Black and grey fine line tattoo of a winged unicorn on the centre of the chest, in a black and white photo.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Winged unicorn on the chest

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A small outline tattoo of a winged unicorn in mid-stride, with its wings spread upwards, sits in the centre of the upper chest. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, so the design reads as a clean single-line drawing. The photo is black and white and the tattoo is framed by a black lace bralette and a dark open garment.

Fine line Chest Unicorn Wing

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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

Sit closer, you lot, the rain's come in sideways and the tent poles are groaning like my knees. Did I ever tell you about the last horse Pellow's ever had? No? Then hush, and mind the sawdust.

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Her name was Ottoline, white as a wet sheet, with a spiral horn that Old Fenwick had carved from a cricket bat and gilded on the cheap. The wings were the trouble. He'd stitched them from a dead balloon, and every night in the ring they filled with air and lifted her a hand's width off the boards. The crowd took it for magic and the bank took it for a fire hazard. By autumn the elephants had been sold, the lions had gone to a zoo in Wales, and the only thing left worth a penny was that horse.

On the last night at the seaside pier, with three people in the stands and the gulls louder than the band, Ottoline went up the ramp in her mid-stride, one forefoot raised as if she'd heard something far off. Fenwick's girl, Bett, who was nine and had never once been afraid of anything, held the reins and whispered that they should go home. The wings opened. There was no wind inside that tent. Nobody had blown on them. But they lifted, and Bett rose with them, and the three people in the stands stood up.

The pier flooded that winter and the tent went to the rag man. Ottoline was never found, and Bett came back to the fairground every summer to sit on the wall and wait. Some say she still is. Now, who wants the last toffee apple before the lights go?