Woman lying on dark bedding showing a dark branch-like tattoo on her thigh and a tattooed forearm, with a navel piercing and a black top with a white skeleton hand print.

Branch tattoo on thigh with forearm design

Botanical · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A person lies on dark bedding in a black top and strappy black underwear, cropped below the face, with one hand resting on their chest. A dark, branch-like tattoo with fine and bold linework runs down the outer thigh, and a tattooed forearm with a detailed design sits near the hand. The image is mostly dark tones with soft light on the skin, and the tattoos are shown in black and grey with muted hints of other tones.

Botanical Thigh Forearm Branch Tree Design Skin Hand

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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 blackthorn had got into the chapel again by the time the solicitor's letter reached me, its roots lifting the flagstones like the lid of a box nobody wanted opened. I had been groundsman at Carrow Keep for eleven years and had cut that thorn back every March, but it always came back thicker, pushing through the arrow slits and along the ledges as though it had been told where to go. Old Mr Hollis, who kept the gate before me, had warned me never to cut the branch that climbed the north stair. Its bark was dark as wet slate, he said, and when you took a blade to it, it bled like something that remembered being a person.

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I cut the others that first week and left that one alone. Then the wind came off the moor in November and tore a strip of ivy from the great hall wall, and behind it, half swallowed by stone, was a door I had walked past for a decade. The branch ran straight to it, stretching across the steps like a finger pointing. I took the iron key from the steward's cupboard, though the lock had rusted to a lump, and worked at it with a hammer until it gave.

Inside was a small room with a window full of grey sky and a bed of dry leaves. On the sill sat a child's wooden horse, split at one leg, and the blackthorn had grown in through the broken glass and wound itself around it, gentle as a hand. I stood there a long while. When I left, I broke a single twig from the stem and put it in my coat pocket.

Next morning the twig was on the sill of my cottage, and it had sprouted two pale green leaves.