Author's Note:The reason this fic exists is because of Olfactory Ventriloquism's story "Sin." I was rereading it (which everyone should do, often), and got to the part where they spend several nights at Napoleon's palace, and Nine wheedles his way into sleeping in Rose's bed (being Mr. Mixed Signals, of course), and yet they make it through like a week without breaking. They do get down to it later and I'm not faulting the fic at all...but I just didn't think they'd actually make it through that situation chastely. And furthermore, I didn't want them to. ;) So, this.

PS: The title is a real word. Google it sometime.

Five days. That's how long they'd been on this planet.

Or perhaps more importantly, five nights.

Five nights of being stretched tight and thin.

Five long nights that, paradoxically, now didn't feel like long enough.

The Doctor had always liked Mamihlapinatapai – home to a friendly people with a culture similar to Polynesia and a collectively humble nature. For example, the Mamihlapinatapainians believed their leader should live as modestly as his subjects, so as not to forget the daily reality of the people he served. The King's palace, therefore, was a traditional seaside structure on stilts only slightly bigger than the average citizen's. When he'd first learned of it, the Doctor though this king-living-like-his-subjects idea was smashing.

That was before he'd volunteered to help sort a royal assassination plot and had been offered accommodations for the length of his stay, accommodations for him and the young, pretty, female companion that occupied his every waking thought and a few of the asleep ones as well.

Because the palace, being humble and not very palacey, only had one modest guest room containing one bed.

The Doctor could have done with a bit of pomp and circumstance at that point.

He and Rose had never before slept together—slept, as in lost consciousness in the same bed—and there were reasonsfor that. If he were to enumerate the reasons, he would simply name off every feeling currently agitating his insides.

Or so he thought on their last night of listening to waves shush the beach while spooning in a soft bed that wasn't theirs, in a small, dark, quiet room in a palace that wasn't very palacey, while his heart and sanity came slowly unwound.

That first night when the offer had been made, the Doctor had stammered as smoothly as he could manage that Rose ought to have the room to herself, chivalry and ladies first and a long journey and all that. (Their hosts had been faintly surprised at this, having assumed…oh, what was always assumed.) Rose had looked at him with an expression he couldn't decipher, then smiled a little tiredly and accepted the room for herself.

That first night Rose's screams had him off his pallet in the hall and racing to her door before he was even completely conscious. Apparently an intruder—presumably one that was anti-royalty—had chosen Rose's room as a way into the palace. Whoever it was had slipped away immediately, but after that there was no way to makethe Doctor leave Rose's room, were anyone daft enough to try.

Even so, the Doctor had insisted he sleep on the floor. Rose had given him the same inscrutable look she'd done earlier but had left him to it. However, after 30 minutes of listening to him trying to get comfortable while simultaneously trying not to let on he was trying to get comfortable, she had erupted from the covers with an exasperated noise and grabbed his hand, pulling him up onto the bed. The minute his arse hit the mattress he'd known his back would thank him for staying there…and the minute he'd found himself looking at her pillow-mussed hair and sleep-drugged eyes—adorably drowsy-yet-cranky—he'd known he needed more protection.

He'd acquiesced to sleep on the mattress, but on top of the covers. Rose had given up and flopped back down on her side, out in an instant.

The Doctor had lain down facing away from Rose and curled up into the unforgiving scratch of what appeared to be burlap bedclothes (this "humble" thing was becoming less and less attractive as time wore on). Of course Rose didn't understand—why would she? For her it was obviously all about expedience, and why wouldanybody object to sleeping in the same bed as their platonic best friend, the one who would never ever think of them that way?

Except that wasn't how it was for him. She was the indifferent one, and had no idea how the arrangement would affect him.

If their relationship was going to continue the way it had been, he needed boundaries. So on top of the blankets, facing away, never mind the lack of warmth or cover. The Doctor had scootched down inside his coat to keep his collar high against the damp sea breeze and fallen asleep feeling properly martyr-like.

The next morning, martyrdom eluded him.

The next morning found the Doctor inexplicably under the covers, curled beside Rose as she lay on her back. His fingers and knees made bashful contact with her sides. His eyes opened on a landslide of fragrant blonde hair and a soft vista of bedclothes rising and falling with her breaths.

Something in him broke and he realized he was making a fool of himself.

The second night, he sheepishly and quietly accepted being in her bed.

