I am a pit of darkness that bleeds with a feather's touch. I hold the lamp black ichor of the written word inside me. Who am I?

I store your clothes or slow your pace, one word that fits in either case.

I wear a thousand colors’ guise, a gemstone of firelight before your eyes. No flame am I, yet fire I keep, In autumn’s grasp, my secrets sleep.

I have four sisters named Quart, but I am much larger than them all. I contain eight brothers named Pint, yet I fit inside a single plastic jug. I am the weight of eight pounds of water, but I am defined by the space I fill, not the weight I carry. What am I?

When I get scared, shake is what I do, particularly, in this type shoe.