Black and grey tattoo of cartoon Chewbacca and Han Solo riding the Millennium Falcon, placed on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Chewie and Han riding the Millennium Falcon

Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo on the thigh shows two cartoon characters, a furry Chewbacca and a small Han Solo, seated on the Millennium Falcon. The linework is loose and sketchy, with light grey shading on the ship and fur, and the tattoo is copied from a blue printed reference held up at the top of the frame. The composition centres the design on the upper leg, with the reference print filling the upper half of the image.

Thigh Star wars Cartoon character Spaceship

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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 print came home from Ashby's shop folded in four, the blue cover gone soft at the corners, and you flattened it under the Bisto tin on the scullery table before anyone could tell you to put the kettle on instead. Chewie grinning over his bandolier, Han with his hair in its stubborn tuft, the Falcon tucked under them like a sledge. Your mam said it was daft to keep a cartoon from a shop that sold paraffin. You kept it anyway.

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Your father came in off the back shift with the dust still in the creases of his neck, saw you bent over a sheet of squared paper, and didn't say the things he usually said about wasting pencils. He pulled out the chair opposite and watched. "Keep the ship on the far side, lad," he said, "or it'll look like it's sinking into the table." So you moved it, and the thing started to look like a ship.

Chewie took most of the evening. The fur was the hard part: short, scratchy strokes that you pressed too hard, so the lines grooved through to the next sheet. You lost the gun turret twice and rubbed it out until the paper went furry. Your da told you his cousin Eddie once drew a whole Lancaster on a coal sack, and it flew, he swore it flew, until the rain got into the sack and the wings ran off down the yard.

At ten the whistle went at the top of the rows and your father stood, lifting his flask and the lamp off the hook by the door. "Don't wait up." You didn't. You copied the Falcon once more onto the back of the pit calendar, then Han's face, the small wobble of his mouth, and you left it on the table for the morning, when the cage bell would still be ringing somewhere under the hill.