i love how wicks’ followers portrayed jud as judas, while he was saint jude the whole time, the patron saint of the lost causes, invoked in extreme need because of his reputation for stepping in in seemingly impossible circumstances, but also considered a saint of hope.
imagine ur trying to get with this sexy catholic priest with a troubled past (double sexy) and he keeps trying to talk about your mother. like hush brother im about to do some hozier level shit to you
(also u can commission me to do this for u btw. just putting that out there)
author's note: as a thank you for my first fic reaching 200 notes, im offering boxer Jud: miserable, pitiful, and covered in mud. this is dark, messy, and unapologetic. mind the warnings.
Jud Duplenticy had those eyes that made you want to grab his face and scream at him.
Not out of anger, exactly, but something worse.
Like pity clawing its way up your throat.
Big, wet eyes, the kind that made bartenders slide him drinks they knew he couldn’t pay for.
Right now, those eyes were blinking up at you from the floor of your kitchen, where he was sitting cross-legged in a puddle of his own making. Mud caked his sleeves, flecked across his cheekbones.
"You smell like a crime scene," You said, nudging his knee with your boot.
Jud wiped his nose on his forearm, streaking more dirt across his face, and laughed, a wet, broken sound.
"Probably do." His fingers twitched, already halfway to a fist. The one he’d used on some asshole who said the wrong thing last summer.
You crouched down, your knees popping, and grabbed his chin before he could look away. His stubble scratched your palm.
"You’re gonna tell me why you’re here, or I’m throwing you out." The threat was hollow.
You both knew you wouldn’t.
The mud was drying in the creases of his knuckles, old blood probably mixed in there somewhere.
He exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to steady himself for confession. "You remember that fight?" His voice was rough, like he'd been swallowing gravel.
Of course, you remembered.
The way the guy had goaded him, called him things that made your skin crawl, things Jud had only ever whispered to you in the dark when the shame got too heavy. The way Jud had snapped, fists flying like he was trying to punch his own reflection out of existence.
The way the man hadn’t gotten up.
The mud wasn't just dirt. It was the grave he kept trying to dig with his bare hands. Every time the guilt got too thick, he’d crawl back to that vacant lot behind the old mill, where the earth was always soft from the rain, and he’d claw at the ground until his fingers bled. As if he could bury the memory six feet under. As if the soil could soak up the sin.
"You remember," he repeated, not a question. His fingers curled into his palms, nails biting crescents into the mud-caked skin.
"You remember what he said about you." Your throat went tight.
That man had laughed, leaned in too close, his breath sour with whiskey when he’d slurred, "Bet she screams real pretty for you, huh, freak?" Jud’s knuckles had met his teeth before the sentence finished.
Now, Jud’s shoulders hunched forward, like his spine was collapsing under the weight of it.
"I couldn’t let him–" His voice cracked. "Not about you. Not ever." His lips moved soundlessly.
Forgive me, forgive me.
But the prayer wasn’t for God. It was for you.
You watched him unravel, fingers twisting in the hem of his ruined shirt. He loved like a starving thing, all teeth and desperation, gnawing at the bones of affection until they splintered.
It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t even sweet.
It was the kind of love that left bruises, that stained your sheets with dirt and guilt. But it was love, ugly and raw as the wound on his knuckles.
"You killed him," you said, not to accuse, but to taste the truth of it.
Jud flinched like you’d struck him. His breath hitched, ragged, and he pressed his forehead against your knee, not for comfort, but to anchor himself before he dissolved entirely. "Yeah," he whispered, his voice thick with something worse than tears. "Yeah, I did." His fingers trembled where they gripped your jeans, clinging like you were the last thing keeping him from slipping under.
His love was a feral, mangled thing: all gnashing teeth and bloodied knuckles.
That night, when the man had leered at you, when he’d dragged your name through the filth of his mouth, Jud hadn’t just swung. He’d dismantled him. Piece by piece.
The way he did everything: too much, too hard, until there was nothing left but the wreckage and the echoing silence after.
You could still see the way his fists had moved, relentless, like he wasn’t just punishing the man but exorcising something rotten in himself.
"You think I’m sorry?" Jud’s voice was a scrape against the quiet.
He wasn’t looking at you.
His fingers dug into the fabric of your jeans, twisting, like he could stitch himself back together through the denim. "I’m not." The admission was raw, torn from him. "I’d do it again. Faster." His breath hitched, uneven.
