Cursed to Come When Called
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The curse bound to the house you’ve inherited has been the perfect solution to your sleepless, needy nights. Every evening, you call upon a spectral lover to sate your deepest, most desperate cravings…only to want for more the next day. But when your usual summoning ritual doesn't work one night, you learn that even supernatural lovers can get jealous—and that lesson comes with consequences you may be more than willing to endure.
*JJK Anime-only spoiler!!
Rating: Explicit | MDNI
Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime & Manga) Relationships: Curseya/ Reader; Zenin Naoya/Reader; Curse Naoya/fem!Reader Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ghost Sex, Spectrophilia, Tentacle Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Verbal Degradation, Praise, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Zenin Naoya, Submissive Reader-Insert, Teasing, Orgasm Edging, Rough Sex, Clothed Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Spanking, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Oral Fixation, Summoning, Cursed Spirit Naoya Zenin, don't worry i don't describe how he looks lol, Jealousy
4.5K words
Also on Ao3
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The Victorian house you'd inherited from your late great-aunt came with three warnings:
Don't go in the basement. Don't open the locked rooms. And never, under any circumstance, read from the grimoire in the attic.
You should have really listened to that last one.
Because now you lie awake—just as you have every night since you broke that rule—writhing and whimpering between sweat-drenched sheets, while your fingers work viciously between your soaked thighs. It's a futile attempt that leaves you gasping and desperate, no closer to the release that eludes you. Tears of frustration prick your eyes as your hips arch instinctively in a hollow memory, aching to be filled to the brim with a savage brutality. Through the window, the waning moon watches your plight with pity, silently urging you to accept the inevitable truth: there is only one way to satisfy the hunger that owns you.
The crushing reality cuts through the haze of self-pleasure, your body stilling and hand falling away as you give up on the useless attempt. You knew this was the price, knew that such an indulgence wouldn't come without cost. You thought the grimoire would only bring you power, but what you hadn't anticipated was that every encounter would leave you feeling like a needy, empty-minded thing, craving to be pinned and used until you'd beg to be broken again.
With an exasperated huff, you toss the covers off, as if answering the call were some burdensome chore. Pride and caution have you still trying to resist, even as your feet slide into the plush slippers at your bedside. But your hurried footsteps soon betray you. You quickly make your way to the adjoining hallway, your eagerness overtaking any pretense. You hadn't even bothered to wipe yourself down or don a robe to ward off the sepulchral chill of the old house. Not that you would bother anyway…you know he dislikes you concealed by such things.
Quietly, you head down the shadowy corridor and up the narrow staircase, past the gilt-framed family portraits hanging on the walls—their painted eyes following you with ancestral judgment. You've grown used to ignoring them, just as you have the Watchful Eyes. Tiny, skittering things that blink from within the molding and the cracks, possessing a different kind of gaze entirely. Just Watching. Always watching.
You pause when you reach the top of the stairs, heart racing with anticipation. The attic door groans as you slowly push it open, the hinges you'd (perhaps deliberately) neglected to oil announcing your arrival in a way that makes the heavy, wet ache between your thighs pulse with fresh need.
But as soon as you cross the threshold, you stand still, sensing an unusual shift from the usual, sybaritic atmosphere. Your brows knit together in confusion as you attempt to decipher the empty yet expectant tension in the air, searching the star-kissed expanse with its tall gothic windows and endless rows of ancient tomes for that familiar visage. The flickering shadows provide no answer, however; there is no sign of your phantom lover anywhere. Yet a lamp sits lit, its light warm and inviting—a riddle meant just for you.
So…he’s wanting the incantation tonight? In spite of your impatience for relief, you bite back a smile, your slippers practically sliding across the worn hardwood. It’s all you can do to refrain from skipping to the antique mahogany desk in the back.
The Grimoire of Shadow Binding and Summons sits open, always ready for you to read, a spell inked on its only page filled with any writing. The book had been your solace since you'd inherited the place, never missing a night since you'd first discovered its many…powers. As if it knew you'd succumb, the grimoire had been waiting for you to eventually find it. It had been tucked between ancestral records and clan histories speaking of speed, power, and vengeful pride that transcends death—drawing you here through strange dreams you couldn't ignore despite every warning.
As your fingers delicately trace the ancient pages in reverent memory, the hairs against your neck stir. The faintest "Mine..." is breathed against your ear, sending a tingle shooting down your spine and eyelids fluttering. It seems you aren't the only impatient one tonight.
The many fruitless attempts at release suddenly catch up to you, and your finger hastily finds the first word on the page, underlining it as you begin. Slow and sure, you read from the forbidden tome aloud, making sure to pronounce each syllable to its fullest:
"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge."
