Yes.

Dago frowned deeply. He didn’t like the sound of earning clothes, sounded painful and traumatic. He didn’t have anything else to cover himself up with anyway, might as well listen. He was mostly dry by now, so it wasn’t a catastrophic loss. He let go of the towel and let it fall to the ground.

Mephistopheles still hadn’t looked in Dago’s direction. He was removing a pair of cufflinks and setting them on the table in front of the mirror, next to his discarded tie. Dago wasn’t sure what to do next, but if he was going to follow instructions, he knew better than to act on his own for now. He’d played these games before with past lovers, but then he had the safety net of consent and safe words. He didn’t assume he had those right now; it would be idiotic to assume he’d ever have them.

Dago carefully watched Mephistopheles undress, waiting for some indication, verbal or not, for what he was supposed to do. He was carefully removing his coat and hanging it on a coat hook next to the second locked door. If Dago had to assume, that door was a closet. He finally looked in Dago’s direction.

“Dagoberto, right? Do you have a shorter name?” he asked, moving to sit on the bed.

“Dago,” he supplied, happy to hear he might be called by that instead of his full name.

“Dago then. Come here,” he said, motioning.

Dago made a pretty big assumption as to what he wanted and moved toward the bed, kneeling down in front of him. The cold, polished stone floor was going to make for sore knees, but he just had to put up with it.