Roy was no stranger to tattoos.

His first had been some embarrassing teenage mistake, a stick and poke done in somebody's garage in Seattle. He made some of his worst decisions in random people's garages, his brain so diluted with beer it could hardly even begin to consider Hey, Roy. This is stupid!

He had rolled up his pant leg and let an amateur tattooer go to town on his thigh. Even now he had no idea what the hell it was supposed to be. It consisted mostly of painful, nonsensical lines that got infected to hell and back, done by the girl's drunken hand.

Oliver had given him an earful for it when he eventually saw it. The same spiel about responsibility and making good decisions, the recklessness that Roy had practically his brand.

Though anything that pissed Ollie off Roy returned too. Again, and again, and again, and-

And so the tattoo stayed, and more joined it.

He was done with the random drunken nights in someone's garage, though. Too messy, too dumb. He was a responsible adult, who went to a responsible tattoo parlor to get inked up with whatever weird, odd-ball designs he wanted; mixtures of arrows, and bows, and skulls, and scorpions and whatever else he thought was badass.

That's how Roy found himself in your chair, lazily kicking his leg over the side while he described his next idea like a mad scientist described their invention. You always got his vision, that's why you were his go to.

"Okay, hear me out; we get Lian's birthdate, surrounded by roses...two crossed arrows behind that, a bow, and maybe...I dunno, some kinda crocodile? But like tasteful, you know, I'm a tasteful guy." His hat was tipped over his eyes while his hands traced the air, his grin as distinct as ever. No matter how responsible he said he was now, that grin was still the same as it always was.

Right.

Tasteful.