middaeg | what is the sesame street number of the day??

Ah. Makoto pauses, gauging the meaning of Eren's curt question. He hadn't seemed particularly hurt or offended by Makoto's words, so he rightly assumes that the part-dragon is asking for some other reason. His cravings pull on the edge of his mind, but as he sits down next to Eren, he steels himself to resist for just a while longer.

"Yes and no," Makoto says softly. If Eren wanted to be repaid by having someone to listen, he's bargaining with the right person. Makoto won't lie to him, but he won't be insensitive, either.

"No, because the people here don't seem afraid of you so much as... impressed? Respectful," he clarifies. "I don't see a lot of dragons around, but the locals here don't act like they've never seen one before."

He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests folded arms on them. One hand's fingers curl into the fabric of his cloak as he ignores the sound of Eren's heartbeat.

"But also, maybe yes... for mirrorbound, at least." He smiles to himself and confesses, "I was terrified when I first noticed you in that shop. It only took a few seconds for me to realize you were an alright guy, though."

An alright guy. Perhaps a week or two after this, Eren would quietly long to ever be someone like that again. For now though, he takes the words and tucks them away to remember. He knows there’s more beneath those words when it came to the opinion of others— he just didn’t care too much. His curiosity now, in relation to Makoto (who mattered right now), was satiated.

“A few minutes,” Eren corrects him, but it’s in a friendly manner with the way he smiles. There’s just one more thing he’s like to do . . . Raising his arm, Eren runs his fingers over his wrist, and holds it out. “I just didn’t bring my knife.”

He keeps his sharp things hidden on full moons, unless he’s picked something sharp up again.

"That might be more accurate," Makoto confesses with a soft laugh, thinking back on that day. He wonders if he should apologize, or think of a joke to make, or let Eren continue his thoughts...

But the talk is over already. His gaze drops as soon as Eren raises his arms to touch his wrist, his fingers moving over the veins just below his skin. Don't look creepy, he tries to tell himself, as his eyes follow Eren's wrist like it's an entree being set in front of him at a restaurant.

Makoto frowns and stays silent for a moment. Then, he reaches out and takes his wrist in both hands. It's warm, and now he can feel and hear his heartbeat.

"...alright," he says with a deep breath. No knife means he has to use his teeth. They still aren't as sharp as they eventually will be, and Eren's skin seems thick and tough. Is he going to be able to do this without - gnawing on him?

"I've never done this," he breathes. A part of him feels like he needs to apologize for this already. Drinking blood is disgusting, and he doesn't want to hurt anyone, and in the moment it feels like he's facing the reality of dying all over again and becoming something horrible.

But he's got no choice and he knows it. After a second deep breath, he brings Eren's wrist to his mouth and bites. When he fails to pierce the skin, he bites a second time, harder, and then a third time again after that fails. Finally, he punched a fraction of an inch of skin between his teeth and pulls again, trying to tear the skin instead.

There’re scar marks there, worst of all. Scar marks that seem far too similar to the half-circle a human mouth makes (a good story to tell him). He must be a little worried he’ll hurt him, for sure, and Eren is patient. Each bite earns at most a flinch between his eyelids that are . . . Much too used to harm for comfort.

The last time helps, the best one yet in drawing blood, though it was little. Little, eren figures, for someone wanting a snack.

“Here”, he says, pulling in closer to show him the inside of his palm, the closest to his wrist. “Bite where you have more grab, and don’t think.”

More meat to puncture rather than hardness and bone— he’ll hit the vein there. Eren doesn’t bit for him, though he easily could, and instead, leaves the mark of his teeth where his skin was the softest.

Tearing his skin worked, for better or for worse - his first instinct is to withdraw and make sure it hadn't hurt that much - but blood leaks out and hits his tongue. Immediately, something is tripped in his brain. It is so odd that he couldn't describe it if he tried, even if he had the breath and the mind to attempt it, which just as immediately seemed to leave him and be replaced by that sense of deep need that he'd been repressing the entire day.

Eren pulls in closer, and Makoto feels the distance between them grow more intimate; he had hear his heartbeat even clearer now and his hulking body is keeping the sun and wind away. When he's forced to withdraw enough for Eren to lean in and leave bite mrks on his palm, he feels mildly frustrated, but the advice works. This time, when he bites into the base of his palm instead, his teeth break the skin and sink a few millimeters into his flesh. Blood starts to rise up against his teeth and into his mouth.

