Two crown tattoos on arms, the upper one with a red cushion and script reading her king, the lower one with a red gem and script reading his Queen.

Crown tattoos reading her king and his Queen

Lettering · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

Two matching crown tattoos sit one above the other, each paired with black script lettering. The upper crown has realistic grey shading and a red velvet-look cushion, while the lower crown is shaded in greys with a small red gem at its peak. The photograph is taken close up, with the crowns and lettering filling most of the frame against a plain background.

Lettering Realism Forearm Crown Script Gem Matching tattoo

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

You find the first crown in the dry well of Caddon Keep on the first warm day of April, when the ivy is still shedding last winter's brown leaves over the broken arch. It is tarnished nearly black, its small red stone the only thing that still catches the light, and it is far too little for any king you have ever read about.

Keep reading

The lodge keeper, old Mrs Pryce, says the castle was never grand. In 1743 a drunk lord called Hugh Maddox wagered his estate at cards and lost it to his steward, Edwin Parr, who had kept the accounts for nineteen years without a day off. Maddox, sour and laughing, had two crowns beaten from the estate's spoons and declared the steward king of the cellars. The scullery maid Ada Lowe, who had stitched the velvet cushions for the Christmas ball, was named queen of the attics the same night. They wore the joke until the roof came in.

You turn the crown over in your palm. Scratched inside the band, in letters so small you need the torch, is one word: Ours. Mrs Pryce says the matching piece was never found, and that the attic rooms were cleared by the council in 1961 and nobody thought to look.

So you climb the stone stair to the top floor, where the boards give under your boots and the sky shows through the rafters. Under a drift of plaster and pigeon feathers sits a second crown, its cushion long gone to rust. You set it down on the sill beside the first, and in the low afternoon sun the two red stones catch the same light at the same moment.