'Totes Too Many Abbrevs'
Title: 'Totes Too Many Abbrevs'
Author: that_1_incident aka und_wenn_ein_lied {tokiohotelfiction.com}
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Rating: G
Warnings: Crack!fic
Characters: Bill Kaulitz, David Jost
Word Count: ~1,100
Summary: This is complete crack. The end.
Disclaimer: I do not own either Kaulitz. Not even ein bisschen =/
Author's Notes: I wrote this a year ago but never got around to posting it on here, so. O hay. So yeah, this is crack. Gloriously unadulterated crack, predominantly inspired by 'A Series of Tokio Events' by StayAtHomeMuse & cynical_terror over at tokiohotelfiction.com. I would also like to thank the Facebook group "i def speak in abbrev cause it's magnif" for providing an invaluable service. You guys are glor.
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“Also, you said you won’t let me take the private jet across any major oceans because it’s too,” Bill made quotation marks in the air with his manicured fingernails, “‘expensive,’ and, TBH, I don’t think I can afford to miss that many bi-weekly hair appointments in Paris. So, basically what I’m saying is, I don’t think the band can go to America.”
Jost blinked and leaned back in his office chair. The leather squeaked a little as he did so. “Right. Erm… well. I see your point,” he began diplomatically, “but I don’t think it’s terribly feasible to call off the promotional tour in North America because of, er, a hair appointment.”
“Six hair appointments, D,” Bill corrected, pulling out some lip gloss for a quick touch-up and barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He was proud of how undemanding he was being. After all, he hadn’t made a single comment about the uneven number of apples and oranges in the fruit basket in his last hotel room, even though he’d specifically requested four of each, not five and three, seriously.
“Might I suggest finding an American stylist, perhaps, just for the duration of the trip?”
“But nobody has good hair in America,” Bill complained. “Like, oh my God, that Jade guy who remixed our song? He’s from California, which is supposed to be like, trendy and stuff, right, but he totes had two diff colors in his hair and it looked way bad. Like…” Bill gestured grandly, trying to think of the right word, “ridic.”
A muscle near Jost’s jaw line twitched a little as the manager clenched and unclenched his teeth. “Bill, you have two different colors in your hair,” he said, voice dangerously quiet - something Bill’s band mates had learnt to recognize as the calm before the storm. Nobody could bring Jost to the end of his tether as quickly or as maddeningly as Bill.
“D.” The singer sighed, sounding disappointed. He cracked his bubblegum twice before speaking again, and when he did it sounded as if he was talking to a child. “I’m European. What looks awk on Americans is magnif on me. I can get away with more fash risks because I am more cultured. Americans have no culture.” He paused to examine his nails and then, sensing that Jost was waiting for him to finish, concluded with a slight wrinkle of his nose, “Americans have Britney Spears.”
Jost leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of his burnished mahogany desk. “How about I pencil in a nice Manhattan shopping weekend for you?” he suggested enticingly. “You could see a Broadway show, eat at a fancy restaurant, stay in the closest hotel to Fifth Avenue, the works… all on the house.”
“Meh.” Bill dug into his Gucci purse and pulled out his compact to check his makeup, which might have smudged in the fifteen minutes since he’d last checked it. He was totes not impressed with what D had to offer. “D, I’m totes not impressed with what you have to offer,” he said seriously. “If I want to have a shopping sesh I can just take the jet to Milan, dur. B-T-dubs, the West End is way better than Broadway, fer sure, and London's right across the English Chan.” He batted his eyelashes at his reflection and, seeming satisfied, closed the compact with a flourish. “London also has Rimmel.” He giggled. “Snaps to London.”
Jost frowned. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this - wasn’t sure why he even knew it in the first place - but he was getting desperate. Perhaps appealing to Bill on his level was the way to win this argument. “But New York,” he said temptingly, “has Maybelline.”
Bill stared at him for a minute, and Jost was just starting to think that he might have broken through when Bill’s shoulders shook and he began to laugh. “D! El oh el. It actually took me a sec to figure out that you were jk-ing. Like I would actually wear Maybelline. That’s hilar.” He shook his head in amusement and then said fondly, “I heart you sometimes. You’re so presh.”
