(A/N): IT'S NOT DIFFERENT AT ALL, IS IT STEVE?

Never thought it'd happen, but at long last there's a new fic from me after an extended hiatus! The changes of life in university have been brutal to say the least, often draining me of the desire to write. If anything I feel like I've been conditioned to associating large chunks of extended writing with pain and misery :O

But regardless, I hope I can continue making fics in the future - albeit at a reduced rate! In order to rub away the rust with some WD40 or whatever it is you use on that stuff, I've decided to begin with something that I hope isn't too hard to write... A sequel to the first story of 2015 Tense Strings, which itself was a sequel to the first story of 2014 Empty Shells!

Now, Tense Strings intended to serve two functions in the grand scheme of things, portraying both the disposition of Graves towards Twisted Fate after years of separation and in turn Kalista's own growing frustration with the Outlaw and his refusal to accept her pact and pursue revenge. With the Burning Tides event at last reuniting the cowboy duo and leaving yaoi fangirls to rejoice, it only seemed right that Kalista wouldn't be the most pleased!

Now bear with me. This is gonna be rough.

WARNING: Spelling errors, awful attempts at being unsettling, yandereness, an awkward mish-mash with official canon and my own portrayal of Graves, probably a bit of unintended homoerotic subtext, a lot of intended erotic subtext that falls flat, and my first write up for a good three or four months!

Point of No Return

If you spoke to him a year ago, Malcolm Graves would have told you that Twisted Fate was out of his life for good. He'd spent hundreds of weeks and thousands of days doing what he could to put as much distance between himself and the people of his past as humanly possible. He had no desire to lurk upon the injustices that had occurred to him at his old companion's behest; what's done, as they say, was done.

But the card shark was like a narcotic. For some damn reason no matter how hard you tried, he always managed to find a way back into your system somehow. Which was why the immaculately and eccentrically dressed swindler who wouldn't look out of place on the centrefold of a teen's magazine on "Valoran's Hottest Heartthrobs" was currently snoozing on the lounge chair in his misty office, with an overflowing ashtray balanced on his chest as it rose and fell to a calming beat.

The Outlaw watched on from behind his ornate working desk, which his boys had fished out from the wreckage of a Noxian War Galley that went by the name The Terrible some three years back. His old business partner snored like a ghost. That is he made about as much noise as a wharf rat on the hunt. That is he made little to no noise whatsoever. Save for the muffled commotion of the midnight streets of Bilgewater, still busy rebuilding after the chaos of a Harrowing without Gangplank, there wasn't a single other sound.

Just the subdued, rhythmic breathing of the man who sold it all.

Twisted Fate's monochrome eyes - a side effect of his deal with the devil - were obscured by the lowered brim of his hat. He'd always been the sort who quite literally slept with his wide eyes open, like pretty much any other mobster from here all the way to Urtisan. Hoping to avoid tarnishing his supposedly sexy and to quote him last Thursday "mouth watering" appearance, he'd taken to sleeping under his trusty trilby or stetson or whatever fancy name he'd given chunk of leather tonight.

Apparently it made him cool.

It just looked stupid to Malcolm Graves.

The air was thick enough to slice through with a carving knife, the sizzling cigar that he always kept on his person expertly balanced between his lower lip and his upper teeth as his calloused and oversized fingers fumbled and fidgeted with the fiddly packaging of a sweet. The pair hadn't left the office since the Harrowing had begun, nor had the twelve or so lads that formed the muscle of Malcolm's rebuilt gang, knowing full well that it was generally a good idea to let the undead have their fun for that night in particular. Unlike a certain Sarah Fortune on her newly tamed high horse.

With that in mind, you'd probably understand the Outlaw's position as he sat ankle-deep in chocolates and candy packets. It was a crippling addiction, make no mistake. He'd get his own back on the blue haired minx that did this to him someday.

He sighed and he puffed in one drawn out action, growing rapidly impatient as he tugged at the wrapper for a Zaunite Jelly Bean. Perhaps it was some sort of exercise for those who ate in abundance, the effort required to break into just one of these sweets being equal to five minutes doing a bench press. Maybe it was designed like that for his own good, so he could keep himself fit and furious?

That could've been true. But regardless, he really wished the person who wrapped these things got a swift knee in the jaw some day. It'd be karma at its finest. A bead of sweat ran down Malcolm's brow, his strategic and tactical acumen being put through the wringer in this barbaric and brutal test of his resolve. Every working day and every trial in his life had led up to this fateful moment, enriching him with the talent and knowhow to defeat his greatest foe yet.

