Fine line black ink tattoos on both arms of a person in a brown tank top, including a heart with text, a deer with butterfly wings and a feather, on the forearms and upper arms.

Small fine line tattoos across both arms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A person in a brown satin tank top shows many small tattoos spread across both arms, including a heart outline with short lettering, a deer with butterfly wings, a feather, and a few tiny symbols and phrases. The linework is fine and the ink appears to be black with grey shading, with no colour visible. The photo is cropped below the neck and above the waist against a plain pale wall, so the arms are the clear focus.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Upper arm Heart Deer Butterfly Feather Lettering Script Wing Symbol

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 hind came down to the slipway the morning after the last ferry had gone, when the tide had left the harbour wall slick with weed and the gulls were still asleep on the chimneys. My aunt Morag kept the lamp at the end of the pier then, and she had given up trying to explain the deer to the mainland men. Nobody on Inchcailloch believed in wings, least of all the moths, who only came out at dusk to see what the lamp was for.

Keep reading

The wings had come in the spring, after a hard winter when she had eaten the thrift off the cliffs and her ribs stood out like the tines of a rake. Morag found her in the bracken with two grey-brown wings folded wrong against her back, the markings on them like eyes painted by someone in a hurry. She did not fly, not at first. She only trembled, and the wings shivered with her, and every moth on the island seemed to drift towards her in the dark.

I was twelve the summer I learned to read the signs. The feather I found on the ferry steps was a gull's, grey and crisp at the tip, and I kept it in my pocket with the three brass keys from my father's boat. Each night I walked the hind out to the lamp, and we waited together for the beam to swing round over the water. On the last night of August the wings opened fully. She stepped off the end of the pier as if the sea were a floor, and the light kept turning above nothing at all.

In the morning there was only a single moth on the rail, pale as bone. I put it in a jam jar on the windowsill beside the feather, and I still keep them there. When the bell buoy rings out past the point, I tell myself it is just the swell, and I do not go to the window to check.