If you're writing anything involving cons, scams, heists, or morally questionable characters who are very good at lying, here are some free resources I've been using for research. Saving you the "why is this in my search history" anxiety.
1. The FBI's Famous Cases & Criminals archive (fbi.gov/history/famous-cases) has detailed breakdowns of real fraud cases, Ponzi schemes, and confidence operations. The language they use is clinical and precise, which is perfect for getting the procedural details right.
2. The FTC Consumer Sentinel Network publishes annual reports on the most common fraud tactics in the US. Great for understanding how modern scams actually work and what makes people fall for them.
3. The Smithsonian's American Art Museum has a free digital collection of forgery case studies. If your character forges documents or art, this is gold.
4. Court Listener (courtlistener.com) is a free legal database where you can read actual court transcripts from fraud trials. Want to know how a real con artist talks under oath? This is where you find out.
5. The Internet Archive's collection of old newspaper crime sections. Search for "confidence man" or "swindle" in papers from the 1920s through 1960s and you'll find incredible real stories that would feel too dramatic for fiction.
Bonus: The Psychology of Fraud section on the Association for Psychological Science website has accessible articles about why people trust, how deception works cognitively, and what makes someone a convincing liar. Essential reading if you want your con artist characters to feel psychologically real.
Reblog to save for later. Your WIP will thank you.
TMNT 2012, post-canon
Donatello x April
first kiss/getting together, 5k words
art by @nerdy-turtle-enthusiast
[READ ON AO3]
---
“So, how do you feel about corn?”
April blinks.
It's such an absurd question it makes her pause, her thumb still frozen on the screen where she held it to pick up the call. Then she laughs, one hand raising to her face to cover her mouth.
“What?” She asks through a giggle, shifting to sit on her heels.
There's a rustle on the other side, like Donnie was doing something just now and didn't even really realize he called her. It's happened before, but not in a few years, and she wonders what got his mind so scattered now.
“It's really not that funny,” he says, in that voice that makes it easy to tell he's not really offended. “Answer the question.”
“I don't know,” April says, moving to stand. “Normal?”
She's been making a dent in the huge pile of textbooks next to her bed that she's been 'organizing' for the past week, but she puts it away for now, happy for the excuse.
April falls onto her bed, the springs in the mattress squeaking under her weight.
Donnie hums. She thinks he might be typing on his computer, or maybe disarming a bomb – it's a little hard to tell with him nowadays.
“What about corn mazes?”
“I do like puzzles.” He can't see her, but she raises her other hand anyway, tapping a finger on her temple. “Only when I can cheat, tho.”
She stares at her ceiling, tracing the long crack in it with her eyes.
Her new apartment has a lot of those. And a minor mold problem.
But it's hers, and she was allowed to pick out whatever awful looking thing she happened to find on Facebook Marketplace and paint the walls a bright yellow that her dad always said 'gave him headaches', or something like that, so either way – she's more than in love with it.
“There's a festival,” Donnie says finally, which sounds like the thing he's been meaning to tell her from the start. “A few towns away. It's like, uhm, I don't know. Kind of cringe. But it might be fun to go tomorrow, if you want to.”
It still feels weird that this is something her friends can do now. Not without any struggle or many unpleasant stares, but it's a start, and isn't that something.
The world they build up after The Shredder is a fragile and young one, wary of mutants but pushing forward despite it, kept upright by years of wild desperation. She knows her boys well enough to trust they won't let their chins fall now that they can finally look up at the sun.
“And what, it's corn-themed?”
Some more typing from the other side.
“Indeed.”
April laughs again.
She's been doing that a lot recently, definitely more than she ever did in her final year of college.
School was fine, and she liked all her new friends, and her college town was just big enough to keep her busy, and it all weighed down on her more and more every year. She missed home, and she missed her real friends, and it all feels a bit like finally taking a breath of fresh air after a long, long time.
She's been laughing a lot more around Donnie too, which is something she usually tries her best not to think about.
“Do you wanna go?” Donnie asks.
“Oh,” April says, voice full of something catty. “You'd make a space in your busy schedule for corn?”
“Sure,” he says, in that voice where it's hard to tell if he's joking or not. “I love corn.”
“Are your brothers coming?” She asks. What she really means is 'it's cool if they are, but please say no'.
“I'm not sure it's really their vibe, to be honest,” Donnie says. And what he really means is... Something. April doesn't dare assume.