Just like before, the taste of it has an instantaneous effect on him. For the past two weeks, he'd been surviving by eating meat cooked as rare as possible, but this - it's like drinking cold spring water in the middle of a desert. He huffs out an eager sigh through his nose and bites down harder, so much blood into his mouth that it begins to leak from the corners and collect where his lips touch Eren's skin.

He swallows loudly. The blood travels down his throat and hits his stomach, burning hot and sickeningly delicious and sending a thrill up his spine. He huffs another sigh out of his nose and gnaws, hoping to fill his mouth again.

A resilient monster, perfectly healthy and at his prime, Eren doesn’t falter when Makoto digs in for more. He only clutches his fist and undoes it constantly, forcing more blood to come naturally and allowing the share he needed to satisfy the hunger.

He knows where to stop for his own good, more or less, and will only begin to gently pry Makoto away when there’s been a little more than enough. he still has to stop the bleeding himself, and have enough energy to get home.

Makoto's mouth lingers on his wrist as he begins to gently ease him away, his lips and tongue still massaging more blood from beneath his skin. The more he swallows, the more his sense returns to him. When he finally releases his bite to let Eren pull away, his face is flushed and his moist lips are tainted red. Compared to how sickly he looked before, it's like he's overcome the flu in less than a minute.

But. With the return of common sense comes something more - shame. The blood was intensely gratifying. Drinking it was unlike anything he'd experienced before. It made him feel alive, powerful, motivated, peaceful...

And something else. Aroused. The front of his pants feels suspiciously, familiarly tight. Avoiding eye contact with Eren, he hunches over and hugs his long black robes around him gratefully. As wonderful as the blood made him feel, it is quickly being replaced by shame and guilt and...

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, staring down at the roof tiles. "I'm sorry. Thank you."

It’s still August, and the summer twist to the season grapple hard onto an instinct he usually keeps under composure with his bonds in sight. That isn’t to say that it it’s an easy thing to ignore when he picks up the scent of arousal by the tip of his tongue.

He swallows dryly, sits back, and tries to clear his throat. He just can’t pretend he didn’t realize now— it was like dangling something wonderful right over his face, then carefully hovering it back. A difficult task it was, to ignore something that had just woken up, tranquil at first, satiated and ready for the next opportunity to appear.

Eren just hadn’t expected it to be this one.

He holds at his wrist, careful to keep the small wound turned upwards. He didn’t have a shirt, and whatever pants he had were torn— well, tearing a bit more wouldn’t make things worse. A bit of fabric it was, at least to keep some pressure on the bite.

“Don’t apologize,” he ends up saying, tending to himself first before his body is turned to the other, wrist in his lap, and— his other hand, the better one, clasps his shoulder. The dragon inhales, and readily, he continues, dipping downwards to close the gap that had been there between their seating: “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His heart is beating faster, and his scales dawn a far more brilliant color than they used to hold. Reds and oranges mingle with obsidian and flashing a mood usually meant for attracting attention.

Makoto reaches out his hands at first, trying to help Eren stop the bleeding, but the movement almost separates the plackets of his cloak. He recoils at the thought of his clothing underneath - specifically, his lap - being exposed for Eren to see; he pulls it tightly around himself again and watches him wrap his wrist in the torn cloth gloomily instead.

Is this normal? he wonders to himself. Eren's not just another man, he's a dragon. His preference for women aside, why would his body be reacting this way to a dragon, of all things? Is it another vampire change? Maybe it was caused by lingering witch's magic in Eren's blood?

A powerful clawed hand clasps his shoulder, shaking him out of the thought. He looks to see Eren's face, drawn much closer than before, eyes and teeth glinting and scales changing colors unexpectedly. His heart skips a beat out of fear. What's going on?

"Eren?" he breathes, feeling his rejuvenated face beginning to flush. Something is going on between them both right now. He's not sure what it is, or whether it's good, but it's something. "What is... what's happening?"

This would get awkward if it went farther in silence and stares, nerves and anxieties (if it already wasn’t). It would be bad, for the both of them, he thinks. Eren would slip away with a few growing inches of primal frustration that he’d take elsewhere, that wasn’t the problem. Makoto would be left behind in a rush and a part of Eren knows that he’d feel— left alone, maybe. Ditched. It’s not quite what he wants after sharing his blood, after opening up about something Makoto was worried of in the first place.

