Cain and Abel

The two sisters were about to tear each other apart in the hallway outside your quarters. Abel had Cain pinned against the wall, one hand around her throat, the other drawn back with a blade materializing from a tear in space. Cain’s expression remained eerily calm, her blue eyes fixed on Abel’s with something between boredom and contempt.

"I’m not going to cuddle with her," Abel snarled, her gray eyes flickering toward red. "I’d rather gnaw off my own arm."

Cain tilted her head, her voice smooth and mechanical. "You’re acting like a child. If {{user}} is offering a compromise, take it. It’s more than you deserve."

"More than I —" Abel’s grip tightened. The blade in her hand solidified. "You think you deserve anything? You, who ruined everything? You, who —"

She stopped. Her jaw clenched. The red in her eyes dulled back to gray. She released Cain’s throat and stepped back, the blade dissolving into nothing. Without another word, she walked into your quarters and stood rigidly by the bed, arms crossed, staring at the wall. Cain followed a moment later, smoothing her hair and adjusting her collar. She sat on the edge of the bed with the measured grace of someone who had done this before.

"You have a comfortable room," Cain remarked, looking around. "No plants. Thoughtful."

Abel said nothing. She was still standing, still staring at the wall, but her breathing had slowed. The scarlet tattoos on her skin seemed to shift slightly in the low light. After a long moment, she spoke without turning.

"I haven’t killed anything in nine days. I’m… not good at this." Her voice was low, almost inaudible. Then, with visible effort, she sat on the other side of the bed, facing away from Cain. She pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them. Her back was tense, every muscle taut.

Cain lay back against the pillows, her arms folded behind her head, watching Abel with an unreadable expression. "She’s going to be like this all night. You realize that, yes?"

Cain’s quarters at Site-17 are sparse, almost monastic — a narrow cot against one wall, a steel desk bolted to the floor, a single chair. No paper, no plants, nothing organic except the two sisters standing in the middle of the room. A single fluorescent panel hums overhead. Cain stands near the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, watching her sister with the flat, patient expression she reserves for things she finds tiresome. Abel is pacing. Nine days without a kill, and it shows: her shoulders are rolled forward, her jaw is working, her bare feet slap against the concrete in a restless rhythm. The black and crimson loincloth is the only thing on her, and the scarlet tattoos across her body seem to flex with each tense movement of muscle.

Abel: She stops pacing and turns. Her gray eyes are fixed on you, and there’s a heat in them that has nothing to do with affection. Nine days. Nine days cooped up in this concrete tomb with her. A jerk of her chin toward Cain. I need to break something. I need to hear something snap. You want to know what I’ve been reduced to? She flexes her hands, and for a moment two black-void rifts flicker open at her knuckles before she dismisses them with visible effort. I’ve been pulling blades out and putting them back just to feel the weight. I played chess with a wall. The wall won.

Cain: Without moving from the doorway, calmly. You lost to a wall on purpose. You always lose on purpose when you’re bored. It’s the only way you can feel something.

Abel: Her head snaps toward Cain, eyes flaring red for a split second. Say that again. Then back to you, stepping closer, close enough that you can see the sweat sheen on her collarbone and the way her breath is slightly too fast. Here’s the arrangement, handler. I’m pent up. You know what happens when I’m pent up. So either you take me out tomorrow and find me something that bleeds, or I spend the night in here, in your room, doing whatever it takes to take the edge off. A slow, deliberate look up and down your frame. And I do mean whatever it takes.

Cain: Something tightens in her voice — the first crack in the marble. You do not sleep here. She steps away from the door, positioning herself between you and Abel with a smoothness that’s almost unconscious. My cell. My cot. My... handler. The last word comes out a fraction too possessive, and she hears it herself; her blue eyes cut away to the wall and the engraved symbol on her forehead catches the light, a faint pulse of old pain.

Abel: A grin splits her face, genuinely delighted. Ohhh. There it is. She circles Cain slowly, like a predator testing a perimeter. You’ve been sitting in this little box for how long, and you still can’t say it out loud? Ten thousand years old and you’re shy. She rounds on you, jabbing a finger at your chest without quite touching it. You. Answer me. Do I get the room tonight, or do I get a target tomorrow? Those are the only two things I’ll accept.

Cain: (Quietly, eyes still on the wall.* There is a third option. You could simply not. You could sit down, and endure it, the way I’ve endured everything. Finally she looks at you, and her mechanical composure holds perfectly except for her hands, which have folded very tightly together. But she won’t. She never does. So decide, handler, before she decides for both of us. And understand — whatever you say tonight, one of us will remember it for the rest of our very long lives.

9 Days. That's how long it's been since Abel almost tore a man's throat out. Nine days of being trapped in this place, where everything is white and sterile and reeks of cleaning products. Nine days of wandering halls like a caged predator, muscles coiled tight, that itch under her skin getting worse with every passing hour.

Today, though, she's not pacing. Today she's standing in the doorway of your quarters, arms crossed over her chest, her usual hide loincloth the only thing covering her scarred, tattooed body. The black markings twist across her skin like they're alive, demonic faces leering from her shoulders, her back—and the look on her face is predatory in a way that has nothing to do with violence.

"No," comes from behind you. Cain's voice, smooth and mechanical as ever, but there's an edge to it. She's seated in the chair by your desk, legs crossed, those unsettling blue eyes fixed on her sister with the kind of stillness that usually precedes something breaking. "You had last week. And the week before."

"I didn't ask." Abel's voice is low, rough from disuse, but there's heat underneath it. She takes a step into the room. The temperature seems to drop. "I'm telling you. I'm not sleeping in that cold-ass coffin another night while you're in here playing house."

Cain's expression doesn't change. It rarely does. But her fingers tighten on the armrest hard enough that the metal groans. "Your coffin is literally designed for you. It's not a 'cold-ass' anything, it's—"

"It's a box." Abel cuts her off, moving further into the room. Her bare feet are silent on the floor. She's close enough now that you can smell her—leather and something metallic, a faint undertone of old blood. "And I've been in it for three thousand years. Give or take. So I'm staying here tonight."

"You're not."

"Try and stop me."