You step back as the final letter of the incantation leaves your lips with a trembling breath. The worn pages seem to flutter, though the windows are barred shut against any breeze. Several pairs of curious eyes lazily appear from in between the worn leather bindings stacked high on surrounding shelves…but none are the once-glimpsed crimson orbs you'd hoped to see, burning with desire.
"Must've spoken them too quickly," you mutter to yourself, sure you'd stumbled upon the intricate words in your haste. The hunger is fraying your composure, and it takes every ounce of your self-control not to press your achy center against the desk's edge, desperate for the friction that might finally offer some relief.
Tucking a wayward strand behind your ear, you clear your throat and recite the spell once more, your gaze searching the corners of the room as you allow each memorized word to ring clear—no longer pretending you don't know them by heart.
"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge!"
The silence stretches once again, broken only by the distant settling of the old house. A soft rustle of something moving behind the stacked trunks in the corner catches your attention.
But still. Nothing.
Puzzled, you gnaw at your lip, not knowing what else to do. Usually by now, you'd be bent over the desk, having the best orgasms of your life while an invisible touch claimed every inch of your trembling form. Now, you're more worried than anything, unsure if your ever-hungry appetite (only growing with each passing day) has finally worn out the binding vow that had bound the curse to this place.
Right then, as if sensing your very thoughts and worry, a slight brush—lighter than air—caresses your cheek. The touch sends a shiver down your spine, familiar yet maddeningly brief. So he is here!
In your haste to look around, you nearly topple one of the standing shelves loaded with dusty volumes and curiosities, but catch yourself at the last moment. A few loose papers flutter to the floor and a book tumbles from its perch, the Watchful Eyes multiplying between the book spines at the disturbance. You ignore it all, your glee (and unfulfilled pleasure) taking precedence.
"Did I do it wrong again?" you ask the seemingly empty room, awaiting the helpful yet petulant response—usually in the form of whispers and teasing nibbles against your ear—that usually manifests. The lamplight flickers as if something passed through its glow, and deep down, you know you didn't imagine that touch. In fact, you now understand exactly what this is.
He's toying with you.
Careful to hide your eagerness at the prospect of further teasing by the vengeful spirit, you allow a wicked thought to take root. Quickly, your fingers flick through the other scattered books on the shelves until you find exactly what you're looking for. Two can play this game, after all.
You set the spells book down purposely over the grimoire with a satisfying thud that echoes through the dusty attic. The Watchful Eyes observe curiously as you flip through its brittle pages, stopping when you find the one titled: Of Pleasure, Bliss, and How to Make Spectres Most Agreeable to One's Desires
It's risky, but you're desperate enough not to care.
"This should do the trick if you won't," you mutter loudly enough for any lurking presence to hear, already mouthing the spell where it reads in faded ink. Meanwhile, you lean over the desk seductively, one foot gliding over the calf of the other leg in a sensual twist that makes the silk of your short nightgown ride up your thighs. Your rear is perched up in the air of course, palms braced against the weathered wood to bear the pressure of your weight as you bend over tantalizingly, presenting yourself like an innocent offering to what's lurking in the shadows.
Not even halfway through the spell's first verse do you feel that familiar spiritual pressure magnify instantly, crushingly. Before you can even finish the next word, an invisible force is already gripping each of your wrists with iron intensity, followed in rapid succession by two more tendrils snapping around your ankles like rope.
Your half-gasp, half-moan rings out in the attic, the suddenness of his arrival never failing to leave you breathless. Around you, the skittering eyes pulse and crowd every corner, hungrily devouring the sight of your bound form as they acknowledge what's to come.
You try to test the binding by pulling back on the restraints, but the hold is unyielding, fingers of pure energy that seem to pulse with their own heartbeat. Before you know it, the pressure forces your arms back until—robbed of support—you fall face first onto the open spells book in front of you.
Cheek pressed sideways into the musty pages, you breathe in the scent of ancient parchment and magic, your heart racing. The grip on your ankles holds your legs steady—mercifully, as you're shaking near-violently from head to toe.
Shaking with excitement.
"I always knew you were a greedy little thing," a languid voice whispers, the words seeming to manifest directly against the shell of your ear. He's so close, so real, you can feel the phantom warmth of a breath that shouldn't exist.
Your lids flutter, skin already flushing with heat from his proximity alone. Happiness floods through you so completely, that tears of relief prick at your eyes. You're so starved for him, so overwhelmed by his presence that you barely notice when another set of tendrils appear, writhing teasingly beside you in ribbons of violet energy before disappearing behind where your eyes cannot follow.
