Disney Pinocchio Coachman Novels & Stories

Helena exclaimed, getting up and cramming herself beside me. “Is that our coachman?” Becca blurted out, pointing at the werewolf snarling at us outside the window. I opened my eyes to look and, sure enough, I recognized him from before, even though he now had the face of an ugly, balding dog. His clothes were ripped and covered in blood, but the Rozenberg colors and insignia were still recognizable. “You poor, poor man.” The queen reached out to touch the glass, but it made the werewolf coachman snarl at us like crazy. Helena cowered back at my side. “Your poor family...”

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.”

Suddenly, the two horses neighed. Their front legs are held high. The horse-drawn carriage, instantly shaken, then stopped. Luckily aang Coachman is an experienced person. He acted quickly, calming down the two tall, war-horse-like horses. Seen before his eyes, between the torrents of rain and the lack of moonlight, the Coachman saw ten shadowy figures standing in their way. The figure of ten is seen wearing a coat of hemp material and a gaping hood of the same material.

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.

Whoever that man was, I was certain that he was behind everything, including paying everyone off to keep them silent. "I didn't get a good look. Tall, definitely. Dark hair. Built like an athlete. I remember thinking he looked familiar, but I couldn't place him." The drunk leaned back, scratching his chin. "You know who he reminded me of? That hockey coach. The famous one. Dominic something." The floor dropped out from under me, and I turned to Patrick whose face has turned pale. "His face was turned away in the photos," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "In the photos Janie showed me. His face was obscured. But you're saying he looked like Coach Dante?" I turned back to the drunk man who w

If I were to be like Bruce Wayne, a miracle would have to happen. Suddenly, a loud high-pitched noise broke through my thoughts. I cringed as it sounded again. I turned my head in the direction of Coach Hendersen. He kept on blowing his little red whistle, causing his wrinkly bald head to look as if it were expanding. "Come on you sissies!" he shouted. "Keep moving!"

Coach chimed as he joined us. Coach was a big man. I've always known that he was taller than by an inch and broader. But, standing beside his slender husband, who was an inch shorter than me, he looked huge. They painted a beautiful picture together. Ericke blinked at him with a small smile. “You like it when I beg papi.” Nathan chuckled at that. “Don't even start your shit Nathan,” Coach growled at him. “I'm just sitting here, eating amazing chicken Coach. No shit starting to be seen.”