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Have Any Aspects of Daniel’s Seventy-Week Prophecy Been Fulfilled?

By Author Eli Kittim 

To begin with, here’s an excerpt from my book, The Little book of Revelation: 

“The rebirth of Israel marks a turning point in apocalyptic expectations, and Christ’s message concerning end-time events seems to point toward this 1948 prophetic countdown: 

‘Truly I say to you, this generation will not pass away until all these things take place’ (Matt. 24.34). 

But what on earth does he mean by this? In order to comprehend this terse remark, we must inquire into the standard time limit of a Biblical generation. The Book of Psalms makes known that a generation is equal to seventy actual years (90.10). Similarly, a noteworthy Hebrew soothsayer named Jeremiah exclaims that the Deity will intervene in earthly affairs after a seventy-year period has elapsed (25.12). Daniel, one of the most prominent seers of the Jewish Scriptures, also claims that the Deity has appointed a portent which consists of a seventy-week interval until the conclusion of all things is finalized (9.24). Among scholarly circles, this prophecy is known as The Seventy Weeks of Daniel… . The proof is found in a revered text called the Book of Daniel. In a vision, ‘The man [named] Gabriel’ appears before Daniel to grant him ‘insight with understanding’ (9.21-22). The angelic man imparts a cryptic scriptural clue which, in effect, equates the seventy weeks of Daniel with the seventy-year oracle revealed to Jeremiah (Dan. 9.2; cf. Jer. 29.10)… . Gabriel is basically showing us that the seventy years of Jeremiah’s prophecy must continue to be calculated as years within Daniel’s seventy weeks’ oracle. Clearly, more specific details are ultimately furnished by Daniel’s seventy-week vision, but the reason why Jeremiah’s seventy years are now termed as weeks is for the purpose of allowing us to perform calculations using weeks as the standard of measuring time in addition to using actual years. Taken together, both prophecies refer to an actual seventy-year period whose completion will signal the end of the world (Dan. 9.24). But the details at the micro level entail calculations, which combine measurements in both weeks and years.” 

As I will show, Daniel’s seventy weeks’ prophecy refers exclusively to the end-time and has nothing to do with the time of Antiquity. A common misconception is to assume that the starting point of this prophecy began after the Hebrews returned from the Babylonian exile during the 500’s B.C.E. However, there are many problems with this theory. For one, the Babylonian exile didn’t last for 70 years. Historically, if the first deportation came after the siege of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar II in c. 586 BCE, and the Jews returned to Judah in c. 538 BCE & began to rebuild the second temple in Jerusalem in c. 537 BCE, according to the Book of Ezra, then the Jews were actually held in Babylonian captivity for approximately 48 years, not 70! Thus, Jeremiah’s prophecy (29.10) is seemingly referring to the end-times Babylon of Revelation 18 (cf. Dan. 9.2). And that’s precisely what we find in the 70-week prophecy of Daniel. Daniel’s prophecy actually refers to the end of all visions and revelations, an end-time period that will in effect “seal both vision and prophet” (Dan. 9.24). The fact that John of Patmos continued to furnish us with additional visions and revelations many years later proves that the interim between the Babylonian exile and the coming of Christ in or around 30 CE cannot possibly be the timeline of Daniel’s prophecy. John MacArthur, in describing Dan.9.24, was once quoted as saying: “It’s got to be a final thing cause everything is a final… . Boy, that’s final stuff, isn’t it? The end, the finish, the seal, seal it up, close it up, that’s the way it is!” If it is “final stuff,” then the prophecy cannot possibly be referring to the time of Antiquity but rather to the time of the end! Note also that this prophecy refers to “times of distress” (Dan. 9.25 NASB), a phrase which is also used to refer to the time of the end (Dan. 12.1 NASB). 

