Photograph of a seated person in a black ruffled gown holding white flowers, with red floral tattoos across the chest and upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral tattoos on chest and upper arm

Chest · Mixed · Photo

The image shows a person from the chest down, seated in a black strapless gown with heavy ruffled layers and holding a bouquet of white flowers with dark centres. Tattoos of red and brown roses with darker outlines extend across the upper chest and over the upper arm and shoulder. The composition is warm and soft, with the bouquet and dress filling the frame against a blurred interior background.

Chest Upper arm Shoulder Rose Flower Bouquet

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 lift at Calder House has been broken since March, so you climb with the bouquet held out in front of you like something that might spill. Eleven floors of concrete stairs, each landing painted a different shade of council green, and the florist's cellophane crackles every time you stop to get your breath. Mrs Okafor on seven has told you twice this week that black is unlucky for brides, and twice you have told her the dress came from the hospice shop for four pounds and has never once let you down.

Keep reading

Your nan's roses are still on the walkway at the top, growing in a row of olive oil tins she painted red a decade ago. Dog roses, she called them, though nobody on the estate could say where the dogs had gone. The petals have browned at the edges this September, the way they do, and you pinch off the worst of them as you pass. Nobody asked you to bring a cutting. You took one anyway, wrapped it in a wet tea towel, and it has sat in your handbag all morning beside your keys, a stubborn stem that refused to be left behind.

At the top, you set the bouquet on the ledge and kneel to tie the towel around the cutting. Below, the car park is filling with cousins in borrowed suits, and the registrar is late again. You push the stem into the black ruffles where the skirt gathers at the front, and it catches in the net and stays there, a red smudge in all that dark. Mrs Okafor waves from her doorway. You wave back, and somewhere behind you the lift, for once, hums into life.