CROSS OVER ! - R. SUKUNA X FEM! READER
Pairings - ghost! r. sukuna x fem! reader
summary - your husband—who had now been dead a year, won't cross over, and it's getting harder for him to go to the light. You need to help him finish his business, so he can wait for you in the light. Oh yeah, you can see ghosts by the way.
a/n -art by @/ kcokaine on X
"I'll ruin you," he promised against her neck, voice all sin and shadow. "Slowly."
She should have shoved him away. Said something righteous. But when his mouth ghosted over her collarbone, her only answer was the sound of her breath catching.
"Say stop," he whispered, fangs grazing her skin. "And I'll pretend to be human again."
You hummed, quiet and distracted, flipping the page with a soft flick. A calm smile played at your lips — the kind you wore when you were trying not to react. Trying not to feel anything at all.
The lamp beside you turned on.
You let out a loud, deliberate sigh, eyes still on the page. "Sukuna."
His voice came from the other side of the room, too casual. Too smug. "So now you decide to talk to me."
You didn't answer right away. Just turned another page. Slow. Measured. You weren't really reading — hadn't been for the last few chapters — but it gave your hands something to do.
"Don't act like I'm doing it for no reason," you said eventually.
Sukuna shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under his weight. He made himself comfortable — because of course he did. Like this was still his house. His life.
"I haven't done anything," he said.
You finally looked over at him.
He was exactly where you'd left him — sprawled out, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other resting on his knee. He looked like death warmed over, which made sense. Given the circumstances.
"If by 'haven't done anything' you mean 'haven't crossed over,'" you said, "then yeah. You're right. You haven't done a goddamn thing."
He didn't flinch. Just smiled. That lazy, dead-eyed expression he used to wear when he knew he'd already won the argument.
You sighed. "Well you don't belong here—not anymore."
"Maybe I'm still here because you want me to be."
You stared at the book, unblinking. "That's not how hauntings work."
"It's exactly how they work."
"No, it isn't—I've been seeing ghosts since I was five, Sukuna. I knew what a haunting was long before you died."
"Yeah? Well, I am dead. That makes me the expert now."
You flipped to the next page of your book, the paper sharp between your fingers. "Just... go. You're dead. I didn't ask for that. And I definitely didn't ask for you to stick around and haunt me like some unfinished project."
He didn't leave. Of course he didn't. His voice was smooth, amused, almost fond.
"Still wearing my ring, though."
"Not yours. Mine. Wedding and engagement."
He drifted closer, or maybe you just felt him closer. The air pulled tight.
"Like you don't want to admit I'm gone. Like some part of you wants me to stay."
"No," you said, carefully. "I'm grieving. I'm furious that you're gone.but I know what's right, that it's your turn to cross over into the light."
He exhaled — not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. "But I don't want to," he said. "I can't."
You looked at him then. For real. The way the lamplight passed through his outline made him look half-finished, like he was fading already.
"But you can see the light?" you asked quietly.
He nodded, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. "Yeah. Right over there." He pointed to the left. You followed his gaze but saw nothing.
"Then go. Just go." You stood up. "I can't deal with you, not when I know I can't touch you, hold you, nothing! You're just there, like a piece of furniture." You exclaimed.
Then he stood. Slow. Gentle. The way he never was when he was alive.
"Alright," he said softly. "I'll go. Just... go to sleep."
You tried to smile. You even managed half of one.
He turned toward the corner.
And by the third, he was gone.
"This one's from the Heian era," you said, lifting the lacquered relic with practiced care. Your fingertips brushed the worn edge, reverent, steady. "Came in just yesterday. Beautiful condition, considering its age."
The woman leaned in, breath catching. "It's... stunning."
You nodded, lips curling into a soft smile. Five years of owning this shop, and that reaction never got old.
It had started after Sukuna. After the vows, after the chaos of loving someone like him — you needed something slower. Something solid. Something with a past that didn't whisper back at you.
