a/n: i have to say thank you to my best friend ayshen who beta'd this for me. she gave me the encouragement to post this and so did my great friend on this site dashinginconverse. i talked to dashingingconverse about this piece as she was as intrigued by this pair as i am. honestly, i don't know what it is about seth and steph but i swear there's something there. also i was partly inspired by a gifset on tumblr of their cutest moments. this is the link - just copy and paste into your browser - post/108703513295/cute-stephanie-and-seth-moments. so far this is just a one shot, but has the definite possibility of being more, so we'll see.

~*~i can see you crystal clear~*~

When things changed – when she went from part of a means to an end, to something more much more – he can't say.

There was no grand epiphany. No singular moment when he had seen past the 'Billionaire Princess' facade to find Stephanie. It happened before his brain could actually process what was happening. How his eyes were mapping her curves, taking special care to see the shape of her hips. How her scent – pomegranate and deep vanilla – lingered with him long after she had disappeared.

The way her icy stare warmed his presence; eyes sparkling with pride whether she was beaming at him or cheering him on from ringside.

That throaty voice either screaming, "you're the man! you're the man!" or psyching him up before a match, elegant hands on his shoulders and telling him, "prove to everyone in that locker room – all those b + players why you're an a+ player – and why you and not any of them are the future of this company, seth."

Now, it was more than noticing how she filled out a dress, generous curves on display or the figure she cut – beautiful – in one of her signature power suits. More than the way she beamed. More than how her icy stare turned to a fresh water pond, warm and open.

Now, he knew Stephanie.

His name had been on her posy lips – wrenched in the sweetest torture, breathed at the height of passion, whispered in reverence - "Seth" in every way he never imagined her saying it. The familiar four letters, suddenly unfamiliar to his ears, suddenly spoken in new ways that would make it never sound the same again.

He had touched the warm tan of her skin. Felt those generous curves underneath his fingers, his hands. His lips knew how she tasted; golden and warm, bitter and sweet... perfect.

His eyes watched – rapt with attention – as she fell apart and was put back together. How she reached her peak – ring around her crisp irises as alluring as the blue around a flame – violent and intense, then came back down, a serene calm and little impish grin on her face; the weight of the world – of being Stephanie McMahon-Hemsley lifted from her strong shoulders.

And then how it would all come crashing down; the stark reality of what they were doing would flare in those eyes. Shame would replace the pleasure stained blush on her high cheekbones. Her eyes would go dark, turning into the eye of a storm no one – man or woman – would ever want to be on the receiving end of, and suddenly she was cold as ice.

"You need to go." Somber and resigned, never looking into his eyes, just at her hands which are clenched tight around wrinkled sheets.

There's no protest, there never is, because what is he supposed to say? No?

He always leaves the same way, hand cupping her smoothly curved jaw and a lingering kiss on her posy lips.

"I'm Michael Cole, joined by WWE COO Triple H and his lovely wife one of the principal owners of WWE, Stephanie McMahon," The dulcet droning of Cole doesn't make Seth cringe like it usually does, mostly because he's not even paying attention to the stale announcer because his focus is where it shouldn't be as usual. "And I'm going to talk with them about the historic triple threat match that will be taking place at The Royal Rumble in Philadelphia this weekend..."

If Seth should be doing anything right now, it's training. Not watching this. It isn't as if he can't predict Hunter and Stephanie's answers to Cole's typical questions.

He'll ask them about how they manipulated the playing field to get him – Mr. Money In The Bank – into the title match, which was originally supposed to be Cena and Lesnar. If it's fair – yawn – that he's even in the match to begin with. What will happen if he loses – please – and Lesnar retains or god forbid Cena dons his red cape one more time and becomes 'Super Cena' and pulls out the victory.

"Michael," There's her voice and his spine stiffens, literally, before melting into liquid fire because her eyes are dancing and there's that impish grin crossing posy lips. "Here's what you and the WWE Universe fail to understand," She shakes her head sadly. "And that is, Seth Rollins deserves to be in the title match along with John Cena, fighting Brock Lesnar for the WWE Heavyweight Championship. Tell me, has anyone else in that locker room done more than Seth Rollins? Is there a Superstar in that locker room more deserving of this opportunity than Seth Rollins?"

"Some would say Rollins has, in fact, done nothing to earn this opportunity, Stephanie. Some would say that he was given the opportunity by you and your husband, Triple H, as a reward for returning The Authority to power. What do you have to say to that?"

There's the subtle grind of that smooth jaw and once again, she's shaking her head. Her russet curls bounce and there goes his mind, drifting to where it shouldn't. He doesn't hear her response. He just sees his hands, tangled in those curls, fingers gripping glossy strands tight. The way they spill down her bare back while as her head is thrown back, mouth open in passion.

How her elegant hands are planted firmly on his chest for leverage while she's on top of him. Shapely hips grinding down, matching his thrusts in desperation.

And, fuck, he all but growls; slamming the weights to the ground.

