#NICE GUYS

[classycookiexo]

THIS

[mctwinkdom]

He's so happy. This is his happy face everyone. He's so excited for it

[freckled-radfem]

So disappointing to see bootlicking women writing paragraphs defending men and often shitting on women, in response to posts related to radical feminism.  “I love men!” “Women/society are horrible to men!” “We don’t deserve men!” Girl, you think a man would stand up in a room full of misogynistic men and wax poetic about how they’re horrible to women, and women are actually incredible? Even in an online space, you’d be hard pressed to find a single man writing a fucking novel standing up for women in response to a thread of misogynistic comments.  Even the nicest ones in your life won’t stand up for women, because when other men are openly misogynistic, the nice ones are twiddling their thumbs while thinking of how nice they are, but they suddenly find their voice when women complain about misogyny.  Wake up.

[clericsparrow]

"Nice guys" will complain that women won't fuck them and always go for toxic men, not realising that their nice guy act is incredibly easy to see through. Do they seriously think women don't notice how horrible they become when they realise that whoever they're pursuing isn't into them? Do they not realise that their "niceness" is basically just pandering to what they *think* women like? These men are all carbon copies of each other, because they think women are a monolith who are into the exact same things. No, your sweater and circle frame glasses don't hide that you view every woman you meet as a sexual conquest. It's so painfully obvious. They treat women they aren't sexually attracted to horribly, if they acknowledge they exist at all. If they really were nice, they'd have female friends, yet they never do.

[lifeiskentastic]

gn!Reader in one car with Holland March in the middle of a traffic jam

Gif by @adoresbenho

A/N: Tell me, would you read a fanfic about Ryan Gosling's five-minute role as a lecherous elf on snl New Year's episode? (this sounds so crazy, but Ryan is so cute with the pointy ears, bangs, and tall hat... I just need to write it.)

Summary: Agency partner Reader once again gets stuck in a traffic jam with Holland;

Song I recommend: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen was just made ror Holland;

Word count: 724 words;

Nice reading!

It was just another morning as the third member (counting from the moment of join, although Holland always argued with Hilly to take over as "second" as if it were something really important) of the detective agency. It was just another morning traffic jam in Los Angeles, the only advantage of which was extra time to shave or drink a cup of coffee. After all, as it turned out, working as a detective requires punctuality, which in the case of Holland March was a big problem. So from the very beginning of the day, you were in a hurry, rushing to get things done, and only during irreparable traffic jams could you afford to exhale.

Holland could finally shave, and you could have a cup of strong coffee instead of breakfast.

For such occasions, Holland even kept a thermos of coffee and mountains of plastic cups in the car. No matter how many times you persuaded him to get rid of at least half of them, he categorically refused, calling it a "necessity of life." Well, given that he also used them to drink his liter-long supply of alcohol, it's not surprising.

The only thing that remained a mystery even to the three detectives was why a jar of whipped cream kept appearing in the glove compartment of his car. Although you had a bold guess that after you told Holland that you loved whipped cream coffee, he took it too much to heart.

"Do you think Healy is there yet?"

You asked, sipping from your cup.

"Oh, yeah, Mr.I'm-right-on-time-because-this-is-an-important-job has been there since sunrise."

You couldn't help but laugh out loud at that. The special relationship between your two partners couldn't help but make you laugh, literally, every day.

Holland beamed with pride when he managed to make you laugh.

"Oh, and also..."

But another laugh from you didn't let March finish his sentence. But what could you do? Still, the naive look on Holland's face with a piece of shaving foam on his cheek was more amusing than you could have imagined.

"Pfft... Ha-ha, wait..."

You reached for his cheek to brush away the remaining lather as Holland watched you in pure embarrassment. His eyes looked even more confused when you were a few millimeters away from his face.

However, you quickly returned to your seat, showing traces of white, puffy foam on your palm.

"Is that what made you giggle so much?"

This made you think back to that unsuspecting look on March's face, caught up in his own joke, and made you laugh uncontrollably again.

"I'm sorry... You just looked so cute."

"Did I?"

Holland leaned closer to your seat, scrutinizing every part of your face. You were about to ask what he was going to do, but...

"Aha! Found it!"

His head came as close to yours as possible, and he touched something near the tips of your lips with a triumphant exclamation.

"Is that cream? You're such a sloven."