Repression leads to obsession was the Doctor's rationalization. But he should have known that mere acceptance of his need to be near her wouldn't lessen its strength, keep it from pulling him wherever it wanted. On the second night he dozed off just enough to be off his guard, turned and sensed warm Rose and it was the most natural thing in the world to reach for her and curl around a small, soft back to warm his lonely front. Somewhere in his fugue state he was aware of sighing, aware of a sweet wash of unguarded joy and comfort.

He'd woken later and spent the next hour trying to control his panic, intensely afraid at his inability to choose his own actions, at what Rose would think if she were awake enough to know, at the fact that even if Rose woke that very second and objected, he didn't think he'd be willing let her go.

Rose had been awake the second night, the night the Doctor had first spooned her.

She had not objected.

She'd been aware when he'd sighed and reached for her, drawing her into a cocoon formed by his hard, spare chest, heavy arms and long legs. She'd never heard anything as tender as his sound of contentment, and couldn't believe he was allowing himself anything that would make him feel that way. She'd almost opened her mouth to whisper to him when she realized by his breathing that he was asleep again. She deflated a little, wishing he was making a conscious choice, but was too blissfully ensconced in his sweetly gangly limbs to object for long.

It was such a nice surprise. Rose tried to just enjoy it and not let it affect her too much in the Hopes and Expectations department.

She kind of succeeded, anyway.

The next morning the guilty look in the Doctor's skittish eyes told her everything, so on the third night Rose made a point of snuggling her back to his front and pulling his arm around her waist. "I sleep so much better this way," she'd murmured, and it was true. The tension she'd felt in him lasted only a moment before she felt it drain, leaving him to mold himself to her like a shield.

The Doctor began to tell himself that spooning Rose at night was the best means of protecting her; any intruder from then on would have quite the challenge getting to her without alerting him.

He decided he didn't really care if he believed it or not.

Most of that night, Rose lay wide awake in the Doctor's embrace. She closed her eyes just to soak up the feel of his large, warm body, listen to him breathe and feel so tempted she could hardly contain herself.

So close. So completely alone together, drowning in opportunity.

Their hosts had lent them some sleeping clothes so that their street clothes could be cleaned overnight (Rose hadn't packed much, and the Doctor of course had brought nothing). They were sort of like medical scrubs, plain and uniform and devoted to comfort. The thin fabric between them made being held by the Doctor an entirely different experience from an embrace in his usual attire. She could feel ridges and dips and hard planes and shifting muscles, telling her so much about what might be under his clothes that she'd become consumed with imagining. She shifted a bit, just to stroke his solid chest against her back, to contemplate the soft protrusion that rested between her buttocks.

A protrusion that was soft for now. Naturally, it wasn't always.

Another nightly fact that drove her insane – she shivered, thinking of the mind-boggling feelings it inspired, the temptation she'd only barely managed to conquer. Right then she imagined it hard and surging against her, rubbing for relief. Her body flooded with an exquisite charge of adrenaline.

One quick flip. One quick flip on her part and his mouth, his body, the dear sweet painfully gorgeous face that meant everything to her would be hers to explore. She could imagine his blue eyes wide and dark, looking at her in the glow from the curtainless window, growing aroused and hungry, moving to kiss her as he understood what she was offering. Pangs of excitement broke through her—a bloke would love a woman to do that, wouldn't he? Make the first move, surprise him with how very, verymuch she wanted him? From what she'd heard it was the stuff their fantasies were made of.

But then all she had to do was imagine the opposite of herfantasies—him pulling away to evade her kiss, the look on his face pitying and uncomfortable—and it would all grind to a halt, leaving her body tortured and her brain revving. The idea of throwing herself at him and having him say no…the humiliation would kill her.

The Doctor didn't know how he'd survive their stay without eventually breaking and making some kind of pathetic move on the soft, dear creature in his arms. Not when he woke every day with a morning erection pressed to the crease in her behind and the mere act of breathing made it rub. If she squirmed in her sleep - which she often did, accompanied by murmurs he could easily imagine meant something else - his teeth would grind and his sanity would dangle by a thread. Even that little bit of thrill was delicious, not nearly enough and far more than he deserved.

He didn't know why any of this was happening—she couldn't be feeling what he was. He was clearly not the kind of bloke she'd ever choose. He wasn't pretty, and even putting aside his real age, his appearance in Earth years pegged him as old enough to be her dad. She'd never really be satisfied walking down the street with a geezer like him, constantly looking at the strapping young things she'd given up to be with him. He obviously had nothing to offer that could compete, and eventually hormones would make her wise up and leave. She could have any man she wanted, and pick him up in an instant using nothing more than a well-placed tongue between her grin.

