#bootday hsr

[snekjoy]

Yeah I posted another chapter of the gay vampire fic. Yeah it gets homoerotic in a weird way what kind of a sunhill writer do you take me for

[kyoocanem]

[sunhill-archive]

[🤠🪽] — AMAZING Sunhills by Tu0fu (X) Twitter! Also the artist of this art is in the tumblr, but I could not find the blog of this artist-

[zenayumiii]

That thing "if I wear sunglasses no one will know what I'm looking at"

[miammey]

I like all the ship combinations of these three so they’re all in a poly now

[yogorlhilanne]

Apparently nobody did this meme with them yet (as far as I'm aware) sooooo here

[orrcinuss]

hi tumblr. I also draw boothill and sunday a lot. Have some stuff I did a few days ago. Ive also been playing rdr2 a lot so Im sorry I havent been posting INSORRY

I also have a fic Im writing so they look a little different in appearance

[noscomnias]

"heh, yer a pretty lil birdie if i've ever seen one."

[transdilucs]

Okeay yeah okay. Sunhill. Call that Sunday service

[laiosynth]

sunhill so important 2 me………

[warmachine-v1]

something something PRIDE MONTH!!!

[snekjoy]

Bootday fluff??. Waiter there's fluff in my toxic yaoi :/

Boothill opens the door to the bedroom. He's tired. Really tired.

There's movement from the bed and he looks over as he takes his hat and shoes off.

The lamp comes on with a click, and Sunday becomes visible.

He looks stunning. He doesn't sleep with a shirt, so his chest and back are bare. He's lying on his front, propped up with his elbows on the mattress and looking over his shoulder at Boothill, his hair and wings falling down his shoulders. The duvet pools at his waist, and his eyes sparkle in the dim lighting. There's a mole on his lower back.

Boothill sighs. He's finally home. Even if this isn't technically his house at all.

“Hey.”

“It's 2am.”

“Yeah.”

It’s silent.

“Long day?”

“Uh-huh.”

Sunday pauses, then tilts his head up to beckon him over.

“Come here.”

“Yessir.” He takes his jacket off and climbs into bed by Sunday, sighing in relief when he sinks into the mattress and the light goes off.

He feels hands brushing hair out of his eyes, pulling the duvet over him, and eventually he feels an arm around him. He sinks into it, turning over so his head is being cradled in Sunday's arms and resting against his chest.

He slips in and out of consciousness, that awful half-state of closing his eyes and coming back to a shock, for a while. He can't tell how long.

Eventually, he wakes up again to a sound. He frowns, sleepily blinking, and hugs Sunday's waist.

It sounds like a bird. Like cooing.

“Your bird got in.” He mumbles, poking the angel.

Sunday laughs quietly. Ah, he's more awake than he thought.

“No, no she didn't, darling.” He whispers, and the cooing starts again once he stops talking.

Boothill frowns deeper and shuffles about.

“Yes, she did. I can hear ‘er.”

“No you can't.” Again, it pauses.

“Look, sometimes I can get on board with your- whatcha call it, gaslighting. But I'm sleepy. There's a bird.”

“Mhm.”

Sunday begins to comb his hands through Boothill's hair, and the cooing gets a bit louder.

He groans and opens his eyes, looking up at Sunday.

“I can't sleep with it in here.”

“Aw, can't you?” He can hear him move a bit.

“No. Can you get it back to the cage?”

“Hm?” Sunday pauses, then the cooing stops as he speaks again.

“I don't have a cage.”

Boothill squints.

“Your bird does.”

“Mm, but you can't hear my bird.”

“What..?”

“Nevermind. It's stopped now, hasn't it? So let's go back to sleep, dear.”

Sunday smiles and Boothill sighs, resting his head back on his chest and closing his eyes. His hand rubs along Sunday's back, cold against the warm skin, and the havlovian shivers. The cooing starts again.

“It's happening again.”

“Mm. It is.”

“So you can hear it?”

“I never said I couldn't.”

“You said you can't hear your bird.”

“Mhm. Because I can't.”

“Because-?”

“Because it's not her cooing.”

Boothill opens his eyes again and looks up at Sunday, who looks down at him with such patience in his expression, waiting for him to get it.

“It's not her-?” He raises his eyebrows, realising what it is, and Sunday chuckles, then kisses his forehead, trilling at him happily.

“It's you?” He whispers.

“It is.”

“You make bird noises?”

“Hm, evidently.”

“How come I've never heard that before?”

“Mm, I suppose I'm more comfortable around you now than I was when we met.”

“You let me sleep in your bed.”

“Mhm. It takes a while, hun.”

His hands stroke through Boothill's hair. The cowboy stares up at him, then smiles and leans into it. He quite likes these noises, then.

“You still can't sleep with me making that noise?”

“Oh, nah, nah, I can sleep with it. Don't you worry, you just keep on makin’ whatever noises you like.” He grins and takes Sunday's hand, kissing it.

The priest sighs.

“You seem to like it quite a bit, don't you?”

“Yeah. Of course I do. You said it means you're comfortable around me. So… so of course I'm gonna like it.”

Sunday laughs, then Boothill feels feathers against his face and follows them, a soft kiss being planted to his lips a moment later. He can't see anything, but he trusts Sunday. He trusts him enough to guide him towards him, to hold him and stroke his hair instead of pull it.

Maybe that's dumb. Maybe it's corny. He's not sure.

The cooing continues, a soothing sort of noise that almost sounds like purring. It seems he's making the noise in a similar way.

Boothill grins and brings the kiss to his jaw, then down to his neck. Sunday shivers and his wings shake.

“Boothill.” He scolds, cupping his cheek and bringing him up. Boothill can't see where he's facing, but when he speaks it sounds like Sunday is directly in front of his face.

“Mm, you were liking it.”

“Perhaps. But I'm tired, and so are you.”

“Don't assume that I'm tired!”

“You are, though, aren't you? You came in almost falling on your face.”

He goes quiet, then hums and lies his head down, closing his eyes.

“You're right.”

“I tend to be.”

“Smartass.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

Sunday snakes himself around Boothill, his chin on his head and his arms around his back, and Boothill sighs, then puts his own arms around the angel's waist.

“I love you, my dear.”

“Mm. Love you, too, angel.”

Sunday trills and Boothill relaxes. The dark of the room before him turns into the dark of the back of his eyelids, and at some point he drifts into unconsciousness, comfortable and safe in the arms of his love.

[sephisbf]

petition to call sunhill angel with a shotgun

[sunhill-archive]

[🤠🪽] — Charming Sunhills by Shug8888 (X) Twitter!

[alsimxy]

writing out your fic prompt ❌

playing out your fic prompt ✅

[divasdistractions]

For my other Sunhill fanatics I made an edit (the @ at top hard to see is lildiva9709, my tt and other stuff)