Holland's finger did indeed show traces of cream from your coffee. And your partner seemed to be expecting some kind of funny reaction from you, looking expectantly into your soul, but you were honestly not in the mood for it... Still, your heart was still racing from being so close to Holland. For some reason, when there were so small distance between the two of you, you began to feel strange jolts inside your chest.

When you barely regained consciousness, the only thing you could do was to move your whole body as close to Holland as possible, making your partner's eyes widen in surprise once again. You didn't know what was driving you at that moment, but you knew you had to work, and you were within a pinkie nail's distance of March's face.

"You're one to talk..."

You ran your fingers through Holland's mustache, wiping away the subtle streaks of shaving foam that had started this whole thing.

Although you wanted something like this, you hadn't expected Holland to do it first. That he would push forward, quickly crossing the short distance between you, and confidently touch your lips. Of course, you immediately returned his kiss.

It seems that car horns were already blaring behind you and angry drivers were furious, but for now you were too busy with each other to pay attention to such trifles.

[adora-birds]

gingerbread and toast

[thehumantrap]

some rare baby Ryan pics for everyone

[hoppingonjim]

Thinking about a threesome with March and Healy where Healy is the gentler, nicer one. Praising the reader and making sure she feels good and then March is the meaner one. Mocking and teasing and just being a dick. idk man I’m a slut and I want both

TLDR: requesting good cop/bad cop (good detective/bad detective?) threesome with March and Healy content 🙏🙏🙏

INVESTIGATE ! - jackson healy + holland march

note: so sorry for how long this took! kept rewriting it lmaoo. i love this request since i too, am a slut for both. (jackson more but sssshhh) hope this is good!

cw: afab! reader. dom!holland. soft dom!jackson. sub!reader. degrading, impact play, slight throat fucking, creampie, unprotected sex, p in v, oral male receiving, praising, 2/3 holes filled (my dream). reader is cuffed and set a building on fire, so arson i suppose.

“only such a fucking slut would be turned on by fucking cuffs. say it, say you're a fucking slut.”

“ease up there march, don't you think that's a little rude? she's still a lady.”

“she's a fucking slut.”

the mustache man is pounding into you. hard, aggressive. another blow is landed on your ass cheek, the supple skin stinging with every aggressive smack. you've got your hands behind your back, bound by the chilled metal cuffs. another smack on your ass and holland settles his hand onto the gradual vanishing print, his nails digging into the flesh in greed. all the while you were crying out, whimpers filling your tongue and air around you in pleasure as you continued to press your reddened ass against his hand. begging for more.

the bigger man is settled in front of you, his cock hard. his tip engorged, red, leaking with pre cum the more he continues to watch the porno unfolding in front of his own eyes. licking his lips, his eyes stalk your every move. every heave, every wavering motion, every gasp. a hand combs through your hair as a means to settle you, his lips in a mix of stern and pouty, “doing so good for him, princess. bet you're nice and tight- but i can't stop looking at these pretty lips of yours. you mind putting them to use?” for a brief moment his large finger grazes over every imprint, line and dent molded into your bottom lip, coating the tip in your spit for a brief moment. hungry eyes meet your cock drunk ones - you've barely been fucked- and you both realize he should've been in your mouth a while ago.

all he needs from you is a nod, and his tip is suddenly suctioned with your lips. the pressure already forcing a groan from his parted lips, his mouth surrendering to the grunts of pleasure. holland rolls his eyes at his, digging his nails harsher into your bruised ass. the feeling of your tight pussy clenching him is heavenly, even holland can't deny that.

jackson's groans begin to intertwine with your whimpers as praises fall droplet by droplet from his parted lips, “you're already doing so good, take a little more for me baby, c'mon.”

a scoff flees from holland's lips until he spanks you several times in a row, “fuck, you like having a fucking cock in your mouth? i thought sluts like you only existed in pornos- you should feel how fucking soaked she is healy-” his own hand begins to slightly sting as he revels in the way you arch your back, your whimpers vibrating against jackson's cock- pulling harsher groans from the man. thick fingers run through your hair as the enforcers hips begin to introduce a sensation of grinding.

