Black and white photo of a fine line vine and rose tattoo running down the side of a torso from the ribs to the hip, above lace lingerie and stockings.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Vine and rose tattoo along ribs and hip

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a woman's midriff and hips shows a delicate vine of swirling tendrils running from the side of the ribs down towards the hip, ending in a rose near the waistband of her lace underwear. The linework is fine and even, with little shading, and the tattoo is rendered in black and grey tones. The composition crops the image at the shoulders and thighs, with a navel piercing and a garter belt with lace stockings in the lower frame.

Fine line Botanical Ribs Vine Rose Swirl Floral Navel piercing

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

Mind the puddles, the lot of you, and stand under the awning where the drips won't find your collars. Aye, you can hear me over the rain. I've been telling this at Hollin Cross since before the tarmac went down, so bear with my voice.

Keep reading

There was a flower seller called Nell Ashby who kept a barrow by the fish hall. Every morning she unwound a bundle of bindweed from the railings, the way her mother had taught her, and every morning the council man came round and tore it off again. Weed, he said. Nell only smiled and wound the tendrils around a tin bucket instead, and by the end of October the bucket was a cage of curls that nobody could walk past without stopping.

That spring a rose came up through the cobbles, a dark little bud nobody had planted. It climbed the bucket, then the stall pole, then the wet canvas of the awning, until the whole market smelled of it on a Thursday afternoon when the rain was coming in sideways. The council man arrived with his clippers, took one look, and stopped. The rose was growing straight out of the cobbles where Nell's grandmother had buried a tin of wedding buttons forty years before, and it had found them in the dark.

He didn't cut it. He went back to his office and wrote a note that said leave the weed be, and it's still pinned up in the fish hall if you care to look. Nell's barrow is a café now. The bucket's gone, but the rose climbs the pillar by the door, and if you ask nicely the girl at the till will fetch you a cup and show you the buttons, green with age, caught in the roots.