"How can I not apologize? You're laying our egg and I'm snapping at you." His head shakes, staying close is a bad idea. Terrible, actually. A bad decision of likely epic proportions. But right now, in this moment, he cannot deny his dragon anything. Santiago could ask for the moon and Warwick would find a way to deliver it. Except what they were asking for seemed to be just as impossible. They want him to take. They beg for it and Wick feels the final vestiges of his control slip away into the ether as they push themselves against him.
Slowly, deliberately so, he takes his time kissing and nipping along the soft and sensitive scales, looking for something, a sign that it's the right place to start. Suddenly the dragon's large tail curls around his comparatively smaller body, squeezing him so that he can no longer move any extremities. Ah, there it is. The satisfied smirk turns to a snarl as they squeeze again, the pressure so constricting that all he can do is bite. Softer than their outer scales, Wick is able to pierce through these like a hot knife through butter. Immediately thick, golden blood flows across his tongue, rich with the flavor of them. Through their blood he can feel the excess energy that spools throughout their body, nervous and new. Is it any wonder they are so agitated?
The flavor changes as another contraction wracks their large body, every muscle pulling tight. It seems to be too much, so Wick continues to take. Gorging himself swollen on the golden delicacy. When their tale loosens, he slowly begins to draw back, and when finally it falls to the ground, he pulls away completely. At least his mouth does. His hands have reached up instinctively to feel for the egg, shocked to find that it is mere inches from where he had been feeding.
A clear liquid begins to seep out as the egg descends lower still, the first bit of shell now exposed to the air. He waits for another contraction to come, to push their creation further into the harsh realities of the world. Five minutes go by. Then ten. At fifteen, he begins to grow antsy. "Honey?" His voice a soothing baritone despite the worry etched into it. There is a twitch, and a feeble push, but no further movement. True fear grabs ahold of him then. He's taken too much. Dammit, Santi! I knew this would happen.
A thought instead of words, because his words are currently focused on reassuring them. "It's all right my love. You're all right." With more conviction, "I will make everything all right." With the next gentle push, Warwick pushes his arms deeper inside with the egg, hands firm yet gentle on the sides as he begins to help it descend. The process is repeated again. "Yes, Santi! There's a good beasty." After a third time, the egg is almost out, the majority of it cradled in Wick's arms. It is heavy, his legs bowing from the weight. Like this, he can no longer help when they push. "We just need one more baby," his eyes lock with Santi's, "Just one more push and it's here. You're so close. One more and then you can rest. C'mon, now honey. Do it for me. Push for me."
