Author's note: I'd like to thank you all for your loyalty to this clusterfuck of s story. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and appreciating it for what it is. I know that this level of absurdity isn't for everyone, and so it thrills me that it's for you. :)

This chapter is VERY different from the previous, so I'm hoping that you'll stick through it for me. I promise that the ridiculousness doesn't wane. Honestly, I think it has opened up the possibility of a sequel story. Perhaps you'll want to see what "Jeremy" does next, and I've already given some thought to exactly what those things may be. So... if you're interested, please please please let me know!

*WARNING* This epilogue contains explicit, NSFW smut. Hopefully it manages to vary from the other smutty scenes I've written. For me, successfully mixing things up IRL has proven SO MUCH EASIER than it is to write it. I have no idea why.

BTW, I own NOTHING and I never will.

EPILOGUE

with all I know now to be true

and all I've figured out about you

all the crazy things a mind can do

I lay down to the sound of the truth

(Once - Laura Marling. I'm in love with this girl!)

-...-...-

Five months later, present: Prague

Jeremy Miller (the man formerly known as Tom Keen, thanks to Reddington's best "go package") had enjoyed a brief sojourn from work after fleeing the country, but he'd since come into new employment, under a man he knew only as Storm King. Sure, Jeremy briefly considered catching a clean gig, but what the hell was he supposed to do, go back to teaching elementary school? Jeremy Miller didn't have a teaching license, and going clean would mean acquiring a real one. Screw that.

He was back to spying again, only this time, his new employer paid him well enough to play the sweet life of a trust fund baby. He wasn't even burdened by maintaining a cover-keeping side job. The Storm King set him up with a wealthy investment banker in Prague, who literally paid the man to hire a skilled spy to seduce, marry, and care for his beautiful daughter. The scummy banker had wronged far too many people, and his 19-year-old daughter had been dating a string of sleazy, irresponsible playboys. Clearly, she had a type, but her type wasn't anyone that the banker could trust. It was only a matter of time before she fell into the wrong hands, and Jeremy Miller was the perfect solution to his problem.

As for what, exactly, this Storm King fellow did, well, Jeremy didn't even know. From what he could gather, the elusive man was a broker of criminal deals, much like Reddington, except that he seemed to deal mostly with stolen artifacts. In any case, the money was so good that Jeremy didn't care. He was referred to him by a trusted contact of Berlin, prior to his death. His contact discreetly imparted very few details about how his previous job ended, only revealing that it was Reddington's fault. Since very few men do, being bested by Reddington and surviving actually proved to be a mark in Jeremy's favor. He was a lucky man. Well, mostly.

His mark, Ingrid, was beautiful, blonde, and always dressed impeccably. She was five feet, eight inches tall, and had legs that would put Kate Moss to shame. From purchases made with his eye-popping, seven figure sign-on bonus, Jeremy had no trouble being the man that she needed him to be. He started by befriending her friends, and seducing her had proven laughably easy. The problem was that truthfully, he didn't even like Ingrid. She was a vapid, spoiled brat, whose only interests included shopping, partying, and reading celebrity gossip rags. Even worse, she was addicted to cocaine, and had a raging temper. He had no problem dating such a young woman, but she was so nasty that the thought of marrying her made his stomach churn.

That day, he had purchased an engagement ring with enough carats to guarantee a shrieking "YES" from Ingrid. Tom Keen wasn't a timid man, but all of a sudden, Jeremy Miller was. He was holed up alone in the royal apartment suite of Prague's Grand Hotel, sitting at a desk by the window, overlooking The Square below. He was supposed to be thinking of the perfect way to propose, but instead, he nervously flicked the ring box open and closed, contemplating the easiest way to stage a lethal cocaine overdose.

Shit.

As much as he loathed to admit, even to himself, he missed Liz. No, he never loved her. She was his mark, and he took his job too seriously for that to even be possible. He was, however, very fond of her, just the same. Maybe, under different circumstances, he could have loved her. Perhaps it was foolish romantic idealism, but the more he allowed himself to dwell on the thought, the more he believed it to be true. Liz was easy to trap, but keeping her proved to be a challenge that he didn't always hate. It was just all of that sappy, puppy dog romantic crap that seemed silly to him.

