Colour neo-traditional sleeve on an upper arm and forearm showing a princess in a yellow gown holding a rose and a mermaid beside a fish.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Disney princess sleeve across upper arm and forearm

Neo-trad · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A full arm sleeve of cartoon-style princess characters, including a figure in a yellow gown holding a pink rose on the upper arm and a red-haired mermaid on the forearm. A large cartoon figure with a bow and a small yellow fish sit nearby, with green foliage and bubbles filling the gaps. The linework is bold and outlined, with smooth colour blending and soft highlights in warm yellows, pinks, teals and purples.

Neo-trad Upper arm Forearm Princess Rose Mermaid Fish Cartoon character Bubble Foliage Sleeve

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, the lot of you, and Gary, crisps are not a meal. Thirty-one years since Mrs Pemberton's Year Nine maths room, and you still can't do long division, but you can all listen, so I'll tell you about Nell Harrow and the lighthouse at Skerrick Point.

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Nell worked the ovens at her father's bakery in a yellow apron that never came clean. Every evening she carried a pink rose down to the end of the pier and dropped it in the tide, because her father had gone out in a storm nine winters before and never come back, and she had decided the sea owed her a flower. Her brother said the sea had no use for roses. Nell said the sea had no use for anything, which was why it needed reminding.

One night a red-haired girl came up out of the surf, tail flashing silver, with a small yellow fish sulking at her shoulder. Bubbles rose round the pair of them like confetti at a wedding nobody had invited. The girl wanted the rose. Nell said no. The girl offered green weed from the deep floor, a handful of it, bright as a promise, and still Nell said no. Then Nell asked for her father back, and the mermaid's laughter burst every bubble in the bay.

So the mermaid told her to go home and look in the shop window. Nell ran up the pier with her apron flapping. Her father was standing behind the counter, flour to the elbows, wondering where she'd got to. The rose was lying on the bread board, pressed flat and salt-stained. He'd come in off the boat that same night, he said, and had been waiting all this time for somebody to notice the bread was burning. Nobody ever asked the sea what it wanted in return. Now, who's getting the next round?