Rat's Alley (FMA, Roy/Ed)
Title: Rat's Alley
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Roy and Ed, in an alleyway. Sounds really meaningful, don't it?
Notes: shored gave me Gasoline, Kleptomania, Flashlight, and this is what my brain came up with: alleyway!porn. I think I got gasoline in there, in some abstract sort of way. Thanks as always to her for holding my hand and hammering metaphors into my head when I'm too dumb to connect the dots.
It should be raining, Roy thinks distantly. There should be rain and the stench of ruptured intestines splashed across the filthy wall of an alley, and Ed should be crying. Because he’s done this before, they’ve done this before, and this isn’t the way that it goes. Ed’s hands are fisted by his sides in a way that Roy hasn’t seen since Ed turned eighteen, and his face is flushed and sweaty. There is blood in his hair.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ed snarls, and Roy’s hand clenches, even though he had made no move to reach out, hadn’t even thought of it. There’s an explosion close by and Ed flinches, his hands coming up before they see the plume of smoke rising above the alley and realize: somewhere else, someone else.
It drifts towards them, curling around the sandstone buildings, toxic and oily. It smells of human bodies roasting, skin blackening and curling away from gleaming teeth. It’s been years since the stench has made Roy sick and he notes with vague disgust that he is hungry.
“Fucking routed,” Ed snaps, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Tossed out of the center when your fucking people were supposed to be there.” He lights the cigarette with a snap of his fingers, too much oxygen. The flame flickers a violent orange.
“I see you’ve met up with Havoc, at least,” Roy says, nodding his head towards the cigarettes. He stares up at the sky and marvels. Small talk in the midst of death. Ed blows smoke from his nose and stares at Roy with contempt.
“These are mine, Colonel Shit.” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and leaves ashes behind.
“Brigadier General Shit, actually,” Roy says, and Ed laughs. It’s an ugly sound and when he brings the cigarette to his mouth again, his fingers tremble. He stares at Roy the way he used to, when he was small and prone to shouting a lot, and despised every moment when he needed to look to Roy to tell him what to do. It’s an expectant sort of stare and Roy could hate him for it. Hawkeye looks at him the same way and he wants to shake them sometimes, grab them around the shoulders and tell them in explict detail how much better they could do.
Ed smells of smoke, of clean tobacco and Roy inhales it gratefully as he steps closer to the boy. He’s not really a boy anymore, but Roy has been thinking of Ed as a child for so long that it’s difficult to think of him as anything else, even when Ed is beneath him or bent over Roy’s desk or riding him, automail fingers digging painfully into Roy’s hair. It forces Ed to look up at him, a position that he’s always hated. And then he does grab Ed, takes him roughly by the shoulders and doesn’t know what to do next. Ed’s jacket slides beneath his clenching fingers and Ed brings one shoulder up to his own cheek in an effort to shake Roy off, like a child squirming away from touch. It brings the rough cloth of Roy’s glove against his skin and Ed’s mouth opens, in surprise or anger or something else.
There’s another explosion, closer this time, but neither of them look away.
“Aren’t you gonna do anything about that?” Ed sneers. He blows smoke into Roy’s face and Roy draws back instinctively. “Fix your little fuck up? There’re people out there counting on you.”
It isn’t Roy’s fuck up and they both know it, but Roy’s lip curls angrily regardless. You don’t get to shirk responsibility if you haven’t climbed high enough, and a brigadier general staggers under the weight of their CO’s mistakes. His hands curl into fists, pulling Ed off of the wall that he’d been leaning against. The cigarette falls from Ed’s fingers and then they are wrapped around Roy’s jaw, thumb pressing hard into the soft skin just below his mouth. All that Roy can smell is smoke and all he can taste is smoke when Ed kisses him, dragging Roy down to his level.
There’s a cut on Ed’s lip that reopens and bleeds sluggishly, smearing blood across their mouths. Roy swallows copper, chases Ed’s tongue with his own, bites down hard on the cut. Ed groans, a long, drawn-out noise that hits Roy with physical force. He pushes Ed against the wall so hard that the smaller man’s head knocks painfully against the brick, shoving Ed’s legs apart with his own. Ed’s leather pants are soft and thin and do nothing to hide his erection, and Roy grinds down on it hard with the palm of his hand.