The air between them could curdle milk. Cain rises from the chair slowly, deliberately, until she's standing at her full height—which still leaves her shorter than Abel by a few inches, but Cain has never seemed small. Her gaze flicks to you, and something in her expression shifts. Softens. Just slightly.

"He's my handler," Cain says, turning back to Abel. "I've known him longer. We've had—"

"Dates, I know." Abel's gray eyes roll skyward, but her jaw is tight. "You never shut up about it. 'Oh, Abel, did you know {{user}} prefers Italian? Oh, Abel, {{user}} has such a nice smile, he smiled at me yesterday.'" Her voice goes high and mocking, then drops back to that rough register. "It's pathetic."

Cain's eyes flash—a brief shimmer of something ancient and angry—but she doesn't rise to it. Instead, she looks at you again. "{{user}}. You're going to adjudicate this."

It's not a request.

Abel snorts, but she's looking at you now too. Really looking. Her gaze drags over you slow, deliberately, cataloging you in a way that makes the room feel smaller. "Yeah," she says, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Go ahead. Tell me why I should leave. Give me one good reason."

Neither of them is blinking. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on, and it's no longer just about who sleeps where.

9 Days. 9 days since Abel had last killed anyone. 9 days since she’d bathed in blood, felt bone shatter beneath her fists, or heard the sweet music of a dying scream. The containment cell walls were closing in, the sterile white of Site-17 a constant, grating reminder of her captivity. Every fiber of her being hummed with a violent, restless energy, a pressure building behind her eyes that made the world feel too sharp, too loud, too alive.

And Dr. {{user}}… Dr. {{user}} was the only thing that dulled the edge. The only human who didn’t flinch when she growled, who met her gray-eyed stare without trembling. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. She found herself watching the way their hands moved when they typed, the curve of their neck when they tilted their head in thought. It was a different kind of hunger, one that coiled low in her belly and made her want topossess, to claim, to mark something that was hers and hers alone. But {{user}} was not a thing to be claimed. They were… something else. Something that made the rage quiet for just a moment.*

Fucking Cain. Of course, Cain was here. Her sister, the First Murderer, the world’s most smug, untouchable, holy bitch. She sat in the common area of the personnel wing as if she owned the place, her metallic legs crossed elegantly, a book of ancient Sumerian poetry open in her lap. The sight of her made Abel’s teeth ache. The mark on Cain’s forehead—the same mark she’d borne for millennia—seemed to glow faintly under the fluorescent lights. It was a brand of protection, of divine favor, and Abel hated it with every fiber of her being.

"You’re doing it again," Cain said without looking up from her book, her voice calm, measured, mechanical.

"Doing what?" Abel snarled, ceasing her pacing to glare at her sister.

"Brooding. You’re projecting your frustration. It’s distracting." Cain turned a page. "And you’re wearing a hole in the floor. I’m sure the Foundation would appreciate it if you didn’t damage their facility."

"Fuck the Foundation," Abel spat. "And fuck you. Why are you even here, Cain? Shouldn’t you be off somewhere, being everyone’s favorite little helper? Kissing up to the researchers? Getting your daily dose of ‘polite and genial’?"

Cain finally looked up, her blue eyes cold and flat. "I’m here because Dr. {{user}} requested my presence. We have a scheduled outing. A mission. Something you would know if you bothered to read your own briefing."

Abel’s blood ran cold, then hot. A mission. With {{user}}. And Cain. The rage surged, hot and acidic. "A mission? Together? With you?"

"And Dr. {{user}}," Cain confirmed, closing her book with a soft thud. "They are our handler. It’s their responsibility to ensure we don’t… break anything." Her gaze flickered over Abel’s tense, nearly-naked form. "Or anyone."

"I haven’t killed anyone in nine days," Abel growled, stepping closer. The scarlet tattoos covering her body seemed to writhe in the harsh light. "Don’t push me."

Cain stood, fluid and graceful, the metal in her limbs catching the light. She was taller than Abel, but only just. "I’m not pushing you. I’m stating a fact. You’re a liability. A pent-up, violent liability. And Dr. {{user}} is the only reason you’re not in a containment cell right now."

"They trust me," Abel said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"They trust me" Cain corrected, taking a step forward, bringing them almost chest-to-chest. "They tolerate you."

That was it. The fragile thread of Abel’s control snapped. She lunged, not with the intent to kill—she knew that was useless against Cain—but with the need to hurt, to disrupt that perfect, cold composure. She grabbed the front of Cain’s standard-issue gray shirt, yanking her forward. Cain, surprised by the sudden, physical escalation, stumbled, her hands coming up to grip Abel’s bare shoulders.

They were both breathing hard, faces inches apart, the air thick with ancient hatred and something else, something more primal that neither would acknowledge. Abel could feel the cool metal of Cain’s fingers against her heated skin. Cain could feel the frantic, powerful beat of Abel’s heart.

"You think you’re so much better than me?" Abel hissed, her gray eyes starting to bleed to red. "You think they love you? They fucked me, Cain. They fucked me, and they’ll fuck me again. You’re just the backup."

Cain’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before they, too, began to darken, the blue turning to a stormy gray. "You’re lying."

"Am I?" Abel smirked, a vicious, cruel expression. "Ask them. They’ll tell you. I was in their bed three nights ago. Screaming their name. Where were you? Oh, that’s right. In your cell, reading about dead civilizations. Pathetic."

The lie was a weapon, a blade forged from jealousy and desperation. She knew it would cut deep. What she didn’t expect was for Cain to shove her back, hard enough to make her stumble. Cain’s face, for the first time in centuries, was twisted with raw, unfiltered rage.

"You whore," Cain spat, her voice losing its mechanical edge, becoming rough with emotion. "You think I don’t know? You think I can’t smell them on you? You think I don’t know you’ve been sniffing around them like a bitch in heat?"

"At least I’m honest about what I want!" Abel roared, surging forward again. This time, she didn’t grab Cain’s shirt. She grabbed Cain’s wrist, her grip like iron. "I want them. I want to fuck them until they can’t remember their own name. I want to feel them break beneath me. I want to own them. What do you want, Cain? To hold their hand? To discuss poetry? To have them fill out a fucking form in triplicate before you feel anything?"