“fuck march, shut up, she's doing so good for me, already doing so perfect, huh baby?” those rough fingers trace gentle patterns onto your cheek. you begin to bob your head along the thickness of his cock, drool slipping off your lips. collecting around your chin, falling onto the girth of his pre cum dressed cock. his lips are surrendering to helpless groans as he encourages your cheeks to grow hollow, his thumb pressing the dent carefully onto the full skin.

the hand on your cheek migrates to your flowing tresses once again. the sweat building up is greeted by his fingers, combing and treating your strands to comfort. pushing the orphaned locks away from your face, “give me those pretty little eyes, c'mon princess,” always obedient, you wear an innocent gaze as your doll eyes gaze up at him, doe-like, “fuck yes, you listen so good princess.” and he's already falling to his pleasure.

the man's tepid grinds morph into desperate bucks. you've barely scarfed his cock down the depth of your throat and he swears he's already seeing stars. to amp up his desperation, he gingerly brought his pelvis closer towards your nose, introducing your throat to the fullness of his cock. immediately you gagged, the soul patch clad man behind you, ruining you, smirking so broadly.

“i know you can take it, you're doing so good for me.. fuck princess, that's it, such a good girl.” all because you're eagerly deepthroating the muscle man, the sound of your choking delighting him twistedly above all.

meanwhile holland's ramming his cock ruthlessly into your soaked cunt.

every time. he's holding your hips, slamming your ass against his pelvis so you can feel him penetrate you deeper. all while displaying a perverted grin at the sound of slapping skin, “fucking whore- mouth full of one man's cock while you let the other fuck you. you gonna let me cum inside you? pump you full of my cum?”

and shockingly enough you nod. all holland needed was the green light. but before he finally gave into those twitching sensations, he tugged on a fistful of your hair, forcing you to just barely look back at him, “you look like such a fucking whore- fucking hell..” and with those words he slapped your cheek before releasing you. minutes before releasing his hot cum into you, biting his bottom lip harshly as he soaked up the wonderous feeling. his high feeling more serendipitous.

jackson doesn't go to your unneeded aid when holland slaps your cheek, mainly because his own cock is twitching relentlessly and he so badly needs to fill your throat with his cum. an uncharacteristic whine slips out from the crevices of his lips. his balls are heavy- god the man needs to cum, you can just see it. and he does after one subtle ram into your mouth, coating your throat in his seed.

“oh god, oh god.. swallow for me baby, swallow all of it. i know you can, you were so good.” his eyes remain soft as his finger slips down to venture the curvature of your jawline. his fingertip kissing every arising goosebump.

your obedience shines once more as you merrily swallow all of his cum, leaving his cock with a pretty pop of your lips. licking your lips afterwards, still yearning for any leftovers.

abruptly holland hugs you off of all fours and onto his lap, the new angle forcing you to cry out his name, “mr march! holy shit!”

a smirk remains on his lips but only seems to broaden as he raises your hips up before plummeting them back onto his cock, delighting in every scream that ran from your tongue.

“you're gonna cum on my cock you whore, c'mon, i know a desperate whore like you is just begging to fucking cum..”

jackson feels an impetus to lean in, his thumb crafting delicate circles onto your clit whilst he leans in, “c'mon darling, cum for him, you know you can do it. i know you can do it,” he whispers, his thumb kissing your sensitive, needy bud, coated in arousal.

words don't leave your lips, only moans and whines. a few screams entangled in the bunch. you can feel yourself clench around holland, your hips and thighs beginning to quiver with anticipation as your high comes knocking on the door of your mind. and you give in, letting the sweet release bombard you. holland can feel the intensity, he's groaning so loudly in pleasure. feeling pleased with your submissiveness towards every single one of his requests. jackson doesn't let up however, he assists you in riding out the high with palming your clit. his rough palm, the aged lines, adding onto the experience. the texture toying with your abused clit.

“oh, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh god- oh mr march- oh mr healy.” everything is chopped however, leaving your mouth at different moments.

holland doesn't feel like sitting up anymore, and the man flops down. jackson meticulously brushes your hair once more, making your stunning face the focal point, “you were amazing darling, so so perfect.”

in all his sinful breathiness, with his cock still inside of you, holland speaks up, panting for anything that can relieve the lack of air in his system, his eyes still sinisterly sensual.

“don't think you'll get this cock though every time you light a building on fire.”

"mr march, can you take the cuffs off now?"

[intoxicatinginsanity]

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but men really need to stop using women as a stand in for their moms. Heal your goddamn mother wounds, assign that responsibility to yourself and not to your crushes, girlfriends, and wives. Fucking go to therapy, thanks!

