The fast clip of Robin's motions leaves Ishiah watching closely, drawn in by the movement, almost tempted to interrupt the progress of Robin's fingers and snatch the tie away from him. But he doesn't. He doesn't, because there's an art even to the movements themselves, fast and efficient, but also smooth enough to be practically a dance of the fingers, one that Ishiah is loath to interrupt, when his own actions aren't nearly as elegant. Once Robin's skin is exposed, however, Ishiah makes quick work of the skin suddenly exposed in front of him, palms smoothing over the stretch of light olive, fingers pausing by Robin's nipples, dark and flushed, before giving each a pinch.

Worshiping one's body isn't an impulse that comes naturally to Ishiah, except where Robin is concerned, but he goes about it dutifully, lips dropping down wherever Robin will allow — by his clavicle, against his sternum.

"Do you want to?" he asks softly, ears listening, sharp and intent. "Come home to this, I mean."