She doesn't assume anything, and she wants nothing, and she's going to keep telling herself that until she finally believes it.
“Alright!” She says, voice light. “It's a date.”
She pulls the phone away so quickly she almost drops it right onto her face, ending the call. She lingers there for a moment, her apartment quiet.
Finally, she lowers her phone, holding the edge of it to her forehead.
Softly, she swears under her breath.
***
“You'd think the world's largest cob would be a lot bigger, huh?”
She stands leaning against his car, hands tucked away behind her to not stain her dress. It's one of her better ones – white and simple, and exactly the kind she wears to a date when she wants the guy to call her pretty, and then kiss her goodnight, and then never see her again.
Which is ridiculous, because this is not a date (probably), and she would definitely hate for at least one of these points to happen tonight.
(She's not sure about the other two, and that is a thought she tries her best to push deep, deep into the back of her mind.)
Donnie closes the door to his car, coming around to stand next to her. He tilts his head, like it could make the giant lump of yellow and green plastic grow any taller.
He's wearing sweatpants and at least three layers of shirts, including a plaid, and standing next to him, April feels quite overdressed. It's silly, and she pushes herself upright, smoothing down her dress just to keep her hands busy.
They've spent a good while trying to find a spot in the visibly improvised parking lot, and she's almost certain Donnie actually took up two of them, but whatever they used to paint the white lines on the grass washed out a long time ago. So really – not their fault.
She looks over her shoulder, watching Donnie fiddle with his car for a moment longer.
It's an awful thing, really. Old and beat up, with some value April's almost certain old men make up just to feel better about the piles of junk rusting away on their lawns for years.
She knows Donnie can fix it, but he won't, because he'd rather 'keep it authentic', which apparently means no AC in the middle of the summer, and at least two jammed windows.
He loves that thing to bits, and she can never bring herself to say any of this to his face.
“Okay,” he says, slowly pulling away, hands raised in the air like it's a spooked animal. “It's fine now. Let's go.”
The festival is just about what she expected, if she's being honest, and maybe that's the best part of it.
They're close enough to New York to only get a few side glances, and far enough away to feel as close to anonymous as they can be nowadays. There's a modestly noisy crowd of locals and a bigger, obnoxiously loud sea of tourists, and it's easy to get lost in.
She's glad they went in the evening. It's a full moon, and the dark sky and strung-up fairy lights make every cheesy sign, every dumb attraction, and every awful radio song feel just a little bit more purposeful.
It's nice to spend time with Donnie, too.
Obviously, it is, but there's something to how light it all feels, how their conversations flow and loop back around themselves, and how he looks her in the eyes and doesn't shy away.
It's fun, and it's normal, and it's like those long months where they weren’t speaking never happened. As if he was always like this – tall and confident, and quiet in that way people get when they grow older and realize half of the voices in their heads don't make that much sense after all.
She missed him.
She missed him when they were teenagers, in those moments where he seemed to forget she was his friend before she was a girl, and she missed him when she left and he texted her happy birthday, which made her realize it was the first private message she'd gotten from him in the last six months, and she missed him when she moved back and couldn't quite recognize him anymore.
She thinks that the last part might be mutual.
He's been looking at her a lot lately.
Donnie stops her next to the long line of cheap (and scammy) looking carnival games, his hand on her shoulder.
“Wanna win a plushie?” He says, in that weird way he always does when he both genuinely means something and thinks it's dumb.
He points to the closest cart, a simple balloon dart game, with his chin.
April thinks for a moment, taking a sip of her overpriced lemonade (eight dollars, what the hell?).
“It's not really fun if I play,” she says. They're close enough to the cart that the guy running it can probably hear them, but she stopped caring about those kinds of things a long time ago. “Too easy.”
She taps the side of her head with a finger.
“Too bad,” he says, “'cuz I want one.”
She knows Donnie has no actual interest in anything soft and cute, because he hates life and fun, but he'll probably give it to Mikey, which is really sweet when she thinks about it, so she follows him when he steps closer to the cart.
The guy behind it looks about her dad's age, with the same balding pattern, and he smiles in a way that quickly lets her know he's the only one winning anything tonight.
“'Evening, young man.” He nods at Donnie, giving April a full view of almost all of his teeth. “Winning something for your girl?”
April knows he doesn't mean anything by it, but the comment still almost makes her wince.
