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I neeeeeed a new chapterrrrr🤯
I love the emoji!!
You got it. 👊 The next part will be up soon as well!
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
Hello! I’m so sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoy the new chapter.
Also, does anybody else laughs at how much time I dedicate to describe outfits? I mean, it was the 70s after all!
Chapter 6, Part 1
By the time I got to my room, I noticed a square note had been posted on my door.
Gone to sound check. Will send a car for you at seven sharp. Dress Nicely.
Despite the lack of signature, the author of the message was quite obvious. I rolled my eyes at the underlined last sentence, crumbling the paper in my hand and heading inside. It wasn’t to please Mr. Grant, but I decided dedicating an effort to my look tonight was the least I could do, considering it was not only my first real assignment, but also my first Zeppelin concert. I reached for my favorite double single vinyl-Strawberry Fields Forever and Penny Lane, to set the mood for getting ready.
There was a special jumpsuit I had been meaning to wear: a double denim dream, with tight high waisted bell bottoms and a matching asymmetric top. It was edgy but also cool, just the image I wanted to portray as my role as journalist. Pairing it up with scarlet platforms, I looked around my luggage for a long, slim psychedelic fabric that I used as hippie headband. I tied it around my head, letting the knot’s remaining chords tangle in between my locks of hair.
The choice regarding the make-up was just a bit harder, as I struggled deciding between something formal and my natural juvenile taste for things like glitter. I finally decided on fluttery eyelashes, rosy cheeks and yes, a glittery gloss that belonged more to the disco that in a rock concert. Finally, I blew dried my hair into curls that framed my face and concluded I definitely looked nice enough for a night of eternal music.
It was well past six forty when I filled my arms with multicolor bracelets baring messages of peace and love, and I eventually left for the reception, a hand-painted bag slung on my shoulder and my favorite notebook of notes kept under the other one. From afar, I noticed there was a single, silver Cadillac parked in the entrance, and for half a slow-motioned second, I felt like a movie star. That is of course, until one of the back doors opened and a certain difficult musician emerged.
I truly wished I could turn back on my heels and run towards the opposite direction, but I couldn’t let Jimmy Page know I had become agitated by his sudden appearance. It was a matter that was becoming more and more problematic, having mainly to do with the fact he was wearing his stage attire and oh my god how can he look that sensual. It was an embraided masterpiece, an ink-colored fabric that exhibited mystical dragons crawling down the length of his legs. His chest was uncovered. I forgot how to breathe.
Ever the gentlemen, he kept the door open for me, a sly invitation without the necessity of communication. Of course, it was only the illusion of a choice, but I couldn’t be bothered with considerations that didn’t involve getting inside that car. It was dangerous, whatever this was, and the air was thick with tension as soon as he took a seat next to me.
“I have tried, Miss Venus, but I cannot seem to shake off those sharp eyes of yours.” His entire body was poised towards me, but I barely moved my head to acknowledge him, meeting his gaze from under my lashes.
“Its not me nor my eyes, I assure you. We all want the things we can’t have.” It was a cold answer that couldn’t hide the obvious warmth I felt at his compliment.
“And what is it that you want?”
You. I surprised myself at the sudden thought, without warning or logical reasoning, like an automatic answer. I chastised my subconscious and tried to gather any coherent idea left in my brain.
“Publishing this article is my biggest wish.” He rolled those teasing eyes at the mere mention of business, and I couldn’t help melting over the expression. It made the guitarist look years younger, a more playful side to contrast his gloomy exterior.
“You are determined to make me suffer.” It was a light sarcastic tone, and I couldn’t keep the corners of my lips from twitching upwards.
“I understand your disregard towards the media, but let me prove to you what I’m capable of.” I finally turned towards him, my eyes wide open and pleading. His demeanor changed slightly, as though I had somehow managed to cut through his characteristically frosty persona.
Jimmy raised his hand, very slowly, as though he expected me to bat it away. Gently, he took ahold of my neck and painfully dragged his fingers down and down towards my shoulder, where he halted. There was a smirk painted on his ever so handsome face when he noticed the goosebumps his trail had left behind.
“I could say the same to you.” It was such a seductive thing to say, the promise of what could yet happen, that I totally forgot what we were talking about for a second.
“James Page.” I warned, and he slumped back to his seat, defeated.
“Fine. Just answer me this then.” The guitarist searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and offered me one, which I shakily took. “What is it exactly that makes a musician great?”