One swift movement plucked his cigar from between his teeth and stumped it out in the dark recesses of his sooty and overworked ashtray, as he gave the bean his complete and total concentration. Graves firmly tugged at both ends like he was stuck in an Ionian finger trap, watching with delight when at long last the candy began to unravel. His dark, often jaded eyes sparkled childishly as the bean clattered onto his desk.

"About damn time." he croaked to himself, roughly grabbing it with his whole hand and popping it in his gob. A quick rush of sugar and artificial flavourings seized his taste buds within an instant, giving him his fix for the next ten or maybe fifteen minutes. The mobster leant back in his seat like his mother always told him explicitly not to, contently chewing on the fruit of his labour like a giddy schoolboy. The slimy noise his teeth were making was revolting to say the least. He was glad that Fate was still fast asleep, that's for sure.

His snack break finished as quickly as it had began, Graves sniffed at the rank smoke of the air and reached at his mouth for his cigar. But of course it wasn't there, its burnt out remains lying higgledy pickeldy in the fancy cigarette bin. Begrudgingly he reached into the inside pocket of his black and leather jacket, which sat draped over the backrest of his desk chair like it was the shoulders of a beautiful ball room singer on a cold winter's night. The Outlaw pulled out a fresh cigar and placed it between his gritted teeth.

But wait.

Something was off.

The office was still basking in a thick mist and smog, which swept menacingly across the floor and shrouded his fancy red carpet in black and grey. His virgin cigar still sat patiently in his gob, the grim fog seemingly coming from absolutely nowhere. It hung dormant in the air, weighing heavily on the charred lungs of the lifelong smoker behind his desk.

He'd seen this blackness far too many times to count on just two hands. Once he had dreaded and feared it, yet today it was a source of nothing more but irritation. Because he wasn't going to have a peaceful night tonight. Instead, he was going to have a very, very long conversation with the most talkative revenant the world had ever known.

The lanky, sexless form of the undead lady appeared as a silhouette within the mist. It advanced, slowly but ardently pressing onward until at last it emerged at the foot of his desk. A pair of soulless eyes darted to meet his, the flat expression of her withered lips almost seeming to bear the slightest markings of a thought of a smile. It'd been a month since their last meeting after all - thirty days more than she'd probably like.

Kalista, the Spear of Vengeance.

For the moment there was silence between them, like the first few seconds of long lost lovers being reunited. Like said long lost lover the apparition stared directly at him, her ethereal eyes glowing an unsettling azure. Graves remained seated, refusing to honour the woman with so much as a respectful nod. Twisted Fate still lay on the sofa, if anything looking more comfortable surrounded by the light obscuring mists. The mobster wetted his throat, looking left and right sardonically. "... So do I talk first or do you?"

She didn't respond surprisingly enough. In the past she would've recited half a dramatic novel before she'd even opened the door. Graves rubbed his lips together, sighing heavily. Women, eh? "Guess it's been awhile." he added unnecessarily. For a period that felt like a life time and a half the Spear of Vengeance had appeared to taunt him and demand that he accept her pact at least three times a week. Yet since his reunion with Fate and their unsteady truce a month back, he hadn't heard so much as a peep from her. "Hell, I almost started to miss yer."

There was a sudden crack accompanied by the jingling of chainmail as Kalista snapped her head to the immediate left, her eyes darting about within their sockets to find Twisted Fate. She didn't need to see his face to know who he was - or what he'd done. "You long for it, Oathsworn." she began, the same monotone she always had ruling her tongue. As if willed on its own her arm rose, a talon-like finger pointing at the unconscious card master. "And it lies before you."

Graves wiggled the unlit cigar between his mouth, before roughly yanking it out and placing it on the table. "'fraid he's not my type." he commented sarcastically, absently going over some of his papers and pretending to be interested in what they said. "Prefer gingers myself."

He could've sworn he saw the revenant's lower lip wobble to his response, in either sadness or subdued rage. Then he remembered what he was talking to, and quickly disregarded that train of thought entirely. Kalista gathered herself, "It is foolish to deny us." she said, "More so to deny yourself." her right hand brushed by her chest, clutching at the point of the Black Spear that had been rammed through her in a time long forgotten. She caressed it, her claws exploring its crude edges. "Take it. Do the deed."

"Nah." Graves said.

