Two hands with matching black Roman numeral lettering tattooed along the fingers, one hand wearing a silver ring and bracelets.

Matching Roman numeral finger tattoos

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands rest together on a light surface, each with the same line of black Roman numerals, XIV·II·MMXII, tattooed along a finger. The lettering is crisp, thin and evenly spaced in a clean serif-style font, with solid black ink and no shading. The image is in warm natural tones, with the woman's hand in the foreground and the second hand partly in shot below it.

Lettering Fine line Hand Roman numeral Lettering Ring Bracelet

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 shop still smells of Dettol and the coal fire you banked up at six, and on the fourteenth of February the couple come in asking for the same line of Roman numerals, one for each of them. You have the stencil drawn before they have their coats off. They lay their hands together on the paper towel, fingertips touching at the knuckle, as though the table might need holding down. The man keeps glancing at the door as if the buzzer from the top of the shaft could still go, and you tell him the ink will not take long, which is what your uncle always told the new lads before they went down.

Keep reading

The date is the day the Hollins cage stuck at the four-hundred-foot mark. Nine men sat in the dark for six hours, and the wives stood at the pithead under umbrellas that did nothing against the sleet. Everyone in the village knows it, and nobody says it in front of the young ones. You do not ask them why they chose it. You clean the needle, dip it in the black, and start on the first numeral, the thin serif your uncle used on every brass lamp check he ever cut, so each man could read his number in the dark.

You work slowly along the finger, letting the solid ink settle without shading, the way he taught you. The woman does not flinch. The man counts the marks under his breath, V, I, I, the way the deputy used to call the roll at the lamp room. When you wipe the last one clean and the numerals sit there side by side, black and plain, you hand them each a square of gauze and tell them to keep it dry. They leave into the sleet with their hands held close, and the bell over the door rings once behind them, as if somebody below had finally answered.