Not that he's ever let you have a proper look.
The solid-smokey trails retreat beneath the delicate material of your nightgown, seeking your most sensitive places with aching slowness. "Do I need to remind you of what happens when you get impatient with me, my pretty summoner?"
He ignores your squirming, your choked sobs of need and broken pleas as he quickly finds what he's looking for. Your vision blurs, mind going hazy with need when the faintest vibration teases at that first touch over your needy bud. You clench around emptiness when he retreats much-too-quickly, instead, dragging another tendril along your spine until you bow, arching into his touch. He ignores how you strain backwards against the bindings desperately, needing nothing more than to be filled. You know that infuriating pause means he's waiting for you to answer his silly question.
"No," you gulp. "I—I mean. What did I even do? I was just trying to—"
"I don't recall allowing you to speak," he proclaims, the careful composure in his voice barely masking the petulant smile underneath. Though you have to refrain from rolling your eyes even as your walls spasm hard at his words, never able to take him seriously when he gets in these moods. He is a vengeful spirit after all, and so it comes with the territory, you suppose. "Are you going to behave for me? Or do you need me to put you in your place?"
Your plan to respond with even more defiance dissolves into a yelp, as soon as he suddenly presses against both your entrances. The blunt tips of his spectral appendages push past the initial resistance with steady, unrelenting pressure, drawing out each moment of your submission, taking his time despite himself. He's not usually one to be patient.
Unsurprisingly, you don't worry about the slow pace, your mind (and holes) practically melting around the spectral invasion. Not that your body needed much more preparation, either. Your pussy already clenches desperately, arousal from your earlier futile attempts dripping steadily down your thighs—more than enough to completely drench through your panties…had you bothered with any.
Your hair is suddenly wrapped in a fist of spectral energy, pulling your head back until your spine arches beautifully. While he continues to stretch you open below with other appendages, your scant negligee is lifted with agonizing care, the black lace silk gliding over the heated softness of your skin until it's bunched at your lower back. You're surprised to hear what sounds like a hitched breath. "Such a perfect body. Perfect little holes. I know how much you love having them stretched for me."
The graceful curve of your exposed form draws a deep, possessive growl from behind—a sound so primal it makes several books tremble on their shelves as he fills you even deeper than you knew possible. For all your summonings, you'd never once considered whether he actually felt anything—pleasure, want, need—or if he was simply cursed to fulfill your desires without reward.
"What a pretty slut, always ready to get used by me every night," he murmurs appreciatively with a grunt. The press against both your entrances immediately becomes more demanding, more possessive. "It almost makes me sad to have to teach you a lesson." The width feels thicker than you're used to—much thicker than what he usually gives you—as if he's determined to stretch your limits from the very start.
At least he paces himself as he enters your rim, wise enough to test until you can open up for him more easily. Yet that only makes you arch your back and mouth fall open, a soft whimper escaping as you savor the exquisite torture. "Yet still so tight even though you're such a needy desperate whore," he breathes, pulling out momentarily. You feel the warm sensation as he trickles a spectral slick drip down between the plump flesh of your rear, the ethereal fluid coating your pussy before gravity can claim it.
Only then does he push back in with noticeably less resistance, the supernatural lubricant easing his way without pause. Yet none of the overwhelming stretch diminishes; if anything, his essence seems to heighten every nerve ending it touches. As if that weren't torturous enough, you feel ridges begin to form along the length, grinding against your sensitized walls with agonizingly slowness.
You clench around him with shameless need, your walls gripping him with greedy hunger. "Mmm. P-lease." You're already begging aloud, knowing how unconvincing your next words will sound. After all, this is exactly what you climbed those ancient stairs for. Prepared your skin with jasmine oils in a bath where you'd cleaned every inch of yourself—inside and out—with painstaking care. Practiced the incantation until your tongue knew every syllable. "I didn't do anything wrong. I said your words perfectly—"
"Then let me take care of you properly. Isn't that why you're here, after all?" His strange accent colors every syllable, but it's the uncaring tone that makes your nipples peak beneath the silk of your gown and walls clasp even more tightly, gripping him like a vise. He groans, the sound booming and strained as if he's fighting for control against the overwhelming grip threatening to undo him. The Watchful Eyes flicker back and forth rapidly from their hiding spots, practically vibrating with anticipation at the heat of promise in his voice. "Just relax for me so I can make you feel good."