"I’d do worse."
You didn’t pull away. That was the worst part.
How your hand found the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the greasy strands of his hair. He shuddered under your touch, a wounded noise catching in his throat. He loved you like a dog loved a butcher: dumbly, desperately, with teeth bared at anyone who came too close. You were the only thing he hadn’t ruined yet. The only altar he hadn’t defiled with his bloody hands.
He exhaled against your thigh, warm and damp through the fabric, and you felt him tremble, not with fear, but with the awful, clawing want that lived in his ribs.
You knew what his hands could do. You’d seen them split skin, crush bone.
But when they slid up your calves, they were careful, reverent, like he was afraid you’d dissolve under his palms.
He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t know how to be.
But he tried, and that was worse. His fingers pressed into the soft meat of your thighs, possessive, leaving bruises in the shape of his guilt.
"You gonna let me?" His voice was wrecked, the words dragging up his throat like broken glass.
He didn’t mean let me touch you.
He meant let me ruin you, let me mark you, let me press my filth into your skin until you smell like me, until even God can’t tell us apart.
You knew because you’d seen him kneel in church every Sunday, lips moving soundlessly against his bloodied knuckles, begging forgiveness for the things he’d do before sundown.
His hands were calloused, rough from digging graves that never stayed filled, but when he dragged them up your thighs, they trembled. Not from hesitation, from hunger. He wanted you like he wanted absolution: violently, with his teeth bared. You could feel the damp heat of his breath through the denim, the way his fingers dug in just shy of pain, like he was mapping the places he’d ruin later.
He’d tear himself apart before he hurt you, but he’d tear you apart too if you asked.
That was the sickness of it. You never had to ask.
You just had to stay still while he pressed his forehead against your knee, while his fingers inched higher, possessive even in their hesitation.
He worshipped you like a sinner worships: on his knees, with blood in his mouth.
"You don’t get to decide," you murmured, tipping his chin up with your boot. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide with want and shame. "Not like this." His breath stuttered, but he didn’t pull away. He never did. You pressed the toe of your boot into the hollow of his throat, just hard enough to make him swallow.
"Stand up."
Jud obeyed like his bones were yours to command. He swayed on his feet, mud flaking off his jeans onto your floorboards. You could see the tremor in his arms, the way his fists clenched and unclenched. Not in anger, but in that awful, restless need that always boiled over into violence or devotion. Tonight, it was devotion. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared at your mouth like it was Communion.
You reached up and wiped a smear of dirt from his cheek with your thumb. He leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut like a kicked dog expecting another blow.
"You’re filthy," you said, but your voice was soft.
The kind of soft that made his breath catch. He nodded, quick and jerky, already turning toward the bathroom like he could scrub the sin off with soap.
But you grabbed his wrist. His pulse jumped under your fingers, rabbit-quick. "Not yet." You dragged him down onto the couch, his weight making the springs groan. He sat stiffly, like he was afraid to touch you, but his knee pressed against yours: warm, solid, alive.
The silence stretched, thick with things neither of you would say. Jud picked at a loose thread on the cushion, his nails black with dirt. You watched the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the way his jaw clenched like he was biting back words.
Finally, he rasped, "You gonna turn me in?" His voice was too light, like he was joking, but his fingers dug into his thighs.
You leaned back, studying him. The way his shirt clung to his shoulders, damp with sweat and rain, the way his bottom lip trembled before he caught it between his teeth.
"Would you go if I did?"
Jud let out a huff, something between a laugh and a sob. His fingers flexed, then stilled. "Yeah," he admitted, like it was being wrenched out of him.
"I'd walk into that precinct myself if you pointed the way."
His gaze flicked to the door, then back to you, dark and pleading. "But you won't."
You knew he was right. You always were when it came to him.
So instead of answering, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him forward. His breath hitched: sharp, startled, before his mouth crashed into yours.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be.
His teeth caught your bottom lip, biting just hard enough to sting, and you groaned into him, nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric. He tasted like dirt and copper, like sweat and something faintly sour, like the cheap whiskey he’d drowned himself in earlier. It should’ve been disgusting. It wasn’t.
