Black
Lincoln lay on their bed of furs within the cave, bared to the waist, as he laid on his back. His eyes were closed and he was half asleep, soothed by the constant feel of graceful, smooth fingers that traced the black tattoos that he wore on his arms and chest.
It had become a habit of hers the last few nights, to quietly trace his tattoos. There was no need for words, the silence was comfortable, in the warmth of their cave, a soft fire burning to keep away the night's chill. He knew what to expect.
She'd trace his arm tattoo closest to her, then the black strikes that ran from his shoulders down to is ribcage. Next she'd trace the one on his neck. Once completed she'd lean down and press her lips to his shoulder. Finally she would shift and curl into his side.
One arm resting over his waist, her head on his chest, listening to him breathe. He wasn't sure the reasoning behind her newest routine, but it was soothing for both of them.