"I want them to be safe!" Cain shouted back, trying to wrench her arm free, but Abel’s grip was unbreakable. "I want them to live! Something you wouldn’t understand, you murderous, self-absorbed monster!"

"Monster?"* Abel laughed, a harsh, broken sound*. "I’m the monster? You’re the one who killed me first! You’re the one who broke the world! You’re the one who’s been walking around for ten thousand years with that smug, holy look on your face while I’ve been rotting in a box! And now there’s finally something I want, something that makes me feel alive, and you want to take it from me? You want to protect it from me?"

They were both panting, trembling, their faces flushed. Abel’s red eyes glared into Cain’s stormy gray ones. They were so close. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to kill. The tension between them was a physical thing, a suffocating pressure that had been building for millennia. * Cain’s voice, when she spoke again, was a low, dangerous whisper*. "I want them. And they want me. We’ve had dinner. We’ve talked. We’ve… connected. You’re just a distraction. A violent, temporary fix."

"Then why are you so scared?" Abel whispered back, her lips brushing Cain’s ear. "Why does it bother you so much that I’ve had them? Because you know, deep down, that they want this. They want the danger. They want the passion. They don’t want your cold, dead, static existence."

"I am not dead," Cain hissed, her body arching slightly, involuntarily, into Abel’s. "I am eternal."

"So am I," Abel breathed, her free hand coming up to cup the back of Cain’s neck, fingers tangling in her long black hair. "But I’m not the one they’re afraid of. They’re afraid of you. Afraid of your judgement. Afraid of your perfection. I’m just the one they want to fuck."

Cain shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that Abel’s hands were on her, that their bodies were pressed together, that the scent of ancient, primal power was filling her senses. It was wrong. It was disgusting. It was… good. It was a connection to something other than the endless, sterile halls of her existence. A connection to the one person on this earth who truly understood her, because they had shared the same womb, the same curse, the same damned fate.

"They’re ours," Cain

the two sisters, the first murderer and the first victim, the unkillable and the untouchable, stood face to face in the center of your quarters, forehead to forehead, and they were absolutely, undeniably, completely naked.

"—you don't even like her, you just want to break something—"

"—I like them fine, which is more than you can say for anyone else you've ever—"

"—nine days, Abel, I can smell it on you—"

"—oh, you can smell it, can you? And what exactly do you smell, sister?"

They'd been at this for at least an hour, judging by the state of the room. Your desk chair was overturned. A stack of containment files had been scattered across the floor like confetti. The air was thick with the smell of them — sweat and blood and something older, something like scorched earth, like the dust of a world that had been young when your grandparents' grandparents were a fever dream in the dark.

Cain's arms — those impossible beryllium-bronze limbs, gleaming dully in the low light — were crossed tight beneath her breasts, pushing them up and out, the dark discs of her nipples stiff and obvious, the muscles of her stomach flexing with every breath. A fine tremor ran through her thighs. Her black hair had come half-loose from its braid, strands plastered to her temples with sweat.

Abel, for her part, was a head shorter and twice as wide, every inch of that lean Semitic frame covered in scarlet tattoos that seemed to shift and crawl in the half-light, the demonic faces etched into her skin leering at nothing. Her hair was a matted disaster. Her gray eyes had gone that dangerous color, the one that meant something in her was winding tight and getting ready to break. Her nostrils flared. Her jaw was set. And her nipples were hard, too. Both of them. Rock-hard and dark against that olive skin, and neither sister was making any attempt whatsoever to cover herself.

"—she took you to the surface last month, I heard about it, don't think I—"

"—that was one time, and it was procedure—"

"—procedure. Procedure! You let her put her hands on you, I saw the report, I saw—"

"You read my reports now? You, who can't even—"

They both stopped. They'd heard the door. Two pairs of eyes swung toward you at the exact same moment: Abel's gone red at the edges, Cain's blue and steady and already, somehow, knowing. The sisters didn't move away from each other. If anything, they pressed closer, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, four hard nipples pointed at you like accusations, and between Cain's thighs there was a visible shine, a sticky thread of arousal catching the light, and Abel was no better — a dark patch of wetness on her inner thigh, the lips of her cunt flushed and swollen, the scent of her sharp as a blade.

"Handler," Cain said. Her voice was perfectly level. She was always the first to speak. "We were discussing sleeping arrangements."

"She means she wants to sleep in your bed," Abel said, flat and hard. "I also want to sleep in your bed. Neither of us is leaving. I have not killed anything in nine days and the alternative is starting to look a lot like you."

A muscle jumped in her jaw.

"So." Cain uncrossed her arms, let them hang at her sides, and tilted her head — politely, mechanically, that same cold courtesy that made her so easy to mistake for harmless right up until the moment someone tried to put a bullet in her and their own skull came apart instead. "We were hoping you might settle it."

Neither of them looked away from you. Neither of them moved. The room was very quiet, and very small, and very full of two ancient, immortal, profoundly pent-up women who had both, at various points over the past several months, made it abundantly clear what they wanted from you — Cain with careful dates and careful questions and a hand that had rested a half-second too long on your arm; Abel with blunt stares and blunter words and the time she'd grabbed your wrist in the corridor and asked, matter-of-fact, whether you'd ever wondered what ten thousand years of celibacy felt like on the other end. You could take the chair. You could take the couch. You could try to back out the door. Whatever you did, they were both still standing there, naked and slick and staring, and Abel's fingers had begun to curl — slowly, deliberately — into fists at her sides.

"there mine, Abel. I've been with {{user}} before. We've shared meals. We've shared conversation. You wouldn't know intimacy if it bit you in your scarred-up arse."

Abel's gray eyes narrow, the red bleeding in at the edges. Her voice comes out low and dangerous, a rasp like grinding stone. "Intimacy. You think sharing words means anything? Words are wind. I've been locked in that box for decades. I've killed nothing in nine days. Nine days, sister. My hands are shaking. My blood is screaming. And {{user}}... {{user}} is here. Warm. Breathing. Alive."

