Rigby had just settled into bed (Mordecai's bed, to be more accurate - the trampoline was still regrettably busted, and while Mordecai never gave him express permission, exactly, to sleep in his bed, Rigby knew that what Mordecai didn't know wouldn't hurt him) for the night – after hours of covertly watching Benson and Skips futilely attempt to teach Pops the concept of poker before finally giving up (Benson, face flushed and steaming, had thrown the cards in the air and stormed out of the room before Skips ably coerced him back into the room – "We can save it for another day," he promised, gruff but characteristically calm, unsubtly glancing towards Pops, quite clearly upset, and back at Benson) from the doorway – when his cell phone began to vibrate on the bedside table.

He knew, even before rolling over and blindly groping for it in the dark of the room, that it was Mordecai – not because of any special connection or basic intuition, but because Mordecai was the only one who would bother to call him, who had ever called him. There was Benson and Skips on speed-dial in case of emergency, of course, and he had taken care and pride in saving the number of a fairly attractive (if peculiarly squirrelish, much to his chagrin, once apparent to him under the illumination of the street lights) raccoon so many months ago (her name was Eleanor and she fucked like a skittish dog, all paws and bite and no bark to her; she'd been the one to suggest that they at least find a bathroom or coatroom, somewhere more solitary than the floor of the club that he and Mordecai had somehow managed to con their way into despite the bouncer's strict policies, and the one to walk him out to the curb to wait for Mordecai), but Rigby wasn't one for close friends. Mordecai was usually enough.

He finally grasped the phone in his paw, whooping lowly under his breath and laughing breathlessly afterward, filling the space left silent by Mordecai's absence, and flipped it open, shoving it in the crook of his shoulder, muttering, "Hello?"

"Rigby?" Mordecai's voice came questioning from the other end of the line. He sounded winded but pleased, and Rigby smiled.

"Who else would it be, dude?" he cracked. Mordecai's laugh came thin, though genuine.

"Point taken," he answered. "Anyway, man, I just – dude," he broke off gleefully. "Dude, guess who finally got a piece of ass tonight?"

Rigby's laugh, short and harsh and unannounced, surprised him. "You did?"

"Yeah, I did! I totally did, man, it was – "

"It was Margaret, right? The ice princess?" The nickname would seem odd to someone who knew Margaret, warm and inviting, as a friend, someone who hadn't been trying to fuck her for the better part of a year (someone for whom that wasn't a feasible goal for a mere handful of months). Mordecai had spent far too much time bitching about Margaret freezing up once his wings began to wander, after kissing grew boring, and Rigby had been more than glad to crown her the ice princess and wring a laugh out of Mordecai, the miserable bastard.

"Yeah – yeah, dude, it was – it was intense," he said, sighing happily, happier than he had much of a right to be. It certainly hadn't been his first time in the sack – there had been other girls, hummingbirds with tiny pearl-nippled breasts and toucans with gaudy jewelry and owls who knew exactly how hard to press their sharp talons into Mordecai's skin – but Rigby could understand why this time seemed special – he spent so much time pursuing Margaret that possessing her fully at last, in the way that he had wanted to possess her, was something to be proud of.

"I bet it was," Rigby murmured, yawning quietly. "Is she any good?"

"Fuck," Mordecai trilled sharply, "fuck yeah, she's – she's amazing, but," he paused. "But dude, that's between me and her, you know?"

"You called me in the dead of night to brag about getting laid, but you don't have the balls to spill the details?" Rigby scoffed. "Come on, dude, I'm your friend. Friends tell each other everything."

"Everything?" Mordecai echoed. Rigby swore that he could hear Mordecai's eyebrow slowly cocking. "Up to and including where I stick my dick?"

"Well, yeah," Rigby responded lightly. "Now, spill." Rigby realized, right around the same time that Mordecai chuckled and said, "Let me find somewhere to sit, dude; it's two o'clock in the morning and the drunks have already claimed all of the good parts of the sidewalk," that he was perhaps being masochistic – after all, he wasn't particularly fond of Margaret, sweet as she was, so learning just how well she fucked seemed like an exercise in pointlessness – but he didn't protest when Mordecai cleared his throat and asked, "Hey, dude, are you still there? Or did you fall asleep on me?"

Rigby made a vaguely affirmative noise. "I'm awake," he muttered, rolling his shoulders and letting the phone slip onto the pillow beneath his head. He laid his head properly next to it, mouth lazily agape near the receiver, and said, "Okay, stud, story-time."

"Where do want me to start, man? I mean, would establishing a background enrich the tale – " Rigby snorted into the pillow " – or would you prefer that I just stick to the fucking?"

"Dealer's choice," Rigby responded. "Surprise me."

"Urgh, fine," Mordecai griped. "Make me do all the work … okay, I guess that I'll just start from the beginning – well, no, you were there when I picked up Margaret, right?"

"Right," Rigby confirmed. He'd glared sullenly at her from behind Mordecai before scurrying off to pester Benson.

"Okay, then, we can skip that part." He paused; Rigby could hear the scratch of gravel and a sigh. "Fuck, though, her tits in that top? You saw, right?"

Rigby hummed noncommittally and let Mordecai continue. "But more on those later. I took her out to eat – you know, that little place near the coffee shop?"

"The one with the nasty sandwiches or the one with the awesome Mexican food?"

