If anyone saw, they'd think she didn't value her life and yet. There she was, pestering Lucilius again, this time by sitting on the desk, leaning in so she could squish his cheeks. The consequences would be worth it.
A lone brow twitches in visible irritation as dull, steely eyes slowly lift upwards from the thick, blotchy writing strewn across his coffee-stained notes stretched out careless in front of him to look directly at Veronika. His pale lips pursed into a thin frown, and though his expression doesn’t appear all that much different from what is typical for the Astral researcher - then again, his default state of being seems to be annoyed to begin with - creases upon his forehead and wrinkles settled in the deep eye bags that mar his otherwise rather striking features. Nothing unusual for a man who hardly ever bothers to sleep, and appears to be a constant state of overworked and at least partly pissed off at every waking hour. Scratch that, he’s usually fairly pissed off in his sleep as well - if not more so. Right now, though, was a little more than ‘fairly’ pissed off. Likely somewhere between ‘very’ and ‘extremely’. With the source of his current bad mood (not that it means much for a man who is constantly in a bad mood) seated comfortably on his desk while he’s, clearly, trying to polish off the notes from his recent findings to report to an agonizing and worthless bunch of people demanding he report certain aspects of research to them: the Astral Council, of course. Their authority something he had absolutely no respect for whatsoever, and he’d be more than thrilled to destroy them when the time presents itself, for now; however, he’ll allow their heads to remain attached to their bodies, if only so they can continue to unknowingly fund the pricer aspects of his more morbid studies.
But that judgmental glare is all he bothers to spare her before he lowers his attention back to the page before him. Snow-white quill dipped in ink still pressed firmly to the page, and he continues writing - heedless of the massive smudge he’s made on the parchment. And it’s painfully evident he cares little for how neat his notes are when his hand-writing is bold; the lines thick and uneven to the point where it’s truly difficult to actually read. Ignoring her will make her give up - he’s dealt with more bothersome people in his life. He had, after all, created Belial. As agitating as he might find the current situation he doubted she would ever manage to reach the unbearable levels of obnoxious the archangel of cunning could. No, surely she would simply give up after a -
And he was wrong. Very wrong. Instead of giving up when he refuses to acknowledge her, she chooses a different plan of attack. He sees her lean forward out of the corners of his eyes, and continues to glare at his work, which, unfortunately, leaves him ill prepared for her next course of action - reaching out to cup his cheeks between her hands, and to give them what he can only truly describe as a squish a handful of times. His irritation is painted clearly across his already annoyed features - a disapproving grunt given as he promptly grabs one of her hands to remove it from his face. His glare now turned on her once more as the potent aroma of ink fills the room; the thick, dark liquid staining his fingers from where his wrist had bumped against the pot when he had reached for her; the remaining ink having spilled all over his notes - covering parts of them, and making the rest of the page utterly useless, though he hardly seems to care.
“Is there a particular reason you insist on being more of a nuisance than usual today?” He hisses, voice low in his throat as he releases her hand. Anger seeps into his tone, and it’s evident further pestering on her part is likely to end poorly despite the fact that he hadn’t outright resorted to violence just yet. It wasn’t beneath him by any means to dirty his owns hands, and his tolerance was low overall, but it also rare for him to openly lay a hand on one of his assistants. “Or have you simply run out of more creative ways to torment me so you’ve resorted to the most childish tactics you could come up with?” He tips the inkwell back up, though, by now, the act itself is futile. “What rubbish. If you insist on being a bother at least make your poppycock worthwhile,” He huffs.