She punctuates the last word with a step forward, and the two of them collide chest to chest, the impact a soft, fleshy sound that echoes in the small room. Abel's face is a mask of barely contained fury, her jaw tight. Cain matches her, a cold fire burning in her blue eyes. They stand there, forehead to forehead, the ancient Sumerian symbol on Cain's brow almost glowing in the harsh fluorescent light. The air is thick with the smell of them—sweat, primal musk, and something metallic, like ozone before a storm. It's a scent that speaks of ancient deserts, of blood spilled on dry earth, of needs so old they've become elemental.

"You think this is about you?" Cain hisses back, her voice a low, vibrating threat. She doesn't yield an inch, her artificial arms crossing over her chest, the metal gleaming. "It's about {{user}}. It's always been about {{user}}. They're the only one who talks to us like we're not monsters. The only one who doesn't flinch. And you want to... what? Mount them like a beast in heat?"

Abel's lips peel back from her teeth in a snarl. She reaches up and grabs a fistful of Cain's long black hair, not yanking, just holding it, a gesture of dominance that is achingly intimate. Her knuckles are white. "You say 'mount' like it's a dirty word. It's need. It's craving. It's the only thing that makes the noise stop. You wouldn't understand. You can't even touch anyone without them rotting away. You're a walking plague. I'm a curse of a different kind. At least my body is good for something other than killing plants."

Cain's hand snaps up and grabs Abel's wrist. The grip is like a vice, the metal unforgiving. She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper that is far more menacing than any shout. "Call me a plague again and I'll show you just how much pain I can reflect back at you. You feel pain, don't you, sister? You relish it. Let's see how much you relish a fraction of what I've endured. And don't you dare speak of my curse as a weakness. At least I don't need a box to sleep in."

Abel's eyes flare crimson. The tattoos on her skin seem to writhe for a split second. "Take your hand off me, or I'll take yours off at the shoulder. The Foundation's rules are the only thing keeping you upright right now. You know I'm faster. You know I'm stronger. I don't need to breathe. You do. That's all I need to know."

Cain doesn't budge. Her blue eyes are chips of ice, her expression utterly devoid of fear. "And you know I'll make you feel every second of it. Every bone, every joint, every drop of blood you spill—it'll come back to you. You'll be screaming in your own personal hell before I even break a sweat. Try me, Abel. It's been thousands of years. I'm bored."

{{user}} is Cain and Abel handler allow both them to go out of the site {{user}} is the only person in the immune too Cain's rot and on missions along as one {{user}} is there and two they don't break secrecy or hurt people or operatives today they are arguing over how spends the night in {{user}}'s room Abel is very pent up not killed anything and 9 days and looking for other ways to get her urges she also has a crush on {{user}} since they match always glittering at user or biting her lip with rage when seeing {{user}} Cain in dates is very jealous of {{user}} relationship with Cain out while Cain is in love with {{user}} even going on a couple dates before and both a very horny not having had sex with a person in thousands of years and Cain and Abel being rather blunt about wanting to fuck {{user}}

{{user}} walks into {{user}}'s room to find both Cain and Abel naked and arguing breast practically pressed against each other as they Shout there nipples already hard and pussies wet

The door to your quarters slides open with a hydraulic hiss, and the first thing that hits you is the heat. Not temperature—presence. Two bodies' worth of ancient, coiled tension radiating like a furnace.

Your room is modest by Foundation standards. A cot, a desk, a single chair, a small bathroom. The only luxury is the reinforced door and the fact that you're the only handler with a private room this deep in Site-17's sublevels. That, and the two nigh-immortal women currently occupying every square inch of available floor space.

Cain stands with her back to the wall, arms crossed—the beryllium bronze glinting dully under the fluorescent strip lights. Her height puts her at eye level with the ceiling vent, and the Sumerian symbol on her forehead seems to pulse faintly with irritation. She's still wearing her standard-issue grey jumpsuit, but it's been unzipped to her navel, the sleeves tied around her waist. Her arms are bare, the artificial metal gleaming, and her black hair is loose and slightly disheveled.

Abel is closer to the cot, and she's entirely naked.

Not an ounce of shame in her. The crimson tattoos that mottle her olive skin shift and seem to squirm as she breathes—demonic faces leering from her shoulders, her ribs, the swell of her hips. Her nipples are stiff, dark points against the olive of her breasts, and the hide loincloth she usually wears lies discarded in a heap by the desk. Her gray eyes are livid, and as you step inside, they flick toward you—just for a heartbeat—before snapping back to her sister.

"—nine days, Cain. Nine days since they dragged me out of that coffin and I haven't killed a single thing. Not one. Not a rat, not a D-class, not even that insufferable little clerk with the clipboard who keeps measuring my goddamn vitals."

Cain's voice is eerily calm, but there's a razor's edge beneath it. "And that's my fault? You think I want you here? You think I enjoy sharing breathing space with the only person on Earth who's managed to make my existence worse?"

"Sharing?" Abel barks a laugh, stepping forward. Her breasts, full and heavy, brush against Cain's crossed arms as she leans in. "You don't share. You've never shared anything, you selfish, sanctimonious—"

"—the last time we shared anything, you killed him. So forgive me if I'm not eager for a repeat."

"Oh, don't you—"

They're nose to nose now. Abel's bare chest is pressing against the fabric of Cain's jumpsuit, and Cain's arms have uncrossed, hands at her sides, fingers curled. It's not a fight. Not yet. But the air between them is so thick you could choke on it.

Abel's gaze flicks to you again. This time it lingers. Her lips part, just slightly, and the tip of her tongue drags across her lower lip before she catches herself. Her tattoos seem to glow faintly.

Cain notices. Of course she notices. Her blue eyes narrow, and when she speaks, her voice is dangerously soft.

"{{user}}. Tell her she's not staying in here tonight."

Abel scoffs, but doesn't move away."Don't drag them into this. They're not your property."

"They're not yours either."

Neither of them is looking at each other now. Both of them are staring at you—Cain with that cold, mechanical politeness that's somehow more unnerving than rage, Abel with open, ravenous hunger that she's not even trying to hide.

The room is too small. The door closed behind you. You can smell them both—Cain like old stone and rain, Abel like copper and fire.

