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Summary
If there was one thing about Steve Harrington, it was that he could fucking take it.
Sometimes, after they were both laid out for the night, high and feeling too fluid to move a limb, hands bloody and chests rising in long, steady pulls, Eddie remembers the look in Steve's eyes at the boat house. The way his tongue flicked out across his lips as Eddie dug the bottle shards just a little too hard into the skin of his neck. The droop in his lids. The way his eyes flicked down to Eddie's own mouth.
It wasn't just that he could take it. It's that he really fucking wanted to.
Or
The boys play bloody knuckles.
