I just thought of this. You know who else has skin hunger? John. He’s been isolated in Afghanistan and has PTSD, which has to inhibit your ability to rub up on other people. So both of them have skin hunger.
ok, mojoflower, get the hell outta my head. Here’s a clip from a WIP called “Suture”, which starts with John in Afghanistan—is this the kind of thing you mean?
Davis was asleep, looking exhausted and fragile. John kept silent, afraid to wake him; he never got to have this moment, holding close afterward, hanging on to the warmth and security of a body in his arms. He touched the bandage on Davis’s injured arm, checked for blood; it was clean and undisturbed. He settled carefully against the smooth young back, into the pleasure of bare skin against his chest. The lieutenant smelled not unpleasantly of sweat and dirt and cordite and fuel oil. A bluntly masculine smell. John snuck his tongue out, tasted salt, a slight something chemical and bitter, and under it the sweetness of skin. He had a few moments, he knew, but just a few, to cherish this comfort. To find some small peace in the solace of contact.
Resting his face against Davis’s neck, he felt a sudden welling in the shaken space the mortar concussions had left around his heart. He could not cry. He would not. Needing to fuck was one thing, he could let himself need touch, but no matter what he’d told Davis earlier he could not let himself feel the loss now. He couldn’t let himself weep. He couldn’t let himself weep for them, for he and Davis using each other for comfort even as they denied the need; for the boys who laughed in gunfire and bled to death under his hands; for the insane waste of war; for his own terrible loneliness.
Essentially, these men have a desperate need to be touched, which they struggle to satisfy through violence and denial, and this carries over when John gets home. Is this the sort of thing you were thinking of, or something more specific?
Mojo, I have a feeling you’re going to be a verrrry helpful person to know…