[assiraphales]

ok i watched the nice guys and you were soooooo right about it imma be rewatching this so many times i can already tell

there’s something about poor soaking wet little meow meow ryan gosling in gaudy tight suits and “tough guy” (but actually a softy wofty who beats up creepy men) russell crowe coparenting the nancy drew 2.0 that works so well

[hashal-nutcracker]

two nutcracker brothers, dear Justice and old officer Hashal.

@sodabranch owner of Justice!

[quilavabucket]

Im waiting for someone to do a Nice Guys by ryan higa edit for tango bdubs and ethos team now

[pleasuretrade]

hi here's the very rough(!) first chapter of a fic that i'm not done with.

if anyone wants to beta or just offer feedback i would be grateful :') but i'm writing this very slowly and don't plan on seeing it done for at least a few more months

March x Healy

Summary: 1980. March and Healy take your classic "reunite me with my estranged adult child" case and may or may not wind up getting involved with a cult, irritating 80's toys, shady business, gardening, and drugs. Oh, and they're pretending to be boyfriends because that's totally a perfect cover??

Rating: 18+ for the eventual porn

Length: I'm gonna guess 30k? I'm at 15k rn and we're maybe halfway through. frankly i got no idea

Tags that aren't exhaustive and mostly aren't applicable to this first chapter, but just a sneak peek: pretending to be boyfriends and there's only one fucking bed anyway bitch, March wearing jeans

 The thing about kitsch dolls was that they were supposed to be cute. In abundance they became disturbing. An uncanny noise of soft pastel abstraction, dotted with innumerable eyes, staring at you from living room walls and display cabinets. It didn’t help that almost all of them were religious; angels with halos, praying children, robed biblical figures. March felt like he might combust if he made direct eye contact with the teeming mass of holy ceramic.

“March, did you write that down?”

 Holland whipped his head toward Healy, and then at their client, and then at his open, empty notepad. See, you shouldn’t have that many dolls in one room, it’s distracting. It’s weird. “Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

“Benjamin Larry Hooper. We called him Benny.”

“Bejamin….L… Hooper… Benny.” March mumbled, pen dashing across the page with a show of gumption.

 Mrs. Hooper nodded at him, all patterned dress and curled hair, hands placed politely on top of their respective thighs. “He was fifteen when he left, he��ll be twenty-six now. Tall for his age, I’m sure he’s giant by now.”

 Holland wrote in big block letters: DOB 1953 TALL

“This is my most recent picture of him, just a few months before he left.” Mrs. Hooper, Francis, reached across her doilied coffee table to hand Healy a framed photograph. It was obviously some kind of family reunion, the photo lined with folks like a tin of sardines. “That’s Benny.” she said, tapping a young man sitting cross legged in the very front row.

 Benny Hooper looked like any other fifteen year old at a family reunion, irritated or bored or both. He had a great mop of hair, a downright halo of pitch black curls reaching every direction. The slacks and short sleeved button-down were probably not his normal choice of attire, so that wouldn’t be helpful even if the kid had disappeared less than a decade ago. The shot was too wide to memorize the details of someone’s face on top of being old. The Benny in the photo hadn’t even finished puberty yet. Overall, the photo wasn’t great.

“Very helpful, thank you. We could use any other photographs you have, too.” Healy smiled pleasantly the way he did. It was freakish, the way the guy could go from deadpan bruiser to soft-eyed teddybear in an instant.

 Holland smiled along, ignoring the everpresent eyes of Mrs. Hooper's kitsch, even though he knew that there was no chance in hell they were finding Benny Hooper.

-

 “There’s no chance in hell, man.” March lit his cigarette in the passenger seat and donned his sunglasses.

 Healy tapped his fingers where he rested his arm in the open window. “We have a lead.”

“If you wanna call maybe seeing a glimpse of someone you haven’t seen in eleven years driving a truck a couple of times a lead, sure, we have a great lead. Can we stop at Hammy’s? Told Holly I’d bring home dinner.”

“Y’know, I bet I could count on two hands the number of times you’ve gone proper grocery shopping since I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true, you went grocery shopping with us like two weeks ago.”

“And you bought eggs, bread, a gallon of neon colored juice, a gallon of whiskey, and five frozen pizzas.”

“Are those not groceries? Is that not sustenance?” March waved his cigarette for emphasis.