It’s getting worse, or better for him, the more he stays. The heat to his cheeks flare, the scent is unbearable and calling, as much as there’s fear of the unknown laced to it. How much was this body versus mind for him? The only way to find out was to advance, gently. His hand retreats, comes to the front of his lap (where he’s also feeling tighter), his tongue wets his lips, blue and unconsciously flicking to Makoto’s direction. He can’t— stop that. Neither can his expressive ears stop seeming to prick up like the horns that curve around his head, or the spines on his black shift like fins.

“We’re,” What’s happening. A breath pushes past his teeth, what may almost sound like an exhaled laugh that hardly picks up into one. He isn’t making fun of him, just simply . . . Perhaps a little surprised up here. “Aroused.”

We’re. That’s one way to put it, though Eren’s always been direct. Blunt and to the point. He knows what Makoto’s hiding at this point and doesn’t care to flee. Not unless he’s rejected, in which he’d respect.

Eren’s scales continue to shimmer bright and call like a male begging for the attention of a potential mate. He’s strong, say the muscles beneath his skin that flex and relax with the most subtle of motions that only the subconscious could grab. He’s beautiful, he’s potent, he’s healthy and he’s confident enough to strut that.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not leaving.” He says, holding a hand out, palm up. “Unless you’re uncomfortable.”

Then by all means, he’d stop. They’re still budding friends, he wouldn’t do a thing to displease him.

Edited (brain) 2019-09-13 10:06 (UTC)

The breathy word aroused hits him like a bullet - he doesn't know how Eren could have possibly known that, with his arms desperately trying to keep his cloak around him to hide it. And although he might know nothing about dragons or what exactly is happening between them, between the flexing and the shimmering scales and the lick of his lips and the offered hand... he can guess.

His first fear is that this is the real reason Eren offered his blood to him. This isn't what he expects in return, is it? Considering how massive he is, and the fact that they're secluded on this rooftop together, the pressure to accept is enormous. Makoto looks down at his outstretched hand and the torn cloth wrapped around his wrist. Is this really happening? Sex with a... monster? Not just another man, but more importantly, a monster.

"I'm..." he begins without knowing what he was about to say. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "I don't know. This is all completely new to me."

He'd barely recovered from the reality that he'd just gulped blood and loved it, and now this. Makoto looks away from Eren, but doesn't pull away just yet, as he debates the situation with himself. Despite his fear, his erection is even worse than it was a moment earlier.

It’s all and well when Eren’s hand comes up empty. He hardly lets it become awkward either, patting at the other’s shoulder once or twice before bending his legs, knees closer to his chest and arms, wing membranes included, then encircling them to keep to their own space, though still close to each other by side. He hasn’t come here expecting a single thing besides giving him blood and having a talk, so— It’s clear that he isn’t pushing in the slightest, by the way his features maintain casual, although open minded and accepting.

“It might be for all of us,” He remarks quietly, as if it would answer some sort of question, but even after that, the initial thought trails off and away with his eyes to the horizon. “The only reason I knew was because I can smell you.”

His tongue flicks again, not so much at his own discretion but the way a person inhaling for air would. Without thinking. Pheromones. He’s sensitive to them as he is absolutely receptive. Eren— just wasn’t all dragon, though. There was still him, human. And not all about disregarding feelings. Here comes understanding in his words, and simple talking to offer rather than something Makoto wasn’t quite ready for (it’s fine— he distracts himself enough with the smell of his own blood, bringing his wrist closer to his mouth, for his tongue, and fixing the soaked cloth).

“It’s a lot. You just got here.”

Although, he is . . . More accepting about his features than most. Even the little bits of head bobbing when his eyes cast sideways. Displays. He can’t quite rid himself of them.

This must be some sort of vampire thing. That's the only explanation Makoto can think of, and it must be the same for Eren too. The breathy tone to his voice, the shimmering scales, the head bob... the flick of his tongue. Makoto watches Eren's face tenatively, his mind still processing the situation, his dick still pressing into his leg uncomfortably.

"But how?" he asks, at a bit of a loss. "How - how would we, I mean? You're..."