I felt my eyebrows rise at the question since it wasn’t what I was expecting. It was a serious, thoughtful inquiry, and I knew in that moment that the future status of my article depended on the answer I gave. He offered to light my smoke, an entertained look on his face, and I took advantage of the brief time to get my thoughts together.
“It has to do mainly with their personal style.” He looked puzzled at what I had said, and I realized it had come out all wrong. Damn, I’m so much better at writing! “Take for example The Beatles. I mean, they were definitely talented from the start. They knew how to work a crowd and they wrote exactly what teens and lovers wanted to hear. But their sound wasn’t any different from several other pop groups reigning on the radio.
The greatness was truly bestowed upon them when they found the sound that distinguished them, and that only came when they started looking for inspiration within themselves. Suddenly it wasn’t repeated riffs or silly lyrics, but true music that resounded deep in all of our souls. Think of Sgt. Pepper, that album became iconic the minute it was released because it was like nothing out there.”
We shared a look in the silence that proceeded, and I knew this captivating genius and I had finally found common ground. It was more than that, but I just couldn’t point it out.
“You had that since the beginning. That first LP literally knock it out of the park. I remember all the critics were so angry. As a band, you were supposed to grow into greatness, but Zeppelin was born being exceptional.” It was not an attempt to suck up or to try and look full of knowledge, what I had said was my truth regarding them.
This time Jimmy Page’s gaze was not seeking to undress me but was rather calculating. There was something else in there too, but I didn’t know him well enough to understand what it meant.
The car halted, and my body unintentionally got pressed against the musician’s chest. Neither of us moved, somehow frozen, our faces so so close that I could kiss him if I wanted it. I had started to entertain the idea when the door of the automobile flew open. We had arrived at the arena.
#jimmy page#jimmy page fanfic#jimmy page fanfiction#led zeppelin#led zeppelin fanfic#70s fanfiction#70s#rock
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Happy Birthday Pagey!
I thought since today is this Rock n Roll God's birthday I could post some of my favorite pictures of him.
Finally:
Happy Birthday Baby! ❤
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Omg when is the next chapter up
Very soon, I promise!
I was away for a little bit but I'm back, hopefully you'll get something later today or tomorrow!
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I LOVE THIS STORYYY!!! SHES MY FEMINIST ICON CANT WAIT FOR MORE!!!!!!!!
YAAAS GIRL!
nah but honestly, so glad you like the story 😊
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Really love your fic! It's super realistic in the sense of the sexism and misogyny of the era, especially towards women trying to build their careers and hanging around bands. Also lol @jimmy for sleeping with girls similar to Venus ;p I would love to see Lori play a role in all of this tbh. Btw is Jimmy married in your story or single?
Thank you so much! I’m so glad you like it.
The journalism regarding music in the 70’s was an important part of the decade, and there are many famous writers from that time, but almost none are women. So, I really wanted to tackle the issue of sexism in that specific area by creating this character who was talented but constantly questioned because of her gender. I think most of us as women still feel sort of identified with her.
I also really like how Venus tries to juggle between her professional and personal life. I wish I could say more, but no spoilers!
You’ll see more of the groupie culture in the story because I actually really like it. (Again, wish I could say more!) But I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll include any baby groupies because in my opinion that was just wrong. You’ll get to see many known characters from the 70’s make an appearance however, and if you would like someone in specific I can try and incorporate it into the story!
For the married part, the story takes place in 1973. That’s all I’ll say about it…
If you have any more questions, I’m happy to chat.
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
Hello, thank you for sticking with me down this road! I have all sorts of plans for this story, so I hope to keep you entertained.
I also wanted to give special thanks to the lovely @ritacaroline. I know my grammar is not great and she was so so nice to offer me help correcting some of my monstrous mistakes. She’s also a really great person overall so thank you for that Rita. I recommend checking out her Jimmy Page Fanfic, it’s called ‘In the Light’ and I’m personally hooked on the story.
P.S. The next chapter involves the concert and I know we all love a good Zep gig!
Chapter 5
There was a ringing that threatened to split my head in two. I’m never drinking again, I thought, cracking my eyes open to find the source of the incessant sound. The room was still heavily disorganized but splendidly bathed in a golden light that suggested it was still early in the day. The noise suddenly ceased, and I slumped back to bed, defeated. Those damn sequins on my dress had dug deeply into my skin, making me itchy and suddenly so uncomfortable that I couldn’t get back to sleep.
