Colour tattoo of a grey kaiju monster breathing a blue flame, surrounded by red flames and orange clouds, on the lower leg.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Kaiju monster breathing fire on a calf

Japanese · Calf · Colour · Photo

A grey, green and black kaiju monster stands upright in profile, with a pale blue jet of fire from its mouth. Bold black outlines define the scales, spines and claws, and the body is shaded with soft gradients. Red and orange flames and yellow-orange clouds fill the background behind the creature, which fills most of the frame.

Japanese Neo-trad Calf Monster Dinosaur Fire Flame Cloud Smoke

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

Pass me the ladle down, and mind the kettle, because this is the bit where the sea starts to smoke. Nineteen forty-one, the Harrowgate was out past the Azores with her coal gone damp and her cook, that was me, scraping the last of the barley into a pot for twenty-two men. The lookout shouted fire on the water. It wasn't fire. It was a back, grey as wet slate and as long as our deck, with spines along it like a row of cut-down masts.

Keep reading

It rose up slow, the way a man climbs out of a bath he'd rather not leave. Its head came round the bow and looked at us with one orange eye, and I swear it looked straight at the galley door, because the smell of the stew had reached it before we did. Captain Pell came down the ladder with his revolver in one hand and a biscuit in the other and said, very calm, 'Cook, what have you got in that pot a thing like that would want?'

I told him barley and bad onions. But the creature reared up on its hind legs, claws hooked over the rail like a crab on a crate, and opened its jaws. Out came a pale blue flame, steady as a gas ring, that rolled over the flying bridge and lit the sky. Clouds of yellow smoke boiled up behind it. Every man aboard reckoned we were finished. I stood there with the ladle, and I did the only thing a cook knows. I poured the whole pot of stew over the rail.

It stopped. It sniffed. Then it sank back under the swell, slow and satisfied, and the sea lay flat as a plate. Pell wrote in the log that we'd been caught in a squall, and I've never corrected him. The kettle's on, lads, and nobody gets a cup till that pan's scrubbed.