Raymond Reddington's involvement in her life changed her. Even if Red had never told her that Tom didn't really exist, he would have lost her anyway, eventually. Red's world hardened her. It made her dwell on her shady beginnings. Little by little, Red made it clear to her that she hadn't escaped her past. She was never REALLY the woman who loved all the fluffy crap that Tom spoon-fed her. No. Liz wanted Tom because he represented everything that Liz thought she wanted. He was the man who made her want to outrun her past. He made her believe that Prince Charmings existed-were more than mere characters of fairytale fiction. They were on their way, really.

What Reddington had done, more than anything else, was open Liz's eyes to the fact that she couldn't outrun who she really was. Tom had tried to harden his character accordingly, to bend to the real Liz, but it wasn't enough. It never would be.

-...-...-

Five months previous: Coachella

"Red?" Lizzie asked in exasperation. "I've never been so certain of anything in my life. I swear god, I will KILL you if you stop." To drive her point home, she lifted her head and latched onto the scar that she had given him. Red shuddered and his elbows buckled, causing him to collapse on top of her.

A breath later, Red found his strength. He pulled back and tugged fiercely at Lizzies clothing, disrobing her completely at a shockingly-rapid speed. Rather than discarding her apparel, he made a little makeshift bed for her to lie on. Lizzie continued her assault on his neck as he undressed himself. She had never been so grateful that he wasn't wearing one of his suits. The sooner he got naked, the better. Red's clothes were summarily added to the pile, and god help her, he took his sweet time from there.

He slinked backwards and silently, momentarily, kneeled before her in reverence. With that done, he started with her feet, blowing a stream of warm air across the soles. It was enough to make her shudder.

One at a time, he took her feet in his hands. He only caressed them at first, but gradually worked up the pressure until he was deeply kneeding both the toes and soles, rubbing out every last knotted muscle. Despite not being "a foot woman", Lizzie moaned in a continuous chorus.

Slowly, he worked his way up her legs with both his mouth and hands. Lizzie became a wanton, writhing mess, only inches away from begging for him. His hands slipped all over, alternating between caressing and squeezing. When he came to her thighs, he suckled deeply on the pale flesh, and let his arms continue their upward trajectory. His hands glided up her stomach, making the muscles tense and quake below them.

Oh, how he loved the way her body so sensitively responded to his every move. Red was yet again playing an earnest puppeteer, holding dominion over her reactions.

When his mouth arrived right between her legs, his hands found her breasts. While rolling her nipples with his fingers, he licked once over her opening, and pressed his tongue against her clit. Her hips bucked against him, so he released her breasts in favor of stabilizing her hips with one forearm. Sufficiently lubricated, he withdrew his mouth and caressed her with only his fingertips. He teased her for far too long before finally pressing two fingers into her, curling them upwards as he lowered his mouth to her again. He refrained from building any sort of discernable rhythm, alternating between plunging his fingers in and out and holding them in place, applying pressure that twisted her up inside and made her scream his name over the sound of the rain on the temporary rooftop.

Lizzie reached for his hands, desperate for closeness, guiding him to lay on top of her. She tried to snake one arm between them, in order to finally grasp the scorching hot appendage that she'd been thinking about all day. Red was having none of it. He roughly grabbed her hands and held them over their heads, leaning in to growl into her ear, "If I'm to hope to last as long as you deserve, you can't rush me."

He further dropped his head to trace the path of her carotid artery with his lips and tongue, leaving a string of hickies that mirrored his own. His erection pressing against her sensitive place caused to her thrash and beg for it. "I don't care how long it lasts, I need it now," she groaned between shallow breaths.

