Archive of Our Own ^beta

“If thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.”—George Orwell

If Thought Corrupts Language (Language Can Also Corrupt Thought)

As soon as Steve Yzerman exited the elevator at the floor his hotel room was on, he had to duck an oncoming pillow, which rustled a few of his hairs as it flew overhead, and then ricocheted off the closing elevator door, compelling him to dodge it a second time, before finally landing on the plush hallway carpet as soundlessly as a feather.

Following the pillow’s trajectory to its origin, Steve spotted Hank sprawled facedown on the divan opposite the elevator bank, yanking on the tassels of a second satin pillow with a fervor that suggested it had done him a dreadful personal injury.

“Hank.” As Steve scooped up the hurled pillow and returned it to the sofa, Hank’s head jerked up at Steve’s voice, apparently astonished to discover that he wasn’t alone in the corridor. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing until you came along,” snapped Hank, glaring at Steve. “Fuck off.”

Normally, Steve would’ve hauled Hank over his knee for a sound spanking to remind him that it was never acceptable for him to address his captain in that insolent tone—and he was certainly tempted to do so—but he saw a glimmer of tears in Hank’s steely eyes that made him content himself with a single, scolding swat—strong enough to be felt through two layers of clothing but not forceful enough to truly sting—to the seat of Hank’s pants accompanied with a stern warning, “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Sorry, Captain.” Hank, the lone smack to his backside obviously the catalyst he needed to break down, dissolved into tears and tried with dubious success to muffle the noise of his crying by pressing the satin pillow against his face.

“It’s all right.” Steve squeezed Hank’s trembling shoulder. “You’re forgiven, kid. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“You just spanked me, Stevie,” pointed out Hank between sniffles.

“Nice try, scamp.” Mouth twisting wryly, Steve patted Hank’s back. “But you were upset before I—to use you term—spanked you even though what you call a spanking was no more than a tap on the butt. I won’t be put off that easily.”

“It’s just—“ As Hank took a deep, bracing breath, Steve could feel it in the rising and falling of his palm on Hank’s back—“I was wondering it I was a horrible player who wouldn’t be able to deliver for the team in the playoffs and who needs to be traded.”

“You’re none of those things.” Steve massaged the nape of Hank’s neck. “Why would you think you are, Hank?”

“Pav said that I was,” mumbled Hank into the pillow, and Steve winced, because Pavel had a sharp mind and sarcastic tongue—those two traits radiated from him regardless of the language barrier—that rendered him quite spiteful on the rare occasions that he chose to be. Why exactly he had decided to be hateful to Hank, whom he seemed to have enjoyed playing and joking around with since the start of training camp, was a mystery that Steve planned to get to the bottom of by communicating directly with Pavel’s bottom.

“He was wrong on all counts.” Steve sighed as his hand drifted up to stroke Hank’s hair. “Even if he were right, which he isn’t, he had no cause to say such a thing to you or any other teammate.”

Hank nodded, and, encouraged by this response, Steve went on, “I want to discuss this with Pav in private, but if you return to your room in about half an hour, I promise he’ll be ready to apologize to you.”

“Okay.” Hank craned his neck to gaze inquiringly up at Steve. “Do you think Pav still likes me despite what he said, Stevie?”

“Yes.” Steve arched an eyebrow. “The real question, though, is if you still like him despite what he said?”

“Of course I do.” Hank’s eyes widened. “Otherwise I wouldn’t care about what he said.”

“Then he’ll apologize and you’ll forgive him, and, in the end, your friendship will probably be the stronger for it.” With a final squeeze of Hank’s shoulder, Steve rose from the divan and strode down the hallway to the room Pavel shared with Hank.

Once he reached his destination, he rapped sharply on the door and was told, “Come in, Hank. Door open.”

As Steve entered, and Pavel, glancing up from a Russian paperback, realized that he wasn’t Hank, Pavel’s forehead furrowed, and he muttered, “Thought you Hank, Stevie.”

“I figured.” Shutting the door firmly in his wake, Steve sat on the bed in front of Pavel. “Speaking of Hank, he says that you told him he was an awful player who would be rotten in the playoffs and who deserved to be traded.”

“I busy.” Evasive as a politician during a press conference, Pavel lifted the book up to obscure his face and resumed reading, his dark eyes flitting back and forth across the page. “No time talk about Hank.”

“Put that book down.” His temper flaring, Steve snatched the paperback out from between Pavel’s fingers and threw it onto the nightstand. “Now answer my question.”

“You not ask question, Stevie.” Pavel cocked his head in the exaggeratedly baffled fashion that typically meant he was smart enough to try to play dumb in a sticky situation.

“I am now.” Steve shook Pavel’s slender shoulders. “Did you say that stuff to Hank, Pav?”

Pavel hesitated and then nodded, dropping his eyes to his comforter.