The traditional Christian interpretation is further compounded by breaking up the prophecy into two parts: one part fulfilled during the time of Antiquity, the other referring to the last week of the great tribulation. In other words, exegetes assume that there is a two thousand-year gap between the so-called “sixty nine” weeks and the seventieth week. However, there is no indication of a long time-gap between these weeks, but rather a successive sequence of events, thus rendering the expositors’ imposition on the text unwarranted: 

‘Seventy weeks are decreed for your people and your holy city: to finish the transgression, to put an end to sin, and to atone for iniquity, to bring in everlasting righteousness, to seal both vision and prophet, and to anoint a most holy place. Know therefore and understand: from the time that the word went out to restore and rebuild Jerusalem until the time of an anointed prince, there shall be seven weeks; and for sixty-two weeks it shall be built again with streets and moat, but in a troubled time. After the sixty-two weeks, an anointed one shall be cut off and shall have nothing, and the troops of the prince who is to come shall destroy the city and the sanctuary. Its end shall come with a flood, and to the end there shall be war. Desolations are decreed. He shall make a strong covenant with many for one week, and for half of the week he shall make sacrifice and offering cease; and in their place shall be an abomination that desolates, until the decreed end is poured out upon the desolator’ (9.24—27 NRSV). 

 Here are some further observations excerpted from my book, The Little Book of Revelation: 

“The terminology of Daniel’s prophecy suggests that we must use both weeks and actual years in calculating the Messiah’s advent within the overall context of the seventy-year time period… . Many experts have erred in their interpretations by either attributing the starting date of these prophecies to the period of time when the Jews returned to Palestine from their Babylonian captivity – sometime between roughly 538 and 536 B.C. – or by separating them (Jeremiah’s seventy years and Daniel’s seventy weeks) as if they are two mutually exclusive oracles that employ different calculation techniques. 

 At any rate, if we resume our discussion of Christ’s prophecy (Matt. 24.34)—as mentioned earlier in this section—the issue of the seventy-year generation will now become immediately apparent. Jesus is indicating that it will take one generation since the rebirth of Israel ‘until all these things take place’ (Matt. 24.34; cf. 1 Thess. 4.15). Modern Israel, then, becomes the preeminent sign as regards the end of days.” 

I should mention parenthetically that the original text was written without punctuation, thus making it difficult to determine where commas and periods should be placed. For example, some inferior translations of Dan. 9.25 do not separate the seven and sixty-two weeks, thus giving us the wrong impression that they comprise sixty nine weeks. However, the more accurate versions (e.g. NRSV; ESV) do properly separate them, implying that they represent two distinct time periods. Isaac Newton—in his Observations Upon the Prophecies of Daniel (published 1733)—notes that we should not combine the seven and sixty two weeks as if they were one number. That is a spot-on interpretation by Newton. Quite frankly, if the authorial intent was to impress upon us the notion that the numbers seven and sixty-two must be combined, using the same measurements, the author would have simply written sixty nine weeks. The fact that two sets of numbers are given in the text suggests that they are distinct. 

What is more—in stark contrast to the mainstream view—Newton also mentions in the aforesaid book that Daniel’s seventy weeks prophecy should not be confined to the time of Antiquity, but must be applicable to Christ’s eschatological coming. Just like in Revelation 12.3—4 in which the final empire is contemporaneous with Christ—(i.e. “a great red dragon, with seven heads and ten horns … stood before the woman who was about to bear a child, so that he might devour her child as soon as it was born”)—so in Dan. 9.26 the two princes of Daniel’s prophecy are juxtaposed to suggest that they are contemporaries: ‘After the sixty-two weeks, an anointed one shall be cut off and shall have nothing, and the troops of the prince who is to come shall destroy the city and the sanctuary. Its end shall come with a flood, and to the end there shall be war. Desolations are decreed’ (NRSV). According to the text, there does not appear to be a two-thousand-year gap separating these two figures or events. Moreover, the Old Greek Daniel form of the Septuagint (LXX) says in Daniel 9.27, ἕως καιροῦ συντελείας, (i.e. “until the time of the end”; cf. Dan. 12.4 LXX), indicating that the context of this verse is clearly eschatological. 

 First of all, Dan. 9.24—26 predicts the return of the Jews to Palestine, which occurred in 1948 (cf. Isa. 11.11). It also forecasts the atoning sacrifice of a forthcoming Messiah, an event which, according to the Danielic text, has not yet occurred. Furthermore, Dan. 9.26 informs us that the Messiah will be ‘cut off,’ which in Biblical terminology means slain (cf. Prov. 2.22; Ps. 37.9). In working out these calculations, one comes to realize the approximate date signifying the epoch of the forthcoming Messiah. So, if we apply Jesus’ prophecy (i.e. ‘this generation will not pass away until all these things take place’; Matt. 24.34) to Jeremiah’s seventy-year time frame (Dan. 9.1—3; cf. Ps. 90.10), we get one generation of seventy years after the rebirth of Israel (1948), which would bring us to 2018 CE! 