Jud didn’t hesitate. His hands were already under your shirt, rough palms skidding over your ribs, his fingers pressing into your skin like he wanted to leave marks. You arched into him, grinding your hips against his, and he growled-low animal-before flipping you onto your back. The couch groaned under the weight of him, the springs protesting as he pinned you down with his hips. His breath was ragged against your neck, hot and damp, and you could feel him hard against your thigh, the fabric of his jeans rough where it rubbed against you.
He didn’t ask. You didn’t want him to.
His fingers fumbled with the button of your jeans, his nails scraping your stomach in his hurry, and you hissed.
Not in pain, but in anticipation.
He froze for a half-second, his eyes flicking up to yours, searching for permission he already knew he had. You hooked a leg around his waist and pulled him closer, your answer clear. He made a sound like a wounded thing before yanking your jeans down past your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he spread you open.
Jud’s mouth was on you before you could taunt him, his tongue hot and insistent between your legs. He wasn’t gentle, wasn’t skilled. Just desperate, lapping at you like he was trying to drink you in, to memorize the taste of you before you vanished.
His stubble scratched your inner thighs, the burn of it sharp and sweet. You twisted your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.
“Fuck,” you gasped, arching off the couch, and he didn’t let up, his tongue working you over with a single-minded focus that bordered on worship.
Jud pulled back just long enough to spit into his palm before shoving his jeans down past his hips. His cock was flushed, straining against his belly, and you didn’t wait. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking once, twice, just to feel the way his breath stuttered against your thigh. He swore, low and filthy, before grabbing your hips and yanking you forward, the drag of his calloused fingers leaving marks.
“Need it,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the sex.
He didn’t ask. Just lined himself up and pushed in, one brutal thrust that had your back arching off the couch. It was too much, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way, and you dug your nails into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he bottomed out with a choked-off groan. Jud didn’t move, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still, his forehead pressed to yours.
His breath was ragged, his lips parted, and you could see the whites of his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide with something beyond lust.
Something closer to desperation.
Then he fucked you like he fought: messy, relentless, his hips pistoning against yours with a rhythm that was more instinct than skill.
The couch creaked beneath you, the springs protesting under the force of him, and you hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Jud snarled, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he bit down, the sharp pain blooming into pleasure as he rutted into you, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
He didn’t speak.
Couldn’t, probably, with the way his breath came in ragged gasps. But his hands told you everything.
One gripped your thigh so hard the bruises would bloom purple by morning, the other tangled in your hair, tugging just shy of too hard. You arched into him, nails raking down his back, and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your throat where he’d buried his face. He smelled like sweat and dirt and something darker, something metallic that clung to him no matter how much he scrubbed.
Jud’s hips snapped forward again, driving you into the cushions, and you let out a sharp cry, the friction sparking something electric under your skin. He shuddered, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he caught himself, his fingers digging into your hipbone like he was trying to fuse you together.
“Fuck,”
“fuck, you feel—”
But he didn’t finish, just ground his teeth and fucked you harder, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl.
You could feel the sweat dripping down his chest, the way his muscles bunched and flexed with every thrust, and you dragged your nails down his back, leaving red trails in their wake.
Jud groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
He was everywhere.
His scent.
His heat, the rough press of his calloused hands. And you arched into him, your body singing with the kind of pleasure that bordered on pain.
His rhythm was uneven, desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, to leave some part of himself behind when he was gone. You could feel the tension coiling in his hips, the way his fingers trembled where they gripped your thigh, and you knew he was close. So you wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, and he let out a broken sound, his forehead pressing against yours.
Jud came like a sinner at the altar.
With a sob caught in his throat and your name on his lips like a prayer. His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside you, and you arched into him, chasing your own release as he spilled into you with a ragged groan. He collapsed against your chest, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, and for a moment, the only sound was the creak of the couch and the ragged hitch of his breathing.
You traced the tattoo on his neck with your fingertips, each ridge and divot a testament to the violence he wore like a second skin.
Jud shivered under your touch, his body still taut with tension even as he softened inside you. He pressed his forehead to your collarbone, his lips moving soundlessly against your skin.
Confession or curse, you couldn’t tell.
His fingers flexed against your thigh, the grip loosening but not letting go, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he did.
The room smelled like sex and sweat and the damp earth still clinging to his clothes. You could taste copper where he’d bitten your lip, the sting a dull throb now. Jud exhaled, long and shaky, and you felt the way his ribs expanded under your palm, like his body was relearning how to breathe.