Jost made a low noise in his throat that was somewhat akin to a growl and then stood, drawing himself up to his full height. Bill looked up from his chair and blinked vacuously. Jost took a deep breath.
“OK, B,” he began pointedly, “here’s the 411. I appresh that getting your hair done is croosh or whatev, but stop being so neg. The sitch is this: Tokio Hotel are a big phenom in Europe, but not in the US. And America’s a goldmine, furrealz. The fact that you're not known there is a prob.” Bill raised his eyebrows, and Jost sighed. “Let me put it this way - if the band cracks America, you’ll def be able to buy fifty Gucci purses every day for the next dec and still not make a dent in your saves.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Legit.”
Bill’s eyes widened. Slowly, he looked down at his purse, and then back up at Jost. “Srsly?”
Jost nodded smugly. “Srsly.” He had Bill now, and he knew it. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his superb mastery of teen slang. Kids these days.
But Bill wasn’t done yet. “O rly?”
Jost felt a bit silly but confirmed with a slight roll of his eyes, “Ya rly.”
“No wai.”
“Ya wai.”
“Oh em gee!” Bill squealed, clapping his hands excitedly. “D, you’re my fav manager ever!”
Jost cleared his throat embarrassedly and resisted the urge to dust off his shoulders. Another disaster had been averted. He made a mental note to contact the top dogs at the record company and ask them for a raise - God knows he deserved one. “So, it’s settled - you’re coming?”
Bill nodded. “Mos def.”
“Excellent.” Jost held out his hand, still mentally congratulating himself on his diffusion of the situation. “I’m glad we had this conversation.”
Bill shook it daintily and then curtsied. “Pleasure doing biz with you, D. But, just FYI…” David froze, and Bill tittered at his discomfort. “Chillax, all I’m going to say is that you totes should have explained it in terms of Gucci in the first place. It would’ve been so much less of a prob.”
“Ah.” Jost nodded weakly. “I’ll remember that for next time then, I suppose.”
“Spectac,” Bill said with a wink, then picked up his purse and skipped out of Jost’s office, leaving his very bewildered manager to slump down onto his desk in relief.
---<---<---@
~Danke fürs lesen!~
Author: that_1_incident aka und_wenn_ein_lied {tokiohotelfiction.com}
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Rating: G
Warnings: Crack!fic
Characters: Bill Kaulitz, David Jost
Word Count: ~1,100
Summary: This is complete crack. The end.
Disclaimer: I do not own either Kaulitz. Not even ein bisschen =/
Author's Notes: I wrote this a year ago but never got around to posting it on here, so. O hay. So yeah, this is crack. Gloriously unadulterated crack, predominantly inspired by 'A Series of Tokio Events' by StayAtHomeMuse & cynical_terror over at tokiohotelfiction.com. I would also like to thank the Facebook group "i def speak in abbrev cause it's magnif" for providing an invaluable service. You guys are glor.
---<---<---@
“Also, you said you won’t let me take the private jet across any major oceans because it’s too,” Bill made quotation marks in the air with his manicured fingernails, “‘expensive,’ and, TBH, I don’t think I can afford to miss that many bi-weekly hair appointments in Paris. So, basically what I’m saying is, I don’t think the band can go to America.”
Jost blinked and leaned back in his office chair. The leather squeaked a little as he did so. “Right. Erm… well. I see your point,” he began diplomatically, “but I don’t think it’s terribly feasible to call off the promotional tour in North America because of, er, a hair appointment.”
“Six hair appointments, D,” Bill corrected, pulling out some lip gloss for a quick touch-up and barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He was proud of how undemanding he was being. After all, he hadn’t made a single comment about the uneven number of apples and oranges in the fruit basket in his last hotel room, even though he’d specifically requested four of each, not five and three, seriously.
“Might I suggest finding an American stylist, perhaps, just for the duration of the trip?”
“But nobody has good hair in America,” Bill complained. “Like, oh my God, that Jade guy who remixed our song? He’s from California, which is supposed to be like, trendy and stuff, right, but he totes had two diff colors in his hair and it looked way bad. Like…” Bill gestured grandly, trying to think of the right word, “ridic.”
