Dead Plate oneshots

The Ballad Of El Sombrerón

Warning: Effeminate Vincent

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the village of tequila was steeped in legend. its streets, narrow and cobbled, seemed to hold memories of every soul that passed through. the winding alleyways echoed with whispers of old tales, passed from mouth to mouth, year after year. and one name, spoken only in hushed tones, held more weight than any other:

**el sombrerón**.

the women of the village told stories about him—a figure who walked through the streets at night, a wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadow. his silver guitar never left his back, and his voice could melt the coldest heart. but el sombrerón was no mere serenader. his gifts were flowers and braids, but his love was a curse. he sought out beautiful women, targeting those with long, flowing hair, and when they fell under his spell, they withered away—slowly losing sleep, their appetite fading until all that remained was a hollow shell of their former selves.

no one knew his true name, only that he appeared as mysteriously as he vanished. and none who fell into his trap ever returned.

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**vincent charbonneau** wasn’t the typical target of the legend, but he had hair just as long and eyes just as beautiful. he stood out in tequila—a french-born father and a mexican mother, yet not quite fitting in with either side. his pale skin, delicate features, and waist-length black hair made him the subject of much ridicule. he was called "effeminate," mocked for his softness. but beneath it all, vincent carried a quiet dignity, never letting the words truly wound him.

he worked at the local bakery, his days spent shaping bread and pastries. the work kept him busy, his hands strong, but as he walked home in the evenings, the solitude would wrap around him like a second skin. he enjoyed the coolness of the air at dusk, the way the light softened against the mountains, and the peace it brought him after a long day. but recently, that peace had been disturbed.

a week ago, it had begun. the music.

soft, gentle strumming, carried on the breeze. at first, vincent dismissed it as a neighbor’s guitar or a passing musician. but each night, the music followed him, weaving through the streets like a lover’s caress. the notes were slow, haunting, and intimate. it made his pulse quicken, though he couldn’t explain why.

he never saw the musician, only heard him. the songs crept into his thoughts and lingered there long after he arrived home. he would sit in his small room, staring at the wall, waiting.

for what? he didn’t know.

that night, the music began again as he locked up the bakery. the streets were deserted, save for a few cats darting between shadows. vincent hesitated, his hand gripping the key tightly. he could feel it—the presence behind the melody. someone was there, watching.

he turned, and there, under the flickering light of a streetlamp, stood a figure. the man was tall, his posture relaxed, but his presence filled the space between them. his wide-brimmed hat obscured his face, but the gleam of a silver guitar caught vincent’s eye, reflecting the moonlight.

vincent swallowed hard.

the man took a step forward, his spurs clicking softly against the stone. “you have beautiful hair,” he said, his voice smooth, like silk sliding across skin.

vincent’s breath caught in his throat. he had been complimented on his hair before, but this felt different. there was something in the way the man said it, like a secret whispered just for him.

“thank you,” vincent replied, his voice quieter than he intended.

the man took another step closer, his boots stirring up the dust from the road. “i’ve been watching you for a while now,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “you walk these streets alone, and i wonder… why does someone so beautiful seem so lonely?”