He rolled off you slowly, careful not to crush you, but his fingers lingered on your hip.
Not possessive, not anymore.
Like he was memorising the shape of you. You turned your head to look at him, and his eyes were already closed, lashes dark against his cheeks.
“Jud,” you said, and his name was rough in your throat.
He didn’t answer. Just reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at your jaw. His touch was feather-light, barely there, and that was how you knew. Jud didn’t do gentle.
"You ever think about confession?" he asked suddenly, staring at the ceiling. His voice was too casual, like he was asking about the weather. But his throat worked when he swallowed, and his fingers twitched against your skin.
You didn't answer right away. Jud never talked about God unless it hurt. The last time had been six months ago, when he'd dragged himself out of the river with pneumonia and kept mumbling about baptismal fonts between fever dreams.
Now, his jaw was clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "What's there to confess?" you said instead, tracing the ridge of his collarbone. "You already told me everything."
Jud exhaled through his nose.
A sharp, frustrated sound.
His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against your hipbone. "Not everything."
The words came out clipped, like he'd bitten them off. Outside, rain started tapping against the windows, slow at first, then insistent. He turned his face toward the sound, his profile sharp in the half-light.
"Gonna leave town," he said finally.
Not I'm leaving. Not goodbye.
Just the fact of it, dropped between you like a lit match.
You didn't react. Didn't grab at him, didn't plead. Just watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the tightness in his shoulders that meant he was holding his breath.
"I'll come back," he muttered, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the couch.
A liar's tell.
You knew because you'd seen him lie with that same tension in his jaw, right before he confessed.
He turned his face away, toward the piss-yellow streetlight bleeding through your curtains. "Eventually."
His eyelids fluttered shut.
"You won't," you said, and his breath hitched. Not a challenge. Just the truth, hanging between you like the stink of sex and guilt.
Jud sat up abruptly, the couch springs wailing. His back was to you, muscles corded tight under the sweat-slick skin.
He reached for his shirt, but his fingers hesitated, hovering over the fabric like he was deciding whether he deserved to cover himself.
The lamplight caught the long, thin scars on his shoulder blades. Self-inflicted, you knew. Penance in the dark when the whiskey ran out and the memories got too loud.
"You're right," he said, voice scraped raw.
"I won't." The admission landed between you like a corpse. He turned just enough to catch your reflection in the rain-streaked window, his eyes black pits in the glass. "But I'll try." A jagged laugh tore from his throat.
"Fuck, I'll try so hard it'll kill me."
His fingers dug into his thighs, blunt nails finding old half-moon scars.
Naked and trembling, mud still caked in the creases of his elbows. You could see his ribs when he breathed. Too many. Like a stray dog that never learned how to eat without guilt.
"You know,"
"I used to think God put you in my path as a test." His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to touch you but forgot how.
"Turns out you were the fuckin' sin."
He laughed. A wet, broken sound.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Smeared your taste across his stubble. A brand.
Jud moved toward the door, his gait uneven like he was walking on broken glass. He paused with his palm flat against the doorframe, shoulders hunched as if waiting for you to call him back.
You didn’t.
He exhaled, long and slow, like he was letting go of something heavier than breath.
His fingers curled into fists, then released.
A habit.
The same motion he made before swinging, before praying, before touching you like he was afraid his hands would stain you.
"You could stop me," he said, not looking at you.
His voice was rough, but not with anger. With resignation. Like he’d already carved his own grave and was just waiting for the dirt to hit the coffin.
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
The rain slid down the windowpane like tears, distorting the streetlights into smears of gold.
Jud’s silhouette wavered in the gloom, half-turned toward the door, half-turned toward you.
Always caught between running and ruining.
The mud on his knees had dried and cracked, flaking off in tiny, desperate flakes. You wanted to scrape it away with your nails. Wanted to press your mouth to the raw skin underneath. Wanted to bite until he bled.
But you stayed still.
Let him hover there, his breath ragged in the silence. Let him pretend he had a choice. Jud’s fingers flexed at his sides, then curled into fists.
A habit.
A tell.
You knew what came next. Knew it like you knew the taste of his sweat, the way his ribs jutted under your palms when he fucked you too hard.
He’d leave. He’d come back.
He’d kneel at your feet with dirt under his nails and blood in his mouth, begging for a forgiveness neither of you believed in.