He puts his mouth against Ed’s ear, licks a hot stripe along the skin behind it, bites down underneath his jaw. Ed gasps, sobs, mutters nonsense, hateful words until Roy speaks: “Are you counting on me, Fullmetal? Are you waiting for me to tell you what to do, how to fix this? Are you still a child, then?” He rubs a thumb over the head of Ed’s cock, tracing the outline of it through his pants.
“Fuck you,” Ed breathes, his head rolling to the side. There’s blood across his mouth and down his chin and his hair is damp with it under Roy’s fingers. “Don’t you talk to me that way, you pedophile, you - fuck -”
“You want it,” Roy whispers. “You love it. You could never lie to me, Fullmetal.”
“I don’t, I don’t want it,” Ed spits. His eyes are glazed and Roy knows that it’s instinct more than anything that puts the venom in his voice. His hips push against Roy’s hand helplessly, his face red and humilated, and something inside of Roy is straining to the breaking point.
“Just fucking admit it, Fullmetal!” Ed stills and he stares up at Roy, looking as shocked as Roy feels. Ed’s cock twitches under his fingers and Roy licks his lips, turns his face away. He had meant to tell Ed to suck his cock for that, throw the boy to his knees in the alleyway and let the lie stand between them. The air is smoky and the moment is lost. He draws away and that’s when automail closes around his sleeve, holds him in place. Ed’s mouth is still hanging open, prudish disbelief in his eyes that Roy actually shouted at him, but he holds Roy’s eyes.
He looks young and scared, his eyes darting around towards the mouth of the alleyway and then drawn back irresistably towards Roy’s face and down the line of his body. It’s a familiar gesture and Roy can almost see Ed, his face still round with babyfat, shifting from side to side as he gave his reports, eyes moving restlessly up and down as if he wasn’t aware of it and god help him, Roy had wanted him then too.
Ed’s lips part, the tip of his tongue smoothing over the cut over his lip, licking the blood away.
“No,” he says at last.
Roy’s hand twists upward, his fingers closing around where Ed’s own are locked. Ed looks down to where their hands entwine, locked around the other’s wrist. Ed’s glove is gone and the automail is greasy and dark. “No what?” he asks.
He stares at Ed’s mouth as the boy answers, thinks of running his cock around the line of those lips, twisted and angry and as apt to bite as suck him greedily down. Thinks of Ed in sunlight, round-faced, shouting, beautiful. He waits for Ed to speak, to explain everything and brush away all of the ashes from Roy’s mind, but all that Ed says is, “Don’t go,” and then he says, “I - fuck - I want it. Want - you,” and it’s enough.
Roy drops Ed’s wrist and slides his hand around the boy’s shoulders, lifts him away from the brick and kisses him slowly. The ground shakes beneath them and it could mean death, it could mean discovery but Ed pays it no mind, clutching at Roy’s collar with both hands, biting and sucking at Roy’s mouth. He lets Roy ease him away, blinks up at him, waits.
“Say it again,” Roy whispers, and Ed’s eyes slide closed, his body moving in a little circuit as Roy’s thumbs press hard against his hip bones, rubbing closer, closer. “Tell me what you want, Fullmetal.”
He can see Ed trying the words out in his head, shaping his lips around them soundlessly and Roy catches Ed’s bottom lip between his teeth and runs his tongue across it, deliberately. Ed pushes against him, the world shudders again but everything within Roy slows, melts, hardens. Ed swallows. “I,” he says.
“Yes?” Roy prompts. He closes his hands around Ed’s wrists and draws them above their heads, pinning them against the wall. Ed’s stronger than Roy is, his body one long line of muscle and skill despite his size, but he freezes, mouth hanging stupidly open, even when Roy transfers both of Ed’s wrists into one of his hands and runs the other lightly down his throat. Roy steps closer slowly, leans down, and Ed stares at him, his eyes wide and dark.
“I want you to fuck me,” Ed says, his voice steady. “I - I want you.” He whimpers softly as Roy’s mouth follows the same path that his hand did, down the line of muscle at Ed’s throat towards the curve of shoulder and bone. Roy’s own eyes close instinctively.
