Black and grey realism angel wings tattoo spanning the upper back of a person with short dark hair, photographed from behind.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Angel wings tattoo across the upper back

Realism · Back · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows the back of a person with short dark hair and a white halter tie at the neck. Large, detailed angel wings cover the upper back and shoulder blades, with individual feathers rendered in soft black and grey shading. The wings are centred in the frame against a plain indoor background with shelves and white items.

Realism Back Angel wing Wing Feather

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wing-maker at Tessel Well had no patience for feathers that came in from the north, grey and bitten by crows, so when the sandstorm dropped a pair of wings across the Hollow Road she sent her boy out to fetch them before the dust could bury them. Ansel was eleven and afraid of snakes, and he went anyway, lantern in one hand and a sack in the other.

Keep reading

The wings were bigger than a man and heavier than they looked. Each feather was black at the root, the colour of a cooled hearth, and faded through slate to a grey so pale at the tip it seemed to be listening. Ansel dragged them to the well by their shafts, stopping every hundred paces to let the wind pass over. The wing-maker met him at the rope and did not thank him. She ran a thumb along the edge of one feather and said, 'Whoever wore these wanted the light to have somewhere to sit.'

She fixed them to a frame of willow and hung it in the cistern house, where the water kept the air cool. Each evening she lifted a single feather and worked it again with soot and spit, until the dark gathered where it should and the grey thinned to nothing. Ansel asked her who the wings were for. She said the road would know when it needed them.

On the first night of the wind season, Ansel woke to a scrape at the cistern door. The frame was empty. In the sand outside there was a track of long, careful prints leading north, and at the bend of the Hollow Road a single grey feather lay pointing south. He picked it up. It was warm. He tucked it into his coat and walked home the long way, so that anyone watching from the dunes could see him carrying something back.