"The nasty sandwiches," Mordecai admitted around a chuckle. "Yeah, like I'm really gonna feed her Mexican food when there's even the slightest chance that I'd get laid, Rigby. Anyway, we ate pretty early, then she wanted to go see a movie. I wanted to go see that new action flick – the … what's-it-called? Never mind, it doesn't matter, because she wanted to go see this girly film, and – "

"This is absolutely riveting, Mordecai," Rigby snapped, "but I'm ready to fall asleep here."

"Fine," Mordecai sighed again. "I'll speed it up for you, you giant pussyfoot. We watched the movie, but – fuck, she wouldn't stop groping me at the theater." He whistled. "It was weird, man. Super weird. It was like someone flipped her switch on."

Rigby snorted at the phrase but quieted when Mordecai began to speak again. He sounded – well, he sounded normal, mostly, but there was already a throatiness to his voice that Rigby knew and knew well; the same throatiness that surfaced when Mordecai stared a little too long and a little too hard at Margaret, the same throatiness that surfaced after Mordecai would use Benson's computer, frantically tapping away at it until the sound died down and the silence that followed seemed too carefully constructed.

"She started kissing my neck," Mordecai said. Most traces of humor in his voice were gone, though there was an undoubtedly present undercurrent of bitter laughter. "And, like - pecking it? Yeah, dude, she wasn't exactly gentle, if you catch my drift."

"A chick like Margaret?" Rigby didn't mean to sound so surprised – after all, it surely isn't the first time that he'd heard of a normally mild-mannered girl being an absolute freak in bed (though, he tells himself, he's sure that half or more of those sorts of stories are embellished at best, outright lies at worst) – but Mordecai, more perceptive than Rigby generally gave him credited for, laughed and said, "Yeah, you surprised? I was. And it was cool and all, y'know, but I didn't want to get freaky in a movie theater, surrounded by a bunch of - "

" 'Get freaky'?" Rigby interrupted, smothering his laughter in the pillow.

"Do you want to hear the story or not, Rigby?" Mordecai snapped. "Because I'm going to just hang up if you keep interrupting me."

"No, no, don't," Rigby said, trying to suppress his laughter. "Keep going, stud."

"Keep going?" Mordecai repeated. Rigby could hear some lingering smugness in his voice; he opened his mouth to comment on it - just because Mordecai had gotten laid doesn't exactly mean that he was entitled to be a major douche - when Mordecai moaned - showily, deeply - and panted, "Yeah, baby, you want me to keep going? Want me to go a little deeper?"

Rigby tightened his grip on the phone; Mordecai paused before bursting out laughing again. "Oh, man, dude, sorry about that! I just," he paused to snicker, "got a little carried away - anyway, so - "

"Yes," Rigby whispered, swallowing tightly around the lump that had formed in his throat. Mordecai hedged, hemmed and hawed; "Uh," he hummed, confused, filling the silence. Rigby shook his head at himself and fumbled - "No, man, keep going," he insisted with a sheepish little laugh. "I was just saying 'yes' so you didn't suddenly stop! Don't leave me hanging, bro."

"Sure," Mordecai said, drawing out the vowel as usual, coughing indelicately. Something clipped, a single syllable, slipped out of his mouth, but he drew it back in. Rigby waited patiently on the other end of the line. His face felt warm.

"Do you want - " Mordecai said, and then trailed off again, faltering. Rigby nodded deliriously into the pillow - yes, I want - and pretended that he didn't slump in disappointment when Mordecai finished with, "Um, never mind." He took a deep breath. "So, anyway, Margaret. Margaret, she, um, well, I didn't want to fuck her in the theater because that's really skeezy, y'know, so I drove her home - back to her place, right, yeah - and." He stopped.

"Don't stop," Rigby said urgently, hushed. "I mean, not before you've gotten to the good part. That'd be a - " he swallowed reflexively " - waste."

"A waste. Right." Something shifted in the background. "Well, we got into her house - I almost broke my leg as soon as I walked in the door; she had so much shit on the floor - and she took me up to her bedroom. She's got a lot of friends, man." He sounded a little melancholy at that. "There were pictures all over the wall of her and all of these different people, and - anyway. She kind of - pushed me down onto the bed? It was weird; I didn't expect her to be so - I don't know."

"In control?" Rigby supplied. It came out a little too breathy for his tastes, but the thought was a pleasant one - Mordecai was by far the more competent one between the two of them, and it sent an itch down his spine and his stomach both to know that someone, even Margaret, was able to take that away from him, albeit momentarily - and Mordecai didn't seem to notice. "Yeah," he agreed cautiously, "in control. She just - I don't even know, man." He broke off and sucked in another sharp breath. "She just got on top of me. She held my hands down, it was." Rigby slid one paw down his leg - he didn't touch his cock, a little too eager and half-hard, yet.

"She was so wet," he marveled, and - yeah, no, that was it; Rigby rubbed the pad of his thumb over the head and shivered. "She was so wet, and she - she directed everything. I didn't get to do anything; she took care of - " He stopped there; Rigby groped himself a few more times and laid there until Mordecai said, briskly, "So, yeah, there we go. We fucked. I need to go; I'm freezing my balls off out here, dude."

"Morde - " Rigby whined into the phone before the dial tone, fuzzy and piercing, cut him off. He hung up after staring at the phone for a brief moment, glaring at it like it was the reason that he was cock-blocked, before slamming it back down on the nightstand. He flipped fully onto his back and, frustrated, slid his hand downward again. He'd figure out everything in the morning.