But this is so normal, and there's a part of her that still only feels amazed she and her friends can do things like this now, like go to a festival, or to a concert, or to the store, or to be mistaken for a couple, and she's content enough with letting it pass without acknowledgment.
Donnie doesn't say anything for a moment either, busy turning one of the darts around in his hands. He looks so focused it almost makes her laugh again.
“Not my girlfriend,” he says, which surprises her a little. He leans his elbow on the cart, head tilting to point to April with his chin. “She's my sister. The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it?”
April laughs – that loud and sudden thing that very few things can punch out of her. The man's eyes open a little wider, and then he chuckles, a little awkward, like he honestly can't tell if it's a joke or not and doesn't want to offend.
Donnie holds up one of the darts, finger pushing on the metal needle.
“Also, this is dull as hell,” he says. April squints, looking at it more closely, and can't help but agree. The old pocketknife she always keeps in her boots seems a deadly weapon in comparison. “How about I give you two bucks more, and you give me a real dart?”
A few minutes later, they're walking back to the car, giant blue dinosaur in tow.
Donnie looks ridiculous holding it and seems painfully aware of that, his hands stiff like he needs everyone to know this is not for him.
It's equally annoying and cute.
She opens the door for him, and he bends almost in half to push the plush into the backseat.
He's so tall now. They used to be almost the same height, especially when April hit her final growth spurt at the end of high school and gave up on heels for good.
But she has to tilt her head to look him in the face now, and she wonders when all of this happen.
There's so much to Donnie now, so many things she missed in the five years she was gone.
He didn't offer the plushie to her, which feels like something Old-Donnie would trip and fall over himself to do. Because he liked her, so it didn't matter that she wasn't all that interested either, and it didn't matter if she could do it on her own.
And Old-April would hate it, and it'd make her feel stupid and no better than all those prizes hung along the carts.
“You can get these things for like five bucks online,” says New-Donnie, pulling out of the car. “It's a real rip-off.”
“Yeah,” says New-April. “It really fucking is.”
**
April doesn't dance.
It's what she's been saying at every family function, at every prom, at every house party, at her graduation.
And it's mostly the truth, because she doesn't – not with her family and not with her school friends.
She's far away from the painfully insecure teenage girl she used to be, but she always thought there's something everyone ought to keep from those years, and this is hers.
But there are very few things she'd insist on keeping away from people she fought a war with, Donnie being one of them.
She's a city girl, really, unless someone else calls her that, in which case she was "born and raised in the countryside, fuck you". But there's a certain charm to barns and stacks of hay and miles and miles of nothing but corn that she can't quite resist.
“I want to dance,” she says, leaning against the wooden doorframe.
This barn is a lot bigger than anything they ever had at the Farmhouse; repainted and polished up for the tourists. There was a crowd here the whole evening, but it's now late enough for most of the families with kids to fade away, replaced by adults only now going out, or drunk enough to stay.
They're playing a song she vaguely knows, something from the 70's or 80's, and she's feeling warm and fuzzy from overpriced food and good humor.
“I'm not stopping you,” Donnie says.
That gives April a pause.
Because: A – he's being polite and giving her an out in case she wants it; or B – he's dismissing her.
She's not a gambling woman, and she doesn't like her odds here, and there's a part of her that wishes she could just ask him.
But it's one of the many things she doesn't allow herself to do, because she feels like she can't.
She can't talk about things like wanting something more with her ex-not-boyfriends, and she can't go back and forth on her own word now, and she can't have a crush on Donnie, because all of those things are what caused them to drift apart in the first place.
Even if she really, really wants to.
But she can have this evening, and she can have this dance, and if it makes everything awkward and awful again – then be it.
“Come with me,” she adds.
Donnie looks at her.
He told her once that he feels like his brain just works fster than most people's, and she's willing to believe him, judging by all the small expressions that pass over his face.
She knows this is something he would've killed for just a few years back, and this little hesitation makes her feel strangely secure.
Donnie's so different now, free from every awkward habit that clung to him as a teenager. There's so much of everything she used to (and still does) love about him on full display, dressed in a new layer of confidence.
He laughs the same, and there's still that familiar spark in his eyes when something interests him, and he still tends to ramble till he falls out of breath. She always liked that, those moments when they were just two friends, hunched over microscopes and computers together.
But she also likes this new way he makes her feel now – like there's no image she has to fit into, like she can be just April – not an A+ student, or a perfect daughter, or a pretty girl.
There's some bitter irony in that.
That the result of Donnie finally letting go is what made her fall for him like this.