And then the strident ring began again.
“For Christ’s sake.” I muttered against the pillow, searching for the cherry-colored telephone on top of the bedside table. “Yes?” My annoyance was clear in my voice when I answered.
“Ms. Rayne, this is the hotel receptionist. You had a call, and the caller said you should get back as soon as possible. The number is here in the lobby, in case you would like to drop by.”
“Yeah, I’ll get back to them after lunch.” I yawned, my eyes already closed from the effort it took to reach for the phone.
“It’s four in the afternoon, Ms. Rayne.” Her stylized, almost robotic voice echoed back at me, and her words ran down my spine like a bucket of icy water.
Shiiiiit.
I literally ran to the bathroom in an effort to speed the process of making myself presentable. As the tap released a shower of warm, therapeutic water, I tried to count in my head the number of shots I had taken last night along with John Bonham, but just couldn’t come up with a plausible one. After that encounter with the aloof Page, I had gone back to the table full of the Zeppelin personnel joining the three remaning members. Whatever happened after that is not exactly clear.
Racing back to my luggage, I rummaged through for something that didn’t require too much thinking. I was supposed to spend Saturday creating a profile on the band members, not sleeping off my colossal hangover. Man, I should be named Employee of the Month. I finally came across a pine colored maxi dress that sported a thin halter neck. I paired it along with some round, orange-tinted glasses to try to hide my bloodshot, hungover eyes, and I was out the door.
My feet followed firstly the trail to the lobby, and I finally placed a face on to the lady whose call had awoken me. She was already busy answering the phone, but happily handed me a piece of paper with a scribbled number. I didn’t recognize the digits, and there was no name nor address whatsoever. Nevertheless, I walked towards the telephone for guest calls and dialed it.
“Hi, this is Venus Rayne, you were trying to reach me?” I greeted as soon as the repeated tone ceased.
“Yes, Ms. Rayne, this is Ben Fong from Rolling Stone Magazine.” I burst out laughing, doubling over and holding my stomach.
“Yeah right, that’s a good one.” Giggling, I tried muffling the sound as I had gotten dirty looks from some guests hanging around. “Listen dude, I have a massive hangover, and this is certainly not helping.”
“Mr. Callaghan must’ve given me the wrong number. Are you not a journalist for Muse?”
Oh fuck.
“Uhhh, yeah. Yes, I mean.” I facepalmed myself, begging the earth to swallow me whole.
“…Great. Listen, you’re with Led Zeppelin for the weekend, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re doing this Concerts You Can’t Miss this Summer piece and would really like to include Zep on it. And, you know, since today is their very first, we thought we might get your perspective on the matter. 150 words. What do you say?”
I was at loss for words. Being included on this particular magazine has been a goal of mine, and even if it was only an insignificant part, it would surely look good on my resume.
“Yes.” I finally let out with absolute confidence.
“Good. Just one more thing, this is due tomorrow six am sharp. It needs to go through the editor’s table before being published. I understand you have another deadline for Sunday. Are you sure you can handle it?”
“Fuck yes.” Ben Long chuckled on the other side of the line as I fist bumped the air. The opportunities were lining themselves up for me, and I was not going to be afraid to take them. I sent my regards to the magazine’s team and hung up, feeling victorious.
“Oi, girlie.” I knew by the brusque voice that it belonged to none other than Mr. Grant, and I turned around to greet his sleepless face. “Breakfast.” He said, pointing towards the direction he was walking. The large manager didn’t stop to chat, and I trailed behind him, hoping to get on his good side.
“Tough night?” I asked, perhaps too chirpily.
“Fun night, Miss Rayne. I am surprised you’re up this early, considering the events that occurred.” My cheeks burned at his comment, but he seemed pleased, as though I had somehow earned his approval by drinking half the bar. “Hey chap, did you manage to wake them up?”
He was speaking to a roadie who rushed by with a distressed look painted on his face, hands deep in his pockets. “Bonham threw a pair of drumsticks at me, but they’re up.” With that remark the boy was gone, and I glanced at Mr. Grant to find him nodding.
“That sounds like him.” He muttered almost to himself and I contributed a chuckle.
We finally entered a deserted room, probably destined for reunions, and especially closed for the band. The table was filled edge to edge with all sorts of foods: fried bacon, scrambled and poached eggs, trails among trails of diverse breads, grilled veggies and fresh fruit. There was also champagne and orange juice for mimosas, along with bottles of heavier alcohol. Despite the fact there was literally no one, the grumpy manager asked me to take a seat and left without a beat.
