Black and grey realism style rose with leaves and thorny stem tattooed on the side of a hip, with a short script word beside it.

Black and grey rose with leaves on a hip

Realism · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A shaded black and grey rose in full bloom sits on the side of the hip, with its stem, thorns and serrated leaves trailing down towards the thigh. Soft grey shading builds the petals and highlights while darker outlines define the leaves and stem. A small script word sits to the right of the rose, and the photo is taken at an angle with a white top and dark clothing around the tattoo.

Realism Botanical Other Rose Leaves Stem Thorn Script

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 band had reached its third slow foxtrot before Ruth noticed the rose had begun to brown at the edges, the way roses did when the heat of the ballroom got into the buckets behind the bar. She had been holding it all evening, tucked against the counter of the cloakroom, where the hooks sagged under damp macs and the air smelled of Brylcreem and wet wool. Nobody had asked her to dance. Terry Coombes had come through the side door at half past eight with a single stem wrapped in a sheet of the Hull Daily Mail, grinning like he had stolen it from the vicar's wife, and he had said the thorns were the honest part.

Keep reading

She had pricked her thumb on them while she pinned the bloom inside her coat. A bead of blood had soaked into the lining, and she had thought, that will want sponging before Mum sees it. Then she had seen the word he had written on the back of a cloakroom ticket, in pencil, pressed so hard it had torn the card: Sunday. Just that. No name, no time, no pier. The dancers swept past the glass in their slow circles, and the man on the drums kept one eye on the clock above the stage.

At eleven she counted out the last coats, locked the flap and took her own coat from the peg. Outside, the rain had turned the front steps to silver and the lamps along Ferensway were haloed with it. The rose was still in her lining, a grey weight over her heart. She stood under the awning and listened to the last waltz end without her, then walked home with her hands in her pockets, pressing her thumb against the thorns to remind herself which day it was.