Work Text:
Charlie was in the middle of debating a blue-haired liberal at a mid-sized college campus in Ohio when it started. The tingling. It started small: Barely noticeable scratches moving their way down his forearm. It could’ve passed off as some sort of bug before they got bolder, messier. Rougher.
Mic in hand, he tried his best to ignore it as he tried to make his point: Expressing his belief that children should have open access to firearms in order to toughen them up a little bit. Casualties were an inevitable part of growing up! It’s what he’d been taught his whole life, having first held a gun at the ripe age of three and a half.
But the tingling just wouldn’t stop. At a certain point, it started to hurt, and Charlie struggled to concentrate as this political lunatic fired back with the argument that children are “naturally irresponsible” and that Charlie was “creating a problem that shouldn’t exist.” Little did this liberal know, Charlie’s children were exceptionally responsible. His one-year-old was great with a gun!
“Hold it there,” Charlie said as the tingling became unbearable, cutting the student off mid-speech. The liberal stared back at him blankly, a look of mild disgust on their face. “I’m taking five.”
He set the mic down on the table in front of him before noticing the large smudges of black ink that trailed up his arm, trying his best to hide his bare forearms from the audience. He never had any idea how to predict the bipolar weather patterns in Ohio, so luckily, he had brought a jacket with him. It didn’t matter that it was currently ninety degrees in September.
He shrugged his jacket over his shoulders, feeling a million sets of eyes on him, studying his every move. So he grabbed his Starbucks cup, gave a glance to his manager that said stall them for a minute and stepped behind the backdrop of his Debate Me booth.
Nervously, Charlie lifted the rim of his cup to his lips, savoring the honey-sweetened Mint Majesty tea. It was just as he liked it, and the soft, minty taste filled his chest with warmth, and he temporarily felt all of his anxieties slip away.
Now, back to the problem at hand: The mysterious smudges of ink that spontaneously arose along his arm left him perplexed. By this point, the active writing at stopped, but it left him with the question: Who the fuck did this?
He opened his phone, flipping through his apps until he found his favorite search engine, Duck Duck Go. With this masterpiece of an appliance, no one would be able to find any traces of his struggle with what very well might be dark magic.
His fingers move faster than his brain as he types a variety of differently-phrased questions into the search bar.
Mysterious ink on wrist left by who
How to tell if you’ve been cursed no glue no borax
Non-consensual tattooing?
Random tingling on arms and writing
After being informed that he could have skin cancer or schizophrenia, among five-hundred other diseases, Charlie stumbles upon a Reddit thread that makes everything make sense.
Soulmates. Connected through blood and skin, drawn to each other through this shared attachment.
He had heard briefly of this sort of thing, at first, but had assumed that it was just some kind of liberal hoax. Of course, true love didn’t exist. He didn’t marry for something as trivial as love, so he’d assumed he could never love anyone. That love was a made-up left-wing theory to intimidate the impressionable youth into investing in things like flowers and, god forbid, dates. Charlie would never be caught dead in public with his wife.
His wife. That created another problem. Charlie had a soulmate who wasn’t his wife. He could pretend to have never seen this— pray that it never happened again— and hope that everything just went back to normal. He had no feelings towards this mysterious stranger; he didn’t even know who she was.
Assuming his soulmate was a woman, of course.
Charlie rolls up his sleeve to inspect the mark for any clues, but by now, the writing— which once have contained real substance at one point— has been reduced to nearly unintelligible smudges. Nearly. Charlie squints his beady little eyes and is able to make out a few numbers separated by dashes. A phone number.
Well, whoever his soulmate was, it wasn’t like she wanted anything to do with him. She was clearly preoccupied with other things.
Still, even knowing that it could never be, Charlie’s chest begins to become inexplicably tight. Jealousy, maybe? Just panic?
He takes another sip of his Mint Majesty tea, hoping to settle the nerves, but it doesn’t do anything to help him. Instead, his breathing speeds up and he feels about ready to pass out.
Just when he thinks he might actually pass out, his manager pokes his head out around the tent.
“Everything okay over here?” he asks, and Charlie, hand to his chest, just stares back at him.
“I think I’m done for today,” he wheezes. “You guys can take out the skinwalker to fill in for me.”
“Sounds good. Go get your much-needed rest. You were really destroying those teens out there today.”