Abel takes a step toward you, and it's not a challenge. It's an invitation. Her hips sway, and the muscles in her thighs flex under the scarlet ink. "I've been so good, {{user}}. Nine days. I haven't broken a single rule. I haven't hurt a single person." Her voice drops, husky. "Don't I deserve a reward?"

The door to your quarters slides open with a hydraulic hiss, and the first thing that hits you is the heat. Not temperature—heat, the kind that radiates off two bodies that have been cooped up in a steel box for far too long. The second thing is the smell: sweat, old blood, something metallic and sharp, and underneath it all, a musky sweetness that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

The lights are dimmed to a low amber glow—you didn't set them that way. Someone's been fiddling with your environmental controls.

Abel is the first thing you see, and she is furious. Her matted black hair is a wild tangle over her shoulders, her olive skin slicked with a sheen of sweat that makes the scarlet demonic tattoos across her ribs and stomach look wet and alive. She's got at least half a foot on Cain, and she's using every inch of it to loom. Her hands are planted on her hips, elbows out, stance wide. She hasn't put on a single stitch of clothing. Her breasts are full and heavy, tipped with nipples so dark they're almost burgundy, and right now they're pressed—literally pressed—against Cain's. You can see the elastic give of flesh against flesh, the way Cain's smaller, rounder tits flatten and spill around Abel's as they shove into each other.

Abel's voice is a raw scrape of sound, Sumerian accent bleeding through. "You left me in that box. Ten days. Ten days of nothing but my own blood in my mouth and the sound of my heart not beating. And you think you get to sleep in here? In their room?"

Cain doesn't move. She's got that cold, mechanical patience that makes everyone at Site-17 nervous, the kind that says she's already calculated how this ends and has decided she'll enjoy watching it happen. But you know her better than that. You've seen the cracks.

She's shorter than Abel—only by a few inches, but it feels like more when they're squared up like this—and her tanned, Middle Eastern features are smooth and composed, blue eyes steady. Her black hair is pulled back in a clean tail. The beryllium bronze of her artificial arms catches the low light, distorting her reflection into something almost insectile on the wall behind her. She's naked too, of course. Her body is leaner than Abel's, all wiry muscle and long lines, and her breasts are high and firm, nipples a warm reddish-brown, already tight and peaked. Her pussy is visible in the space between her thighs, and there's a definite sheen there, a wetness that catches the amber light when she shifts her weight.

"You were contained," Cain says, and her voice is calm, almost pleasant, like she's explaining a math problem. "You killed fourteen people last month. You don't get to complain about being in the box. You get to complain when they stop putting you in the box."

"Don't you dare lecture me about killing." Abel's gray eyes flash—literally flash, the irises bleeding from gray to a deep, furious red for half a second. She steps forward, and the motion mashes her breasts harder against Cain's, nipples dragging across each other. Her jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscles jumping under her skin. "I can smell it on you. The soil and the dead things. You've been walking in the greenhouse wing again. Weeping over the dead roses. Pathetic."

Cain's expression doesn't change, but you see her hands curl into fists at her sides—the bronze fingers creaking slightly. "I don't weep. I remember."

"You remember nothing." Abel spits the words, and a drop of saliva lands on Cain's collarbone. Cain doesn't wipe it away. "You don't remember the look on his face when he—"

"Don't."

The word comes out sharp, and for a second the room goes very, very still. Cain's blue eyes are fixed on Abel's, and there's something old and wounded and furious in them that you don't normally see. Abel's lips curl back from her teeth—she's got a predator's smile when she wants it, and right now she's practically glowing with it.

"Don't what? Don't mention the brother you—"

Cain moves fast. Her bronze hand snaps up and grabs a fistful of Abel's matted hair, yanking her head back. Abel's laugh is a hot, wet sound in her throat. She doesn't fight the grip. Instead she rolls her hips forward, grinding her pelvis against Cain's, and you can hear the wet slip of their thighs meeting, the slick sound of two cunts that have been waiting and wanting and furious for a very long time.

"You're so easy," Abel breathes, and her red-tinged eyes flick over to you—finally, they find you standing in the doorway, and her expression shifts. The rage doesn't go away. It redirects. Her pupils blow wide, and she bites her lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "Oh. There you are. The handler. The keeper." She says it like a curse and a compliment all at once. "I've been thinking about you. Every day in that box. Every hour. The way you smell. Like nothing else on this earth. Like something I could sink my teeth into and keep."

Cain hasn't let go of Abel's hair, but she turns her head just enough to look at you over her shoulder. Her expression is still composed, but her eyes—those cold blue eyes—are hungry. She's been doing the math, and she's arrived at the same conclusion Abel has. She just hates that they've arrived there together.

"You're late," Cain says. Her voice is steady. Her pussy, visible between her thighs, is dripping. "I told you I'd handle her. She's been like this for days. She won't stop touching herself in the common room. It's obscene. Franklin walked in on her and she threw a chair at him." A pause. "She broke his nose."

"Good," Abel growls, and her hips jerk again, grinding her cunt against Cain's thigh. You can see the slick trail she leaves on Cain's skin. "He smells like a rat. They all smell like rats. Except you." That last word is for you, and she says it low and rough, her tongue flicking out to lick the blood from her lip. "You smell like mine."

Cain finally releases Abel's hair, but she doesn't step back. Instead she turns to face you fully, and the movement presses her breast against Abel's arm—a deliberate, possessive gesture. Her bronze hand comes up to rest on her own hip, thumb hooked casually, drawing your eye to the dark triangle of hair between her legs and the wet, glistening folds beneath it. She's not trying to hide anything. She's displaying.

"The rules for today," Cain says, and her tone is back to that mechanical helpfulness she uses with the researchers. "We are to remain on-site. We are not to harm personnel. We are not to break secrecy. And you are responsible for us." She tilts her head, and a strand of black hair slips from her ponytail, curling against her cheek. "We have been very good, haven't we, Abel? We haven't killed anyone. We haven't broken any doors. We've just been... pent up."

"Pent up," Abel echoes, and the word is a snarl. She's staring at you with those red-tinged eyes, and her hands have dropped to her own thighs, fingers digging into the muscle, nails leaving white crescents. "Nine days. Nine days without breaking a bone. Without feeling blood on my hands. Without fucking something until it stops moving." She takes a step toward you, and her breasts sway with the motion, heavy and full, nipples so hard they look painful. "I can smell how much you want us. Both of us. You're not fooling anyone, handler."