Surprisingly, a different calculation yields similar results. On June 7, 1967, Jerusalem (the holy city) was captured by Israel. Even if 1967 becomes the starting point of a different calculation, the result is identical. For instance, the seven weeks can be measured in weeks of years (cf. Gen. 29.27-28; Lev. 25.8), whereas the sixty-two weeks could be calculated using only days (cf. Lev. 23.15—16). Thus, the ‘seven weeks’ may represent fifty years (e.g. a jubilee), whereas the ‘sixty-two weeks’ would signify a period of approximately one year plus two and one-half months. In other words, both measurements would equal to 51 years in total. This is how the calculation looks like if we take Jerusalem as our starting point: 1967 + 50y (7 weeks) = 2017 + 1y (62 weeks) = 2018! Once again, we arrive at the same date (i.e. 2018), namely, one generation of seventy years after the rebirth of Israel! In fact, from June 7, 1967 to August 21, 2018 or thereabouts is approximately fifty one years and two and one-half months, using a 365-day calendar, which is the equivalent of seven weeks of years plus sixty two weeks of days. Could this be the initial fulfillment of the prophecy? Or is it perhaps the year 2019 or 2020, given that the prophecy must be fulfilled *after* the seventy years have elapsed? This would bring us to the starting point of the end-times, namely, 2019, in which began a terrifying era for the human race. 2019 brought about pandemics, lockdowns, passport mandates where “no one can buy or sell who does not have the mark” (Rev. 13.17), mass media censorship, mass hysteria & psychosis, the abolition of human rights, the totalitarian global control of the masses, the mass protests, and the starting point of the so-called “Great Reset” that has been planned by the elite & the heads of governments for some time. Whichever it is, the Bible warns us to be vigilant:

‘From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see all these things, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away’ (Matt. 24.32—35).

Jeremiah: Why are we friends?

Xavier: Poor decisions on my part.

My Oc Jeremiah

Smart sometimes

LOVES painting

Literally know NOTHING about relationships

Denser than a rock

Can't pick up hits so just tell him directly

Has no sense of fashion

Blue>>>>

REALLY bad with emojis

POV texting him: Camila keeps hitting me 😩

Spiders<<<<

Science and Art are his favorite subjects

Way too good at volleyball

Just wants to make his parents proud of him

My ocs when you want attention: bsf edition

I might make a part two. Wyatt's is angsty??? Warnings: swearing and I think that's it, tell me if there's more.

Wyatt

There he was writing a song while playing a guitar, trying to find a good melody, becoming frustrated with the way it was sounding, and too focused on what he was doing to realize you were behind him he feels like he finally got in until hands wrap around his back your hands around his back " I want hugs." You say pulling him a little closer to you but holding on way tighter.

He feels quite annoyed so he moves your hands away continuing to make the melody. You know your best friend wasn't much of a fan of touch but at least he gave you hugs. You feel a pout start forming on your lips because of his previous actions. You're slightly confused if you've done something for him to be acting like this.

Wyatt sneaks a glance at you and realizes you're upset. He decides to put his guitar down in order to focus on you."Y'know I'm working on something right now." He says clearly not giving a shit about how you feel right now moving his gaze from you to the guitar.

Right now, you can't believe your friend's words, making you want to turn your head away from his direction. "A song nobody's going to hear." you murmur. Wyatt looked at you pissed. "If you have something to say you can say it to my face!" He yelled as he stood up pushing his guitar to the ground. "You know what, fuck you Wyatt!" you shout, storming off and wondering why you came in the first place.

Jeremiah

Jeremiah rarely focuses but today he was focused on an art piece he was making as he getting into the art grove he hears your footsteps coming towards him. "Hey Jer." You shyly say not knowing how to word this. "Hey y/n i'm making an art piece wanna see it!" He says motioning you to come closer hoping you'll like his art.

You slowly drag your feet across the ground it's not like you don't wanna look at it, but you want hugs and are unsure how to express your desire. Jeremiah observes your body language, smiles flattering.

"If you don't wanna see it, that's OK, you don't have to." He murmurs, turning back to his work. "I do want to see it but can we also cuddle after?" You say getting quieter at the end, anxiously waiting for him to reply. "O...Oh umm...uh...sure!" He stutters and fiddles with his hands in an attempt to form words. You take a step closer so you can see his painting.