Charlie nods in response, going over to rest in his trailer, flipping the hood of his jacket over his head to hide his identity from the public eye. In the distance, he can see his team leading out his skinwalker replacement to finish the job.
But he knows he can’t rest, not today. He needs to find his soulmate.
Dean Withers was in the middle of a livestream when he saw it. He was scrolling through Charlie Kirk’s TikTok, half to rip him apart, half to admire his rockin’ body, when he saw a video uploaded a few days ago, addressing a situation in which Charlie unexpectedly left the stage mid-debate.
A few ribbons of ink were seeping out from under Charlie’s sleeves, forming vague numbers. Numbers that Dean had written on his forearm at a coffee shop that same day, where he had gotten a phone number from a cute girl that strongly admired Dean’s matcha-drinking skills and band tees.
Dean was long-familiar with the tales of soulmates, and he believed in them. He just never thought it’d ever happen to him. He was more a fuck-around kind of guy. He didn’t do the whole soulmate thing. But now it was being forced upon him, and it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.
Not to mention his soulmate was none other than Charlie Kirk.
He did his best to keep his composure onscreen, cracking clever jokes when needed. He was sure it was being well-received, but hadn’t checked the comments in a little bit. He wrapped up his speech, prepared to give a final good-bye to his fans.
“Hágoóneeʼ,” he said, in a terrible imitation of what he perceived as a Navajo accent. “Until we meet again.”
He shut off his TikTok live and switched over to Charlie’s. Sweat had begun to coat Dean’s hands, so much so that he struggled to retain traction on his touchscreen, and it took him a while to notice that Charlie was also livestreaming at the same time.
Dean paused for a moment, admiring Charlie’s exquisite teeth and gums, that beautiful smile, and of course, his lovely, prematurely balding hair.
And he decided that now would be the best time to fuck with him, while simultaneously solidifying the theory that Charlie truly was his soulmate.
He rummaged through the desk in his studio, whipping out a red sharpie. Red: A bold, unapologetic color that couldn’t be ignored or mistaken for anything else. The color of rage, of passion, and of blood.
He presses the Sharpie to his wrist and draws out in smooth, bold letters: Hello, Charlie uwu
On the stream, he can see Charlie flinch slightly. Of course, it could all just be some big coincidence, so Dean tries it again. Looking awful fine in that turtleneck.
Of course, Charlie isn’t actively reading the text, but the way he scratches his own wrist, exposing the smallest amount of bare skin— reddened skin, by Dean’s own pen— makes Dean entirely certain of the truth.
Dean lets out a laugh as Charlie scrambles to end the livestream. It’s endearing, almost, the way Charlie gets so flustered over just a few words. Almost enough to make Dean want to fall for him.
But he couldn’t. Charlie was his rival. They were political opposites, even if their fields of work were nearly identical.
That’s all Charlie was to him, and all he would ever be. His little cash cow.
Charlie’s stream finally ends, and moments later, Dean feels the skin on his arm tingle and burn. Text— blue, a stark contrast to his red— slowly fades onto his skin. The handwriting is messy, rushed. As if its author were illiterate.
The words Charlie wrote leave Dean slightly disappointed. Who are you?
Oh, well that’s no fun. Dean writes back. Straight to the point, now, are we?
It takes a few minutes for Charlie to write back, and Dean is straight on the edge of his seat the entire time. He might as well have a blast teasing him.
But you know who I am, writes Charlie.
I do. Does that bother you? Dean giggles to himself. Charlie was so cute when he was confused and ignorant.
Of course it does. Would you want a stranger marking up your skin?
Actually, that sounded quite nice, but Dean writes back. I’ll give you a hint. You don’t like me.
It wasn’t much of a hint. Plenty of people had personal beef with Charlie, and Dean would guess he wasn’t even close to the top of the list.
That’s not much of a hint. Plus, I’m married. I’m not interested, Charlie writes back after a little bit. Dean knew that Charlie strongly valued the Christian importance of family, but he was confident that he could change that about him.
No one needs to know, wrote Dean. We can keep this casual.
Casual was normally what Dean did, anyways. But he knew Charlie couldn’t do it, if it really came down to that. One sensual look from him, and he’d have that bootlicker quite literally licking his boots.
Again, who are you? writes Charlie. A quicker response, this time. Dean kicked his feet. Maybe Charlie really was getting into this whole back-and-forth thing they had going on.
Eager, aren’t you? Dean replied. Do you like them younger?