Every item in your shop had already survived centuries. Breakage, loss, war, abandonment — and still, here they were. Still standing.
"I've always had a thing for the past," you added quietly, tracing a worn pattern in the gold. "The stories behind these things. What they've seen. Who they belonged to."
The woman glanced around, caught in the quiet spell of the shop — the soft light, the scent of old paper and polished wood, the air thick with quiet memory.
You placed the piece gently back on the velvet-lined stand and smiled. "So, what do you think? This one... or are you still thinking about the Kaidō-era incense burner?"
She hesitated, eyes flicking between the two — torn, enchanted, almost reverent.
"I'll take the heian piece."
You smiled clasping your hands together. "I'm very pleased!"
She smiled as you tucked the small jar of koso into the paper bag, wrapping it neatly even though you both knew she'd tear it open before she got home. Still, habits like that—soft hands, careful folding—had a way of making you feel human again.
"That'll be... 2,567 yen," you said, voice gentle but detached, like it had been rehearsed a thousand times before.
She didn't flinch at the total, already counting the coins from her purse with practiced ease. Then she placed the money on the counter, each clink of metal unusually loud in the quiet shop.
"Thank you very much," she said, taking the bag. She paused for a heartbeat. "Such a sweet woman."
You gave her a noncommittal hum, more acknowledgment than gratitude. She didn't seem to notice.
The bell above the door jingled as she walked out, the soft chime echoing for a beat too long. Then silence returned, thick and familiar.
You counted the coins again anyway, out of habit. Sorted them into neat piles. Slid the drawer of the till shut. The shop felt colder now. Not physically, but in that subtle way silence sometimes scratches at the back of your mind, just before—
The sound tore out of you without warning, a raw, startled sound that echoed against the dusty walls. You spun around, breath caught in your chest, stomach already sinking before your eyes even landed on him.
Smirking, hands in the pockets of a coat he wasn't wearing when he died. Standing like the rules of reality had never applied to him.
You frowned, wiping a hand over your face. "Are you actually serious right now?"
He tilted his head, that lazy smirk growing. "Look at my pretty wife, working so hard. Don't you get tired being this adorable all day?"
You stared at him, jaw clenched. "Why haven't you crossed over?"
He shrugged. "Never said I would."
"You did last night! You said you would!"
He looked unconcerned. "I said, 'I'll go.' I never said, 'Yes dear, I'll go cross over for you.'"
"Nope." He stepped closer. His voice dropped just a little, almost soft. "I'm not going. I'm not leaving you."
Your hands curled into fists. "You have to go, Sukuna. You can't keep doing this—just showing up like nothing happened. I buried you."
"I know," he said quietly. "I was there, remember? Front row."
"I'm not." His expression faltered for a split second—long enough to catch it. "I just don't want to leave. Not yet."
"You have to!" Your voice cracked, sharper than before. "You're dead, Sukuna. This—whatever this is—it's not fair. It's not real. You're not supposed to be here anymore."
He didn't move. Just stood there, watching you fall apart like you always did when he pushed you too far.
You took a shaky breath. "Cross over... or I swear to God, I'll stop loving you. I'll never forgive you for this."
That finally made him blink.
He stepped back, but not far enough. His voice was quiet now. "That won't be the case. You'll always love me. You know that."
"I—" You faltered, words knotted in your throat. "Shut up. Just... shut up and leave me alone."
You turned your back on him, closing your eyes like that might undo it, erase him, pull you back into a world that made sense.
A breath passed. Then another.
He sighed—loud, theatrical, familiar. Like he always did when you won a fight and he let you pretend it was your idea.
"See you later," he said.
Not a long time, really. Barely a blip in the grand stretch of a calendar.
Because Sukuna hadn't come back.
Five full days of silence. Not just the usual quiet that filled your home when the shop closed and the lights dimmed—this was different. This silence felt unnatural. Hollow. A space where something used to be. Where he used to be.
