Chapter 1: The first sight
Chapter Text
Let Me See You
The sun burned high over Jericho, but Bartimaeus sat in his usual place—his world unchanged by the light he could not see. He knew people passed by. He could hear them: the leather of their sandals, the disdain in their voices, the occasional mercy of dropped coins.
But today, the crowd buzzed differently.
“Jesus is here,” someone whispered.
Something deep inside Bartimaeus—something wordless, primal—stirred.
“Jesus, son of David,” he cried out, louder than he meant to, desperate and raw, “have mercy on me!”
They tried to quiet him, but he shouted again, voice breaking: “Have mercy!”
Then came stillness.
A ripple passed through the crowd, and someone said, “He’s asking for you. He wants you.”
They guided him, but Bartimaeus barely felt their hands. His heart pounded like thunder in his chest. He stood, trembling, casting off his cloak like a snake shedding its skin. He needed nothing between him and the man he had never seen, but already trusted more than his own name.
He knelt.
“Oh Jesus, my dear Jesus,” he whispered, “restore my vision.”
Silence.
And then—
A touch. Light as breath on the nape of his neck.
“Bartimaeus,” a voice said behind him, low and velvet-smooth, “you already see more than most.”
He shuddered.
Jesus stepped into view—not that Bartimaeus could yet see him—but he felt him. The heat of him. The weight of divinity in the air, like incense and storm clouds.
Then—
“Look at me,” Jesus whispered, lips brushing against his ear.
A spark ignited behind Bartimaeus’s eyes, and light flooded in. For the first time, the world exploded into color.
And Jesus—
He was radiance. Golden-skinned and fire-eyed, his robes clinging to his form in the desert heat, chest rising slow and steady with breath.
Bartimaeus gasped. “You… you’re beautiful.”
Jesus smiled, cupping his face with reverent hands.
“You’re the first to say that and truly mean it.”
Their lips met.
Bartimaeus clutched at him—needing to feel, to taste, to know. The kiss was soft at first, worshipful, but quickly deepened. Jesus held him like something sacred. Like he was the miracle.
Fingers tangled in hair. Robes were tugged loose. Mouths found skin.
“I want to know all of you,” Bartimaeus murmured, breathless. “Let me see with more than just my eyes.”
Jesus guided them down to the warm earth, bodies pressed together in the golden light.
“Then see me,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “All of me. I am yours.”
What followed was not just a joining of flesh, but a communion. Bartimaeus traced every line of him with reverence, tasting divinity with every kiss. Jesus responded in kind, hands gentle but insistent, worship in every touch.
Their cries were muffled by the wind, their bodies moving like prayer—rhythmic, pleading, grateful.
Afterward, wrapped in the lingering heat of sun and skin, Jesus cradled him.
“Was that mercy?” Bartimaeus asked, dizzy with love.
Jesus smiled against his shoulder. “That was just the beginning.”
Chapter 2: Water Into Wine, Flesh Into Fire
Summary:
At a wedding feast in Cana, Bartimaeus—newly gifted with sight—watches Jesus with reverent longing, overwhelmed by his beauty and presence. After a charged glance across the courtyard, Jesus secretly beckons Bartimaeus to follow him. They slip away into a wine cellar, where their desire ignites in an intimate, passionate encounter. Their lovemaking is both physical and spiritual—Bartimaeus sees Jesus not just as savior, but as man, and Jesus finds solace in being touched, known, and loved. In the quiet aftermath, their connection deepens as Jesus affirms that love between them is not sin, but sacred.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Water Into Wine, Flesh Into Fire
The crowd roared with joy, but Bartimaeus stood still at the edge of the courtyard. His eyes, new to the world, had learned how to see light, color, motion—but nothing had prepared him for this.
Jesus.
At the center of the wedding, wrapped in laughter and linen, pouring joy into clay jars. He’d turned water into wine with a single word. And yet, Bartimaeus thought, he had already performed a greater miracle when he’d turned him—a blind beggar—into a man who saw.
And now Bartimaeus couldn’t stop looking.
He watched Jesus from across the garden. The way he laughed with the wedding guests. The curve of his lips against the rim of the cup. The sunlight catching in his hair like a halo spun from wheat.
But Jesus didn’t look at him. Not once.
Was this how it would be now? A miracle passed, a memory fading?
Then—a moment.
Jesus turned his head, mid-conversation. Their eyes met.
Something passed between them. Something so fierce, so raw, Bartimaeus forgot to breathe.
Jesus raised his cup. Tilted it in subtle invitation. And then, like nothing had happened, he turned away again.
Bartimaeus waited. A test? A tease? His body thrummed, unsure.
Until he felt a brush at his arm—barely a touch, but enough.
“Follow me,” came the whisper.
He didn’t hesitate.
Through the press of people and the soft clatter of celebration, Bartimaeus followed him down a stone corridor and into the shadows of the wine cellar—cool, quiet, sacred.
The door shut behind them.
In the silence, Jesus leaned back against a stack of amphorae, arms open, gaze unreadable.
“You looked like you were dying out there,” he said.
“I was.”
Jesus smiled slowly. “Come here.”
Bartimaeus crossed the space in two steps. Hands met hands, mouths met mouths. The kiss was a hunger loosed too long—a prayer finally answered.
He pressed Jesus back into the curve of the wall, lips claiming, greedy. Jesus opened to him with a low moan, robe slipping from one shoulder. Bartimaeus ran trembling fingers over the golden skin beneath, and Jesus shivered.
“You wore this to punish me,” Bartimaeus murmured, eyes trailing down the line of Jesus’s neck.
Jesus laughed against his mouth. “I wore it knowing you’d end up pulling it off.”
Bartimaeus kissed down his throat, every inch a revelation. “Your body... it’s a psalm.”
“And you,” Jesus whispered, guiding his hands lower, “are the one I want to recite me.”
Robes fell. Heat bloomed.
In the quiet hush of clay jars and crushed grapes, Bartimaeus dropped to his knees. Not out of worship—but desire.
Jesus cupped his face, looking down at him with a gaze so tender it could shatter stone.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Bartimaeus said, voice rough. “Let me taste the miracle.”
And he did.
The wine wasn’t the only holy thing in that cellar.
Jesus’s head tipped back, a gasp escaping his lips, low and trembling. His fingers clenched in Bartimaeus’s curls, not in command but in surrender. He whispered his name like scripture, like a benediction.
When it was over, when they had crumpled together against the wall, sweat-slick and breathless, Jesus held him. Their legs tangled. Their hearts slowed.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then, soft:
“Am I allowed to love you like this?” Bartimaeus asked.
Jesus looked at him, eyes deep as the Jordan.
“Love is the one commandment I will never break,” he said. “And in your arms… I remember I am still a man.”
Bartimaeus smiled. “A man who just made me sin in a cellar.”
“No,” Jesus said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I made you holy.”
Outside, the guests cheered the taste of the wine. Inside, Bartimaeus drank from the cup of something far sweeter.
Notes:
Yes, he blessed more than wine, okay? The next chapter is tentatively titled: Upon the Waters, Within His Arms—set on the Sea of Galilee with boat rocking, miracle touching, and emotional turbulence 😳💦
Want it? Shall we raise the stakes (and the robes) even higher?
gizurrr on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 12:06AM UTC
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