Two legs viewed from above with a colour cartoon portrait of a red-haired character in an ornate oval frame on the left thigh and a black and grey castle in a matching frame on the right thigh.

Cartoon portrait and castle tattoos on thighs

Thigh · Mixed · Photo

Two bare legs are photographed from above on a wooden floor, with both feet visible at the top of the frame. The left thigh carries a full-colour cartoon portrait of a red-haired character with blue eyes, set inside a detailed grey ornate oval frame with scrollwork. The right thigh carries a black and grey linework drawing of a tall castle with spires, inside a matching ornate oval frame, with fine shading on the walls.

Thigh Cartoon character Portrait Frame Castle Spire Red hair

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

Marta had the oven door open before the clock above the proving cupboard reached five, and the kitchen already smelled of scorched sugar and wet flour. On the top shelf, behind the tins, sat the two oval frames she had bought from a house clearance in Hull. Their gilt was flaking and their scrolled edges were furred with dust. She had meant to sell them. Instead she had scrubbed them at the sink and found, under the grime, a painted girl with a rush of red hair looking sideways out of one, and in the other a castle drawn in pencil, its spires lined up like sharpened nibs.

Keep reading

Her father had run the bakery on Mill Lane for thirty years and had never once mentioned a castle. He talked about the tides the way other men talked about the weather, and about the red-haired girl he said nothing at all. Marta pressed her thumb to the back of the castle frame and felt a folded slip of paper tucked behind the board. It was a list of quantities in his cramped capitals, saffron, orange peel, two handfuls of rye, and beneath it, underlined twice, a single line: bake this for the one who went out past the towers.

She read it three times while the dough rose under its damp cloth. The bell over the front door had not yet rung. She weighed the flour the way he had taught her, scoop and level, and set the first tray in, and she did not think about who had gone out past the towers or whether they had come back.

At six the first customer tapped on the glass and asked whose pictures those were, hanging above the proving table. Marta wiped her hands on her apron. They were her father's, she said, though she was no longer sure of anything about him. She cut the first loaf with the bread knife, and the crust broke with a sound like a door being opened slowly, and the light came up grey over the car park.