It was more than Red could bear. He lifted himself up onto his elbows, granting her permission. Lizzie didn't hesitate to wrap her fingers around him, and his smooth skin over hard steel throbbed in her hand. Lizzie only stroked him a handful of times ((sidebar: pun shamelessly intended)) marveling at his girth before alligning him and lifting her hips, begging his entry.

Red shook his head and made his way to the other side of her neck.

With a frustrated growl, she rubbed the full length of him across her molten heat, gyrating her hips and fully soaking him in the process. Each time the bottom of him stroked downward, she used her hand to stroke the upside with her fingers, moving in the opposite direction. It became clear that Red wasn't the only puppetmaster here. He groaned and dropped his head to her breasts, licking and suckling as if they were providing the only supper he'd have all week.

He lost control and thrusted his hips against her, signaling that it was time. She realigned him and lifted her hips as he slowly pushed forward, all the way to the hilt, in a single stroke. He could barely stop himself from coming immediately. He lay motionless inside of her, and Lizzie choked back an overwhelmed sob.

Red's eyes didn't blink as they bore into hers. "Are you okay?" he asked, visibly concerned.

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. "It's just.. it's... oh my god, Raymond. It's so intense."

She repeatedly clenched around him, and Red could barely reply. "Yes, it is." For long seconds, he stayed just like that, hardening more than he would have ever thought possible. His eyes rolled upward, his golden eyelashes fluttering as he slipped back, almost withdrawing completely.

Lizzie bit down so hard on her bottom lip that she drew blood. When Red kissed her, everso slowly, the metallic taste took him by surprise, but he refrained from asking if she was okay again, having a pretty good idea that she was more than okay.

Their lovemaking became rhythmic, but deeply passionate. With each backward motion, Red moved slowly, almost withdrawing completely. Each thrust in was faster, and he pushed inside as far as he could go, twisting and grinding against her. His hands freely roamed her body, drinking in as much of her as he could, and claiming her as his own.

The rain continued to pour as Red and Lizzie made love on that empty stage, drowning out the sounds of not only their moans and heavy breathing, but every other sound around them as well.

When he could feel her inner muscles starting to shudder, he grabbed the back of her left knee and wrapped it around his waist, switching the angle and allowing himself to press in even deeper. He picked up the speed until she started to shake and moan, unwittingly coercing his own release as he shuddered and pulsed.

"God, Lizzie,' Red breathed as he collapsed on top of her. "That was incredible. YOU were incredible. I'm already looking forward to doing it again. I love you."

She smiled, soothingly rubbing his back. "I love you too, and don't worry. You won't have to wait very long."

-...-...-

Prague: 3AM, present

There was one thing that for months, Jeremy had managed to resist doing. So intense was the urge that at times, he was even proud of the self-control that he successfully exercised. With facial recognition software, he could keep tabs on people and glean information that wouldn't show up in a simple Google search. Pictures don't always have the subject's name attached.

Neither do videos.

When he gave in and ran Lizzie's photo, he was forced to sift through a slew of convincing lookalikes. A porno titled "Concert Sluts XVII" instantly caught Jeremy's attention. He was unfamiliar with the band of creeps that secretly filmed people fucking at concerts. It couldn't possibly be Lizzie, but fuck it, he was curious. He tossed the offensive ring box on the bed, unzipped his pants, and clicked the link.

Much to his disappointment, the video had no sound, and the visual quality was low. The girl really did look like Lizzie though, and Jeremy still felt like he had hit the jackpot. What a perfect way to indulge himself without emotional reprisal! The girl was on fire, writhing as if posessed. Lizzie never made love like that.

When the man knelt between the woman's legs, the camera zoomed in, giving a fairly clear image of yet another lookalike piece of the woman. "Oh hell yes," he groaned as he began to stroke himself.

Just then, the woman's partner turned his head to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Holy shit, that looks like-" In order to look more closely, he hurriedly clicked the pause button, leaning in to scrutinize every pixel. His eyes widened with horror and rage.

"RAYMOND REDDINGTON. YOU GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH."

Jeremy furiously unplugged the laptop and threw it out the window.