“Beg me,” Roy says softly, his eyes still closed. He might as well be begging himself. Ed arches against him, keening. He’s small enough that one of Roy’s hands span the width of his back, small enough that Roy’s arm can wrap all the way around his waist.
“Please,” Ed breathes against Roy’s mouth. He won’t look Roy in the eye but he says it again: “Please, please, please, fuck me. I don’t know what you want me to say, Mustang, just please.”
His breath sobs in his throat as Roy turns him around, pressing his hands hard against the wall, one crossed over the other. He leaves them there as Roy sweeps up the hem of Ed’s coat, tossing it carelessly up Ed’s back. It slides a little down his back and then stays there, ridiculously. He fumbles with the buckles of Ed’s trousers with one hand, the other splayed across Ed’s stomach. He can barely hear Ed through the blood rushing through his own ears, please please please Roy -- an endless, mindless plea.
He shoves two fingers into Ed’s mouth as he undoes his own pants, and Ed swallows them eagerly, lapping along the underside and circling them with his tongue. Roy fists his hand in Ed’s hair and the boy bites down hard, just above the second knuckle and the pain is enough to bring Roy back from the edge.
“Are you ready, Fullmetal?”
“You talk too fucking much,” Ed grits out, as though he’s one to talk, he’ll go to his grave shouting about the indignity of it, but he takes Roy’s fingers with little more than a sobbing moan. It’s been three days since they’ve stared each other down in the General’s tent, six days since Roy had Ed four times in two hours (hallway bedroom kitchen bedroom and never again, Roy swore, he’s not eighteen anymore) and Ed is tight, painfully tight around him and -
Roy leans his forehead against the hot skin at the back of Ed’s neck and breathes deeply. His hand tightens around the base of his cock, holding himself back with a physical effort. It’s too much, it’s all too much, the smell of blood in Ed’s hair and the needy way that he pushes back against Roy.
He bites down on the ridge of Ed’s spine at the same time that he replaces fingers with cock, too quickly, and Ed’s fingers claw into the brick. He curses Roy fluently and Roy finds a better use for Ed’s mouth, forcing the boy’s head around and kissing him. Every movement of Ed’s body is a plea, as though once started he can’t stop begging Roy for more, more, and Roy gives it to him, forces him against the bricks and up on his toes. He’s never been able to resist Ed, never been able to turn away even when Ed was soft and small and broken.
And it had been worth it, to give and give until the day that Ed had taken him into his narrow dormitory bed, worth all of the shouting and worry and uncertainty because Ed had always come back. Always gave back, always survived. And despite himself, despite all of the shouting and worry and uncertainty and complete and total irrationality of it all, Roy believes. Knows that no matter what, Ed will win.
It’s messy, violent. Ed’s pants bunch around his thighs, damp with their sweat. Roy’s moans are muffled in his mouth, feverish. Ed shoves a hand between his face and the wall and pillows his cheek there, the automail arm bearing them both up as Roy thrusts into him. And it’s all too familiar, the reek of oil and war mixing with sweat and sex in his nose, painful and intoxicating. He wrenches one hand off of Ed’s hips with the last of his mind and wraps his fingers around Ed’s cock, pulling once, twice and then Ed is crying raggedly, his head flung back against Roy’s shoulder.
He is blinded by orgasm. A thought flashes through his head even as his his hips stutter forward: this is death, he is dying. He’s dying and it’s all Ed’s fault.
The world comes back in pieces, red cloth against his face, shoulder seam in extreme close up. He can see Ed in profile out of the corner of his eyes, those golden eyes closed, mouth parted. They breathe together.
“Fuck,” Ed says at last, an almost contemplative tone to his voice. He winces as Roy pulls out, tucks himself away. He doesn’t move away from the wall but his fingers move downward to investigate the damage. “Fuck,” he says again. There’s come dripping down his thighs and Roy stares at it, transfixed.
“What now?” Ed asks. Roy glances up when he feels Ed’s glance on him, but there’s a patient look in those golden eyes, as though he’s had to ask over and over before Roy heard.
Roy blinks at him. “I don’t know,” he says, and flinches at the honesty. He’s shivering despite the heat, hollowed out.
Ed is silent for a long moment, his eyes sharp. Then he reaches forward, his jacket still askew, his pants still undone, and takes Roy’s hand. When he speaks, he’s grinning.
