Close crop of a woman in a pale blue blazer and black lace bra, showing a small black line tattoo on the inner wrist and silver and pearl bracelets.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small inner wrist tattoo with pearl jewellery

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A cropped fashion photograph of a woman in a pale blue blazer and black lace bra, with her face out of frame below the lips. A small black line tattoo of a simple angular mark sits on the inner wrist, next to silver bangles and a pearl bracelet. The image is bright and softly lit against a pale stone wall, with the tattoo a minor detail within the wider styling.

Fine line Forearm Wrist Bracelet Pearl

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 ledger stopped balancing at the third lock, and Maren Sallow knew it before she had finished the count, because the seals on the pearl crates sat a fraction too low on their rack. Forty-one crates had come up from the brine tanks of Halden Station that morning. Forty-one seals were stamped with the old dockyard hold sign, a jagged mark like a broken arrow, and every one of them had been pressed in the wrong direction.

Keep reading

She had copied that mark onto her own wrist the week she took the post, in ink she mixed herself from carbon scraped off a cutting torch. Nobody on the station had asked her why. Most people assumed it was a joke about the cold. She traced it now with her thumb while the lamps hummed, and thought about how a sign only means one thing to the people who agreed on it.

At the brine tanks she found the night foreman, Tobiah Renn, counting grey beads into a tray that should have held cultured pearls. He did not look surprised to see her. He said the buyers on the outer ring liked things that caught the light in the same way, and that nobody would know the difference until the pearls were already sold and the money already spent. Then he turned the tray towards her, and the bottom of it had been stamped with her own mark, pressed the right way round, as if she had signed it herself.

She left the beads where they were. On the viewport of the corridor, the condensation from her breath made a faint shape of the mark, and she sat with her hand against the glass until it faded, which took longer than she expected.