I've Been to Hell, Baby.

Lust happened to be a key emotion to him - so was anger. There was no real in between with him these days and quite honestly? That was the way he liked - no, the way he enjoyed it. 

He may not have been a planner ( per-say ), but he did know how to work his way around things. If rage would suit him better? He’d turn to that - if not? Something else would be more suitable. He always would.

As for Daimon-  antichrist himself? Well, Constantine couldn’t refuse him. It didn’t matter what mood he was in or how he currently reformed himself. No, he’d always fall right in line; teasing  and taunting ( in his own way ) to get Daimon’s attention.

“—right to you?” Perhaps that was a little too blunt or maybe it simply wasn’t blunt enough. He wasn’t entirely sure - all he did know was that there was no need for falsity’s between them. No need for lies - simply the truth ( if you could call it that ). “or maybe… righ’ where i should be? ‘Cause the way I see it? I’d rather be here than anywhere else.” 

Daimon’s the perfect man. That’s not arrogance talking, or an inflated ego. It’s simply how he’s wired, what he was created for. A lithe, muscular frame, enough to work any style of fashion, but hardly excessive by any means. A smooth, endearing tone of voice, equally as assuring as it is haunting, with a faint husk on certain syllables. And, the sort of presence that makes you feel safe, protected, yet...with the lingering sense that he may be what you need saving from.

Certain attributes vary from person to person, depending on their own ideals and desires, but, point being, with most, they’re lulled into a quasi-hypnotic state around him, as if, by simply existing, they become puppets on a string, enslaved by his presence. With John, while there’s no denying he’s left an impression, it’s more than that, and something Daimon’s come to find rather endearing.

“ Right to me, ” he echoes, revelling in that moment of introspection. So rare is it for a mortal to realise what they truly want in life, who they are, deep down, he’s almost taken aback by John’s self-awareness. See, over the years, he’s made countless deals with those seeking to find themselves - whether it fame, money, health, power - but, with John, somehow, he senses that impulse to pervert and warp, deceive, manipulate may not be so necessary after all.

He gets it.

It’s a difficult art to master, you know - painting yourself a fool to hide your true intentions - but, with Constantine, well, he somehow managed to take that one step further, in spectacular fashion. Instead of hiding a grand plan beneath a mask of idiocy, he simply never has a plan at all. It’s all split-second decisions, reckless choices, merciless back-stabbing. And, for all his flaws, Daimon can’t help but find those qualities to be…frustratingly appealing.

Daimon may take pride in his humanity, but he is no stranger to the infernal. Indeed, in his time as an arcane consultant, he’s managed to establish quite the network of informants, ranging from the everyday denizens of Hell, to his father’s most esteemed loyalists. For some, it’s an opportunity to make a name for themselves, knowing they’re in direct contact with the Antichrist. For others, it’s out of blind fear and respect, prepared to endure Satan’s wrath over what Daimon may have lined up, in the event they should decline. And, for the rest, it’s simply playing into their base desire to deceive and conspire, doubly so in way of his father.

Can’t say he blames them.

He’s simply never been all that keen in matters pertaining to family; to his credit, he can’t see himself warming to the idea any time soon. Blame it on the ever-gnawing paranoia that, in making contact, he’s playing into that side of him he’s fought so hard to suppress. Or, in opposing his father, he’s actually been taking steps to further his plans. Or…

No, enough of that. Truth is, the real reason he’s so dismissive is that his heritage is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Take, for instance, his father - Marduk Kurios, otherwise known as Satan. Sounds simple enough on paper, he assumed human form to impregnate a mortal, but, what actually happened that night is that a part of Satan broke off to become Daimon - a quasi-reincarnation, if you will. Combine that with the fact that, through various rituals and incantations, he drew aspects from other demons to create the inimitable Son of Hell, and there’s just no knowing who Daimon stems from.

A torrent of thought he’s been mulling over since making contact. He may have his reservations, they rarely dwell without purpose, but, at least, with Lucifer, he can have a civil conversation. And, rest knowing he’d never resort to drastic action without rhyme or reason.

He had an air about him, a power that was was really undeniable. He had to be who she thought he was - Daimon Hellstrom, the Antichrist. It was nearly as intimidating to be in his presence as she imagined it would be with his father. Perhaps somewhat more, even, and her heart skipped a beat as he practically glided closer to her. 

Never would she have expected Daimon Hellstrom to know who she was at all. One of her sisters, perhaps, but she had always been in the background of their trio. So, whatever response she might have had to him in regards to humans was cut off in surprise when he addressed her. Bewildered, she turned toward him. He placed a finger beneath her chin, raising her head to look him in the eyes. Her brain had apparently chosen that moment to stop working, and all she could do was blink at him for a second.

She managed a somewhat weak smile after a moment. “I am a daughter of the Church of Night. Shadows are come with the territory.”  

As previously shown, the eyes are oft thought to be the gateway to the soul, a means of reading not how one carries themselves, but their raw, true self. It’s a concept that begs Daimon to wonder just what Dorcas saw when they made contact. Was it the gentle, inquisitive gaze of an academic, a man sworn to good? Or, the piercing, alluring burn of the Antichrist? 

He’d a rough idea - always had - which is why he allowed himself to maintain contact just long enough to feel odd, not...quite human in the way he regards her. She’s committed, he can see that, devoted her entire existence to the service of his father, but he’d be lying if he said a part of him wasn’t fit to burst with deriding laughter.

Mortals. When will they learn?

“ Indeed, you are. ” Call him sentimental, but he’d a soft spot for such groups, not that he’d ever admit to such. They’d been something of a shoulder to cry on in his youth, when he lost sight of his purpose, and again in his adolescence, while amassing power. Now, the majority are a bunch of misguided fools, don’t get him wrong, worshipping a bastard that would never appreciate them, dabbling in things they do not understand, but, when a legion of cultists are founded in your name, far be it for him to pass on the sweet stroking of the ego.