Back view of a man in a black Lucky 13 t-shirt showing a traditional-style rose and anchor tattoo on his right forearm and cobweb tattoos on his left arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Rose, anchor and cobweb arm tattoos, back view

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A man is photographed from behind in a black t-shirt printed with a pin-up figure beside a hot rod and the words Lucky 13. Both forearms and upper arms carry tattoos, including a red rose and an anchor with bold outlines and solid fills, plus cobweb designs in grey linework. The ink is mostly black and grey with a few red and green areas, and the subject fills the frame from the shoulders to the waist.

Traditional Forearm Upper arm Rose Anchor Pin-up T-shirt Faith

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 coupe had sat under a tarpaulin behind Pardoe's yard since the winter her father stopped answering the phone, and when Nell finally pulled the cover off, the cobwebs in the door hinges were thick enough to catch the light. He had always said a car left still long enough would grow its own weather. She wiped a sleeve across the bonnet and found the pin-up he'd painted on the rear panel, a blonde in black lace leaning against the wheel arch as though she owned the road.

Keep reading

Nobody in Gosport had touched the Ford since 1979, but the rose on the petrol cap was still red, and the anchor under the side window still held its blue. Nell had ridden to Portsmouth in that car as a girl, sitting on her father's knee on the coast road with the windows down and salt coming in off the Solent. He said the anchor was for getting home. The rose, he said, was for the woman who had talked him out of racing on the Bank Holiday.

She spent three evenings on the carburettor. On the fourth, she turned the key and the engine coughed, caught, and settled into a low rumble that rattled the shutters. The radio, tuned to the same dance station for forty years, crackled into a slow number. Nell reached for the gearstick, then stopped, because a folded note was tucked under the sun visor in her father's square capitals: DON'T RACE HER. JUST TAKE HER OUT.

She drove along the front at dusk with the windows down, and for the first time in months she didn't check the mirror. The pin-up watched from the back of the car as the pier lights came on, one bulb at a time. Nell pulled into the lay-by by the lifeboat station, switched off the engine, and let the quiet settle around her.