A Pitch Black World
Having written quite a few one shots already, I've decided that perhaps I should just put them all together. There's no need to delude people into thinking that I've written more than I really have. Most of these are short and simply for the fun of it. Their role in whatever universe I may intend to create is yet to be decided, if it is even significant enough to be considered. They are mostly written for simple entertainment.
None of these really connect to the other stories, even when they contain the same characters, so there's no need to read these stories in order.
Feel free to suggest stories, but know that I am busy. There will be stories I will not do, most because there are a lot of pairings I just don't agree with, but it's still worth a shot to ask, isn't it? I don't bite. Maybe.
As mentioned before, I certainly do not own the number one enemy of the Guardians, Pitch Black. Whilst the stories here mostly revolve around him or involve him in some way, he is technically the property - which sounds weird when you spend so long writing about a character to the point where you might as well be thinking of them as a living, breathing being - of DreamWorks and William Joyce. This Pitch, may have a different personality from the one in the original source material, but I've decided to take some creative liberties. Well, creative...
Anyway, with that out of the way, please enjoy (and possibly review?).
Why Boogeymen Avoid Bars (And Pubs)
Rating: T, just in case.
Pitch hadn't intended to go to the bar. Not really. As shocking as this may sound, when it comes to a spirit with an English infliction to his voice and an old-fashioned robe to the boot, Pitch Black scarcely even went near alcohol. For him that was a no-no. He had his reasons, of course. First of all, he had to keep in mind what his purpose was. He ought to be the one who creates the fear of alcohol, not the one who drinks it, because secondly it has very severe consequences. Not just hangovers... though from Pitch's experience, those were something necessary to avoid.
So why was he in the bar, you may ask? Well, first, it was really more of a pub. An Irish Pub, thank you very much. O'Riley's Good Ole' Traditional Pub, situated somewhere in North Ireland. The boogeyman didn't bother checking for the exact coordinates. It wasn't necessary. However, being weak, he assumed that one of the easiest ways to access fear - apart from scaring young children, which proved unsuccessful some 85 and a half days ago - was to scare drunk men. After all, intoxicated males were likely to believe anything.
Anyway. As he sat on one of the stools, tapping his fingers against the table, thinking of ways to scare the drunkards that decided to isolate themselves from the outside world through drinks and folklore here in the dimly-lit hell-hole of a place; his eyes strayed from the table to the stage. Yes, this pub, wasn't just any pub. It was a premium pub. One of those with... entertainment. Not just boulder-headed men speaking of tales about sirens who drowned men under the surface of the sea. Real entertainment. This one came in the form of a band. And yes, it was an Irish band. If you must know.
For the first few minutes, the music was an ear-aching symphony of badly written bag-pipe music. Whilst it may have been considered a waste of time, it did give him a few inspirations. Namely on how to re-programme his nightmares to scare the living daylights out of the brats that cost him his power and dignity.
The second part of that evening, though... now that part was truly entertaining. Perhaps it was because the inhalation of partly evaporated rum might have caused a slight intoxication despite the fact that Pitch had never actually drank it, or it might have been the fault of his insubordinate body that he had no control over despite all those centuries of existence, but his gaze seemed to be drawn to a very fascinating young female. Now, if you are going to chastise the boogeyman for his preferences, know she was mature enough to be around men (at least in his eyes) and that if you were thinking she would be far too young for him you would have to deal with the fact that most if not all females in the world were far too young for him. Not that he received any weird looks from those around him. Might have had something to do with the fact that he was invisible.
Back to the female. She was a rather wild looking female, what with her fiery red hair that fell down in waves and her blue-green eyes, and so nothing short of intriguing. Though, the most interesting thing about her was her skill. Unlike her screeching, unskilled, amateur colleagues, this young lady could actually play. The fiddle. Yes, she could play the fiddle.
The rhythm of the music had its effects on him (and the other men around him... though they were far too drunk by then to know the difference between terrible music and actual talent either way), moving him. Not very subtly either. He soon found himself fighting off the urge to dance with the occasional sway of his body and tap of his feet and his hands. Soon enough, he stood up and once he reached a free spot, began to move. Dance. It wasn't easy; what with all the tipsy lads in the bar, pushing one another and attempting something akin to a jig, making it harder for him to do so much as a spin or a twirl. Still, it was worth it. He had never felt so free and content, with the exception of those times he had spent scaring children half-to-death.