His phantom touch doesn't let up, and a light sheen of perspiration forms along your brow as the dizzying stretch finally pauses and settles into place, your walls fluttering around the pulsing heat of his appendages. The all-consuming sensation of being so thoroughly occupied, so overwhelmingly full as you're stretched and filled in a way that sends dizzying sparks through every nerve, leaves you trembling and already wrecked—skin flushed and burning, your pussy aching heavily with need. You're fighting the urge to rock back against him and beg for the friction you desperately crave, already coming apart at the seams before he's even begun to move. But you know better than to push your luck.
"There you go. There's my good girl," he coaxes, the words suspiciously honey-sweet as your tight grip on him gradually loosens at his beckoning. But just as soon as you do... "So pretty before I wreck you."
The first thrust tears a raw cry from your throat, loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes scurrying. The tendrils wrapped around your ankles pulse at the sound, climbing higher to coil around your trembling thighs like living restraints, anchoring you perfectly in place for what's to come.
And just in time, as he doesn't wait for you to adjust. He pulls halfway out, only to drive back into both your now-ready openings with brutal, merciless force in one, grunted go. "Thought you'd be greedy, hm?"
You cry out again against the pages beneath your face in a shattered moan, bound hands clenched into fists. Muscles tensed, you brace yourself for the next devastating one. And it doesn't disappoint. "You'll take exactly what I give you when I give it to you, and you're going to thank me for it."
He thrusts again and again. All the way until he's pressed snuggly against your barrier. Until you're a wreck of gasping whimpers, tears of overwhelming sensation streak down your cheeks and onto the pages beneath.
"Getting bored with me were you, my sneaky fuckdoll? Thought you'd try something new, hm?" Another deliberate push deeper. "That pathetic little act doesn't work on me, my pretty whore." More stretches you open as the appendages swell with each word, until the sheer pressure pushes you completely over the desk, breasts pressed against the scattered tomes beneath you. "You're going to learn some patience, aren't you?"
"Unhh!" The overwhelming fullness of him scrambles your thoughts entirely. Yet to neither of your surprise, you can't help yourself—helplessly starting to push back and meeting his thrusts despite the tight bindings. Your eyes roll back as waves of hedonistic sensations wash over you, the Watchful Eyes peering more obviously from between book spines. Knowing how tantalizing your body must look, especially responding to his possessive control, only serves to heighten your arousal—a delicious bonus for the exhibitionist desires you'd never admit aloud.
The ancient floorboards creak ominously beneath the force of his relentless pace, each brutal thrust driving you harder against the desk until the heavy wooden surface groans in protest. Each pounding stroke as he builds a steady rhythm sends your toes curling into your slippers, fingers digging painfully into your palms, nearly bringing the house tumbling down around you with your sobs of pleasure when he glides mind-numbingly fast, quick to find that one spot.
The flesh of your rear slaps repeatedly against the vengeance behind you, the graphic sounds of your squelching and his lewd, slick hammering making you squeeze forcefully around the fullness inside. With it, a fresh wave of slick arousal escapes and trails down your inner thighs, evidence of your need that he drinks in with starved and possessive eyes, hidden from your view. Not that he would ever show it, preferring to continue taunting and punishing your trickery instead.
"Had your fill, yet?"
He doesn't relent, repeatedly pistoning with a roughness that stokes the fire—until your rimmed opening feels like it will take no more. Despite that, only needy words spill unapologetically from your lips. "Please. Please…don't…stop."
"Don't stop? Look what a desperate slut you are for me." Thrust. "So fucking—" Thrust. "Perfect—" Thrust. "For me" Thrust. "To break."
The purr and slight smile in his possessive voice at that last one is almost what sends you spiraling over the edge. It's clear he's not just fucking you; he's ruining you for anyone or anything else. Yet the way his rhythm falters just slightly, the barely perceptible tremor in his next thrust, tells you that you're not the only one teetering on the brink. You're both throbbing and leak uncontrollably, a gush of sticky wetness that spreads slickly between your joined forms.
"Fuck, you're such a perfect little plaything for me. Always so eager. Always ready to take whatever I give you, aren't you?" he asks surprisingly sounding breathless, and you nod frantically despite knowing full well it's the other way around—that he's the one who appears whenever you call, who fills you exactly how you crave. "I knew you'd take every bit for me like the desperate toy that you are."
But before you can even process the irony of his words, he's already repositioning you. One leg is lifted upward until your bent knee is placed at the edge of the desk—opening you up, exposing you even more to his greedy gaze, as he feasts his eyes on your unknowing form from behind. There's a tight grip on your hips and shoulders now, pulling your body back repeatedly onto his form. Simultaneously, another, more delicate tendril materializes, brushing feather-light over your swollen clit from beneath. The tendril splits open to reveal a warm, wet surface that latches onto your clit with gentle suction, a forked tongue flicking and swirling against the swollen nub in maddening patterns. Tears of overwhelming sensation escape as he toys with the sensitive bundle of nerves, knowing just how you like it.