“Alright,” Donnie says, finally. “But I'm an awful dancer.”
***
He really is.
He's stiff and tense, but he doesn't step on her feet, and that's good enough for April.
“Can I tell you something?” He asks over the music, maybe just for the sake of saying anything.
“No,” April answers, because she has a feeling this isn't all that serious, at least not in a worrying way.
He's been keeping a respectful distance, but April steps closer (mostly) to hear him better. She wraps her hands around his arms, and that finally gives him enough courage to rest his palms on her shoulder blades.
“I think Raph is going to propose soon.”
She expected a lot of things but not this, and it makes her blink – taken aback.
And then she grins, squeezing Donnie's shoulder with sudden excitement.
“Fucking hell!” The older couple next to them gives her a look, and she lowers her voice again. “How come?”
“He's been acting weird lately. Asking about good spots for a 'nice date' and all that,” Donnie says, leaning down a little. Maybe just to hear her better. Maybe. “Oh, and I saw the ring.”
April raises her eyebrows.
“Why do you always do that?”
“What?”
“Say the most important thing last. You think Mona will like it?” She questions.
“You think she'd say no?” There's a sudden drop in song and Donnie pulls his arm out to spin her in, her dress twirling around her in a circle.
“What? No,” she says, a little breathless from smiling and laughing now. “Obviously she'll say yes. But I don't know if aliens do proposals like that.”
She steps forward, hand wrapped around Donnie's back, until he's leaning in something resembling a dip. It must look ridiculous on the outside, but the closeness makes her heart beat a little faster.
“I mean, you're the only other alien we're close with.” He straightens again but doesn't pull away this time. “So, what do you think?”
April hums, like she's thinking long and hard.
“If Raphael wants to propose to me, I'm all in.”
“Stop that,” he says, voice a little rough with amusement and something else she can't quite put her finger on.
“I think he should just ask her about it.”
“But then it wouldn't be a surprise.”
The song changes into something a little more upbeat, and she spins again, a little ungraceful in her heavy boots.
“I don't think proposals should be a total surprise,” she says honestly.
Donnie looks at her, maybe a little surprised.
“Really?” It seems like he doesn't really share the same view, and she never expected him to. The helpless romanticism is the part he kept from his teenage years.
“Well, yeah. Like, you should talk about getting married in general before it.”
Donnie seems to think about that for a moment. April knows she has the point here, and that he might never admit it, and she's fine with that.
“What if you dated a really great guy for, like, ten years, and then he suddenly proposes? Does it matter then whether you talk about it before or after?”
In April's mind, ten years and no talk of marriage is an answer enough.
“I don't know,” she jokes. “Ask me in ten years.”
“That's a long time.”
“You said that's how long it'd take for someone to marry me.”
“I'll marry you now.”
And just like that – the world stops.
April freezes mid-step, her smile falling. Her face feels numb and hot, every part of her body twisting with a sudden rush.
Suddenly she's six, and a boy in her class gave her a flower on the playground, because it was orange like her hair.
She's ten, and her crush just asked her to the school dance when she thought he didn't know she existed.
She's sixteen, and there are two boys fighting over her, and she hates the twisted sort of pride it makes her feel.
She's twenty, and the guy she's been 'casually dating' just told her he loved her.
She's twenty-three, and she's dancing in a barn with her best friend, who she just might be in love with, and she's every April she ever was and ever will be – all at the same time.
The silence stretches forever, but it can't really be more than a few seconds. The chorus isn't over yet when Donnie says:
“Oh my God.”
He pulls away, hands raised in the air like he's suddenly scared to touch her, even though she didn't mind it just a few seconds ago and really, this is not the issue here.
“I-”
“I'm so sorry,” he interrupts, voice fast and panicked. “That was a joke. I promise, I was just kidding, I just didn't think- Shit. I'm sorry-”
“Okay.”
She says it louder than maybe necessary, but she feared that if she didn't – she wouldn't say anything at all.
Donnie brings his hand close to his chest in a nervous gesture, breathing fast. It's so rare to see him so off-balance and upset nowadays, and it makes April feel even more awful.
“I believe you,” she says, because she does.
She wouldn't five years ago, but she does now.
She can see Donnie force his breath to even, but he's not looking at her anymore, and maybe that's the worst part of it all.
They stand there until the song ends, and then April says:
“I need fresh air.”