"Ok, Picasso!" you say hyping up his painting. It was probably the best one he has ever done. He sends you a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he hugs you tight. He buries his face in your stomach. "I love you so much." he mumbles still holding you tight like he won't ever let go. " I love you too." you reply hugging him back just as tight. Engulfed in each other's presence.

★𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮★

★𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓸𝓬𝓼★

★𝓘 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓵𝔂 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓷𝓮𝓾𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓯𝓮𝓶 ★

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒌𝒊𝒆

𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏

𝓜𝔂 𝓸𝓬𝓼

1.𝓧𝓪𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷 2.𝓡𝓲𝓷 3.𝓐𝓷𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓸

4.𝓠𝓾𝓲𝓷𝓷 5.𝓗𝓪𝔂𝓭𝓮𝓷 6.𝓒𝓵𝓮𝓸

7. 𝓚𝓪𝓲

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓸𝓬𝓼

1.𝓙𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓪𝓱 2.𝓦𝔂𝓪𝓽𝓽 3.𝓕𝓮𝓵𝓲𝔁 4.𝓒𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓪 5.𝓛𝓲𝓪𝓶 6.𝓘𝓼𝓪𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪

welcome to philo | jeremiah

summary: Jeremiah knows your flower order by heart, and you plan on repaying the favor in kind.

tags: nsfw (mdni), developing relationship, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), banter, flowers, exhibitionism, oral sex/blowjobs, feelings, jeremiah losing his mind, swearing, m!orgasm, facials, (1) xavier mention

wc: 3.0k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: first time giving jeremiah some lovin' and i have no idea how it spiraled into this but we are here :D

Soft notes of plucked guitar strings and accompanying percussion filter the floral air of Philo, marking another quiet yet fulfilling day at play.

Jeremiah enjoys these moments of peace, lost in thought with his hands neatly arranging a new vase of freshly bloomed marigolds. 

It still took some time getting used to, truthfully. A life where turbulence and struggles amongst the cosmos that once felt like yesterday began to dwindle in the lanes of his memory. The warmth of Linkon City was a form of domesticity he had the privilege of knowing. Though, it didn’t hold the same shine to the bask of Philos’ cobbles and fields.

Even so, he’s made great efforts to carry on since. Jeremiah believes he’s done well for himself, and his cherished flower shop is a testament to it.

He dusts away the nostalgia amongst the skirt of his apron, gloved hands rough at the friction when his masterpiece is finally set. The golden petals stood proud, a reflection of their crafter’s touch. 

A chimed ring accompanies the completion in apt timing, soft footsteps echoing soon thereafter. 

The florist straightens his back, puts on his practiced award-winning smile with a chirped, “Welcome to Philo.” He’s ready to roll out his customer-friendly and marketing genius spiel when he pauses in his tracks, eyes widening in recognition. “It’s you!”

“It’s me,” you wave back in greeting. You strides make their way to his countertop, where he excitedly pulls you in for a half-hug. “Business hours slowing down?”

“A bit,” Jeremiah says, pulling back and a smile in his eyes. “Are you here for your usual?”

You nod, settling your hands along the edge of the cool marble. Jeremiah is quick on his feet, scurrying around the tiles and swiping at certain pots. A handful of fine greenery, baby breaths for a splash of white decor, and the main star—pale blue florets with a ringlet of yellow blossomed in the center, each of the three pieces beautifully nurtured and bright. Bunches nestled in his arms like a newborn, he slides past with a playful wink and lays them before you.

“You’re the only one I know who still orders these kinds of flowers,” he comments, reaching for a pair of scissors. Procured from his hip pocket, he carefully snips at the excess leaves, green plates of flora fluttering to the floor.

“And you’re the only one who knows how to care for them properly.” You prop your chin into your palm, observing him in interest. The florist was in a world of his own. It was truly admirable to see someone so dedicated to a craft as intimate as floral arrangements. 

“The best in Linkon, no one does it like you.”

Jeremiah chuckles, laying out a pattern of baby breaths and myrtle atop a clean sheet of parchment. “I’m flattered. Don’t let the other flower shops hear, surely they’ll come and be nothing but a pain in my ass.”

You laugh with him at the thought, shaking your head. “Nothing wrong with keeping your competition on their toes.” 