And maybe... maybe he'd crossed over.
That was good, wasn't it? You told him to go. Begged him, really. Shouted it at him like an ultimatum you never truly meant.
So he listened. And left.
You should be happy. At peace. That's what people say—you helped him move on, as if that's some kind of achievement. As if you're a stronger person for letting go.
But were you really happy?
You sat in the silence, waiting. Pretending not to. Convincing yourself you didn't still glance over your shoulder, flinch at the sound of your own breath in the hallway, freeze every time the front door creaked—hoping, stupidly, that it was him.
It'd be selfish to want him back. He was probably at peace now. Maybe even happy, finally. Waiting for you. Watching from the light, like people in books and movies always do.
Your six-year anniversary was coming up.
That was the part that caught you in the ribs.
You used to joke about it—how he remembered the day down to the hour, even if he pretended to forget. How he'd scowl and roll his eyes when you brought it up, but still always showed up with flowers and your favorite wine. How he'd call you "ridiculously sentimental" while pressing a kiss to your wrist and pulling you close.
But this year, there was nothing.
No knock on the window. No voice behind you. No smirk in the mirror. No ghost.
You sighed and turned toward your mirror, pausing to look at your reflection. The room behind you was still, like it was holding its breath.
You wore the dress. The one he bought you three years ago on a whim because it was "too damn perfect not to." The one you wore when he proposed to you on the rooftop. The one he tugged off later that night, fingers reverent and teasing all at once.
It was the dress you realized you loved him in. Not just loved. Chose him. Completely.
And now, you were wearing it again. Alone.
You didn't even know why you put it on. Maybe you were trying to summon him, like a ritual. Maybe you just needed to feel something other than aching emptiness.
You reached for your bag, fingers trembling slightly as you grabbed your keys.
You stood at the edge of the rooftop, the city stretching out beneath you in dull glimmers and distant noise. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting the hem like invisible fingers still curious about you. The night air was cool, but not cold. Comfortable, if not a little lonely.
You set the old boombox down by your foot with a soft thud, the plastic casing scuffed from years of being dragged around—picnics, road trips, impromptu dance parties in your cramped living room. It still worked, barely. The rewind button was jammed and the volume dial crackled if you touched it too fast.
The opening synth of Hungry Eyes bled into the night, too loud, too romantic, too specific. And perfect.
It was always this song. Always.
You set the bottle of wine beside it—a red, the expensive kind he used to complain about because "no one with working taste buds needs to spend that much on fermented grapes," but he always bought it anyway. The cork popped a little too early. You poured a glass anyway.
Tonight was going to be perfect.
Not in a dramatic, Instagram-worthy, movie-ending kind of way. But your kind of perfect.
You sat on the edge of the rooftop, dress pooling around your hips, heels kicked off somewhere behind you. Your legs dangled off the side like you were sixteen again, like gravity didn't apply as long as you didn't look down.
Your glass trembled slightly in your hand. You blamed the wind.
You looked out over the city. Some couples were probably slow dancing in their kitchens. Some were fighting over whose turn it was to take out the trash. Some were in love. Some were leaving each other.
You were doing none of those things.
You closed your eyes. Let the song wash over you, bubble up all the memories you'd been trying to lock down for five days straight. The dance in your old apartment with the flickering lights.
The way his hand slipped onto your hip, warm and casual, like it belonged there. The grin that split his face when he saw you try to twirl and nearly fell into the bookshelf. The quiet after.
His breath near your ear, and the whisper: "You're it for me, you know that?"
You took a sip of wine. It didn't burn enough.
The city didn't stop for you. No one knew this was the night he asked you to marry him. No one knew what the dress meant, what the song meant, what this rooftop meant.
It was your secret shrine. Your grief. Your anniversary.
You didn't even know if he'd come.
Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe this was the real goodbye, and five days of silence was all you were going to get. Maybe the universe had finally listened to you—for once—and taken him away properly. Permanently.