“Yeah,” he says, “me neither.”
Author: hansbekhart
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Roy and Ed, in an alleyway. Sounds really meaningful, don't it?
Notes: shored gave me Gasoline, Kleptomania, Flashlight, and this is what my brain came up with: alleyway!porn. I think I got gasoline in there, in some abstract sort of way. Thanks as always to her for holding my hand and hammering metaphors into my head when I'm too dumb to connect the dots.
It should be raining, Roy thinks distantly. There should be rain and the stench of ruptured intestines splashed across the filthy wall of an alley, and Ed should be crying. Because he’s done this before, they’ve done this before, and this isn’t the way that it goes. Ed’s hands are fisted by his sides in a way that Roy hasn’t seen since Ed turned eighteen, and his face is flushed and sweaty. There is blood in his hair.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ed snarls, and Roy’s hand clenches, even though he had made no move to reach out, hadn’t even thought of it. There’s an explosion close by and Ed flinches, his hands coming up before they see the plume of smoke rising above the alley and realize: somewhere else, someone else.
It drifts towards them, curling around the sandstone buildings, toxic and oily. It smells of human bodies roasting, skin blackening and curling away from gleaming teeth. It’s been years since the stench has made Roy sick and he notes with vague disgust that he is hungry.
“Fucking routed,” Ed snaps, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Tossed out of the center when your fucking people were supposed to be there.” He lights the cigarette with a snap of his fingers, too much oxygen. The flame flickers a violent orange.
“I see you’ve met up with Havoc, at least,” Roy says, nodding his head towards the cigarettes. He stares up at the sky and marvels. Small talk in the midst of death. Ed blows smoke from his nose and stares at Roy with contempt.
“These are mine, Colonel Shit.” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and leaves ashes behind.
“Brigadier General Shit, actually,” Roy says, and Ed laughs. It’s an ugly sound and when he brings the cigarette to his mouth again, his fingers tremble. He stares at Roy the way he used to, when he was small and prone to shouting a lot, and despised every moment when he needed to look to Roy to tell him what to do. It’s an expectant sort of stare and Roy could hate him for it. Hawkeye looks at him the same way and he wants to shake them sometimes, grab them around the shoulders and tell them in explict detail how much better they could do.
Ed smells of smoke, of clean tobacco and Roy inhales it gratefully as he steps closer to the boy. He’s not really a boy anymore, but Roy has been thinking of Ed as a child for so long that it’s difficult to think of him as anything else, even when Ed is beneath him or bent over Roy’s desk or riding him, automail fingers digging painfully into Roy’s hair. It forces Ed to look up at him, a position that he’s always hated. And then he does grab Ed, takes him roughly by the shoulders and doesn’t know what to do next. Ed’s jacket slides beneath his clenching fingers and Ed brings one shoulder up to his own cheek in an effort to shake Roy off, like a child squirming away from touch. It brings the rough cloth of Roy’s glove against his skin and Ed’s mouth opens, in surprise or anger or something else.
There’s another explosion, closer this time, but neither of them look away.
“Aren’t you gonna do anything about that?” Ed sneers. He blows smoke into Roy’s face and Roy draws back instinctively. “Fix your little fuck up? There’re people out there counting on you.”
It isn’t Roy’s fuck up and they both know it, but Roy’s lip curls angrily regardless. You don’t get to shirk responsibility if you haven’t climbed high enough, and a brigadier general staggers under the weight of their CO’s mistakes. His hands curl into fists, pulling Ed off of the wall that he’d been leaning against. The cigarette falls from Ed’s fingers and then they are wrapped around Roy’s jaw, thumb pressing hard into the soft skin just below his mouth. All that Roy can smell is smoke and all he can taste is smoke when Ed kisses him, dragging Roy down to his level.
There’s a cut on Ed’s lip that reopens and bleeds sluggishly, smearing blood across their mouths. Roy swallows copper, chases Ed’s tongue with his own, bites down hard on the cut. Ed groans, a long, drawn-out noise that hits Roy with physical force. He pushes Ed against the wall so hard that the smaller man’s head knocks painfully against the brick, shoving Ed’s legs apart with his own. Ed’s leather pants are soft and thin and do nothing to hide his erection, and Roy grinds down on it hard with the palm of his hand.