***
There are picnic tables set up outside the barn, close enough to hear the music but far enough away to keep some privacy in case anyone wanted to have a discreet smoke, or make out, or recover from a possible near cardiac arrest.
April sits on one of them, boots on the bench.
Donnie leans against the other side, the distance painfully noticeable. He didn't even follow her outside until she looked over her shoulder and waved him over, and she supposes she really can't blame him for any of that, as painful as it feels.
She leans her elbows on her knees, resting her chin in her hands. There's not much of a view – mostly green fields and dark sky, but there are more stars here than she ever saw in New York.
“Shame you don't see them much in the city,” she says.
Donnie blinks. He's been chewing on his thumb, visibly distracted, and it takes him a moment to realize what she's talking about.
“Oh. Yeah.” he says. Then: “April, listen, I'm really-”
“Donnie, it's fine,” she interrupts with a sigh. “Sorry I made it weird.”
His mouth draws into a thin line, like he doesn't really believe her but won't argue about it.
But it really is fine.
She knows it was a joke, and that he didn't mean anything by it, and it's her fault because she thought about it a little too hard.
And she got scared.
She got scared that there would be another night like this, where she's warm and safe, and so, so in love, and he will say the same thing, and this time, she'll say yes.
And then nothing will be the same ever again.
She's terrified of it – of losing him again, of making the same mistakes they made when they were kids.
“You're right, by the way,” Donnie says after another quiet moment. “It is a real shame.”
“Yeah.” April reaches down, wrapping one of her shoelaces around her finger, just to keep her hands busy. “Makes you wanna move to a farm.”
“If Leo doesn't have to almost die this time, I'm all in.”
It's the sort of joke that doesn't really make anyone laugh, even after all this time, but it makes it all just a little easier.
April shifts on the table, moving a little closer to Donnie. He doesn't pull away, and she takes that as a good sign.
“I wouldn't, tho,” she confesses. “Move to a farm, I mean. I'd miss it here. Maybe that's why I keep coming back.”
Donnie hums.
“Yeah, I mean,” he shrugs, “I'm glad you're back now. I missed you.”
It's a simple statement, all honest and innocent, and it makes all the blood inside of her veins boil.
Because fucking hell did she miss him.
There was a wall between them after she left, something she started to lay down herself, but it hurt her either way when he put down his own part.
It was for the better, and she believes that even now, no matter how hard it is sometimes. They couldn't be friends, and they couldn't be anything more, and there was a part of her that resented him for it.
She hated feeling like that, like there was nothing she could do other than hurt his feelings or lie to him. There must've been a moment when he realized it, too, because it was never the same after she moved out.
She missed New York and her family, and she came back every month, called every week, texted every day.
They were a group, that little family she carved out for herself – April and her boys. But she only really saw Donnie when they were all together, learned about his life through second-hand remarks.
It was Leo who told her Donnie started to take online classes, that he found a part-time job in some local car repair shop that could never afford him if he actually cared about the money, that there are now people who'd kill for every piece of scrap metal and motherboard his hands ever touched.
If they talked directly, it was brief but never tense, and he'd ask her about that one class she aced, or that professor who insisted she intern for him, or that local newspaper that published her article, and she knew he heard that from Leo, or Casey, or whoever else.
He was hers, and she was his. They all were, in that way only people who lived through and saw the things they did could be.
But she thinks that somewhere along those five years – they stopped being friends.
Leaving opened up a part of her she didn't notice before. They occupied so much of her life – Donnie and Casey, that she never even thought of taking that space for herself, under her own rules.
She dated guys in college; nice boys with pretty smiles and curly hair, who dressed in oversized sweaters and always modified something in their coffee order.
They never stuck, and she never minded.
She finished college like she said she would, and then she came back – like she said she would.
And then Donnie was suddenly there, and everything between them clicked into place, like those rough edges they managed to sand down in the last five years never existed. Like they were always this comfortable next to each other, like they always talked every day and went to dumb festivals, like it was always this easy.
She's not even sure it's really easy now. It doesn't feel like it.
She must be quiet for just a moment too long, because Donnie looks at her. April doesn't know what her face looks like, but it can't be good, because he frowns with worry.
“Sorry?” He says, unsure.
And she's so, so tired of this.
Of all the things she can't say or do, of every day they wasted on not being friends, and every day they're wasting now pretending it's enough.
“I missed you, too,” she says.
She doesn't remember moving closer, but here she is now. The table is tall, and they're almost at the same height. When he looks her in the eyes, it feels like every unsaid word.