Her bare toes curled against the carpet, a short shudder shooting through her shoulders as if a jolt of energy had surged throughout her body. She lowered her head but an inch, her solemn voice seemingly rising a notch. "Take it." she muttered, her tone seemingly gaining a more urgent and desperate quality. It was ever so slight, but noticeable. "Take my pact. Be elated."

Graves refused, "Nah."

Kalista snarled bestially, wringing the shaft of the Black Spear like the neck of a lamb. "Take it."

The Outlaw outwardly flinched, the monotone of her voice giving away to a peculiar sense of emotion that he'd never noticed in the woman before. "Is this really all you got left?" he scowled in disregard, disappointed in how far she'd fallen. She'd once spent ages preaching about values and righteousness and all sorts of nonsense that wouldn't sound out of place in a generic action film script. Now she merely begged. "Yer sound like a little kid. Y'know I'm never gonna do it, yet here you are." he forced a laugh, devoid of joy or emotion in general for that matter. "It's pathetic. Save yer breath."

There was a peculiar moment of trepidation, her eyelids fluttering uneasily as her spindly wrists and the hands upon them released the spear from their grasp. In a smooth motion her palm hovered over her mouth, as if stifling words or sounds that were out of her control.

But before Graves could comment she had pivoted on her heel, marching over to Fate and looming over him like a cloaked murderer. Gripped with paranoia the large ex-con hurriedly stepped out of his seat with a racket to accompany him, sending the chair rolling on its back wheels and bumping into a wall with a loud crash. A couple of long strides put him little over a metre behind the spirit, who continued to look down at the defenceless gambler.

"Don't touch him." Graves ordered, his expression rough enough to induce heart attacks in weaker willed men and caution in stronger ones.

Kalista - eventually - turned her head and shot him a glance, seemingly surprised by his sudden appearance. A pronounced twitch filling her expression, she gradually turned back to face the object of her deepest want. "Look at him." she said, and out of impulse he did. "You forgave this man. A man who abandoned you to torment and death. A man who betrayed your trust and cast you away for nothing more than a chance to achieve his darkest desires. At your expense." her hand had slowly reached out and hovered over Fate's throat as she spewed her monologue, her uncomfortably long fingers flexing and cracking in desperation. Yet she had no choice but to resist. Without the pact she yearned for she couldn't so much as be seen by the card master, let alone harm him. "At our expense."

"That's history."

There was a chilling snap as Kalista's fingers and thumb loudly clenched into a fist mere inches from the gambler's neck, all the withered bones of her wraithlike hand snapping in unison under the pressure of her might. Bone and sinew whined as one as she squeezed with the force of a beast thrice her size, the sound akin to a wild hurricane uprooting an ancient tree.

He always forgot that this brooding spectre had the power to kill him without much hassle. Yet he felt more and more like he was talking to a whiny pet whenever she was around. "What's done is done." he continued, to her apparent chagrin. She inhaled ever so quietly, sounding like an exhausted sprinter after a perilous marathon. "I've forgiven him."

It must've been the F word that triggered her reaction, her entire body shooting around to face him. Her angular face was locked in a vicious and insulted scowl, disgusted by his meekness. "Never forgive." she stomped forward like a child in tantrum, advancing towards her Oathsworn and looking him dead in the eye. Right at the pupil. "Never forget."

Graves raised his chin like he had done so many times in the Locker, trying to look taller and meaner than the creature before him. Despite the contrast of her slim and lithe form to his muscle and bulk, they were still near identical when it came to height. She seemed to gradually lean more and more forward, practically nose to nose as she tried to force him back. There were no words. She just stared at him vigorously, taking in the expression of the man that stood between her and what she longed for.

The expression she made was sickening and psychotic, yet somehow wistful all at once.

It was a smile.

And it didn't fit her face at all.

"Give it to me." she whispered lowly, that unsettling tremble visibly travelling up her arm, through her neck and up to her lips. She was filled with a throbbing need, and she was struggling to control it in the face of constant refusals. "Accept the pact. We can do it together."

He had no wry or witty retorts up his sleeve at the moment. He was always good at maintaining a facade of calm in the face of danger. It was one of his few positive defining traits if he said so himself, providing he wasn't speaking to a certain card shark that always seemed to rub him the wrong way. She was completely off, and it was unsettling to say the least. "What're you on about now?"