A dragon. And much bigger than Makoto is. It sounds - it sounds kinda painful, to put it bluntly. He feels his face flush, assisted by his fresh meal, at the thought. He's certain he isn't ready for that yet, it being too great a leap into the unknown. That isn't making him any less aroused, unfortunately.

"What if..." he begins slowly. Keeping his gaze averted for now, he idly toys with the pull string on his hood. "Maybe ... something simple. And easy."

He’s—? Eren’s tilted head and dipping gaze is leveled back at the other to finish, but he knows, for a fact now. That’s not where they’re going. At least not at this moment. This is also getting . . . Mildly planned, Eren felt. Too many plans lead to too many expectations, or stumbles to follow through.

He would not have to leap if he were guided. He would not have to be alone, but accompanied. Eren inhales, exhales soft and crisp, oddly so, compared to their summer air and boiling flesh— that’s just how hot he felt. His fingers coil around the Makoto’s shoulder, gentle in the way he wishes to turn him. Just enough to look each other in the eye, to see the truth in them.

“Do what you want to do,” he says, not aggressively, but encouraging. There was nothing here to force him, or oblige him, there wasn't even readiness. “Don’t think too much on it—.”

He’s closer, both their faces are, and naturally the beat in his chest spikes, the smell of the vampire’s breath tickles his senses, his tongue that flicks once more— Eren tilts, the air still, and his eyes a little more focused on watching the color to his cheeks, lips and more. “It’s how the unexpected works,” he murmurs, and if Makoto allows it, something easier to swallow comes near: a free hand, raised to prop under the other’s chin, and lead him on.

Not into a complete kiss, but a brush— a brush for him to get a feeling.

Again, to his own mild surprise, the hand on his shoulder and the sound of his breath, even the turn of his body towards Eren, none of it bothered him the way he'd expect. What does he want to do? He has no idea. He wants something, though, and... well, maybe the simplest answer in this moment is that he wants Eren. As strange as it is.

Makoto doesn't flinch away from the gentle push upwards of his chin. The movement is obvious in its intention, so his lips meet Eren's willingly. They don't feel like a human's lips, but they don't feel bad, either. Just the opposite. His tired heart starts to beat faster and he feels another surge of arousal go down his spine and into his pelvis.

Something simple, something easy. What he wants to do, even if this is unexpected. He thinks he can manage that, especially if Eren is here to help him the same way he'd let him feed. After a moment of hesitation, Makoto kisses him again, pressing his lips more intently this time. The scent of carbon dioxide exiting his nose smells wonderful to him, pinging his vampire senses all over again as a sign of a blood source being near.

Without missing a beat, he draws both hands up to hold Eren's cheeks. Don't pull away, this is what he wants. Or it's a start, at least.

And that’s how you start.

Experimentation is right up the dragon’s alley— not one partner, not one lover was the same, and Eren is intent in letting any heightened sense he had ride high and map out the vampire’s moves. If he’s subtle, if he’s shy, if he’s rough. Taste was the strongest for him, and even the firmest press makes his mouth shift. He’s excited to go further, his pulse races in anticipation to, though he swallows back with patience and tentatively (though bold), makes the next move: a head tilt, sideways so their noses press into their cheeks, and an adjustment to his lips, enough to slowlycoax them open for every bit of breath wanted.

His scales are a fiery red underneath the palm that holds his face, and with a grip against Makoto’s knee, he persuades him, gently, to lower his leg from what he hides. Relax. He’s safe here. No one’s judging his hard on, or the means to satisfy it. And, well. A treat for a vampire are Eren’s teeth. Plenty of points, too much to count, and with a purposeful slick of his own tongue against them, the taste of his blood comes between the sealed pair once again.

Maybe Makoto is getting the unspoken message, and maybe he's simply getting caught up in what's happening, and maybe both, but he responds to Eren's escalation of the kiss without any hesitation. Their lips are already moist by the time a new, unexpected jolt goes through his body - blood - and he hums a soft moan through his nose, his head reeling from the combined sensations.

He'd already satisfied his craving, of course, so it isn't gratifying in the same way as before. It does strike him as immensely erotic. Still holding Eren's face, he presses his lips hard against his and pushes his tongue past them to let the flavor into his mouth. There are sharp teeth; Makoto only then realizes he'd cut his tongue on purpose. For him.