He could only conclude she'd been letting him hold her at night out of pity for a lonely old man. She'd probably been uncomfortable the whole time, increasingly aware that he was reacting in a way she didn't hadn't intended to encourage, but too polite to say anything. Just counting the days till she could escape to her own room and ask the TARDIS for a big fat lock on her door.

Shame was engulfing him, even as his oblivious body thrilled quietly to every tiny move she made. He felt her take a shallow breath and realized how little room her ribcage had to expand within the iron grip of his arms—he had to be nearly crushing her. He loosened his hold a bit, made to budge back.

Rose pulled his arm back tight against her, as it had been.

The Doctor's head spun a little.

By the fifth night, Rose knew things.

His body and actions kept telling her what his voice wouldn't. As the nights had passed, he'd progressed to pressing nearly every inch of himself against every inch of her, shoulders to shins. At times he'd clutched her to him so desperately she wanted to cry for him. He let out sighs when he thought she was asleep and his hands would wander, caressing her softly in expanding patterns and making her bite her lip to keep in the moans. It bathed her skin in goosebumps and she couldn't fathom he didn't realize what he was doing to her. And then he would stop as though he'd caught himself out, as if he'd just then remembered he couldn't give away the feelings he'd very cleverly kept secret up to that point.

She didn't know how to break it to him, but his cover was blown.

She was smothered by his unexpressed emotions and wishing he'd let go.

Of the emotions, not her.

She could still feel the possibility of being rejected for some of the Doctor's self-sacrificing rubbish, but she could tell by his crushing hold on her that his resolve was at low ebb.

And so was hers—her abdomen felt so unnaturally heavy and tight she couldn't stand it. But her own throbbing ache was one thing; she was desperate with the need to see him liberated. The thought of him really losing control had her wildly excited, but more than that…he needed it so much.

She wanted to see the him he thought no one would accept. She wanted to be the one.

She'd reached the point where it didn't even matter anymore if he rejected her. She'd never be able to live with not expressing what was going on, with letting this opportunity go by.

Her heart pounded. It was time.




Abruptly they were nose to nose, and it seemed surreal. The Doctor's eyes were soft and surprised, a little perplexed. Rose didn't stop to think: she moved in and kissed him, a soft press of her lips against the surprisingly soft feel of his. The response of his mouth was reserved, but Rose got the feeling it was paralysis, not lack of interest.

When she pulled back something in his eyes had changed. They'd gained an edge of disbelief and soft panic.

But Rose saw no rejection.

She did see bottomless longing.

She knew she was doing the right thing. She kissed him again to reassert her point.

A moment later he began kissing her back, sweetly, tentative and gentle. Soon his hands worked their way out of the covers to cup her face, a gesture Rose adored. It was all so endearing but still felt so fragile.

Even so, Rose's heart was singing.

The Doctor felt as though someone was leading him through a dream. He was too amazed to operate under his own power, too afraid of spoiling the moment, too afraid it would all disappear if he blinked.

His eyes squeezed shut and he gasped quietly as Rose's lips made soft, sweet contact with his neck, as her hands burrowed down then up under his sleep shirt, feeling his back and chest, making him shiver.

How could this be happening? To him?

He opened his eyes and gazed at her, feeling powerless and amazed and aroused like a coiled spring ready to snap. He still didn't get it. He knew he should be stopping her, asking what she meant by this, clarifying that it wasn't just some strange, hormonal whim.

He also knew he wasn't going to.

He wanted to touch and he knew she'd let him so he did, soft breasts contorting under fabric and fingers, giving as he squeezed. Rose whimpered and guided his hands beneath her shirt and he moaned, unbelievable softness and stiff nipples under his palms, his breath quickening in one huge gallop. Rose squirmed and keened with the feel of him stroking and it sent fire through him; his leg found its way between hers. It was soincredibly hot to feel her rubbing wantonly against him, and he thrilled at the friction he got back. His hands slid around one side of her and burrowed past the other, smoothing over the curve of her bottom with a possessive squeeze, slipping beneath her sleep pants to glide over warm, breathtaking skin.