I was buzzing, first as a result of the recent news and second, because it didn’t really matter I had overslept. Apparently a four pm breakfast was only natural for bands, and I took a mental note for future events. The possibilities of accompanying other rock groups on tour seemed suddenly reachable, and I found myself on cloud nine.
As I was reaching for some champagne to celebrate, two scantily dressed girls with long chestnut-colored hair entered the room, and I immediately identified them as groupies. Robert’s, I thought, deciding the best would be to simply ignore them.
“So, who did you come in with?” One of them asked me, and I only glared back. It was then that I noticed both of the girls shared my same hairstyle: wavy dark hair with a middle parting. It was certainly a strange coincidence, but I didn’t put too much thought into it, downing my mimosa.
A freshly showered Robert Plant then strutted in, his wet blond tresses stuck to his neck. His characteristic jolly smile was shining through despite the hangover I knew he too had to be sporting. The singer walked directly for me, obvious to the excited groupies that fought to get his attention.
“Really, Robert? You spent all night with those chicks and you can’t manage a hello?” I asked him, discreetly pointing their way with my slim, champagne flute. This produced a confused expression on the rock star’s face.
“Oh, they do not belong to me.” He shrugged bewildered, and without a care reached for my glass, drinking the leftover. There was a sudden blow, and in came the boisterous John Bonham, his face obviously tired but enthusiastic. As soon as he caught sight of me, the drummer came sprinting towards my seat.
“Bloody hell, Venus. That’s what I call getting hammered.” I high fived my new drinking buddy, and we ended cracking up over the ridiculous conversations we had last night while totally inebriated. “I don’t even know how this wanker could perform.” Bonham howled, referring to Robert and his league of unclaimed groupies.
“Actually, Planty here claims they aren’t his.” I responded while both band members devoured plates of traditional English breakfast. The drummer looked up at my statement, slightly puzzled.
“Well, they’re certainly not Jonesy’s, and Page goes for blondes.” Some peculiar ideas began popping up in my mind after Bonham’s remark, but I waved them away as pure speculation. “Now that I think about it, where was Jimmy last night?”
Like summoned by the mere sound of his name, the elusive player burst through the door and the entirety of the table fell silent. Try as I might, I couldn’t resist stealing a curious look at him and at the way his hair released tiny drops of water that slid well into his open shirt. I was suddenly thirsty and knew no amount of alcohol could satisfy it.
Jimmy Page took a quick look at the members of the makeshift breakfast, until his eyes finally settled on me. I shifted nervously at the intensity of his glare, as his fellow partners followed the trail of their guitarist’s gaze to my seat. A beat later and he was gone without uttering a single word, both groupies following quickly behind him. Well, that answers that.
“What did you do?” Robert and John questioned in unison, shocked at our exchange but very much amused. I shrugged and sank deeper into my chair, still dazed by the brief appearance of the British God. Or Devil, that suits him so much better.
“I’ll investigate.” The singer stated and rushed out of his seat laughing. Bonham quickly followed, not before congratulating me on managing to piss off the reclusive Jimmy. It didn’t seem like an accomplishment to me.
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Superb fic, keep going love!
Thank you so much for the love! Sometimes I think my writing is bad lol, but then I see a message or even a like and it motivates me to do more. ❤❤
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
Thanks for letting me know that you enjoy the story, it really brightens my day.
Chapter 4
His nearby presence stirred a deep pull inside of me, igniting a familiar feeling. It was the type of presentiment you get after doing something naughty and knowing it, as though I could get caught any minute. It excited me far more than any drug.
“I must know your name.” It was almost a whisper, charged with longing, and I had to look upwards to meet his intense gaze. Outside, in the night’s cloak, those pair of eyes looked like pools of ink.
“Dante Alighieri.” I provoked, fighting a grin that threatened to take over my face. Bringing the cigarette to my mouth, I took a deep pull as he furrowed his eyebrows.
“As in, the poet?” He questioned, glancing at my lips. The single move was one of the sexiest things I had ever seen, and I questioned my sanity.
“The ninth circle on his Inferno.” I said, each word letting out tiny bursts of smoke that I had inhaled. The guitarist seemed entertained, if slightly amused at what I said. Finally, the smile I tried to avoid came out, inevitably. “It was frozen.”
