Disney Pinocchio Coachman Novels & Stories

His animal instinct wanting him to pursue that delicious scent. But an eager young voice speaking fast drew his attention to the parked carriage. A little boy’s voice. An excited one. The coach stopped behind it. Boots slid from the driver’s bench to crunch over gravel. Cimmerii stink rose off the man dressed as a Grier Guardsman. Rising off him like steaming decay. Bast found the smell nauseating in its sticky sweetness. The man was yanking stuff from atop the coach. Opening the door of it to toss a doll on the ground before reaching back inside.

Every single day. Carter’s grin slides into something dangerous, the kind that shouldn’t exist on a man who just came. “Guess I’m gonna have to start calling you Coach, huh?” “Don’t even think about it,” I warn. He tilts his chin, lashes batting, the corner of his mouth curling into mischief. “Yes, Coach! No, Coach! On it, Coach!” The look he gives me sweet innocence layered with sin makes something deep in my chest clench. “Please, Coach,” he purrs, slow and deliberate. “I’ll do anything. Anything to play on your team. Anything at all.”

John Coachman stood up from the chair he was sitting on and walked over to the table in the corner of his room. He let his trousers drop to the floor and stood beside the table. He raised his left leg placing it on the table with his back facing Hudson and took in a deep breath. He turned his head to look at Hudson behind him and saw that he was looking at his ass and smirked, “Are you just going to stand there and look? We don’t have all day you know.” At the thought, Hudson’s manhood sprang to attention. He put his fingers into his mouth lathering it up then walked over to John Coachman and said, “You are so eager to get pinned down by my Silas.”

Where Luther stood fit and tall, this man was only about half his height, stout and bald. "Obviously not," he frowned, then motioned I got in. He was quite angry for some reason, perhaps I'd kept him waiting more than he had expected. Just as he'd requested, I stepped into the four-wheeled coach and the furrowed man entered too. The coach had doors in its sides and a front and a back seat inside. The coachman was a seat in front and I could have sworn I heard him called out a greeting.

The innkeeper went pale. “The night coach will come,” he said. He didn’t say from where. I waited in the courtyard until the rain turned to mist. Then, without sound, the coach appeared—tall, black, and shining like oil. Its horses were massive and silent; their breath hung too white, too still. The coachman sat motionless in a long coat and high hat, gloved hands resting on the reins like carved wood. “Miss Blackthorne,” he said, his voice the scrape of iron on stone.

As if he was sure that his guess was right on target. The man then backed away, muttering with a proud expression on his face, which seemed to tell him that his guess was right on target. In fact, she could imagine the man's nose lengthening, as in the classic Italian tale about the child of the lying wooden doll, Pinnochio. His laughter immediately exploded when he saw how confident Erick was with his guess. The satisfied smile on the man's face disappeared in an instant, replaced by confusion when he heard him laugh so loudly, like now that he held his stomach from laughing too hard.

The people inside the carriage, along with the coachmen, shared a look with each other. “Young miss, did you not see that horned goblin?” The coachmen replied, also with a question. I glanced back at the goblin group. Now that I see it, I saw one of the goblins being bigger than the rest. Its colour is the same as the other goblins, but it has a pair of horns on its forehead. “That goblin is the goblin general, namely smarter than a normal goblin. Although we have some adventurers here, but we can’t win against that one.” The coachman added.

The coachman, which I learned on the ride's name is Jack, opens the door and gives me a kind smile. "Come on kid, the headmistress is already chewing at my feet for being late." He says jokingly, clearly he's used to being late. His joke makes me giggle, he smirks and holds his hand out to help me out of the carriage. I take his hand, and climb out, picking up my leather bag, while he carries my rundown instrument case. The guards open the doors at the sight of the man, I can see Jack wink at the slightly smaller guard. His helmet covered his face but I had the feeling that he was blushing.

I traced my lips with my tongue a huff under my breath was all I could muster in response to the silly merman, an image of him grinding metal gun parts with his teeth and a look of pure disgust on his face materialized and I snorted “This one is fake…” I picked up the toy gun, it was light “..and you still can’t eat it” I added the last part after a second thought. He pouted and I rubbed his head to pacify him, a habit I have picked up “Come on, let’s play” I gave the booth handler money from my spare wallet knowing that Caius had taken the other one. He was a weaselly-looking man with brown, shaggy hair and a crooked nose. It looked broken

“You need it. You've been playing since.” “You're the one who needs it the most. You look so skinny and unfed. You're not my taste.” I sneered, pushing past her. “Lucien!” I heard my name as I was walking away. Then I stopped, turning around to face him, my coach. Coach Rich was a man in his late forties, with brown stubble, dirty brown hair, and brown eyes. He's fat, tho fitted, always dressing in his sports pajamas and singlet.