He gulped air like a runner. Nothing had ever been this good, arousal had never been so heart-stopping and he had to act carefully. He felt like he'd sighted a rabbit: move too fast and he'd scare it away.

She guided him to sit up and he did so obediently, staring at her and letting her soft hands strip him of his shirt. He never wanted any of her touches to end, no matter how much better whatever came next might be. He knew he wasn't being very manly or aggressive or any of those things she probably wanted or expected—

She kissed his face softly. "Stop thinking," she whispered.

Tears welled instantly in the Doctor's eyes and he blinked them back. His lip trembled with how much he didn't deserve this, with the relief of having someone to catch him…

…with the staggering fear of believing.

Rose was pulling a newly-shirtless Doctor back down to the mattress when he ignited, rolling and hauling her up on top of him, his hands slipping down to grab her arse, hard. His mouth attacked hers, finally kissing her with some measure of hunger.

He thrust upward while using his grip on her to grind her against him bodily, rubbing himself with her whole body, over and over, up and down. Rose thought she'd die from the sheer heat of the gesture, especially when he forgot to kiss for a moment in favor of his mouth falling open at the sensations. She couldn't stop her huge smile. The protrusion that was formerly against her bum had come to life in the way she loved, and now she could do something about it.

His eyes locked to hers, looking wild. "Rose…"he panted, "you can't know what this means…please be sure…"

She fought the urge to tell him she did know what it meant, that it meant as much to her as it did to him—she knew things weren't the same in his skin. "I am sure," she vowed, kissing him between words because she couldn't wait long enough to finish talking. "I've always been sure."

His groan vibrated in her mouth as his long fingers threaded through her hair on both sides, clutching as his kisses drifted over her mouth and face, once again becoming tender, worshipful.

Rose started a little at the change. It was hardly something to complain about but…his wildness was retreating, proving itself just a brief flash. She could feel him moving backwards.

He still wasn't undone.

He undressed her gradually, each newly exposed area needing its own exploration. Sometimes the Doctor felt Rose's impatience but she seemed to be willing to give him slowness if he needed it, and the Doctor seized the gift greedily. There would never be enough time to properly appreciate Rose's sleek skin, the heft of her breasts, the sweet curve of her lower back into her behind or the warm spot behind her knee that made her jump when he kissed it. Never enough time to savor the sounds she made, watch her clutch the for the sheets when he pushed his fingers inside and felt for that ridgy spot that lurked up and forward, taste the gasps on her breath as he kissed her and rubbed the spot just right and slid his digits in and out. He never wanted his stomach to stop flipping, his cock to stop straining and sliding against her stomach or her smooth thigh.

And while all these thoughts were, on one level, utterly true, something behind them wasn't.

She finally, desperately sought out his erection with her hand, whimpering with arousal at the feel of it. She grasped on tight and pulled firmly, making him suck in a shuddering breath. "God, Doctor, please…I want you inside…right now, please…"

The phenomenon of her pleading for him was the stuff of his fantasies, and he sincerely couldn't understand why he'd waited. And yet he was shaking as he pushed inside, and it wasn't completely about excitement.

She grunted softly as he entered and the feel of her was beautiful, yet he couldn't concentrate. He gave a tentative move, heard her gasp and did it again. He kept up, letting his forehead fall to touch hers softly. He wasn't sure but he thought this might last a while.

He heard Rose make a noise he didn't recognize, and found her face scrunched tight in what looked like effort, or…dissatisfaction? His stomach plummeted. "Rose?" he whispered.

"More…" she gasped. "Give me more."

He started to move faster, put a hand to her breast to tease her nipple. The feelings were building in him but nothing like what he'd expected, nothing like he'd dreamed for so long. He didn't understand. He moved harder, felt Rose continue to strain.

A few minutes more and he was despairing—this wasn't right, he wasn't showing her what he felt. This wasn't like it was supposed to—

"Doctor!" Rose whimpered in frustration, "I want you!" She clutched his arms, eyes desperate. "Trust me with you."

Seemingly out of nowhere, his true feelings rocketed to the surface, rising up to choke him.

You don't want me, he thought, the voice in his head low and deadly even as he continued to move. I'm nothing you've ever seen.

He watched her eyes close and looked at her straining face—naïve, trusting, utterly clueless—and was suddenly enraged, ready to shake her like a rag doll. How stupid are you? his thoughts screeched. You don't even know what you're asking! What I am would kill you—it'd definitely kill this! Is that what you want?