“Look at me,” ordered Steve, crisp as untrodden upon snow, tilting Pavel’s chin up, so that their gazes locked. “Is there anything that can justify—not just explain but justify—what you said to Hank?”

“I not get question.” Pavel’s chin wobbled, and this time Steve sensed that his confusion was genuine.

Reminding himself that convoluted questions with big vocabulary were guaranteed to leave Pavel lost between clauses and million dollar words, Steve rephrased tersely, “Is there anything that could make what you said to Hank okay, Pav?”

“Sorry, Captain.” Assuming his most angelic expression, Pavel spread his hands. “I promise not say it again.”

“I meant make it okay when you said it, not now.” Glowering at Pavel to emphasize that he was not charmed or fooled by the guileless attitude Pavel was adapting, he added grimly, “Now the only way to make it pay would require a spanking in addition to an apology, kid.”

“It just joke.” Pavel attempted a winning grin that slipped off his face as quickly as water flowing through fingers as Steve clutched his elbows and tugged him over his lap.

“Wise of you to wipe that smile off your face.” Pressing his left palm between Pavel’s shoulder blades to hold him in place for the duration of his impending punishment, Steve used his right hand to unzip and lower Pavel’s jeans, which were joined at his ankles a second later by his boxers. Bringing his right palm down on Pavel’s butt in a rapid and resounding series of slaps designed to seize Pavel’s attention, Steve lectured, “This isn’t a laughing matter because you don’t joke about such things. Hank took you seriously and that hurt his feelings, which I believe is precisely what you wanted and what your words were calculated to do.”

Alternating between Pavel’s ass cheeks, Steve spanked in silence—letting the sound of his hand striking Pavel’s naked flesh fill the room with his disapproval and focus Pavel’s mind on the bad behavior that had put him in this painful position. Once Pavel’s buttocks resembled an enormous strawberry, Steve asked, “Why did you say what you did to Hank, Pavel?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Under Steve’s palm, Pavel’s shoulder blades stiffed in stubborn defiance.

“It matters because your spanking won’t be over until we’ve addressed why you did something so cruel.” Maintaining a steady stream of smacks to Pavel’s rear, Steve pronounced in a voice as sharp as a razor, “I’ll continue spanking you until you answer my question.”

“You can’t,” gasped Pavel, flinching as another whack landed on his behind.

“I can and I will.” To demonstrate that this wasn’t a hollow threat, since while Pavel’s backside was flaming, it didn’t appear in danger of bruising, Steve administered a particularly harsh slap to Pavel’s rump. “Be warned, kid, your butt will get tired of this long before my hand.”

Pavel, who could be headstrong but never stupid no matter what he pretended on the contrary, surrendered after a minute more of hard smacks raining on his rear, starting shakily, “I try explain in English but it not easy.”

“Go on.” Granting Pavel a temporary reprieve so he could concentrate on expressing himself in English rather than on being spanked, Steve stilled his hand.

“Playoffs approaching and media say I no good in playoffs. That make me feel angry and—“ Pavel paused as he cast around in his vocabulary bank for an appropriate word to describe his emotional state, and Steve felt a stab of sympathy for him as he finished with a hitch in his tone—“pressured. Maybe I mean and take that out on Hank, saying he have problem I afraid I have.”

Promising himself that he could be sympathetic once he was done being strict, Steve admonished, resuming Pavel’s spanking although with less searing swats, “You spoke out of your own weakness, fear, ad bitterness, not out of the truth. Behavior like that won’t be tolerated on this team while I’m the captain.”

“Sorry, Stevie.” Pavel’s shoulders heaved with soft cries. “Swear never to do it again.”

“Say the same thing to Hank,” stipulated Steve, punctuating this command with a burning slap.

After Pavel’s meek nod, Steve’s restored Pavel’s jeans and boxers to their original locations, cringing empathetically at Pavel’s agonized hiss as the denim traveled over the scorched terrain of his behind. Guiding Pavel into a hug against his chest, Steve hoped to abate Pavel’s quiet cries but instead found them strengthening into full-fledged, wrenching sobs that tore through Pavel’s slight frame like tsunamis.

“Shh.” Steve rubbed soothing circles into Pavel’s back. “Don’t worry so much about the media accusing you of being bad in the playoffs. They used to say the same thing about me, scamp, and I turned out all right.”

“Really, Captain?” Pavel gaped up at Steve. “Media not always call you playoff warrior?”

“Come on, Pav.” Steve ruffled Pavel’s hair. “You know I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“You nice to me.” Pavel’s sobs intensified. “I not earn it. I so unloveable.”

“You aren’t unloveable.” Sweeping the hair away from Pavel’s forehead, Steve planted a swift kiss on the exposed skin. “What you said to Hank wasn’t lovable, but you’re sorry and determined to do better. That makes you very lovable, since nobody is perfect, so admitting when you mess up and trying to not repeat what you did wrong is about as lovable as anyone can be.”