“This-” He starts but doesn't finish.
He stands still, like he's scared any wrong move could make her turn and run, and she supposes he's not entirely wrong.
“I hated it,” she confesses. “When we weren't talking.”
It's selfish to say that, because it was exactly what she wanted. What they both needed, maybe.
But Donnie says:
“Me too.”
And it's easy to imagine a world where it was all different.
Where she stayed in New York, and they grew up together, and there wasn't a single moment where she doubted if she even knew him anymore.
“But I needed time,” Donnie says.
And she knows it's true.
Because in the world where she didn't leave – where she never felt that painful blow of understanding she's not the smartest kid in the room, where she never went to house parties and never lost her shoe stumbling her way back to her dorm, where she never cut her bangs in the middle of the night and regretted it by morning – she wouldn't be sitting here right now.
Donnie would be different too, for better or for worse, and he wouldn't be standing in front of her, carefully raising his arm to take her wrist in his hand, squeezing lightly.
His eyes are careful, face drawn, and then he shifts his fingers a little further up.
He's testing the waters, and in a different world – April would pull away.
But she doesn't.
Donnie slides his hand up until he's cradling his elbow, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps on her forearm.
“I know,” April says. “Me too.”
“I wanted to...” He starts and then stops again, calculating every word. “I wanted to move on.”
“And did you?”
He watches her for a long, careful moment. Then:
“No.” His voice is rough, like it's been a while since he admitted this even to himself. “But it got easier.”
Her dad used to say that 'old love doesn't rust', and she thinks she might finally believe him.
April moves to sit at the edge of the table, letting Donnie rest his hand next to her, their knees touching.
“Yeah,” April says, so quiet it's almost a whisper. “Me neither.”
One moment they're like this, still and quiet, with soft music and laughter coming from far away.
And then the next – she's cradling his face, fingers smoothing over his jawbone, and he has his hands on her hips, firm and grounding, and her head is a buzz of every hidden feeling, every second of doubt, every wasted moment.
When Donnie kisses her, it feels like every orange flower, like every school dance, like every prideful bone in her body, like every 'I love you'.
When April kisses Donnie, it's every corner she carved out for herself, every space she filled up on her own rules, every dance they ever shared, every 'I'll marry you now'.
She thinks she might be dead, or dying, and the only things keeping her alive are Donnie's hands on her hips and his warm breath on her lips, and she pulls away, tilting her head back to laugh, every bone in her body humming.
Donnie laughs too, a quiet and dazed thing, like he's still not really sure what's happening, which is fine, because April doesn't either.
“If I knew, I would've driven you out here a long time ago,” he says, which sounds like a joke but probably isn't.
She leans forward to kiss the side of his neck, his cheek.
“It's not the barn that did it,” she says.
It feels so nice; to finally let herself ignore all the things she can't do, or shouldn't, or any other thing her careful mind has been telling her.
To let herself be selfish, just this once.
To forget everything that happened between them at fifteen, sixteen, nineteen, and remember that this is her friend, one of the bravest people she's ever met, that his eyes light up every time he looks at her, and how much she missed seeing him laugh like this.
She kisses him, short and sweet, before finally saying what's been gathering in the back of her mind for months now.
“I want to give this a shot.” She rubs her thumbs over his cheeks, smoothing over the lines on his face. “It's- I can't help it anymore.”
It's raw and honest, vulnerable in a way she doesn't usually allow herself to be.
Donnie watches her for a moment, eyes wide and red in the dim light.
“Yes,” he says, voice light with something hopeful. “Fuck, yes.”
It all feels a bit unreal, and like she might wake at any moment, or make a wrong move, and it'll all fall apart again.
But she knows it' different this time, because they're different, and she won't let Donnie go, even if it doesn't work out.
She kisses him again, in the middle of a field, with yellow lights and country music all around.
She's twenty-three, there's a moldy apartment and minimum wage internship waiting for her back home, and there's everything she didn't know she needed this bad – right between her hands.
And maybe, for once in her life, she thinks that's enough.
Something from a while back 🤭
Poor Mona is shocked after she finds Raph the snapping turtle beheaded!!.. or not 🙈
Can't recall if he ever retreated his head while she was around, so started thinking what her first reaction would be like (I'm going with the bold assumption space turtles can't do that? 🤷)
This clip from the 2012 show worked as inspiration 👇