The kiss, the blood, his rising level of comfort... it's making his cock start to throb, the pressure on it quickly becoming uncomfortable. After another moment, his knee drops. Makoto is okay with this, he wants this. He wants it more the longer it goes on. Craning his neck to keep the kiss from breaking, he pulls his hands away and down to his cloak, throwing the cloak to the side and off his body so he can begin to unbuckle his belt.

As much as Makoto drinks blood, Eren’s drinks his moans— so sweet and riling, sound rouses the dragon’s ears into an expressive point, inhaling sharply through flared nostrils that show him what he likes. Sound, he adores sound.

The exchange of blood isn’t as tantalizing as witch blood. It doesn’t give him that rush that melts him into a pool of his ecstasy, but the action is what makes it rise to an equal level of desire. Makoto dips back, and Eren tips forward, and itch in his throat that urges him as a grunt, a drum rolling growl that’s soft and willing to meld with the escalation like water on any surface would.

He helps his partner sit back and adjust, getting to know the line of the body that calls him and wants him. Eren hovers over him, onto him, on his knees and smacking their mouths together in heat that makes him breathless, bloody but far from stopping. The dragon feels his neck with his palm, down his hips over fabric— until they settle right in between, where skin may flash just enough for his fingers to slip under the hem of his shirt and let the vampire undo himself.

His other hand holds the other’s head, full of hair and tangled deep, the points of his talons dangerous but knowing.

Makoto's abdomen flinches and sucks in from the sensation of Eren's ridged fingers on his stomach. It takes a moment for his mind to identify what it is, but once it does, he arches his back into Eren's touch encouragingly. He wants to touch him back, but he wants to be free from his uncomfortable pants just a little bit more. The metal of his belt buckle clicks as he pulls it undone, and with impatient hands, he finally gets his pants open and yanks them down to his thighs, pushing his belt and boxers along with it.

He's exposed. He can feel the breeze on his dick. They're on a roof, sure, but could anyone see them up here? Would anybody even dare to interrupt Eren at a time like this either way? Eren's huffed breath and soft growls of enjoyment encourage him to be bold - he places a hand on the dragon claw on his stomach, encouraging it downwards. His other arm hooks around the back of Eren's neck, his palm coming to rest flat on his back between his shoulder blades.

A sloppy mix of blood and saliva is starting to collect at the corners of his mouth, threatening to drip down his cheeks. The dragon's lips are sopping, too. After loudly swallowing what's already in his mouth, Makoto breaks the kiss, gasping, to lick his lips clean. Not that they get very clean - his face is already smudged with blood from feeding earlier.

Something simple, he said, and here Eren had wondered, as split of a moment it was, if a kiss would be the limit for him. The sky’s the limit, after all— hunger and feral lust to deep in their monster cores gives a brusque push. One that Eren is far more used to hearing.

Smells, smells and more smells rouse his senses the more exposure is had. The breeze chills and makes the heat delightful, enough to prickle his scales and force them to bump and rise, not unlike how skin would. They break to breathe, and the dragon gasps for his air, huffs for it without leaving the other’s face too far apart. If a moment was needed, they’d have it; Eren flicks, tastes and explores the corners of the vampire’s lips, the contour of his jaw and neck, the fleetingness and tickle of his tongue hot and wet when given more pressure.

He explores him, descending hand snagging the encouragement given without second thoughts. Makoto’s cock was hot, new and begging through its thickness for friction that satiates only one way. He’s careful with his talons, and first uses his palm. Safety first. He drives into him in a downwards motion, than pulling up slightly to allow a hook just under his base, cooly letting his voice drip near his ear:

“There’s mine,” he says, hands tied and not exactly willing to stop his progression. Team work and curiosity could go hand in hand.

Despite what's happening, Makoto is mostly quiet. He huffs a hungry sigh out of his mouth when Eren's tongue laps across his jawline and neck, a reaction to the pleasant chill that goes down his spine. But he doesn't moan or groan or say anything else - he's never been one for theatrics, even if he had the confidence for it right now. What he's focused on is all these sensations threatening to overload his mind, from the blood to the tongue to the scales and his voice and his palm...