The same fist that had cracked its bones not so long ago clutched onto his hairy hand, which she brought to rest upon the Black Spear lodged within her chest. She clenched it tightly, her breaths heavy as she tried to rip it out herself - another liberty stolen from her by the gods, no matter how hard she writhed and squirmed and pulled.

Her pathetic display continued as she tugged at his thick skinned hand, trying to make him draw the ancient blade from her body with seeming feebleness. She was like a sulking little girl, trying to get her father's attention by pulling at his sleeve. Only the Shadow Isles knew of the curse's details, but he assumed only one of her so called "Oathsworn" could take it out of her.

And it seemed like she wanted it out.

Call him a psychologist.

"Take it." Kalista begged, squeezing his hands even tighter. With every pull she breathed harder and faster, building up a rush of excitement and desire in her voice. If she had a heart, it'd be racing. "Penetrate his mortal flesh. Let him gasp and writhe and beg for the release of death upon our spear." she purred, her eyes aflutter and her body seemingly going limp as a peculiar delight shot through her. "Bind us! Dominate the betrayer, at long last! Set us free!"

For the briefest of moments he almost considered it again. All he had to do was pull at the spear himself, draw it from her body, and at last be given the satisfaction he had once longed for. But he'd grown and matured rapidly since the appropriate rage that his escape from the locker had brought him. He was better than that now, and no dead woman was going to tell him otherwise. He pushed the euphoric revenant away, forcing her slackened legs to find a footing as she stumbled a few steps back. Her brow knitted and her lips curled, demonstrating a myriad of different expressions as her fingers flexed with audible clicks and cracks.

Now she was laughing, the damned crone.

It wasn't an evil cackle befitting of her ilk or anything of the sort. It was a short, reserved chuckle. One of a young lady with a lover. One of amusement and pleasure. The word "cultured" came to mind. As she looked up at him with the same look of need - and something akin to arousal - in her eyes, Graves honestly began to wonder if she had some sort of sick fetishism for the constant denial he gave her. Surely by now she knew that he'd never give in to her taunts? That he'd never give her what she wanted?

But what if he did?

After so much pleading, what if he actually did?

How fantastic would that feel?

"Once you asked us..." she mumbled all of a sudden, staring out into nothing. Her lips remained ever so slightly parted, as if readied for a kiss with heaven. "Have we ever done something because we wanted to?" she repeated his words from several months ago, from when he tried to unravel exactly what she was. She'd had plenty of time to consider his question, that's for sure. And she had her answer. "The answer is yes." a smile of gratification filled that macabre visage of hers. "Always."

For the first time since her arrival, Graves felt well and truly vulnerable. Despite the image of a perpetually stoic and stalwart hunter that would pursue her prey across the stretches of Valoran, it was clear that beneath it all the Spear of Vengeance was anything but. She had degenerated into a creature of lust, driven by a carnal desire and nothing more. She longed for the release that killing traitors gave her, and to be denied that feeling?

It just aroused her even more.

That constant thirst that longed to be sated.

"I want it, Malcolm." she shook with increasing mirth, her legs quivering once again as her body quaked with a craving. "Yet forever you tease us." she advanced once again, longing to be close to who she ached for. "It is unbearable." she shuddered, sauntering onwards. "Do you enjoy tormenting us?"

Did she even understand the Outlaw's disposition? Could she comprehend the fact that for the first time someone genuinely didn't want to accept her pact, and that no matter how hard she tried they would continue to resist? Was this a newfound masochism that he had created in her, denying her true purpose time and time again?

Perhaps she preferred this to its fulfillment?

Unsteadily she hunched over, her faltering legs giving way and leaving her kneeling in supplication. "Give it to me." she whispered huskily, her echoing voice ruining the effect. Not hearing a reply she said it again, "Give it to me." the spirit begged. "Malcolm." she whimpered his name like a woman in bed, moaning orgasmically. "Give it to me. Please."

There was no right answer, was there? On unsure feet, the gangster slowly turned for his desk chair and rolled it back into position. She continued to beg with every moment, mewling with throes of subdued ecstasy as she tried once more to pry the spear loose herself.

"Give it to me."

"Give it to me."

"Give it to me, Malcolm."

"Give. It. To. Me."

She knew she could never do it. But she longed for the feeling. There was something pleasurable about trying again and again in futility, feeling its sturdy shaft nestled within her chest cavity. Kalista lapped at her lips ferally, her denier striking a match and lighting a cigar as he took a seat. "Give it to me." she bit at her lip, "My Oathsworn."