You wiped your cheek before the tears could fall far enough to be real.
"Happy anniversary," you whispered into the wind.
Your voice sounded too small, too fragile—like it might break apart before the wind could carry it anywhere. But you said it anyway.
Because no matter how many times you told yourself it was over—
Some quiet, unreasonable part of you still believed he might answer.
He stood at the edge of the rooftop, bathed in that soft twilight glow that made everything feel like memory. Like dream. His hands in his pockets, that crooked, knowing smile you hadn't seen in so long.
You stumbled to your feet, breath caught in your throat as you ran to him. "I... I didn't think—"
Your hand hovered near his chest. You wanted to touch him, but the ache of what wasn't real, of what you couldn't hold, was already pulling at your ribs.
But then he reached first.
His fingers curled around yours—solid, warm. Like it used to be.
You looked up at him, disbelieving.
You could touch him, feel him. And he could feel the same.
"I had to give it time," he said quietly, raising your hand to his cheek. "I'm sorry I left like that. But I had to come back for this—for you. For our anniversary. To dance. To see my wife one last time."
Tears blurred your vision. His skin felt real. His voice sounded real. And that made it hurt more.
"Y/n" he murmured, "dance with me?"
You nodded, barely able to breathe, and let him draw you close. One arm around your waist, the other holding your hand. He took the first step, slow and steady, guiding you as if music filled the air—even though there was none. Just the wind, the faint hum of the city below, and the sound of your own trembling breath.
You moved together in silence, his movements careful and sure, yours unsteady at first. But muscle memory, that old rhythm, came back.
He pressed his forehead to yours. "You changed me," he said softly. "I used to be—"
"An asshole," you whispered, a soft laugh breaking through your tears.
He smiled. "Yeah. That. But with you... God, it wasn't even about your body, or what people saw. It was you. The way you looked at me. The way you never backed down, even when I was awful."
You clung to him tighter, swaying with him across the rooftop. It didn't matter that there was no music. You remembered the song from your wedding night. He must have remembered too—because he began to hum it.
It was off-key, low and gravelly, but it made your heart twist in your chest.
"I didn't deserve you," he said, brushing your hair from your face. "But you still gave me everything. And then I died."
More tears fell. He wiped them gently away, his thumb soft against your cheek.
"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "The crash, the road—it was me. I was distracted, reckless. But I would've done it all again. I would've driven through storms and fire for you."
"I can't accept that," you choked. "If I hadn't called you... If I hadn't made you come all that way—"
"Don't." He stopped, holding your face between his hands. "Don't carry that. I never blamed you. I never could. You were the reason I lived in the first place. For once, I had something worth everything."
The music in your head swelled again—memories of an old song and an old life. You kept dancing.
His hand pressed to your back, holding you steady, close. Your bodies moved like a memory, the kind that visits just before sleep. He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, arms wrapping around you tightly.
"I would've done anything for you," he said, voice thick. "And that night? It was enough. I had already been given more than I deserved."
You rested your head on his chest, listening for a heartbeat that wasn't there. And still, you swore you could hear it.
He whispered into your hair, "Will you be alright when I go?"
You hesitated. "No one will ever be you. But I'll be alright. I know what's right. You have to go, and I have to stay."
You looked up at him and smiled through your tears. "But you'll wait for me, won't you? You won't find anyone in heaven, right?"
He chuckled low. "Never. Never," he said, eyes shining. "I wouldn't dare."
He spun you once more—slow and tender, the kind of dance made for goodbye. Then he leaned in, brushing your lips with his.
"I'll be waiting," he said.
And then he stepped back.
The light behind him had grown. It bled gold across the rooftop, casting him in something ethereal and whole.
"It's brighter now," he murmured, looking over his shoulder. "It's... beautiful." He laughed—just once, and it sounded like it used to, rich and full of life.
Then he looked at you one last time.
"Happy anniversary, I love you."
And you love him for that.
a/n - watcha think for my first oneshot / post