Succumbing to Darkness (a Pitch Black x Reader fanfiction)

I

  When you were young, your nights were plagued with nightmares. Shadows played in the corners of your dreams, tainting them with fear. Laughter, malicious and cruel, came from those you loved. Horrific terrors sometimes occurred, of your parents being brutally murdered, or of yourself alone in the emptiness of the void. These dreams scarred you for many years, until your late teens, when you realized that they were only nightmares, imaginations coming from your darkest fears. They stopped then.

~

  The cold nipped your nose and chapped your lips. Shivering, you pulled your coat closer to your body, attempting to trap in heat. You had come into the forest to draw, but decided to delve deeper than the icy pond to study birds. Your feet were unsure, your path unsteady; hardly anyone wandered this far into the trees. You looked around, and realized you were isolated. The midday sun did little to light your way, and fear prickled at your scalp, but you trekked on. A shape came into view, and you stopped.
You had stalled at the edge of a clearing, where in the middle stood a broken down bed frame. Curious as you were, you wandered over, and noticed that the rotting wood was protecting a hole below. Your eyebrows furrowed and you pushed the bed frame out of the way to attempt to look down in it. In this motion your small sketchbook fell out of the pocket of your coat, making a suicide plunge into the darkness. You cried out in shock. That book held everything: stories, confessions, art. It was your diary. With a sigh of defeat you sat at the edge of the hole with your legs dangling, and you slid down into blackness.

~

Cold air rushed over your face, and the fall lasted for what seemed like forever. This was not a good idea; you were certain that you would die if you hit the ground at this speed, or at least break your legs, rendering you immobile, and you would die of dehydration or hunger. You just kissed your life away when you landed hard on a squeaky spring mattress. Your fingers felt chilly, wet mold, and you jumped up with a disgusted yelp. You quickly pulled your phone out of your pocket. No service, and it was almost dead. You turned on the flashlight function and moved it around, examining. You were in a small cavern, with a hall leading to a light at the end, but you didn't walk that way yet. You looked for your sketchbook. "Weird," you said aloud, voice echoing. "Where is it?"
You started walking down the corridor. The stone walls were oddly chiseled. A bad feeling settled in your stomach, but you kept walking. You walked for what seemed like forever; the hall was a lot longer than you expected. But you eventually came to the end, and your jaw dropped.
What seemed like hundreds of wrought iron cages hung from the ceiling, menacing, to the far end of the cavernous room. It was illuminated from above by some unknown source, casting dark shadows across the floor. It seemed almost labyrinthine, staircases and walkways leading places you dared not go. Your hands shook, and everything told you to turn around and climb to safety, no matter the cost, but you couldn't. All you could do was stare.
  A long-fingered hand grasped your shoulder. Your heart stopped. "What do you think you're doing?" A soft, deep voice whispered to you, and you recognized the accent he had as British. Your body shook, and you turned to face a tall man with grey-cast skin, black robes intricately detailed with gold thread, and haunting honey-colored eyes. Beautiful eyes... You couldn't tear yourself away from them. "What do you think you're doing," he repeated. His hand gripped your shoulder painfully. You snapped out your reverie and gasped. "O-oh my god, I'm so sorry! I dropped my sketchbook and-"
  "You mean this?" The stranger held up your little leather-bound book, the faintest smirk on his lips. You nodded in confirmation. "Yes, sir," you said as you reached for it, but he held it away from you, chuckling. You paused. That laugh was familiar. It scratched at your brain, making memories bleed. Those nightmares from your childhood, the terror you felt, that laugh, cold and cruel, the laugh that caused you to wake up screaming as if you were tortured...
  You wailed, falling to your knees and gripping your head. All you could hear was that laughing, amplified to levels your brain couldn't properly process. All you could see were golden eyes. All you could feel was cold emptiness. You accepted your fate of the void and closed your eyes.