He puts his mouth against Ed’s ear, licks a hot stripe along the skin behind it, bites down underneath his jaw. Ed gasps, sobs, mutters nonsense, hateful words until Roy speaks: “Are you counting on me, Fullmetal? Are you waiting for me to tell you what to do, how to fix this? Are you still a child, then?” He rubs a thumb over the head of Ed’s cock, tracing the outline of it through his pants.
“Fuck you,” Ed breathes, his head rolling to the side. There’s blood across his mouth and down his chin and his hair is damp with it under Roy’s fingers. “Don’t you talk to me that way, you pedophile, you - fuck -”
“You want it,” Roy whispers. “You love it. You could never lie to me, Fullmetal.”
“I don’t, I don’t want it,” Ed spits. His eyes are glazed and Roy knows that it’s instinct more than anything that puts the venom in his voice. His hips push against Roy’s hand helplessly, his face red and humilated, and something inside of Roy is straining to the breaking point.
“Just fucking admit it, Fullmetal!” Ed stills and he stares up at Roy, looking as shocked as Roy feels. Ed’s cock twitches under his fingers and Roy licks his lips, turns his face away. He had meant to tell Ed to suck his cock for that, throw the boy to his knees in the alleyway and let the lie stand between them. The air is smoky and the moment is lost. He draws away and that’s when automail closes around his sleeve, holds him in place. Ed’s mouth is still hanging open, prudish disbelief in his eyes that Roy actually shouted at him, but he holds Roy’s eyes.
He looks young and scared, his eyes darting around towards the mouth of the alleyway and then drawn back irresistably towards Roy’s face and down the line of his body. It’s a familiar gesture and Roy can almost see Ed, his face still round with babyfat, shifting from side to side as he gave his reports, eyes moving restlessly up and down as if he wasn’t aware of it and god help him, Roy had wanted him then too.
Ed’s lips part, the tip of his tongue smoothing over the cut over his lip, licking the blood away.
“No,” he says at last.
Roy’s hand twists upward, his fingers closing around where Ed’s own are locked. Ed looks down to where their hands entwine, locked around the other’s wrist. Ed’s glove is gone and the automail is greasy and dark. “No what?” he asks.
He stares at Ed’s mouth as the boy answers, thinks of running his cock around the line of those lips, twisted and angry and as apt to bite as suck him greedily down. Thinks of Ed in sunlight, round-faced, shouting, beautiful. He waits for Ed to speak, to explain everything and brush away all of the ashes from Roy’s mind, but all that Ed says is, “Don’t go,” and then he says, “I - fuck - I want it. Want - you,” and it’s enough.
Roy drops Ed’s wrist and slides his hand around the boy’s shoulders, lifts him away from the brick and kisses him slowly. The ground shakes beneath them and it could mean death, it could mean discovery but Ed pays it no mind, clutching at Roy’s collar with both hands, biting and sucking at Roy’s mouth. He lets Roy ease him away, blinks up at him, waits.
“Say it again,” Roy whispers, and Ed’s eyes slide closed, his body moving in a little circuit as Roy’s thumbs press hard against his hip bones, rubbing closer, closer. “Tell me what you want, Fullmetal.”
He can see Ed trying the words out in his head, shaping his lips around them soundlessly and Roy catches Ed’s bottom lip between his teeth and runs his tongue across it, deliberately. Ed pushes against him, the world shudders again but everything within Roy slows, melts, hardens. Ed swallows. “I,” he says.
“Yes?” Roy prompts. He closes his hands around Ed’s wrists and draws them above their heads, pinning them against the wall. Ed’s stronger than Roy is, his body one long line of muscle and skill despite his size, but he freezes, mouth hanging stupidly open, even when Roy transfers both of Ed’s wrists into one of his hands and runs the other lightly down his throat. Roy steps closer slowly, leans down, and Ed stares at him, his eyes wide and dark.
“I want you to fuck me,” Ed says, his voice steady. “I - I want you.” He whimpers softly as Roy’s mouth follows the same path that his hand did, down the line of muscle at Ed’s throat towards the curve of shoulder and bone. Roy’s own eyes close instinctively.
“Beg me,” Roy says softly, his eyes still closed. He might as well be begging himself. Ed arches against him, keening. He’s small enough that one of Roy’s hands span the width of his back, small enough that Roy’s arm can wrap all the way around his waist.