“Anyway,” Healy redirected, taking the turn toward Hammy’s, “all we have to do is stake out the spot she saw the truck, right?”

“If everything worked out just that easy we’d be out of a job, Jack.” March took a drag from his cigarette, thanking the stars that loaded, aging ladies were willing to shill out for the most unfeasible asks imaginable time and time again. Healy let it sit because he knew it was true by now, well over two years down the line as a PI.

“Why do you think the kid really left?” Healy asked after a while, expertly flat when Holland had figured out eons ago that the guy really was invested in each case, even the small ones.

“I don’t know, too many doilies? An aversion to puce colored carpet? I wouldn’t stay long either.”

 Healy ignored him. “I find it hard to believe he just up and left for no reason.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hooper’s chicken is dry.” Healy purposefully hit the curb pulling into Hammy’s, jostling March’s cigarette nearly out of his hand. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. Even if we find the kid, he’s not comin’ back. Ten fuckin’ years. Remember that girl, Arrow or Rainbow or whatever she named herself?”

 Healy grunted in reluctant remembrance. They’d found her after a long, boring two months and by the end of it all she’d had to say was ‘thanks for letting me know my family's looking for me, you can go now.’ Not that it mattered much to Holland. They made out with enough money to take a couple of weeks off so they could take Holly to Catalina Island. She got food poisoning on the first day but still claims it was the best trip they’d been on in years (which wasn’t very meaningful considering they’d gone on maybe three of them since she was little).

“Guess you’re right.” Healy parked the car in the crowded parking lot. The line at Hammy’s was always so damn long. “Not getting paid to psychoanalyze the guy.” He sounded reluctant. Any time Healy couldn’t slip in one more act of Good it made him feel like a failure. It was something March secretly admired, however harebrained it was. He glanced a punch off Healy’s shoulder before getting out of the car. “That’s the spirit.”

-

“So why do you think he really left?” Holly asked through a mouthful of burger.

“Jesus, you two should become shrinks.” March grumbled.

 Healy sat comfortably sunken into the couch, a March sitting cross legged on the floor on either side of him. “It might be useful to know.” he added.

“Right. Like maybe you’ll be able to narrow down what kinds of places he’d go if you knew.” Holly agreed.

“Our only lead is a truck. Anyone can drive a truck. I don’t care why he’s driving it. All we have to do is follow.”

“So you admit, it’s a lead.” Healy pointed at him with a french fry.

“It’s a crumb of a lead. It’s the suggestion of a lead. It’s a lingering scent of maybe a lead.”

“Says the guy with no sense of smell.” Healy winked at Holly, who bit her lip to stop her smile from blooming. “A lead’s a lead.”

“Did you notice anything about Mrs. Hooper’s house? Like, anything that might make someone want to run away?” Holly was fifteen and already putting in more work than March.

“Yeah, puce carpet.”

 Healy nudged March with a socked foot. “She seemed nice. Boring, maybe. Said her husband died a few years ago and her other kid’s off at college somewhere, so the house was pretty quiet.”

“Boredom could drive someone away.” Holly said thoughtfully.

“And if it did that still gives us absolutely nothing to go on. Some kids just hate their parents, alright? Guy probably just hitchhiked to New York or something.” March said.

“Sounds nice.” Holly murmured under her breath. Healy nudged her with his other foot.

 March, begrudgingly, loved the gentle way Healy mediated. Fatherhood was something Holland hadn’t really been prepared for, much less being the single dad of a teenager. It didn’t help that he was a big time fuckup or that Holly was too smart for her own good. Having another person in their lives— having Healy in their lives— was a saving grace.

 Recently, Holly had started dating her first boyfriend. Or at least the first that she’d admitted to when she’d lost all plausible deniability after that time they’d picked her up from school and seen her drop some young punk’s hand like a hot iron. It was a point of contention now, between Holly and Holland. Boys were pigs, and Holland would know, he used to be one. It was one of the endless number of things Healy had become referee over, but also something Holly had adopted a near constant attitude because of.

“So when are you starting the stakeout?” Holly asked, fiddling with the cracked straw of her milkshake. March looked at Healy for an answer. He was always better at managing their schedule. Unlike March, he usually remembered what day of the week it was. Healy looked back at him and shrugged. Wasn't like they had another case on, much to the dismay of their wallets. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

 Holly got that look on her face. “Can I come?” Tomorrow was a Saturday.

