Ernest thinks he's a slut – a harlot – mm, something along those lines. There's no doubt about it, from the way his gaze critically rakes over him when he arrives home so very late at night, hair a bit missed, collar not quite buttoned, and a sort of languidness in his movements that reeks of good sex (and lots of it).

Vincent doesn't care. He uses it to his advantage. He snidely pokes and prods at the bastard, even makes subtle jabs at him even while Elliot is around (and Elliot, sweet Elliot, has no clue in his young age). It's only a matter of time before, in private, Ernest gets angry enough to slam him into a wall, to tighten a hand around his throat and honest to god threaten to kill him.

And Vincent doesn't care about that either – he's merely amused.

"What's wrong, big brother?" The words are a throaty purr in his throat, and Vincent smiles up at him, eyes glittering, slim fingers closing about Ernest's wrist. "Are you jealous? Do you want my mouth on you, too? I promise I won't disappoint, not like all of those silly little maids flocking at your heels."

Ernest hits him, then, and Vincent just laughs as he's shoved to his knees anyway. And he sucks him off – he doesn't care, really, because it brings him far more morbid satisfaction to know he's made Ernest lose his control, even when the ass comes on his face and thinks he's won.

Oh, how little he truly knows.