Taking one of the three blue focal pieces in hand, you carefully push at its petals, silken soft to the touch. It was fascinating, a small piece of life so fragile yet present in your grasp.

By the time Jeremiah notices his last piece was missing—presently doted for in-between your fingers—the bouquet was only a centerpiece and hard string away from being complete. He clears his throat, noticing you jump in surprise, before a sheepish smile dressed itself across your expressions alike.

“Ah, right. Sorry,” you hold out the flower to him, a bridge from your heart to his. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the master at work.”

With a faked tone of lower cadence, Jeremiah offers a generous, “But of course, you are forgiven.” His best attempt of mimicking a kind and benevolent ruler, though it cracks towards the end into his regular voice.

You half-curtsy once the flora was out of your hands, raising an imaginative skirt in the air. “Oh, how gracious of you, good sir.”

He lets out a softer chuckle, before quickly wrapping the composition into a perfect bundle. A loop of string later, he lifts the flowers tenderly, one hand at the base and the other underneath the bedding of petals.

“For you, my liege,” Jeremiah jokes, though it strums his heartstrings when you let out the sweetest laugh. He could feel a flush tickle his neck, to which he holds in an odd form of defense with a clammy hand. The other is still outstretched, waiting for you to accept his graces.

To which you happily take in, eyes wide in appreciation and the flora reflecting in its glimmers. “Thanks, Jer,” you speak into the petals, inhaling them calmly and enjoying their fresh scent. “I owe you one.”

“No, no,” Jeremiah shakes his head, hands in his hips in turn. “I’ve told you before. These are always on the house for you, just as long as you swing by.”

“Mm.” You hum, before gently placing down the bouquet to the countertop. “Still, it doesn’t feel right. To just always take some of your flowers with no real payment in return.” 

You were sure that wasn’t a viable business practice either. It’s been this way ever since you were first introduced to one another; you’d say hello, and Jeremiah would send you off at the end of your visit with a smile and selection of budding flora in tow.

“That’s—“ Oh, the words lodge themselves in his throat when he feels something warm touch him. It would’ve scared the wits out of Jeremiah, if it weren’t for the gaze that found itself on your hand—neatly perched atop of his. 

Jeremiah stumbles in his response. “That’s, ah, fine?” 

Fine? He wasn’t sure when it turned into a question, nor when did the air in his greenery space become so… impeccably stuffy. But Jeremiah just stares at your hand, processing it all before sparing you a glance.

“You don’t sound so sure,” you tease, tapping the pads of your fingers against his knuckles. In a blink, you’ve met him halfway across the counter once more—though this time, your noses were only a hair away and he could see his surprised expression so clearly in your mischievous eyes.

Your voice lowers some, paying attention to the growing flush that stains his cheeks. “Let me pay you, Jeremiah.”

“I—Wow, you’re pretty,” he blurts out. 

He meant pretty close, though ‘pretty’ wasn’t exactly wrong either. The sunlight dripping in from his ceiling rooftop painted a halo around the crown of your head, shadows gently shaping your face into a newly bloomed sunflower. More than just pretty, he thinks to himself. An absolute angel, even.

Jeremiah bites his lower lip in quick realization and embarrassment, though it only curls the edges of your smile further. “Thank you,” you say, tilting your head in thought. “So, can I take that as a yes?”

He considers this. “I have a feeling that if I say no, we’ll just be going in circles,” he says, more so to himself than in answer. Thinking out loud, letting the ideas process in the moment they occur.

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Maybe not. I promise I’m flexible, but I just think…”

You manage to turn his hand over, and much to his surprise, he naturally accepts the way your fingers slide into his. Warm, very, very warm. And soft. But more importantly, your hand is entwined with his—and he likes it. Jeremiah likes the feeling of holding your warm, soft hand.

When you squeeze his hand, it pulls him out of his thoughts and back to your words of, “You deserve to be compensated and taken care of, Jer.”

“I do?” He sounds almost bewildered at the fact.

“Of course,” you say, stating the obvious to his oblivion. 

Slowly, you bring your closed hands to your lips, looking past your lashes and enjoying the sight of rouge blush saturating his skin. A kiss as soft as those silken petals touches his knuckles before you pull away. Even through the fine leather covering his hands, he feels their presence.

It would be fine, Jeremiah thinks, if he passes away at this moment. If he lets the heavenly graces take him away after receiving a piece of love so tender, from someone he’s grown to adore—it would be fine.