 March shook his head. “Don’t you have normal teenage things to do? Shouldn’t you be like sneaking vodka out of someone’s mom’s cabinet on a Saturday?”

 Healy chimed in before she could argue. “It’s gonna be boring anyway, Holl. You’ll be sitting in the backseat twiddling your thumbs all day.” She knew that. She’d been on stakeouts with them before. But Healy’s say was more valuable to her than her dad’s, apparently, so she dropped it.

 It was late when Healy headed home, agreeing on the asscrack of dawn to reconvene and start their stakeout.

“Why doesn’t he just live here? You guys spend every day together anyway.”

 March wandered into the dimly lit kitchen for a glass of rye. Their (second) rental, real house unbuilt as ever, was always so still when Healy left. Another item on the laundry list of things March tried not to think about. “Because he’s a grown man, Holly, with his own house.”

“I wouldn’t call that dump a house, and anyway it’s an apartment. He should be sleeping here and not in an attic with a laughtrack that plays until two in the morning.”

“Well then you can invite him to stay for a sleepover next time. You guys can paint nails and read magazines.” Holland wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t really what girls’ sleepovers were like. One time he’d walked in on Holly and her friend eating donuts and saying such depraved things about Joe Strummer that he’d vowed to not open the door without knocking ever again. He never looked at that Clash poster on her wall the same way.

 Holly scoffed in time with the ice tinkling into Holland’s tumbler.

-

 The sun shone way too brightly for Holland. When he’d woken up he’d still been a little drunk, but now out of the house and into Healy’s car a hangover had eagerly seeped in. They’d agreed to start the stakeout before the sun came up, but March had skillfully convinced Healy to take him through a drive-thru breakfast and they were running late. He now nursed a coffee as the sun rose into the perfectly wrong spot in the sky. They watched cars zip lazily by from the corner of a parking lot.

“I just think it would be good to have a dog around.” They’d had this discussion every other day for a month now. March wanted a dog in the house for the very logical reason of alerting them to intruders, Healy nay-sayed because he was a killjoy with no imagination.

“I’m telling you, March, putting in a doggy door just isn’t gonna be enough for a German Shepherd. And we all know you’re not gonna walk it.”

“Why do you even care so much, man? It would be my dog.” And more importantly, why did Healy even have a say in whether or not they got a dog?

“I care because I’d somehow get stuck taking it out half the time. And your sorry ass wouldn’t train it. We’d have an untrained, overpriced menace tearing around the house.” The house. Not Holland and Holly’s house, but The House.

“Well, whatever, even if that was true it’d make a good guard dog, right? No one’s getting past a pent up, feral German Shepherd. Might shit on the carpet but it’ll take a guy’s dick off. Balls too.”

“You should really consider a shrink. I think you’ve lost your damn mind.” Healy shook his head, but Holland caught his smile.

“You taking new patients, doc? I’ve been told by my teenager that I’m a headcase.”

“I could make some room in my busy schedule. Gonna cost you about the same as a purebred German Shepherd, though.”

 March smiled and leaned back into his seat. Absolutely nothing of interest was happening outside at all, which was just fine now but give March three or so more hours and he’d start going stir crazy and the headache wasn't helping.

 Mrs. Hooper had seen the truck twice, once in the morning and once in the early evening, which gave them an unfortunately broad window of time. She’d described it as a white, short cab semitruck, maybe a GMC, with a small trailer on it, which narrowed it down almost not at all. It sounded like every third short haul semi chugging around Los Angeles, of which there were many. Very many.

 The only thing they had to go off of was that the second time around she’d seen what she thought was some kind of blocky hand-lettering on the driver’s side door, done in “nearly illegible” multicolor. When Healy had asked what she meant by “multicolor” Mrs. Hooper had only elaborated as “horribly garish.” So at least there was that.

 The odds that the guy driving the bespoke truck was this Benny person were essentially zero. That was about half their cases these days, desperate longshots funded by desperate rich people. The other half was still taking photographs of idiots who fuck with the curtains open. It was wearing a little thin. Couldn't people invent more important problems to investigate? Whatever. A job’s a job’s a job.

 The coffee in March’s cup had gone cold just in time to meet the creeping heat from outside. He downed the tepid sludge before wrenching the little metal fan out of the back seat and plugging it in. It whirred to life gracelessly.