That all changed when the fiddler decided to cease her musical masterpiece, drowning him in disappointment. It wasn't helped by the men pushing a stool over, which sent to boogeyman to the ground, regrettably enough.
Too cheery they were to scare now, laughing and patting one another on the shoulder like old friends. He huffed, settling back down at the table, deciding to sit out the rest of the dances. With them all acting so chummy, the unpleasant memory of being defeated by the Guardians not so long ago was brought back. Oh, it definitely had its effects on his attitude. He couldn't help but occasionally transfer the odd jug of ''black stuff'' (Guinness, if you must know) a few metres to the right. Sometimes, it would make one or two of the males look around in panic, wondering what had taken their beer. He gained great amusement in watching them beat one another up, assuming one had tried to rob the other of their beer. Such primitive behaviour.
"Say, Shadow... whatcha' doin' here?" a slurred voice suddenly asked him. It sounded very familiar. Too joyous to be one of the voices of the battling humans.
Turning around, he noticed a well-known spirit of fun sitting there and despite the spirit's human form situating itself before his eyes, it was still very much Frost. You couldn't forget that cheeky grin, with all those irritatingly, perfect, white ivories gleaming under the dim lights.
Pitch rolled his eyes. "Why are you here, Frost? Came here to gloat?" he sniped.
"N...nah..." the boy drawled, letting out a hiccup. He played around with his pint of rum, pushing it around the table. "I jus' came to see what's up with you... y'know... since the time in," another hiccup popped out of his mouth, "Antarctica." And another hiccup.
Pitch sighed. Why? Of all spirits?! Did he have to get stuck with this ignorant imbecile stuck in a teenage body. "Oh, bloody spill the beans already."
Jack let out a giggle. No a very manly one either, mind you. Pitch flinched at that, creeped out. "I would... Pitch-y..." he began rather coquettishly. Now the dark spirit had to try an stifle another roll of the eyes. For god's sake. Why was the damn ice prat's voice so darn cheery?! More to the point, how did he even...? "Come on... *hic* that's dirty, even for you..."
Looking up to the ceiling, Pitch took in a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his voice. Oh, for the love of darkness. "Can you not act like an adult for once?"
The younger sprite laughed, even that sound seeming utterly fluthered. "Oh... Shady. You're too *hic* funny! I'm a teenager!"
"You are over some bloody three centuries old. Act like it," he grumbled back at Jack, glaring daggers at the boy.
"Hehe... yeah... I forgot about *hic* that. Funny how you forget those things so easily," the ice creature slurred, with a cheesy smile. Was this supposed to be some bad joke? Pitch didn't know- no, he didn't want to know.
In the end, the dark spirit thought it wiser to remove any possible container of alcoholic substances out of close proximity of the winter spirit. However, as he reached out to grab the glass, something cool grasped his hand. The winter spirit's cold fingers wrapped around his own, pulling them closer to him.
"Aw... don't ruin the fun Pitch," Jack protested with a playful tone of voice. Shuddering, the boogeyman gagged inwardly at the sugary sweetness in the spirits voice.
The younger male reached out his other hand, trying to bring a squirming Pitch closer to him, until they were almost chest to chest. The taller male backed away, but was immediately stopped by Jack's roaming hand that seemed to crawl up his spine. Pitch gasped, confused. His eyes widened. Just what was happening? What was Jack trying to-
Though before he could think of the answer, the teenage spirit leaned in, pressing his lips against Pitch's in a sloppy kiss. And no matter how much Pitch tried to pull away, Jack held him firmly in place. Where had his strength gone?! How dare it leave him when this brat was so rudely intruding his personal space, demanding a kiss?! Especially since Frost turned out to be absolutely terrible at kissing. Far too pushy too.
He attempt to pull away, but his chest was soon pressed to Jack's instead, as the younger spirit tried to pry his lips apart. Trying not to seem weak, he suppressed his whimpers, before trying to shove Jack away instead.
Though instead of falling back, Jack just pulled away, smirking at Pitch. "Wanna touch me so badly?" he teased.
Hell no! Pitch glowered at Jack. "Go to hell, Jack," he retorted in a vile temper. He only received a grin.