~

  You awoke with a startled cry from a fitful rest, one that left you more tired than when you had fallen asleep. You sat up slowly, looking around with bleary vision. It was dark, but not terribly, and the bed below you was not your own. The sheets were inky black and silken. You realized you were still below ground, and you stood quickly. Your heavy coat and boots were sitting in a neat pile next to the bed. You picked them up. As you were lacing up your boots, you looked up and saw that strange man leaning on the door frame, watching you almost curiously, holding a steaming mug of liquid. You stared. He stared back.
  "I believe I never introduced myself." He walked to you, extending the hand that wasn't holding the mug. His fingers were graceful, and the skin was paper thin, showing the veins and bones of his wrist. "My name is Pitch Black." You took his hand. His skin was icy cold. "I'm (Y/N)."
  "A pleasure," he smiled, and the gesture was surprisingly warm. Definitely not the kindest, but it wasn't cruel like before. When your hands parted, he held the mug out to you. "It's just tea," he assured as you looked down into it questioningly. Your eyes flicked up to meet his before sipping. The warm drink soothed your racing heart and unfroze your fingers. You smiled. "Delicious."
"I'm glad you like it."
The silence you shared was awkward, and the only sound you heard was the soft shifting of sand. You looked up at him from your cup and saw that he was spinning strings of sparkling black sand around his fingers. You watched in wonder; it was floating and weaving loops around Pitch's digits. "Beautiful," you whispered. "It took me a long time to perfect this little trick."
"What is it?" You asked dumbly.
He smiled reverently at his creation. "This, dear (Y/N), is nightmare sand. It can corrupt even the sweetest of  the Sandman's dreams, making the dreamer feel fear. Fascinating, isn't it?" Your brows knit together. It had been forever since you heard the name 'Sandman'. Your lips pursed.
"Do you know who I am?" Pitch asked softly, looking into your eyes. You shook your head.
"I am the boogeyman. The one hiding under beds, in closets, consumed by shadows." He smiled, the expression dangerously sweet.
  You were stunned. Your fear of the boogeyman faded with your elementary years. You shook your head again. "You must be crazy, I don't believe..." But he was gone. How? The room was large, you would have noticed if he left. You stood up, stepping away from the bed.
"You obviously do believe, my dear..." Lithe fingers began to play in your hair, another hand resting itself on your hip. "You wouldn't see me if you didn't." His soft touches hypnotized you, and you couldn't help but lean your head into his hand. He stroked your hip, treating you sweetly, as if you were a porcelain doll. Too soon, he pulled away. You turned to face him, but he was gone again. You blinked, dazed, and wandered out of the bedroom.
  It led out to the bottom of the cavern, where in the middle stood a large globe, taller than you were, lights scattered over the continents. You walked to it, looking at each place. The lights concentrated where cities like New York and London would be, and you touched a small cluster towards the west coast of the US. Pitch came up beside you. "Each of those lights is a child who believes in the Guardians."
  "The Guardians?" You repeated.
   "The big four of a childhood. Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and the Sandman."
  You shake your head. "I stopped believing in them when I was in middle school." You saw his eyes light up a bit, and a smile crossed his face. "I knew I liked you."
  "I'm guessing they're your mortal enemies."
  "Immortal, my dear. As long as one child believes, they exist, just like me."
  "Must be fun fighting them," you assumed.
  His eyes flashed with fury. "Not since that Jack Frost joined them," the malice was tangible in Pitch's tone as he spat the name. "He's made everything much harder for me..." You pursed your lips, not knowing what to say. There was another awkward silence.
  "Oh," Pitch mused, remembering something. He pulled your sketchbook from his pocket, handing it to you. "You are an exquisite artist." You blushed. "Thanks... I'm not that good..."
  "Do you wish to return home?" He asked. "It is nearing dawn."
  Your heart stopped. "Oh god, my mom must be worried sick!"
  "Come with me, dear." He held his hand out to you. You looked at it, then him, and took it. Both of your bodies melted into darkness, and whispers entered your mind.
  "Selfish..."
  "Stupid..."
  "How could you make your mother worry so..."
  "Ignore them," Pitch said to you, his voice seeming muffled in your ears. Suddenly, it was over. You stood at your front door, horizon glowing orange with light. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have kept you."
  "I-it's okay," you stammered. He hasn't let go of your hand.
  He brought it up to his lips and kissed your knuckles like a gentleman. You blushed brightly.
  "Come see me again, my dear..."
  And he was gone.