Pencil drawing of a pair of angel wings with layered, shaded feathers, shown as a tattoo design on a plain white background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pair of angel wings in pencil

Black and grey · Flash

A pencil drawing of a pair of feathered angel wings, spread outward and mirrored across the centre of the image. The feathers are built up from layered strokes, with darker shading at the roots and along the lower edges to suggest depth. The image is entirely in greys on a plain white background, with the wings filling most of the frame.

Wing Angel wing Feather

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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

Come closer, the lot of you, and mind the crisps on the carpet. Nobody on the fourteenth floor of Harrow Court had ever seen a pair of wings come down the stairwell, but old Mrs Ajayi swore she saw them the winter the lift broke for good. They came down past the landings one step at a time, folded tight as a bread knife, and they stopped outside number nineteen where a boy called Teodor was sitting on the cold concrete with a bag of his mum's shopping that had split open.

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He was crying about the eggs, if you want the truth of it. Six eggs gone to yolk on the stairs, and his mum on the early shift at the laundry, and nine pounds left in his pocket until Friday. The wings didn't say a word. They just folded themselves round the fallen bag and lifted it, and every feather they had was grey as pencil, soft at the root and sharp at the tip, and the eggs went back into a carton that wasn't there a minute before.

Now here's the bit that matters. The wings asked him one thing only: did he want to go up or down? Teodor, who had never once been asked what he wanted by a grown thing, said up. So up they went, floor by floor, past the rubbish chute and the broken intercom, until they came out on the roof where the whole city lay below like a spilt drawer of buttons. And the wings opened, slow as a shrug, and the boy understood that they had never been for flying away. They were for shading the people you'd already got. Off he went down the stairs again, carrying the eggs in one hand and the wind in the other, and that is how Harrow Court has had a lift that works ever since, though nobody will admit to who fixed it.