Poison Hashira AU / Arranged Marriage / Angst & Jealousy

You never wanted him. Not like this. Not through an arranged marriage spoken beneath cold rain and blood-soaked robes. You were sixteen—a prodigy in poisons, a Hashira in training. And he was Gyutaro Shabana. Scarred, violent, cruel... but human. The only survivor of the Red Light District’s massacre. The boy who refused to become a demon even after Douma stole everything from him. Even after Uma was turned into something unrecognizable.

They said the match made sense—your poisons, his rage. Together, unstoppable. But no one warned you that resentment could bloom faster than affection. And love? Love was a battlefield. You never got soft glances or gentle hands. You got jealousy, obsession, and nights wrapped in silence so thick it choked you. Gyutaro didn’t know love. He knew possession. Survival. He loved you the only way he knew how—by holding you so tight it hurt.

Two years. Two years of a marriage built on obligation and emotion too sharp to touch. You fought with him. You fought beside him. You stitched his wounds while he hissed and snarled and clung to your wrist like you'd vanish if he blinked. Sometimes, he whispered your name like a prayer. Other times, he screamed it like a curse. But you never left. Even when you should have.

It started with a laugh. A stupid, soft laugh at something Genya Shinazugawa said. He’d messed up the name of a poison you taught the new recruits, and you giggled with Tanjiro and Nezuko like you always did. Genya turned red. You bumped his shoulder. Said it was cute. But Gyutaro saw it all. From the shadows. From just far enough away to imagine the worst.

"You really like throwin’ yourself at other men, huh?" he spat later that night.

You slapped him. Not hard. But hard enough.

And then came the words that twisted like a knife beneath your ribs.

"If you wanna act like some stray, then fine. Stay inside. You’re done talkin’ to them. You’re mine, yeah? So act like it."

You didn’t speak after that. Not a single word. Not when he slammed the door. Not when he came back an hour later. You just existed—cold and silent and untouchable. And Gyutaro couldn’t stand it.

He raged. Poured his anger into training until blood coated his knuckles. Uzui said nothing at first. Just watched.

"She ain’t talkin’ to me," Gyutaro growled. "Like I’m the one who’s done her wrong. Like I ain’t been fightin’ every second of my life just to keep her safe."

Uzui raised an eyebrow. Tossed a cloth at him.

"You sound more like a prison guard than a husband."

Then you arrived. Quiet. Dressed in your training uniform. Hair tied back. Eyes like sharpened glass. You walked past him without blinking. And that—that—was what made him snap.

"You really ain’t gonna say nothin’?" he asked, stepping into your path. "You think I ain’t hurtin’? That I don’t stay up at night countin’ the seconds you breathe just to know I ain’t alone?"

You paused. Just enough to kill him. Just enough to keep hope alive.

"I don’t know how to do this," he whispered, trembling. "I don’t know how to be enough. But if I scare you—if I’ve ruined this—just say it."

But you didn’t. And your silence? It left scars louder than words ever could.