"You know you liked that *hic*," his nemesis commented. That smug bastard. For the record, Jack's breath stank. As Jack finally loosened his grip, Pitch turned on his heel, walking off with a huff. He had had enough of this goddamned place and he was more than wiling to file a harassment charge-
He hit something solid. 'Probably another wall,' he thought bitterly, as he groaned, before looking up. Much to his shock, he was met with the apologetic gaze of a young female. Or rather, the young female. The one from earlier. His fiddle player. Well, not yet his. Wait... he had bumped into her? A human!
"Sorry for that, sir," she quickly began apologising.
"No, that's- wait... you can see me?" he inquired, tilting his head to the side.
"Sure can," the female nodded.
"Y-you... " No, she couldn't possibly believe in him. She must have been some anomaly. Or perhaps he had died from the frost brat's kiss of death. "What is your name, girl?" he asked cautiously, observing her.
The female blushed, looking down at the floor, avoiding his gaze with a momentary meekness. Though her voice didn't falter. "The name's Emery," she answered. "And you? What's yer name?"
Stunned and at a loss for words, Pitch took a moment to go over his puzzled thoughts. Was it possible that she was really an anomaly? That she could see him without belief? 'Emery. The name strangely fits her...' he thought, feeling a little dazed. A little happy. Hopeful. He was no longer invisible. Not to her, at least.
"M-my name is Pitch. Pitch Black. The Nightmare King at your service," he introduced himself with a bow and a polite smile.
She looked back up now, through her amber waves of hair. "Nightmare King?" she repeated after him.
"The one and only," he added, proudly. His golden-silver eyes shone with light now. He was talking to a mortal. A human who could not only see him. She could hear him too! She could speak to him. And he to her. It was like Halloween had just come early! Every thought in his head buzzed in acknowledgement of this.
"Hmm..." the red-head placed her hand on her hips, her gaze trailing down Pitch's figure, before reaching his golden-silver eyes. "What is a 'king' like yerself doing at a place like this? Kissin' up drunk teenagers?"
He stared at her, aghast. "I-I wasn't-"
"Oh, but it's alright. Yer preference doesn't bother me. Ye wouldn' be the only male in this bar that's a homosexual," Emery assured him in a friendly tone of voice. Wait, what?! She actually believed he and Jack were a- "The two of ye make a cute couple."
His face paled considerably.
"What's wrong- I didn't mean to make you feel embarrassed-"
"No!" he snapped, making her freeze. "I am not gay!"
She smiled teasingly. "As I said, it's alright tae be gay..."
"I don't kiss males! He kissed me, for your information!" Pitch exclaimed rather rashly, though he responded far too quickly and only realised far too late that he had done so.
"Mhm... sure ye are."
"Fine! If you want proof then I will gladly-" then he pulled her into his arm, before leaning down to kiss her. Feeling the fire on her lips burn his very being, he deepened the kiss. Oh, he wasn't afraid to get burned. Not at all. Hearing her gasps against his lips, he continued kissing her for some time watching through half-lidded eyes as she closed her eyes in pleasure, leaning backwards, letting him to kiss her on. One of his hands strayed to her face, reached out to brush away a few strands of her soft, amber and ruby coloured hair. Then, he pulled away, taking a deep breath. As she opened his eyes, surprised, he traced his tongue over his lips -"prove it to you," he breathed out.
His hand fell off her body, as he focused on her eyes instead of her lips. As enticing as the thought of kissing her again was...
As Emery's chest rose and fell, she looked up to him. "A kiss proves nothin'," she uttered resolutely, though her voice was faint.
Pitch smirked. Oh, he had plenty of ways of proving his sexual orientation to this girl. And his overwhelming persistence. "I'm sure I'll be able to convince you... if you let me," he said smoothly.
She grinned. "Then I'll just have to take up yer offer, sir," she replied innocently, before taking him by the hand. Before he knew it, he was pulled into a dance, sending him reeling. Breathless, he soon relaxed, enjoying the dance.
It looked like his fiddle-player was one minx of a girl.
And he most definitely learned his lesson about Irish pubs. Or any pub for that matter. Don't trust them. Especially if their a certain winter spirit's favourite.
A/N - I have nothing against homosexuals or Irish people. I just figured that mistakes were funny sometimes and that it just so happened to be fitting for this one-shot to be set in an Irish pub. As for bag-pipe music... it's awful for the most part. It just is.
Also, side note: You can't prove your sexual orientation with actions. The fact that you're trying to prove you are something actually suggests that you are not what you are trying to convince them you are. Pitch is just being a bit of a dolt in this story.