Fingers tear through two-toned locks, nearly ripping strands from roots and his cut jaw grinds, his teeth grit.

His name – Seth – stretched to about eight or nine letters is in his ears, bathed in lust and then in a low throaty purr as she reveals, "wow," and he's back to the night before when they had been a tangle of limbs and sweat was cooling on their skin as they lay on a mess of three hundred thread count sheets.

The Rumble doesn't go as planned. He's supposed to be – finally – holding the gold in his grasp. He still has the briefcase, but right now – in this moment – that does little to comfort him.

Jamie and Joey do their best to take the sting out of the loss, but they're not helping. Snarling with teeth bared and a growl low in his throat, eyes narrowed into dark slits, he tells them, "Get out."

"Seth..." Joey tries while Jamie backs up and when the bald man reaches out, Seth swats his hand away and towers over him, roaring, "I SAID GET OUT!" He doesn't want to yell at his friend, at the man who saved his career – basically – he really doesn't, but right now he wants to be alone. He did everything he could to win, he had Lesnar dead to rights – had eliminated Cena – and was a pin away from all of his dreams being realized, and then SUPLEX and it was over.

"I'll take it from here." Floats through the hostile haze of red clouding his vision, but the rage doesn't dim, if anything it intensifies because who the fuck does she think she is? Just showing up here, in his locker room, practically poured into her red dress with perfect ringlets of curls tumbling down bare shoulders and flawless face betraying no emotion whatsoever.

"Steph... I don't..." Joey starts, but can't finish because with a glare and a reiteration, "I'll take it from here," she's shut him down.

And so the duo known as J&J Security retreat from the locker room, leaving only Seth and Stephanie.

The air in the locker room is suddenly thick and he wonders if she feels it too. He wonders what she sees as she looks at him with those icy eyes. He prides himself on being able to read people, it helps him stay one step ahead, but he can't read her. Not unless she's underneath him or on top of him, naked, and suddenly she's an open book.

Sometimes, when she's exhausted and doesn't dismiss him immediately, they lay together; her in the crook of his arm, and all the walls come down. The Billionaire Princess is gone, leaving only Stephanie behind and he can see her. The woman beneath the veneer of power.

And it's beautiful.

So beautiful it hurts.

"The girls..." A real, genuine smile curls at those posy lips and her eyes are doing that open and honest thing where they look like the clear water of a pond, and his stomach twists while his heart clenches and fuck he really needs to get a grip. "Wanted to give you this... I, um," Her eyes glance down and there's a blush staining those perfect high cheekbones. "Told them," Uneasy laughter and curls being tucked behind an ear. "You probably weren't going to be in the best place for visitors right now, so they gave it to me. Here."

Construction paper – purple, the only thing Aurora, Vaughn and Murphy Hemsley can agree on – passes from her hands to his. Electricity surges from the tips of his fingers all the way up his arm.

Messy scrawl in black and yellow crayon – the colors of his signature shirt with its SR logo – decorate the purple background along with a stick figure whose dark hair is punctured with a shock of blonde, holding up the Money In The Bank briefcase, and he can't stop the smile from crossing his lips.

"Tell 'em thanks." Throatier than he intends and all she does is nod before turning on her heel, but before she can leave, he grabs for her hand.

"Stephanie..." The front of his body is pressed to her back, no room between them, as he breathes out her name, lips lingering on the bare slope of her neck and she shudders.

"Seth..." Warning and desperate, but he ignores the warning and focuses on the desperation because that's what he does; he finds people's weaknesses and he exploits them. He did that with Dean and Roman, then Randy and countless Superstars in between.

"Does he," Husky and low as he backs away, only to trace every vertebrae of her spine, through the skin-tight fabric of her dress. "See you the way I do? Or is it still all about the power? Like it always will be? Does he notice you the way I do? Does he," Now nothing more than a hiss as his fingers mold to the curve of her right cheek. "Touch you like I do?"

A hitch of her breath and then sardonic laughter, almost bitter in the frustration that's bubbling to the surface when he asks, "Do you even let him?"

And he braces himself. Digs in his heels. Clenches his jaw. Because she'll whirl around, indignation raging in those eyes and the vicious slap will come next. The smoothness of her hand – with a force only a McMahon could generate – will connect with his cheek, stinging and leaving nothing but pain, which won't be new because that's what always lingers – figurative, of course – whenever she disappears.

The slap never comes. What's there, when she turns to face him, is nothing but chagrin. Her gorgeous face resigned and despondence in her tone as she whispers, "No."

She doesn't elaborate, she just leaves and it makes him believe the 'no' was an affirmative to every question he asked. No, Hunter doesn't see her the way he does. No, Hunter doesn't notice her the way he does. No, Hunter doesn't touch her like he does.

And no, she doesn't even let him.

But what makes him tear his locker room to pieces, throwing the furniture around, and ripping off his gear – nearly tearing the leather to shreds – is the 'yes' she didn't say.

Yes, it's still all about the power.

And yes, it always will be.