13 Works by landwriter
Listing Works
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[Art] Excerpts from 'Field Guide to Woodgeists' (Interlibrary Loan) by landwriter for Kantayra
Fandoms: Original Work
07 Dec 2025
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Forest Spirit via pottery and a field guide that definitely, totally, actually exists.
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It's raining. The perfect weather for a romantic gesture.
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It had started because Hob had a bit of a thing. That was reasonable, he thought. You couldn’t live for six greedy centuries and counting without accumulating a few things. Exhibitionism (fourteenth through seventeenth centuries, naturally); corsets and heels (eighteenth century); goths (late twentieth century). And so on. Perfectly normal.
But this, this was the oldest Thing. His ancient Stonehenge of a Thing. His perfectly-preserved bog body of a Thing. If he was the oldest human, then this was the longest-lived Thing. It was dry-aged, cask-aged, new-aged. It was underpainted with mysterious fluids and had provenance papers that would make the men at Sotheby’s blush and adjust themselves at their desks. It was worn as soft as the Shroud of Turin, and as wrinkled and delicious as a new Judean date from a resurrected 2,000-year-old seed. It was the leitmotif of all his lust and desire. If the British Museum ever did an exhibition on the history of Things, they would steal it and put it on display.
Or, a short and silly story about husbands: one newly human, and one with a very old kink.
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A man, supine and utterly still, in what might have seemed like a deep sleep, draws in a long slow breath and opens his eyes. He smiles up at the sky, for he knows not much at all, but he knows this:
Hob Gadling is a man of good fortune.
A story about refusing to leave. A story about a quest that spans lifetimes. A story about losing someone, and bringing them back with love.
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Hob saw two things immediately, obvious as anything, in what he felt distantly sure must be the wrong order.
The stranger was surpassing handsome: tall as he was, but lean where Hob was broad, with pale skin, black hair as long as a maiden’s, eyes as sharp and bright as the bite of water in winter, and a mouth that made him think, suddenly and irrationally, of wild roses; and more was the pity for all of it, because the other thing, the thing Hob ought to have noticed first, was that he was staring at Hob like he meant to kill him.
In which Hob and Dream make poor first impressions, become fuck buddies, and, somewhere along the way, start trying to save one another. Out of friendship, of course. A love story.
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One day, in spring, he comes to the Inn.
Hob looks up and he’s there, and the relief is blinding. He thinks tu m’as manqué, fuck, because you were missing from me feels more true than I missed you ever has. English missing was ruined for him the moment he learned the French way of it. Longing is meant to be a reflexive verb.
It would be a bad faith translation, even for him. He tells himself this is why he doesn’t say it.
He thinks at last, and that’s a doable one. So he smiles, says, “You’re late.”
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“Do you think people can change?” asks Hob.
June 7, 1989.
Hob has gone to drown his sorrows after his friend didn't show up at The White Horse. The Corinthian has come to London to see Hob's friend. They find each other entirely by accident, and get along like a house on fire*, which is to say: fast, hot, and causing property damage.*You might imagine a specific a house. A mansion, if you will.
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"It’s not right, what you did. But I realize now I’d have done it too, if I were you."
A fairy tale about barren winter landscapes, burials, and forgiveness.
Or, if the story wasn't an allegory, but the allegory was a story.
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"I did not ask for this," Dream had said. And fair play, Hob had thought, because adopting a pet sort of was one of those, well, couple's decisions, wasn't it? But Hob wasn't about to let either of them go back out into the cold night.
In which Hob takes in a stray cat, entirely misconstrues his husband's relationship with it, and unintentionally advances the Jungian theory of collective unconscious.
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“I’m not afraid,” says Hob.
“You want to be,” says the sea, knowingly.
A series of love stories told by the Sea of Nightmares.
Now with INCREDIBLE art by @miss-misnomer: Drowning and Black Shore
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There are two things that Dream does only once a century. The first is meeting with Robert Gadling, immortal. The second is getting dressed by hand.
In 1889, he adds another.
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“Kneel,” said Dream.
Hob knelt before him. Dream pressed his own thumb to his lips and wet it. He took Hob’s chin in the other hand and tilted his face up. “Some do this with ash. To acknowledge death. Mortality. It would not befit you,” he said, and smudged his wet thumb in a sign upon Hob’s forehead. “Now you wear my mark,” he said.
“I have always worn your mark, my Lord,” said Hob.
“Then remember you are mine and to me you shall return,” Dream said.
On the look of stained glass, the smell of churches, the taste of your friend’s mouth, and the feeling of receiving a sacrament several centuries overdue. Or: the entirely accidental but inevitable divinity of Hob's devotion.
AMAZING art by fishydwarrows!
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Unsent Letter from Dream of the Endless to one Hob Gadling, circa June 1889 by landwriter
Fandoms: The Sandman (TV 2022)
08 Oct 2022
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It may surprise you to hear that many in my life think me unfeeling after my outburst tonight, but I am certain you will wish they were right by the end of this letter.
Dream fled from Hob; Dream wrote to Hob.