And also, because it has his mind running a hundred miles per hour at the thought of wanting all of that and more. Put him out of his misery to save him the embarrassment of these heated feelings immediately at the forefront of his mind.

“Let me pay you,” you repeat, a quiet intent slowly sinking into your words. “Please?”

Knowing his voice would betray him somehow, Jeremiah only nods and says, “Alright.”

—

Jeremiah is a mess.

He normally prides himself on being organized, keeping things in shape and surfaces clean. After every bouquet, he would sweep the floors and recycle leftovers—even spray down the marble with disinfectant and wipe until it was sparkling clean. Like clockwork, he’d dust his skilled hands across the skirt of his apron and feel that it was another successful day. Whistling while he works, keeping up a tune to the radio or one from his imagination—Jeremiah’s day normally went like this.

Today had almost everything on that agenda. What would he call his, though? A special occasion, probably?

Those very same hands, now gloveless, found themselves tangling and toying through your hair. The lips that push together in an airy shrill of whistles are currently? Pushing out quieted moans of your name, head lolling back from the ecstasy of it.

Jeremiah shouldn’t be doing this. 

Uniform in disarray as much as his curls of auburn, his back practically engraving the countertop’s edge into his skin from how hard he was pushing against it. The zipper of his pants long forgotten, the fabric pooling around his ankles.

Oh, but Jeremiah realizes that there’s something so ungodly pleasant about seeing your lips hover above his cock. Tongue flat against his length that currently hides between a fine layer of cotton boxers. The fabric ran a shade darker from where the heat of your touch traces it, leaving quite an impression.

Jeremiah is a mess, at your disposal, and can’t deny that a part of him screams in joy.

“You,” he breathes out, somehow finding his voice amidst the lustful sighing. “I told you, we—we could’ve done this in the backroom.”

“And I said I wanted you here, Jer.” You press a meaningful kiss to his lower head, smiling when it twitches at your touch. A firmer press allows the stained spot to push past beads of pre to your mouth, and you hum at the tanginess through soiled cotton. “Besides, no one’s going to see us, yeah?”

“I-I mean, yes.” Jeremiah confirms as much, making an effort to conceal the shop with a wave of energy. 

To the naked eye, the glass interior of his shop houses his well-grown plants and marble befitting of its owner. To Jeremiah’s wide gaze, he could only watch the way you make your way downwards, kissing and caressing wherever possible.

“But it’s not going to last, and ah—hah, shit—“ He hisses when your hand squeezes along his length, and he could feel your nails lightly drag along the underside. “I can’t concentrate when you’re down there like this.”

It’s not the first time he’s managed to conceal his shop from the outsider looking in. Sometimes it was required, especially when Xavier tumbled in and out as he pleased, evol abilities damned and secrets afloat. It was, however, the first time he’s had to pull strings just so no one would see the show playing out at the reception countertop. 

A shiver ran down his spine whenever his eyes made contact with a passerby—fleeting, and wondering if they could somehow see past the veil. See how there was an angel between his legs, and that he enjoyed it.

You let out an almost pitiful hum, though the sympathy differs from the fingers dipping past his waistband. “Mm? I think you can, don’t underestimate yourself.”

The thought was kind, but even Jeremiah had his limits. His hips cant on instinct when your unblocked warmth curls around his length, only growing with need by the second. Swiftly, and much to his relief, you free him from those confines.

“Wow, Jer. You’re real pretty,” you coo, delicately raising your fingers from the cusp of his base to the curved head of his cock. “Hard just from looking outside?”

“Wha—No, I just,” he stutters, but even he can’t deny it. One glance to beyond the glass and back to your knowing smirk has him weak in the heart but strong where it matters. “Just keeping a lookout,” he strains.

Flush and stiff from the newly exposed air, you take your time in stroking him. An occasional press to the skin just below his tip has his knees buckling. He fit perfectly into the palm of your hand, a beautiful sight and weight to behold.

“Maybe let down the curtain then? I’m sure everyone would love to see their precious florist be deflowered like this,” you tease lightly.

‘Someone might see’ rings like blaring sirens in his mind—and for a moment, he seriously considers it. Jeremiah’s blush only worsens, the thought doing a number to his senses. He dares to raise a witty quip in return, but it melts into a gasp when your lips seal themselves over his leaking slit.

