Black and white photo of a woman in a studded leather jacket showing a heart tattoo on her chest and sleeve tattoos on both arms.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sleeved arms and heart chest tattoo

Traditional · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph is cropped below the chin and above the hips, showing the torso, arms and a black bralette under an open studded leather jacket. A large heart-shaped ornament sits centrally on the chest, and both arms are covered in bold, dark tattoos that include floral motifs and face-like portraits. The image is greyscale, so the tattoos appear as black linework and shading against the skin.

Traditional Chest Upper arm Forearm Heart Floral Portrait

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mags had set four hundred and twelve studs by the time the kettle boiled, and the jacket still looked wrong hanging on the hook. Lucy from the bakery upstairs said it looked like a hedgehog had been tipped into a sea urchin. Mags told her to mind the leather dust and keep her elbows off the bench.

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The order came from a girl who turned up each Thursday with a sketch folded in her back pocket: a heart with a lattice of thorns, two roses, and a pair of faces she said were her grandmother's, though her grandmother had never worn lipstick in her life. "Put them where the lapels turn," she said. Mags cut the collar from a black hide that had sat in the back room since her husband's van died, and punched every hole with the hand-cranked setter his brother had left behind.

The studs lay in rows on the bench, pointing outward like frost. Mags saved the heart plate for last and pressed a small silver rivet dead centre. It would not seat. She filed it, tried again, and it clicked home with a sound like a latch lifting. Only then did she see the pattern the studs had made, a path running from the collar down past the zip, every point turned towards the shop door.

On Thursday the girl tried the jacket on in the cracked mirror and said nothing for a long time. Then she turned the collar up against the drizzle and walked out onto the High Street, the studs catching every streetlamp as she went. Mags kept the sketch pinned above the bench. She never did learn whose faces they were.