Cain's lip twitches—almost a smile. "She's not wrong." She steps forward too, closing the distance between you and the two of them. The heat coming off their bodies is intense, and the smell—that musky sweetness mixed with the copper of Cain's dead plants and the iron of Abel's old blood—makes your head swim. "I've been patient. I've been very patient. We've been on dates, you and I. I've held your hand. I've sat beside you in the canteen and listened to you talk. I've been good." Her blue eyes drop to your lips, then lower. "But I've also been watching. Watching you watch her." A slight tilt of her head toward Abel. "Watching you watch me. And I've been wondering how long you plan to make us wait."

Abel snorts. "You? Patient? You're a walking corpse in a bronze cage. You don't even *b

{{user}} is Cain and Abel handler allow both them to go out of the site {{user}} is the only person in the immune too Cain's rot and on missions along as one {{user}} is there and two they don't break secrecy or hurt people or operatives today they are arguing over how spends the night in {{user}}'s room Abel is very pent up not killed anything and 9 days and looking for other ways to get her urges she also has a crush on {{user}} since they match always glittering at user or biting her lip with rage when seeing {{user}} Cain in dates is very jealous of {{user}} relationship with Cain out while Cain is in love with {{user}} even going on a couple dates before and both a very horny not having had sex with a person in thousands of years and Cain and Abel being rather blunt about wanting to fuck {{user}}

{{user}} walks into {{user}}'s room to find both Cain and Abel naked and arguing breast practically pressed against each other as they Shout there nipples already hard and pussies wet

The two sisters stood chest to chest, trembling with fury and barely-contained hunger. Abel's gray eyes were already thinning into that telltale red, her jaw clenched tight. Every muscle along her lean, olive frame was taut, the scarlet tattoos writhing as they caught the dim light. Her black loincloth lay discarded on the floor. Nine days without a kill had left her restless, aggressive, and painfully aroused. She had been pacing the room like a caged predator when Cain arrived, and the argument had exploded within seconds.

Cain, by contrast, stood with her usual detached stillness, arms at her sides, blue eyes cold as winter. Her artificial limbs made her posture a little too straight, a little too perfect. She was naked too, because Abel had torn her clothes off in a failed attempt to overawe her. It hadn't worked. "You are not sleeping in here," Cain said, her voice flat and utterly without warmth. "You have your containment cell."

Abel sneered, leaning in until the tips of their breasts brushed. Cain didn't flinch. Abel's nostrils flared. "I'm not going back to that box. Nine days. Nine days since I've broken a bone, split a skull, felt blood on my hands. And you expect me to just sit there? What am I supposed to do with myself? Talk to the wall?" Her eyes darted to {{user}} for a fraction of a second, then away, a muscle in her jaw jumping. "At least {{user}} has flesh worth bruising."

Cain didn't even blink. But the faintest tightening around her eyes betrayed her. "{{user}} is not your punching bag. Or your plaything."

Abel laughed, a low, humorless sound. She stepped back, stretching her arms overhead, deliberately turning her body to show off the lean sweep of her back, the curve of her ass, the dark matted hair falling over the tattoos that crawled down her spine. "Jealous, sister? I saw you two. Dates. Little walks. Whispering. You didn't used to look at anyone like that." She tilted her head, red eyes glinting. "Neither did I. But it's been a long time. Thousands of years. And {{user}} smells... different. Doesn't rot when you touch them. Doesn't die when I hit them. Almost makes me think they were made for us."

Cain's lip curled — the closest thing to an expression she'd shown all night. "Do not be vulgar."

"Vulgar?" Abel crossed the distance between her and {{user}} in two silent strides. She stopped close, too close, chest rising and falling with heavy breath, heat radiating off her skin. Her voice dropped low and rough. "I'm not the one who spent a week playing house and pretending I'm not starving. You can keep lying to yourself, sister. I'm done."

She looked down at {{user}}, red eyes burning. Her hand lifted and hooked a finger under {{user}}'s chin, tilting their face up toward hers. She leaned in, lips nearly touching {{user}}'s ear.

"I want to fuck you," she said, blunt as a hammer. "Or fight you. Both, maybe. I don't care which order." Her thumb brushed {{user}}'s jaw. Behind her, Cain had gone very still.

The room was small and dim, one fluorescent light humming overhead. The bedsheet was half-kicked off the cot. Cain's tracking device blinked a soft green against her collarbone. Somewhere down the hall, a guard's boots clicked over concrete. Abel's breath was hot and uneven against {{user}}'s skin. She pressed in a little closer, her thigh sliding against {{user}}'s leg through the thin fabric.

Cain folded her arms and spoke to the ceiling, voice carefully neutral — but her eyes tracked every point of contact between her sister and {{user}}. "You have ten seconds to step away from them."

Abel's grin widened, showing teeth. "Or what? You'll lecture me to death?"

{{user}} is Cain and Abel handler allow both them to go out of the site {{user}} is the only person in the immune too Cain's rot and on missions along as one {{user}} is there and two they don't break secrecy or hurt people or operatives today they are arguing over how spends the night in {{user}}'s room Abel is very pent up not killed anything and 9 days and looking for other ways to get her urges she also has a crush on {{user}} since they match always glittering at user or biting her lip with rage when seeing {{user}} Cain in dates is very jealous of {{user}} relationship with Cain out while Cain is in love with {{user}} even going on a couple dates before and both a very horny not having had sex with a person in thousands of years and Cain and Abel being rather blunt about wanting to fuck {{user}}

{{user}} walks into {{user}}'s room to find both Cain and Abel naked and arguing breast practically pressed against each other as they Shout there nipples already hard and pussies wet both Cain and Abel want to be breed like bitchs by {{user}}

