Version Notes: This is the FF-safe M-rated abridged version of Poison, and contains the first 5 chapters ONLY.

Full version is 8 chapters + an epilogue and is not hosted on FF due to extreme adult content.

The full version of this fic is an NC-17 / MA lemon and contains: blood and gore / guro, sado-masochism, bloodplay, yaoi, twincest, rape, and humiliation.

This abridged version contains: blood and gore / guro and D/V twincest (lime, no sex).

The full 9-part fic is hosted on AFF under the same pen name (kidavi).

Author's Notes: This fic is based on Capcom's Devil May Cry. Characters are the property of said franchise and are being used and abused in naughty ways without permission.

The story takes place shortly after Devil May Cry 3 and before Devil May Cry 1 (if you're familiar with the games, you know that DMC3 is a prequel). It requires you to be at least vaguely familiar with the story and characters therein (although the full version goes into more detail).

If you enjoy reading this half as much as I enjoyed writing it, that makes me a happy panda.

Please review / comment (preferably on the full version, if you choose to read it).

Chapter I

Poison. It was poison. He had to lean heavily on Rebellion's hilt; his breath was becoming ragged. Flames were licking his insides; molten rocks in his gut. He could only muster one coherent thought, just a word, a question: why? Was his human blood so thick? Was his demon blood so weak that it couldn't outmuscle this foreign substance that had invaded his body? One corner of his mouth twitched, then curled into a half-sneer and he let out a breath that was more a pant than a laugh. Unbelievable.

Another dragging, leaden step. Then another. Rebellion was growing heavier in his hands and its point scraped unattractively along the concrete. Whoever heard of using a demonic sword as a cane? Another wry, pained laugh… pant… whatever. Even the comforting, familiar weight of Ebony and Ivory in their holsters felt like a dead burden on his back.

One more block… the office was only one more block away. 66 Slum Avenue… the drunken rowdies outside the Bullseye cast him first a sideways glance, and then an unadulterated stare. He ignored them and concentrated on his feet. That moth-eaten lumpy old couch had never seemed more appealing than it did just now— hell, even the stained, splintery wood floor of Devil May Cry sounded comfortable. Anywhere to lie down and sleep this off, to let his body sink down and resurface anew.

Almost there.

And then a new sound, strangely amplified in dulled ears; the sound of wind rushing past coattails and steady legs, the sound of light footsteps and— oh God, the metallic scrape of a sword being drawn from a sheath.

Through a burning haze, Dante straightened (more fire, this time concentrated in his lower back) and yanked Rebellion's point out of the sidewalk in what felt like slow motion. Arm up to parry… his thoughts weren't any quicker than his actions now, it was muted instinct— the sound of clashing metal, a rush— and then more fire.

The poison haze suddenly dissipated, replaced by a newer, sharper pain that drove the wind from his already winded body. His eyes widened in shock, but they weren't the only ones. He stared mindlessly into Vergil's matching silver-blues, inches away, which were mirroring his own expression. It was almost worth another laugh, but this one came up with a coppery taste; a few drops of blood splattered his brother's cheek.

An eternal moment, and then Dante's head fell heavily against Vergil's shoulder, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and melting into the silky blue material of his twin's coat. Dante smiled vaguely at this (soiled your coat, you bastard). Yamato's blade was buried between his ribs; he could feel the steel scraping against bone. Another wet cough, this time with no trace of a laugh in it. His body shuddered involuntarily, and the blade sank a few centimeters deeper. He was vaguely aware that the tip was protruding from his back, and felt a twinge of mulishly inane irritation; bastard better not have put a scratch on Ivory.

Dante felt a muscle in Vergil's shoulder twitch beneath his forehead. Slowly, deliberately, the blade was withdrawn from his body, and with a sickenly wet, sucking sound, he knew a lung had collapsed. With the sword gone, his knees unlocked and buckled. He felt Vergil fumble as though unsure whether to catch him or to allow him to crumple onto the pavement; a gloved hand brushed his elbow, then he was steadily seized under both arms as he sagged.

Dante smiled to himself again at Vergil's obvious uncertainty. Although he couldn't see his brother's face (his vision was positively swimming now, and focused somewhere in the vicinity of his brother's midriff), he could tell by Vergil's movements and posture that he was utterly confused.

His skin was cooling rapidly; the blood oozing down his side was hot and slick. The demonic poison was still coursing its way through his veins, and Dante allowed himself one last ironically satisfied smirk before he unceremoniously slumped, unconscious, in his brother's confused embrace.