as he releases, his fingers rubbing over your clit with intent and devotion.
“Please give it to me,” he begs. “Let me have this from you. I know you can do it, I know you—”
“Jud!” you gasp out, back arching, toes curling. “J-Jud, Jud—yes!” Your orgams crashes over you, and his fingers drag those waves of pleasure through you until your hips are beginning to twitch from the overstimulation. Slowly, he removes his hand, his body lowering onto yours.
The room is silent for several minutes, the sound of both of your breaths mingling with the descending sunlight that filters through the window. Finally, when your heart rate has slowed enough for your eyes to open, you speak.
“So we can both agree that I was right about keeping the punching bag, right?”
He snorts at your remark, his eyes fluttering open as he tilts his head slightly to meet your gaze. “You can be right about whatever you want. You’re right about everything, okay? I love you.”
“I love you too.” Your voice is quiet once again, your smile small yet warm.
He doesn’t need to speak again. He simply buries his face in your hair, his body relaxed and slack, the tension finally burned away. The young man who had been terrified of his own anger minutes ago was now just your exhausted, safe husband.