“Hey.” Healy tapped him on the arm, which startled and excited Holland enough that he flung his empty coffee cup onto the floorboards.

“What—what, you see something?”

 A short cab semi puttered toward them from a distance, aiming for a perfectly timed red light. Healy pulled up the binoculars and squinted through them, waiting for the cab to pull into view enough to see the driver’s door. March’s breathing was shallow in anticipation.

 The truck moved, and Healy tutted, and March could see the glaringly blank door even without the binoculars. “Driver’s blonde. Ginger beard.” Healy said, still staring through the eye pieces like the truck and driver might magically change. “False alarm.”

“They’re all gonna be false alarms. This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack, only the needle was never in the haystack to begin with.”

 Finally, Healy let the binoculars fall into his lap. “I ever told you how much I love your optimism?”

[darkshrimpemotions]

No but the key thing about Allan is he's a foil for Ken. Ken is very much the Nice Guy of the film, whereas Allan is ACTUALLY a nice guy.

See, Ken does all these things to impress Barbie, he spends a lot of time trying to seem supportive of Barbie, and he hangs his entire identity on the idea of loving Barbie. And because of that, he thinks Barbie is SUPPOSED to love him back. But everything he does "for" Barbie isn't really for her, and it shows from the beginning. He has a clear ulterior motive that's all about getting what he wants. He doesn't actually care about her desires, needs, happiness, or well-being. Everything he does comes with a clear weight of expectation behind it, which Barbie appears to feel and to find uncomfortable.

He chafes at her clearly expressing what she does and doesn't want, because that doesn't align with his goals. He constantly pushes for more time and closeness than she's comfortable with, despite her clear irritation and attempts to create more space between them. And when she continues to not give him what he wants, he eventually lashes out and intentionally causes her pain and distress, which he sees as justified recompense for his pain. It doesn't matter to him that his pain is largely his own doing, and that she never actually did anything to intentionally hurt him. The very fact of her failure to capitulate to what he feels entitled to from her is enough justification for him to lash out at her, in fact he explicitly frames it as revenge for wrongs she's done to him (and IMO the one true weak point of the film is that she validates this position later).

And lest we are tempted to see his actions through the rose-colored glasses bequeathed to us by decades of romance films, the film makes explicitly clear how much the niceness was always false by the way Ken treats Barbie when she finally returns his affections. He drops any pretense of caring about her or what she wants or likes and is entirely self-absorbed in his interactions with her, preferring a dynamic in which she exists to be an ornament in his periphery, smiling adoringly as he sings the creepiest rendition of "Push" by Matchbox Twenty imaginable (that song IS ruined for me forever now, thanks for asking).

Allan, on the other hand, is comfortable and welcome with the Barbies because there is no expectation behind his presence except that he just enjoys spending time with them. He takes up space among them naturally, participates in their fun, and there is no ulterior motive behind it. He isn't competing with the Kens or trying to get a specific kind of attention from the Barbies. He's just their friend, and enjoys their company, and he's nice because he's NICE. When he does have a specific desire or need, he explicitly states it (as when he helps them get back to Barbieland by fighting the construction workers). But even then, he works with them because his goals and desires are aligned, not because he's looking for something else from them that he's not openly stating but still feels entitled to.

And it's CRUCIAL that Allan and Ken are in no way rivals for Barbie's attention or affection. Because they don't have to be to illustrate this difference, and in fact it removes any muddying of the waters. In most films, what qualities define a Nice Guy vs. a nice guy tends to be less consequential than who the heroine chooses at the end of the day. In fact in a lot of cases, neither guy is very nice by any definition of the word. Not only that, but in that narrative setup the heroine's eventual "choice" between two less-than-stellar options is such a foregone conclusion that it undercuts any attempt at displaying women's agency in romantic and sexual relationships. But I digress.

In reality, what defines a Nice Guy versus a guy who's genuinely nice isn't who the girl in question "chooses" at the end of the day. What defines a Nice Guy vs. a nice guy is whether the niceness is genuine, or a means to an end. By removing any notion of romantic rivalry from the equation, Barbie highlights how it's the two characters' behavior that makes one of them so clearly a positive presence within the film while the other is an antagonist.

[thequalitylady]

You wouldn’t be looking for a nice guy to take you to dinner, have you for dessert then fuck you silly right?

I would love to find a nice guy like that. Know anyone? 😁