What?
You heard me, Dean paused before grabbing a makeup removing wipe to clear off the ink, clearing the space on his arm so Charlie could fit in his response.
You’re younger? Dean couldn’t tell if Charlie was disgusted or interested at the thought of shooting younger than himself.
College-aged.
A pause. Charlie didn’t respond for thirty minutes, and Dean sat there in his studio, alone, worried that he had scared Charlie off. That is, before he finally got his long-awaited response.
I know who this is.
Dean giggled a little bit, swinging his feet back and forth from his seat in his desk chair. Who?
It can’t be… Dean?
Bingo.
But… I’m not gay.
Dean laughed to himself. It was always so obvious what Charlie was into. The blank, soulless way he looked at his wife was enough to prove that. The way he looked so disdainfully at his children, like he always yearned for something more. Something more than the traditional wartime family.
He couldn’t even imagine what was going through Charlie’s head at this time.
It’s never too late to start learning things about yourself. Dean writes. He knew Charlie was in the area. It wouldn’t be long before he could talk to him in person. And boy, was he excited to make love to his little cash cow.
No response for fifteen minutes.
You know, I always thought your intellectual honesty would find you the right girl someday. Didn’t realize it would be me. Charlie’s words blossom across Dean’s skin, sparking a bright red blush around them. Dean’s face feels like it’s on fire. He’d never felt this way before. A feeling further than lust. Perhaps Charlie was the only person out there for him. They were two sides of the same coin, after all.
Why don’t you come on over, babycakes? Saw on your livestream you’re in the area? It was a bit of a stretch, but Dean had hope Charlie would accept his offer. He was feeling antsy to see Charlie— for the first time, he was beginning to view him as something more than just a political rival.
A political lover.
Dean liked the sound of that, and when Charlie shoots back a quick Okay, Dean touches up his makeup and heads outside.
Charlie arrives in front Dean’s studio an hour later, holding a bouquet of flowers and smelling too strongly of pine-needle cologne. The sun shines off of his poop-brown hair, and Dean feels unbelievably drawn to him.
“These are for you,” he says, although it was already obvious to anyone with more than fifteen brain cells. “Thought you’d like them.”
“Of course I do, kitten,” Dean purrs at him. Charlie gets all flustered, but this wasn’t Dean’s first rodeo. He knew how to deal with people like that.
“Are you going to take me inside?” asks Charlie. “I’m still not sure how I feel about you being a man, but you’re feminine enough that I can pretend otherwise.”
Dean lets out a chuckle. “Are you going to pretend I’m a woman when I’m slamming you into my mattress?”
Charlie’s response is one of shock, especially as Dean pulls him in by the belt straps and kisses him. Roughly. Quickly. It lasts only a second, and when Dean pulls back, Charlie’s grinning back at him, flared gums ablazing, like an idiot.
When Dean leans back in for more, a shot goes off in the distance and they both freeze.
“Woah, that was weird,” Dean says, before noticing the sheet-white look on Charlie’s face. Dean’s eyes shoot downward, and he notices the blood pouring from Charlie’s chest just as his knees buckle, and Dean hurries to help lower him to the ground.
He doesn’t get a glimpse of who fired the shot, too focused on Charlie’s survival to make a note of it. “No…. No! Who did this? Why? Why?”
Charlie’s almost too incapacitated to respond, his blood coating Dean’s hands. “I am one of the most hated men in America…” he shoots Dean a brief smile, which would come off as cocky if he weren’t literally dying, and lets his head lull back into Dean’s hands.
“No, Charlie, don’t die on me,” Dean gently slaps his face to keep him awake. “All that stuff I ever said about you… I was only kidding. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do. As I said, you’re on the path to becoming just like me.”
“I’d want nothing more, my darling boy,” Dean’s eyes fill with tears as they splash down onto Charlie’s bleeding chest. He just found his soulmate, only to immediately lose him? What sort of liberal love-is-love bullshit was this?
“Dean…” Charlie whispers, his skin turning a dull shade of gray. Dean leans in, anticipating Charlie’s next words with a great anxiety. “Your intellectual honesty truly is… such a turn-on.”
“I know it is…” Dean sobs, gripping onto Charlie’s body. He presses one last kiss to his lips, but when he pulls back, he tastes iron, and knows his cash cow has expired.
Oh, sweet, sweet Charlie Kirk. Dean Withers will avenge you.