A tidal wave of rage and despair was taking him over, his strokes becoming erratic and his face contorting fiercely. He had no idea what expression it formed but he felt sure it was awful and he wouldn't want her ever to see it. Then she opened her eyes and did so, and her own face washed over with defiance. She clutched his shoulders harder and locked him to her with legs clamped hard around his waist. She panted out three words, punctuating them with thrusts of her hips, goading him with her body.

"I—" Thrust. "—won't—" Push. "—leave."

It broke.

With a primal cry he grabbed her arms and slammed them to the bed over her head, and surged into her hard enough to scare. It felt so fucking good he did it again, and couldn't stop from crying out one more time, then another, the feelings pouring through him so much more than he could contain. A place to let it go, a net to catch him…he shoved in again, into beautiful oblivion and his mouth snarled and his spine snapped back, throwing his head along with it and he heard a small noise from below him. He looked down to Rose to see how he'd undoubtedly hurt her, broken her…

…and he hadn't. Her eyes were squeezed shut in a look of bliss so pure, he'd never seen the like.

"Doctor…" she whispered, the word a long, astonished breath. "You're here."

At that moment he believed her.

She did want it. She could take it.

Her eyes opened and locked with his and her look was feral and ecstatic. His tears began to flow freely and he didn't even try to stop them, didn't try to hide—he knew they needed to come out.

And besides…she loved them.

He slammed into her again and watched her shudder, thrilled in unbearable relief and did it again and again. He buried his face in her neck, burrowed his hands underneath her and pulled her up harder against him as he pounded.

"Oh god," he heard her cry in elation, "Doctor, all of you. Always, alwaysgive me all of you…let it go, let me see you…"

"Rose…Rose…" was all he could manage. He was too choked with emotion and anyway, it was enough. The word meant everything.

Their bodies wrestled and struggled, thrashing in a battle to merge. She wriggled urgently beneath him, fighting for a new angle and he let her take it. Seconds later she was panting-then-screaming out the most thrilling orgasm he'd ever heard. His head went light with excitement and her squeezing was too much and he knew he could really let everything go and so he did and oh god it was exquisite, a long, blessed, soul-clenching moment when everything that had ever happened or would ever happen again was perfect.

He'd collapsed on her, slipping out, spent. He wanted to look at her but didn't know if he could trust his arms to lift him.

Finally he rose on an elbow and saw Rose looking up at him, sweaty and breathing and seeming like delighted laughter was just about to escape. "Doctor," she beamed. "Nice to see you."

The Doctor smiled shakily, let her reach up and wipe his tear-damp face without shame. "You're gonna see me again as soon as I can manage." Rose's smile grew impossibly broader.

He marveled at her and felt his lip going wobbly again—he was so much luckier than he could believe. When he could speak his voice was a hoarse whisper: "I can't tell you I love you in a way that means it enough."

He watched Rose's eyes mist over like his had done. "I have the same problem," she smiled.

"Guess I'll just have to keep showing you, then."

She nodded vigorously, kissed him. "Yes."

He nuzzled her, contented beyond measure. "Though I'll probably still tell you, too."

The Mamihlapinatapailian king—who doubled as its priest—was meditating when it happened. He felt a change in his surroundings and opened one eye to see the crystal at the center of the main altar glowing brightly enough to light a stadium. His round, brown face broke into a smile.

The following things were true:

There had been no assassination plot. The people the Doctor "discovered" to be its proponents—including the "intruder"—had all been operating under the King's instructions. They had been rewarded for a fine performance.

The Doctor's visit to the planet had been neither random nor coincidence. He had been chosen and "directed" there, a fact kept very secret.

The palace actually had quite a number and variety of guest rooms, but the Doctor and Rose were not staying there. They'd stayed in the temple, in a room that was considered sacred.

The King and his advisors scanned the universe for beings who would make good offerings, and whom they could simultaneously help. The week's scenario had been carefully constructed to guide the stifling tension within the Doctor to be released and healed. All healed energy was channeled into offerings to their gods.

The King looked at the brilliant crystal and chuckled. The Doctor had been a fine choice, a vastly powerful being. He wasn't sure he'd ever had a subject release quiteso much pent-up energy before, but it just made him all the more content they'd picked him.

He heard feminine giggling and masculine laughter drifting in from the sacred room, and smiled again, returning to his meditation. He was fairly certain their donation to the gods wasn't over yet.