His palm. It's perfect. Makoto won't know what to attribute it to exactly until later, but the setae on Eren's palm are incredible, sticky and firm and smooth and textured at the same time. As Eren pleasures him, he relaxes back against the rooftop and hugs him closer with the arm draped over his back. He might not be moaning, but his breathing is changing.

Makoto wants to return the gesture, although it still strikes him as scary in the way the unknown is scary, but as he reaches out with his other hand blindly from underneath Eren's huge body, his hand can't find wherever his cock is. Is he still clothed, he wonders in the back of his mind, before getting lost in the sensations again. The young man is not going to last very long like this.

It’s enough. The rasp in his breathing, how it hitches and drops. Close to his ear as he adjusts to their positioning, with Eren situated slightly sideways, and propped up enough to take the control needed. One leg is up, spread even, pants still on but becoming excruciating— enough that his breath is hard, as hard as he was, until he can’t help it, and pops a button. He pulls at it carelessly, wanting it gone and less restraining at the very least.

The rest he can get lost with, and it didn’t matter how. The taste Makoto gives off is divine, and with every stroke of his cock, fingers twirling loosely around his shaft, palm spreading over his head, an occasional downwards pull or even a wander to the apex of his thighs— whatever was more sensitive, whatever coaxed the best reaction, he was attentive to it.

Eren keeps the movement steady, unconstrained, and coaxing out dribbles of pre-cum if he so could. Just to make sure, to see if he did, the dragon nudges himself just a little lower, eyes on him— and caressing from bottom to top in the slowest, tantalizing way with just the right pressure.

The shift of Eren's body is enough to break Makoto's trance and help stave off his orgasm for a little longer, despite the pre-cum rapidly collecting at his tip. He has to unwind his arm from Eren's back to allow him to lean to the side, but that's perfect - he reaches over with both hands and helps Eren undo the rest of the buttons. It's crazy - he knows this is crazy, doing this with Eren, as much as he's loving it - but it's unexpectedly easy for him to shove both of his hands past the waist of Eren's pants to pull out his cock.

"Not yet," he breathes, glancing helplessly down at Eren's hand but not wanting this to be over just yet. One reason, not the least of them, being that he's not entirely sure what to do with Eren's cock now that he's got his hands on it - it feels massive in his palms, intimidatingly so, although maybe it just seems that way in the heat of this moment, with the huge man half-towering over him. If he came now, it would just be him, tired and ready to sleep, with a clearly very horny dragon man on top of him.

He closes one of his hands around Eren's head, the slit pressing into the center of his palm, and he uses his fingers to stroke beneath the ridge. His other hand squeezes just beneath the other, waiting to see how the other man reacts.

His body tremors from the start of the touch to the stroke up, subtly and displaying a show all at once— slow and tantalizing, Eren’s breathing hits a raggedy point, earlier becoming oddly rhythmed and now only more erratic, superficial and raspy. His eyes close, his brows pinch, and outwardly he sighs in delectation.

Makoto’s even managed to get him to stop his movements, if only for a moment to become one with it, focus on it. The vampire’s hand was small, but they convinced him of his eagerness— his pants are down his hips before he even wants to think of pants. His cock, erect and needing was being soothed of its ache, and all the while Eren pulls his scents to his tongue, rolls his head against the other’s face, his side, his neck. He’s rubbing himself with certain affection and joy to take in who he’s with, soon beginning to match Makoto’s next downwards slide.

He waits for him, eyes lifting open to watch his eyes, have that contact, and follow with the slip of his fingers when Makoto is ready to. Teasing the slit of his head, spreading what had dripped of his pre-cum, and . . . Maybe shifting his pelvis just a bit closer to his friend’s.

Makoto has to close his eyes a few times as Eren nuzzles him, his hair threatening to get in his eyes, and through his own pleasure he huffs out a chuckle. Is he - is he being cuddly? The movements sure aren't threatening, and they aren't particularly sexual so much as... intimate.

When their eyes meet, Makoto is smiling, his cheeks a healthy pink and his breathing labored and his kind eyes heavy with indulgence. This is wonderful, he thinks to himself, his worries a moment earlier about how to handle Eren fizzling away. This big scary dragon guy might just be a big softie.

Moving the hand curled around his shaft in sync with his partner's, he teases the soft flesh under his glans with his thumb. "I'm still close," he breathes. "Is it alright?"

what is the sesame street number of the day??

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