You have the gall, he thinks, to hum around his cock this way. And look devastatingly stunning too, eyes round in pleasure, all for him to see. To feel, to watch how you take care of him. 

His fingers cradling your head tighten some, though nothing too heavy-handed. Whether it is your doing or his, you make a slow descent down his length, jaw slacking to take in as much of him as you could.

If he thought your hands were warm, your mouth was an oven that neatly shaped and swallowed around him. He feels you huff, before firmly rubbing your nose to his abdomen and a garbled noise rouses from you.

“Don’t force yourself,” Jeremiah pants, gently leading you away from his nestled cock. 

You allow him to do as much, popping his head from your lips and smiling. The lightest string of saliva pulls at your bottom lip and stays with him—Jeremiah can only stare, entranced. 

“On the contrary,” you say, a slight grit to your voice from the loss. “I’m doing all of this because I want to.”

Room for argument falls naught when you return to his erection, and that devilish warmth warps his senses once more. With every bob of your head, Jeremiah’s wanton moans only grow in volume. You search for his hand—which, currently gripped the counter for dear life—and bring it to rest around your throat in permission. 

His fingers twitch over the skin, before realizing he could feel it. No way, no way. Curiously, Jeremiah presses his fingers closer to find that his cock occasionally brushed them, the shape all familiar and busied down your throat. It tingles, feels way too good, especially when you hum in delight.

“Oh, I’m about to—yeah, yeah,” Jeremiah rambles, abdomen clenching at the rush of searing heat spreading throughout. “Gonna cum, come, shit—!”

In the heat of the moment, his hand draws you away from his cock, throbbing and welcoming warm streams of his undoing. You work him through the spurts of release, leaning down with an open mouth to capture what you could. Some of it lands on your tongue, hanging off of the curves—a majority stuck to your cheeks and painted them in a viscous white, smooth and sticky all the same.

Jeremiah feels like a leafless stem, waning in the wind and completely blissed out by the time he comes to. His fingers massage your skull gently, and his half-lidded gaze blows wide when he realizes what an absolute mess he’s truly made this time.

“Oh, sorry, let me get that.“ He searches for his apron, only a few inches away and neatly crumpled in a pile. The pockets, somewhere in there is—ah, he pulls out a small handkerchief, pleating the square and bringing it to your cheek.

You follow his hand whenever it swipes at his excess cum, patiently waiting and watching with satisfaction rimming your eyes. Jeremiah is gentle, patting and swiping alike with the calm moment settling between you.

“There,” he declares, putting aside the fabric that definitely needed to be washed. A wave of decorum crashed against him, and he’s quickly pulling his pants into place. Bringing you up with him, he smooths out your hair and starts to ramble. “Are you okay? Was this alright? I know we kinda just, went for it and all, but I—“

You squish his lips together with a press of your finger, amusement clear in your sigh. “Yes, yes and yes.” You pull your finger then, tapping your own lip in thought. “If anything, those should be my questions to you, Jer.”

Jeremiah blinks, then listens to the pace of his heart and rise of his breaths. To which he deeply inhales and says, “Yeah, I’m great. Thanks, actually.” 

The blush settles into his ears this time, and you can’t help but reach for them in a light pinch. “Cute,” you mumble, though loud enough for him to hear—the red only deepens because of it.

“A-anyway, your flowers,” Jeremiah coughs, waving a hand sheepishly towards them. “They’ve been, well, paid for.”

You turn, picking up the lovely arrangement and hugging it to your chest in content. “I’m glad,” you nod, before pressing a fleeting kiss to his unsuspecting cheek. “All is well!”

Before he could even scramble to words, you were already halfway across the tiled floor and standing at the entrance. Flowers nestled in your arms, and a smile so brilliant it made them seem dull in comparison. “Same time next week?”

Jeremiah cups the cheek where you touch lingers. In his heart, the budding adoration grows another branch, his affections blooming steadfast. 

“Yeah.” He finds himself smiling back. “I’ll see you then.”

More of my OCverse!

Has this been done yet?

capturing Jeremiah’s vacation home from the best angles

He's waiting on his laundry 😌

house of nap ☆

I tried something new and made some emotes of Jeremiah! I especially like the blushing one. 

Jeremiah holy shit

Jeremiah has the best retellings of fairy tales.

Bedtime story 💙

Announcement:

This is a Jeremiah stan blog now.