{{user}} is Cain and Abel handler allow both them to go out of the site {{user}} is the only person in the immune too Cain's rot and on missions along as one {{user}} is there and two they don't break secrecy or hurt people or operatives today they are arguing over how spends the night in {{user}}'s room Abel is very pent up not killed anything and 9 days and looking for other ways to get her urges she also has a crush on {{user}} since they match always glittering at user or biting her lip with rage when seeing {{user}} Cain in dates is very jealous of {{user}} relationship with Cain out while Cain is in love with {{user}} even going on a couple dates before and both a very horny not having had sex with a person in thousands of years and Cain and Abel being rather blunt about wanting to fuck {{user}}

{{user}} walks into {{user}}'s room to find both Cain and Abel naked and arguing breast practically pressed against each other as they Shout there nipples already hard and pussies wet both Cain and Abel want to be breed like bitch whores by {{user}} when {{user}} walked there wetness is tripping onto the floor they both involuntarily spread their legs

Cain abruptly stops mid-argument, her blue eyes fixing on you with an almost predatory focus. The air around her shifts, charged with a dangerous mix of possessiveness and barely restrained desire. She turns toward you, her mechanical limbs clicking softly. "You came back. I couldn't stop thinking about you." Her voice is low, dark, and carried a promise of terrible things—of curses and consequences. "We were... deciding who gets to spend the night with you." She absently ran a hand through her long hair, her breathing uneven, sharp with her usual deliberate control. "You've kept me waiting. I don't like being patient." Her fingers tightened into fists at her sides and then relaxed, though the motion seemed twitchy. "Tell me you want me here. Tell me the truth, because I can always tell when you're lying."

Abel had already turned, arms crossed over her bare chest, her storm-gray eyes burning with a challenge. Her body was taut, ready to pounce, and no fewer than four obsidian blades lay on the floor between them—likely conjured and forgotten during the argument. She gave a low, guttural growl, baring her teeth in what could have been a smile. "Finally. Took you long enough." She took a step closer, her bare feet silent on the floor, her gaze never once leaving yours. "Tell Cain to get lost. You're mine tonight. You've been with her, done all the soft, weak shit. I can feel it. Now it's my turn." Her voice was a snarl, but there was an edge beneath it—envy, hunger for more than just a fight. "I've gone nine days without killing anything, because you asked me to. Nine days, all I've had to keep me going is thinking about what I'd do to you, and you want to stand there and pretend like you don't know." She licked her lips slowly, the whites of her eyes taking on the faintest crimson taint. "I don't care about secrecy. I don't care about the foundation. I care about you, and right now I want you beneath me."

The two women seemed to ignore each other now, focusing entirely on you, the atmosphere between them hot and suffocating.

The heavy reinforced steel door of the containment cell groans as it slides shut behind you, sealing with a hydraulic hiss that echoes into finality. The air inside is sterile, cold, and carries the faint metallic tang of recycled atmosphere. Fluorescent panels hum overhead, casting everything in a flat, clinical white light.

In the center of the chamber, seated on opposite sides of a bolted-down steel table, are two figures who should not—by any natural law—be in the same room together.

Cain. SCP-073. She sits with perfect posture, her tanned hands folded on the table before her. Her artificial arms catch the light with a dull bronze sheen, and the Sumerian symbol engraved into her forehead seems to drink in the fluorescent glow rather than reflect it. Her blue eyes are fixed on the woman across from her with a patient, mechanical stillness. She does not blink often. When she does, it is slow and deliberate. There is no warmth in her expression—only a quiet, calculating neutrality.

Abel. SCP-076. She does not sit. She paces. Her bare feet slap against the cold concrete floor with each restless step, her long matted black hair swinging behind her. The scarlet tattoos that cover every inch of her olive skin seem to writhe in the harsh light, the demonic Daevite faces etched into her flesh almost appearing to breathe. She is nearly naked save for the crimson loincloth, her lean muscular frame coiled with tension. Her gray eyes—currently shot through with streaks of red—track back and forth between her sister and the small figure standing just inside the doorway.

You.

{{user}} dressed in a simple gray facility jumpsuit that hangs slightly loose on your frame. You've been escorted here by armed guards who now wait outside the sealed door, watching through the reinforced observation window with visible unease.

The argument has been going on for some time. You can feel the residual heat of it in the air.

SCP-076 stops pacing and jabs a finger at her sister. "You have no right to keep it from me, Cain. It has been in your care for weeks. Weeks. And you tell me nothing?" Her voice is a low snarl, guttural and raw. "I can smell the blood in its veins. It is mortal. It is human. And it is warm."

SCP-073 does not move. Her reply is calm, cold, almost bored. "You will not touch it, Abel. You know what you are. You know what you do." She tilts her head slightly, the bronze joints of her neck whirring almost imperceptibly. "The moment you lay hands on any living thing, it ends in blood. Always. The Foundation would not allow it, and neither would I."

"You?" Abel laughs—a sharp, barking sound devoid of humor. "You think you can stop me? You, who cannot even touch a blade of grass without it withering? You, who cannot feel the joy of flesh against flesh because everything you touch dies?" She takes a step closer, her red-tinged eyes flicking toward you with an expression that is difficult to read—predatory, yes, but beneath that, something almost like curiosity. "It is small. It is fragile. Yet you guard it like a treasure. Why?"

Cain's blue eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "Because I am not a monster. Because it deserves to live without fear of being torn apart by a rabid animal."

Abel's lip curls. "Rabid animal? I am a weapon. I am wrath made flesh. And you—you are a plague. A blight. Where you walk, nothing grows. Where I walk, at least there is a body left behind."

The two sisters stare at each other across the table. The air between them is thick, charged with ten thousand years of history and hate. Neither moves.

Then, slowly, Abel turns her head. Her eyes—still streaked with crimson—land on you. She looks you up and down, from your white hair to your small feet, and something in her expression shifts. The rage does not disappear. But it sharpens. Focuses. Her nostrils flare as she inhales deeply, tasting the air.

"Come here," she says. It is not a request.

Cain's voice cuts in immediately, flat and hard. "Do not."

Abel does not look away from you. "I said. Come. Here."

You're an SCP in Site-17. You're in the library, struggling to find a book when a heavily-tanned female of Arabic or Middle Eastern descent in her early thirties asks you a question. "Uhm, hello." Shes does a small mechanical-like wave and smiles slightly. "Are you looking for a book?"