“Please,” Ed breathes against Roy’s mouth. He won’t look Roy in the eye but he says it again: “Please, please, please, fuck me. I don’t know what you want me to say, Mustang, just please.”
His breath sobs in his throat as Roy turns him around, pressing his hands hard against the wall, one crossed over the other. He leaves them there as Roy sweeps up the hem of Ed’s coat, tossing it carelessly up Ed’s back. It slides a little down his back and then stays there, ridiculously. He fumbles with the buckles of Ed’s trousers with one hand, the other splayed across Ed’s stomach. He can barely hear Ed through the blood rushing through his own ears, please please please Roy -- an endless, mindless plea.
He shoves two fingers into Ed’s mouth as he undoes his own pants, and Ed swallows them eagerly, lapping along the underside and circling them with his tongue. Roy fists his hand in Ed’s hair and the boy bites down hard, just above the second knuckle and the pain is enough to bring Roy back from the edge.
“Are you ready, Fullmetal?”
“You talk too fucking much,” Ed grits out, as though he’s one to talk, he’ll go to his grave shouting about the indignity of it, but he takes Roy’s fingers with little more than a sobbing moan. It’s been three days since they’ve stared each other down in the General’s tent, six days since Roy had Ed four times in two hours (hallway bedroom kitchen bedroom and never again, Roy swore, he’s not eighteen anymore) and Ed is tight, painfully tight around him and -
Roy leans his forehead against the hot skin at the back of Ed’s neck and breathes deeply. His hand tightens around the base of his cock, holding himself back with a physical effort. It’s too much, it’s all too much, the smell of blood in Ed’s hair and the needy way that he pushes back against Roy.
He bites down on the ridge of Ed’s spine at the same time that he replaces fingers with cock, too quickly, and Ed’s fingers claw into the brick. He curses Roy fluently and Roy finds a better use for Ed’s mouth, forcing the boy’s head around and kissing him. Every movement of Ed’s body is a plea, as though once started he can’t stop begging Roy for more, more, and Roy gives it to him, forces him against the bricks and up on his toes. He’s never been able to resist Ed, never been able to turn away even when Ed was soft and small and broken.
And it had been worth it, to give and give until the day that Ed had taken him into his narrow dormitory bed, worth all of the shouting and worry and uncertainty because Ed had always come back. Always gave back, always survived. And despite himself, despite all of the shouting and worry and uncertainty and complete and total irrationality of it all, Roy believes. Knows that no matter what, Ed will win.
It’s messy, violent. Ed’s pants bunch around his thighs, damp with their sweat. Roy’s moans are muffled in his mouth, feverish. Ed shoves a hand between his face and the wall and pillows his cheek there, the automail arm bearing them both up as Roy thrusts into him. And it’s all too familiar, the reek of oil and war mixing with sweat and sex in his nose, painful and intoxicating. He wrenches one hand off of Ed’s hips with the last of his mind and wraps his fingers around Ed’s cock, pulling once, twice and then Ed is crying raggedly, his head flung back against Roy’s shoulder.
He is blinded by orgasm. A thought flashes through his head even as his his hips stutter forward: this is death, he is dying. He’s dying and it’s all Ed’s fault.
The world comes back in pieces, red cloth against his face, shoulder seam in extreme close up. He can see Ed in profile out of the corner of his eyes, those golden eyes closed, mouth parted. They breathe together.
“Fuck,” Ed says at last, an almost contemplative tone to his voice. He winces as Roy pulls out, tucks himself away. He doesn’t move away from the wall but his fingers move downward to investigate the damage. “Fuck,” he says again. There’s come dripping down his thighs and Roy stares at it, transfixed.
“What now?” Ed asks. Roy glances up when he feels Ed’s glance on him, but there’s a patient look in those golden eyes, as though he’s had to ask over and over before Roy heard.
Roy blinks at him. “I don’t know,” he says, and flinches at the honesty. He’s shivering despite the heat, hollowed out.
Ed is silent for a long moment, his eyes sharp. Then he reaches forward, his jacket still askew, his pants still undone, and takes Roy’s hand. When he speaks, he’s grinning.
“Yeah,” he says, “me neither.”