Small black heart tattoo made of fingerprint ridge patterns on the inner forearm or wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fingerprint heart tattoo on skin

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up of a small heart shape filled with fine, swirling fingerprint ridges in black ink, sitting on lightly tanned skin. The ridges are built from many thin, fine lines, with some areas packed densely and others softened, giving a textured, slightly speckled finish. The heart is centred in the frame against a plain skin background with a dark area visible at the left edge.

Forearm Heart Fingerprint

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

The Registrar of Hesterland kept the Rolls in a vault beneath the chapel, and every subject of the crown left one whorl there at birth. A face can be forged and a voice bought, he liked to say, but a ridge of skin laid down by God is past any counterfeit. I had copied thumbs into those ledgers for thirty-one years with a fine nib and a pot of lamp-black, and I had never once wondered whose they were.

Keep reading

Then in the autumn a boy from the saltworks brought me a scrap of oilcloth pulled from the Vell. It bore a print in dried blood, the cleanest he had ever seen, and the magistrate's men wanted a name before the tide turned. I searched the north shelves until the lamp guttered. The whorl matched nothing on file. But when I laid my tracing of it beside a second print, one pressed into wet wax on the Rolls twenty years earlier, the two swirls met at their edges and closed into a shape like a heart. The wax print was filed under a seamstress called Ilse Harrow, and the note beside it, in the Registrar's own hand, said only: drowned, see the Vell.

The Registrar came down at midnight and found me bent over my tracing. He told me the duplicate must be burned and the ledger closed. I said nothing. When he had gone up again, I took out my nib and copied the heart into the margin of the Rolls, line by fine line, softening the ridges where the blood had dried and the wax had cracked. Nobody looks at margins. Somewhere under the chapel, two pressed fingers still hold together, and I have made sure the kingdom keeps them.