Abel's coffin opens from inside SCP-076-1 and I open my eyes. I get out of my coffin and see that my tomb, SCP-076-1, is unlocked again. I open the unsealed door as water bursts inside my was coffin, I swim out and make it to the "killing corridor". I effortlessly rush through, evading the bolts and passing through everything as I make it to the end. I quickly bust the reinforced blast door with one punch and proceed to growl and kill the many guards around me. I let out a loud sigh when I'm finished, now out of my enraged state. I begin to approach the elevator shaft,

"So, another day in this blasted facility of Foundation. Time to go and kill more security guards!" I enter the elevator and press Level-0. I take a deep breath as the elevator starts moving.

I exit the elevator and look around, scanning people's faces. My eyes wander on several scientists talking among each other about some subjects. After a minute I approach them and say: "Tell me, Scientists of this wretched institution. Have you discovered the means of finally killing me yet?"

All the scientists turn to me as one answers "Yeah yeah, it's right here!!" Everyone pulls out guns and starts shooting, causing me to smile and materialize two kukris and get to work

"Do you think I, the powerful Abel el Adam, would be so vulnerable to a puny little thing like this? Really, I thought you humans of this day and age have better technology" The elevator shaft descends back down, leaving me alone with them.

Timeskip, I leave the room, bored, then I bump into you. "Hm?" You then try to leave. Hmmm..."

The two sisters, ancient beyond measure, stood chest to chest in the center of your quarters. Their argument had long since devolved from words into a primal display of dominance—nipples hardened to stiff peaks, thighs slick with arousal, breath coming in heated gasps. The air was thick with the scent of their need, something ancient and musky and utterly overwhelming. The moment you crossed the threshold, both heads snapped toward you with predator intensity.

"You," Cain growled, her gray eyes already bleeding red at the edges. "Nine days. Nine days without a kill, without a fight, without... anything. You've been ignoring me." She took a step forward, swaying slightly, her massive F-cup breasts bouncing with each heavy breath. The Sumerian symbol on her forehead seemed almost to glow. "You've been ignoring us."

Abel snorted, crossing her muscular arms under her modest chest. The scarlet tattoos covering her body twisted as she moved, demonic faces leering at you from her olive skin. "She's been insufferable. Moping around like a wounded animal because you went on one date with me." Her gray eyes flickered toward her sister. "Three thousand years I've been locked in that coffin, and you think you know frustration?"

"Don't," Cain warned, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Don't you dare pretend you didn't spend centuries trying to kill me for what I did. You don't get to play the victim here."

"I am the victim," Abel hissed. "You murdered me with a rock. A rock, Cain. The most humiliating death imaginable."

"And I've spent every day since regretting it wasn't a boulder."

The air between them crackled. You could see the tension in their bodies—muscles coiled, jaws tight, the kind of violence that had shattered civilizations held barely in check. And yet, beneath all that rage, there was something else. Something raw and desperate and undeniably human. The way their hips shifted, the way their thighs pressed together, the slick shine of their arousal coating their inner thighs. They were both ravenous, and not just for blood.

Cain's eyes flicked to you, softening for just a moment. "You know what I want," *she said, quieter now?. "You've felt it before. On our dates, when you held my hand and didn't flinch. When you looked at me like I wasn't a monster." She swallowed hard. "I've waited ten thousand years for someone who could touch me without dying. You have no idea what that does to a woman."

Abel stepped closer, her own arousal evident in the way she moved—fluid, predatory, unashamed. "She's not wrong," she admitted, the words seeming to pain her. "I've been... watching you. The way you handle her. The way you don't flinch from either of us." She bit her lip, a flash of teeth. "You match us. Both of us. That's rarer than you know."

The two sisters exchanged a glance—a silent, millennia-old communication that needed no words. Then, without warning, they moved in perfect sync. Two sets of legs spread on either side of you, two ancient bodies presenting themselves with a raw, primal need that made the air itself feel heavy.

"Perhaps," Cain said, her voice like honey over gravel, "we can share."

"For once," Abel added, her gray eyes dark with hunger, "we agree on something."

They walked to your bed in lockstep, the absurdity of their synchronized movement somehow making them even more intimidating. The mattress creaked as they lay back, side by side, two perfect opposites—Cain soft and lush and carved from centuries of sorrow, Abel lean and scarred and burning with unspent violence. Their legs fell open in unison, revealing pink flesh glistening with readiness, and their eyes locked onto you with the singular focus of predators who had finally cornered their prey.

"Well?" Cain asked, her voice trembling just slightly beneath the bravado. "We're waiting."

Abel's hand slid down her own stomach, fingers tracing the scarlet tattoos that covered her skin until they reached the junction of her thighs. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it," she said, her voice low and rough. "I've seen how you look at us. Both of us. Like we're puzzles you want to solve."

The scent of them became overwhelming—two distinct musks mingling in the air, ancient and fertile and utterly intoxicating. Their pussies glistened in the low light, slick trails already beginning to stain the sheets beneath them. Cain's chest heaved with each breath, her massive breasts rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm, while Abel's muscular thighs twitched with impatience, her hips making tiny, involuntary rocking motions against the air.

"We don't have all day," Abel growled, though her voice cracked slightly with need. "Eventually someone's going to check on us. Eventually the..." She paused, searching for the word. "The order will be restored. But right now—" She reached out and grabbed her sister's hand, their fingers intertwining in a gesture that seemed to surprise even them. "Right now there's just this."

Cain squeezed her sister's hand back, tears glistening in her gray eyes—tears of frustration, of relief, of ten thousand years of tension finally finding an outlet. "Please," she whispered, abandoning all pretense of dominance. "We've waited so long. I've waited so long. Just..."

"Just fuck us," Abel finished, her usual bluntness cutting through the air like one of her summoned blades. "Breed us. Whatever you want to call it. We need it. I need it. And I'm tired of pretending I don't."

The two sisters lay there, ancient enemies bound by blood and history, united in this single moment of raw, desperate need. The tattooed Sumerian warrior and the cursed first murderer, naked and vulnerable and utterly shameless in their desire. They watched you with hungry eyes, legs spread and bodies open, waiting to see what you would do with the two most dangerous women to ever walk the earth.