"Please—fuck…please—I can't take anymore!" you sob brokenly, your voice barely recognizable as tears of pleasure stream down your face. Even the Watchful Eyes seem entranced by your desperate state, their gaze flickering rapidly back and forth as they drink in every tremor of your tightly-restrained body, gorging themselves on your helpless whimpers, the way you shudder with each deep thrust and rub of your clit, biting your lip raw in an attempt to stifle your cries.
You're teetering so close to the precipice. In fact, you'd promise him just about anything if he would finally let you tumble over that edge and find the release that will let you sleep peacefully afterward. You'd sell your very soul in this moment, ready to pledge yourself to him for eternity if it meant he'd finally grant you mercy.
"I need it. Please. I need t-to come. I'll do an…ungh. Anything you want," you beg without regret, despite knowing the rules. He doesn't take the bait anyway, his rhythm suddenly slowing to an agonizing crawl until you're reduced to broken pleading even more. "I only want you. I can't think about anything else—"
Your desperate words fade into muffled sounds as your mouth is suddenly and sensually filled with smoky, ethereal energy. Instead of protesting further, the familiar weight on your tongue soothes you, and you begin to suck softly on the phantom appendage, the well-practiced motion gradually tempering your burning need into something more manageable.
"Is that better, princess?" he asks and you give him a muffled affirmation and a sniff, fearful he will stop if you don't.
Yet there's nothing that could have prepared you for how your skin turns feverish, heat radiating from every pore. How tears of powerlessness stream down your flushed cheeks. How your inner walls grip desperately, clamping down harshly at the impossibly thick tendril stretching your core, while you're stuffed completely full in all other ends, clit getting abused into numbness. The Watchful Eyes flick back and forth rapidly in excitement, sensing the edge of your pleasure is near.
So as soon as phantom palms materialize to cup your breasts through the silk—spectral fingers escaping to roll and pinch your hardened nipples—while another delivers sharp, repeated slaps to the curve of your ass, you shatter completely.
With a shriek loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes retreating into the deepest shadows between book spines, you cry out a name into the muffling tendril. Your walls clench rhythmically around the fullness within you as waves of release crash through your trembling, shaking form. Every muscle goes taut before dissolving into liquid pleasure, your body convulsing, rocking back greedily onto him for more even as the climax tears through you with an intensity that leaves you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.
The dual sensations of being so thoroughly filled send aftershocks rippling through you, each one making you gasp and shake anew as he gives you more, letting you take more and more and more as you crest over again while he whispers encouraging, sweet words into your ears to guide you each and every time.
Until finally, the last one.
As your trembling begins to subside once you've finally had your fill, and your body stills from the rocking, you feel the thick tendrils slowly withdrawing from your oversensitive body with an obscene squelch that makes you shiver. The spectral bonds around your thighs and ankles gradually loosen their grip too, dissolving back into the shadows like silk ribbons falling away.
"You did so good for me." His voice is thick and gravely as he whispers praise with genuine warmth, no longer rough with dominance—but soft with satisfaction. The irony never fails to amaze you: he's cursed to come when called—but it's always only you that does.
A gentle phantom touch pats your head tenderly, fingers combing through your disheveled hair with surprising affection before eventually, everything fades back into the ether. You're left there for a few precious moments, coming down from your high in blissful exhaustion. The Watchful Eyes have retreated too, now that they've had their fill of the spectacle, though you know they'll be back the next time.
When your breathing finally slows to an even rhythm and your lids droop heavily, a slight sting across your ass—a playful slap that makes you yelp—awakens you and signals it's time to return to bed. Free of all constraints, you place your hanging foot down and sit up, shaking the slight numbness from your legs and smoothing down your rumpled nightgown.
Taking the lamp to guide your way back down the creaking stairs, you pause, taking in the scene and recalling how it all started. Perhaps that's why, before you head out, you reach down to pick up the grimoire, slipping the thick book under your arm. Then, after chewing thoughtfully on your inner cheek, a devious smile spreads across your face before you reach down and take the other spells book too.
After all, you might need them both again tonight.
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a/n: clearly I can't get enough of Naoya, human or otherwise 😌 This was my first time writing anything remotely like this so hope it does what it needs to! Thanks for reading and I would love to know what you think!!