"No!" Graves found himself shouting in a sudden burst of rage, fed up by the constant harassment he'd received from his wraith since the beginning. "No!" he repeated, his teeth lined with spittle. All he longed for was a life free of vengeance. Yet from the moment he'd started trying to sort his damn life out, this daft spectre had been nipping at his heels and urging him to go back. He snarled to himself in disgust, the woman having keeled over onto her hands in delight at his exclamations.

Kalista mumbled some incoherent babble to herself, her body rocking back and forth as bliss flushed out her reason. She was loving every moment of it. For reasons she couldn't describe, Malcolm Graves was the most fascinating man she had ever had the fortune to come across. So many people feared her, submitting to her pact out of fear of what she might do.

Yet he never stopped fighting back. He kicked and he screamed and he bit and he lashed and he fought against the tide of inevitability. She didn't know what made perfection, but she knew it when she saw it. Oh, how lovely it was being told off by him. How delightful it felt being tormented by him time and time again, holding her at the peak of satisfaction yet never granting her that sweet, sweet release.

Their little game.

She'd have to work for it.

Somewhere amidst her throes, the Outlaw had risen from his chair and crouched before her bowing frame. He held onto his cigar ruggedly as she stared into the carpet. "I'm not yours." he spat, taking a long drag before blowing it out into the mists. A dark, threatening calm filled his voice as the abomination's head rose, two twinkling eyes staring up at him in subjection. On anyone else, it would've made him feel sorry. "Leave me alone. Find someone else to haunt."

"I am the master of my fate."

"I am the captain of my soul."

"Give it to me!" she screeched in one last effort, her voice coarse and cracking with wanton emotion. Kalista surged forward on the floor like an animal, pressing her forehead against the mobster's own and shouting viciously. He stayed firm. "Give it to me, Malcolm Graves! Oathsworn! Take it!"

He looked over at the sleeping gambler that he'd fished out of the sea not long back. It seemed the lanky bastard owed him a lot more than a few pints. The cigar sat snugly between his fingers, his hand resting on his knee as he stared back in defiance. She felt cold. "You sad, sad thing."

The revenant slumped to the floor before him like a ragdoll, her body and mind spent. She loved it. She felt jubilant. Her Oathsworn was so strong willed and self assured. He honestly thought that he would be able to resist her touch until the end of days, shouting her down in spite of a truth even he must have known.

One day she would break him. One day he would submit to her, and with a grand effort at last draw his spear from her and grant her the sweet satisfaction of a climax to all their troubles. Malcolm Graves would never rid himself of his betrayal, nor would he achieve true peace of mind, unless they took the cause of it all from the face of Valoran. Together.

Kalista pushed herself up, giving the Outlaw that chilling smirk of hers just one last time. "We taste it, Malcolm Graves." she droned stoically, biting down on a broken knuckle like it were a surgeon's gag. It was all she could do to keep herself under control. Her eyes, while featureless, flickered with affection. "Your anger. Your malice." she could feel her body throb, engorged with enthralment over the man's complexity. "It is... Perfect."

With that said the mist faded away, and she with it. Within moments it was as if nothing had ever been there. As if he'd been screaming at a mirage for the past half hour. Graves rose to his full height, his smoking arm dropping to his side. She would never give up, would she? What he'd said tonight had done nothing but strengthen her resolve.

"Looks like the gal has a crush." he said to the unconscious Fate dryly, trying to find some humour in the situation. He remained comatose, the ashtray still resting atop his chest as it had done this entire time. Graves stumped out his cigar in it and made for his desk.

This was the point of no return.

And there was no turning back now.

X

(A/N): Yeeeeah... That's me trying to be subtle :S

I was hoping to play with a similar idea to how GlaDOS works in Portal, what with her getting sexual gratification from doing experiments yet slowly losing the pleasure the more she did it. I could imagine Kalista maybe having similar motivations with her pact, and that maybe - just maybe - being constantly denied that release by someone would result in her getting a bit aggressive... "Frisky" would be a better word I guess xD

Alas, like most ideas of mine they don't really translate well into text... And the fact that it's been a while since I last wrote set this up for failure too! Doesn't help that I was remembering the plan for this whilst waiting in line for and watching the new Star Wars!

Oh well, as Graves said "What's done is done"! Hopefully I'll be able to write more in the future, but without a doubt my scheduling will be a hell of a lot different with uni and stuff. Toodle pip! :O