A muscle near Jost’s jaw line twitched a little as the manager clenched and unclenched his teeth. “Bill, you have two different colors in your hair,” he said, voice dangerously quiet - something Bill’s band mates had learnt to recognize as the calm before the storm. Nobody could bring Jost to the end of his tether as quickly or as maddeningly as Bill.
“D.” The singer sighed, sounding disappointed. He cracked his bubblegum twice before speaking again, and when he did it sounded as if he was talking to a child. “I’m European. What looks awk on Americans is magnif on me. I can get away with more fash risks because I am more cultured. Americans have no culture.” He paused to examine his nails and then, sensing that Jost was waiting for him to finish, concluded with a slight wrinkle of his nose, “Americans have Britney Spears.”
Jost leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of his burnished mahogany desk. “How about I pencil in a nice Manhattan shopping weekend for you?” he suggested enticingly. “You could see a Broadway show, eat at a fancy restaurant, stay in the closest hotel to Fifth Avenue, the works… all on the house.”
“Meh.” Bill dug into his Gucci purse and pulled out his compact to check his makeup, which might have smudged in the fifteen minutes since he’d last checked it. He was totes not impressed with what D had to offer. “D, I’m totes not impressed with what you have to offer,” he said seriously. “If I want to have a shopping sesh I can just take the jet to Milan, dur. B-T-dubs, the West End is way better than Broadway, fer sure, and London's right across the English Chan.” He batted his eyelashes at his reflection and, seeming satisfied, closed the compact with a flourish. “London also has Rimmel.” He giggled. “Snaps to London.”
Jost frowned. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this - wasn’t sure why he even knew it in the first place - but he was getting desperate. Perhaps appealing to Bill on his level was the way to win this argument. “But New York,” he said temptingly, “has Maybelline.”
Bill stared at him for a minute, and Jost was just starting to think that he might have broken through when Bill’s shoulders shook and he began to laugh. “D! El oh el. It actually took me a sec to figure out that you were jk-ing. Like I would actually wear Maybelline. That’s hilar.” He shook his head in amusement and then said fondly, “I heart you sometimes. You’re so presh.”
Jost made a low noise in his throat that was somewhat akin to a growl and then stood, drawing himself up to his full height. Bill looked up from his chair and blinked vacuously. Jost took a deep breath.
“OK, B,” he began pointedly, “here’s the 411. I appresh that getting your hair done is croosh or whatev, but stop being so neg. The sitch is this: Tokio Hotel are a big phenom in Europe, but not in the US. And America’s a goldmine, furrealz. The fact that you're not known there is a prob.” Bill raised his eyebrows, and Jost sighed. “Let me put it this way - if the band cracks America, you’ll def be able to buy fifty Gucci purses every day for the next dec and still not make a dent in your saves.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Legit.”
Bill’s eyes widened. Slowly, he looked down at his purse, and then back up at Jost. “Srsly?”
Jost nodded smugly. “Srsly.” He had Bill now, and he knew it. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his superb mastery of teen slang. Kids these days.
But Bill wasn’t done yet. “O rly?”
Jost felt a bit silly but confirmed with a slight roll of his eyes, “Ya rly.”
“No wai.”
“Ya wai.”
“Oh em gee!” Bill squealed, clapping his hands excitedly. “D, you’re my fav manager ever!”
Jost cleared his throat embarrassedly and resisted the urge to dust off his shoulders. Another disaster had been averted. He made a mental note to contact the top dogs at the record company and ask them for a raise - God knows he deserved one. “So, it’s settled - you’re coming?”
Bill nodded. “Mos def.”
“Excellent.” Jost held out his hand, still mentally congratulating himself on his diffusion of the situation. “I’m glad we had this conversation.”
Bill shook it daintily and then curtsied. “Pleasure doing biz with you, D. But, just FYI…” David froze, and Bill tittered at his discomfort. “Chillax, all I’m going to say is that you totes should have explained it in terms of Gucci in the first place. It would’ve been so much less of a prob.”
“Ah.” Jost nodded weakly. “I’ll remember that for next time then, I suppose.”
“Spectac,” Bill said with a wink, then picked up his purse and skipped out of Jost’s office, leaving his very bewildered manager to slump down onto his desk in relief.
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~Danke fürs lesen!~