It took a second, but I watched as his bewildered expression turned to one of surprise and finally, recognition. I offered him my burning smoke, and he took it. There was a certain intimacy created between the two of us in that instance, despite the moment and its meaning.
“Regardless of the state of hell, I despise journalists, Miss..”
“Venus.” I completed, feeling somehow empowered in front of the majestic Jimmy Page.
“Venus?” He questioned, as though he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Each passing moment, you only manage to outdo yourself.”
I thanked the darkness in that moment, as it provided cover to my heated cheeks. If there was something I didn’t wanted, it was to give out the fact that his mere existence made me nervous. This job was far more important than any seductive and captivating rock star.
“Mr. Page” I achieved to deliver, grounding my sandals deep in the ground to force myself to concentrate. “A piece on our latest issue could certainly be of benefit to the band, especially considering you are at the start of your tour. Many of our reade-“
“You are very beautiful, Miss Venus.” Normally, I would’ve snapped at that type of interruption, but the way he pronounced my name in his posh accent threw me off balance. Whatever was I saying? “And you know it, which only makes you that more dangerous.”
He took a step closer, and a whiff of his scent teased my nostrils. He smelt like well-kept whiskey, like pine trees after a rainy afternoon, like wax off scented candles, all combined with the artificial aroma of a bittersweet perfume that I swore would become my doom. Oh no.
“Mr. Page” I restarted, assembling words in my brain to form a coherent sentence. He took another step, close enough now that my chest was pressed to his, and I abandoned any effort to communicate.
“You call me that way one more time and I will not respond to what I’ll do.” His tone was suddenly serious, and a quick inspection of his face finally revealed the Jimmy Page I had heard so much about. There was something truly mystic in his eyes, a certain profound darkness that made me feel like he was staring deep into my mind.
I took a step back as soon as I started to feel goosebumps running down my arms. I know I should’ve feared him but searching through my emotions I found the only thing I felt was arousal.
He slid his long, musician hand around my waist, and I felt each of his fingers settle on the thin strip of exposed skin. My breathing was finally cut, and I struggled even standing on my feet.
“The things I could do to you, Venus.” At the first hint of kiss I felt caressing my neck, I managed to raise my hands and push him lightly away. He presented no resistance but there was a change in his expression.
“I’m afraid you’re confusing what my role as your employee is.” My vocal chords finally resonated with each word. There was a sudden confidence in me, as if there was a change of power between us both and I now held the advantage. “I think what you’re looking for is a groupie, and there are many willing back inside.”
It was almost like he couldn’t believe what I was saying, and I realize not many girls had said ‘no’ to the infamous rock star. Now past the trance, my mind had certainly cleared up and I remembered whatever relationship needed to exist between us had to be completely professional. Article or not, I didn’t want to be known simply as the chick who had slept with Led Zeppelin’s virtuoso guitarist.
In that moment, I should’ve said something, anything. But I decided against it, because I knew if I stayed even a minute more, it would end in a hazardous situation. Taking a step back, I resumed my march back into the club, until I knew I was far enough that if I dare look behind, I wouldn’t be able to see his frame outlined against the twilight.
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Can I just say this is one of my favorite fan fictions ever and you only have a couple chapters out! You write all the members so realistically and I can’t wait to see how you write Jimmy! Also are you going to be writing about the groupie scene at that time as well? Pls post next chapter soon!
oh my god you just made my entire year!! thank you so much, i'm so happy that my loser thoughts are actually enjoyed by some of you. i send love to you, thanks for hitting me up 😊
i'm quite interested in groupies actually, Venus may have some prejudices regarding them but hopefully they may be cleared up soon.
i'll write the next chapter as soon as i can. right now i'm battling a monstruos hangover 😷 but believe me, you'll like it.
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
Hello my beauties! Happy New Year to all of you!
I guess I just wanted to point something out before this next chapter. First, considering this is fiction, I thought I could take some liberties regarding the actual events that happen in the 70s. So, The Beatles are still together, because duh, and some members of Club 27 decided to quit it. Second, I think music is very important to the story, so much that by Chapter 10 I’ll probably composed a playlist for y’all. In this case, the song she dances to is Black Magic Woman, by the only Santana. I recommend listening to it while reading that specific part.
Chapter 3
The knock on the door totally threw me off my eyeliner game, and I ended up with a black streak running up my left temple. I rushed to get a wipe, cursing at the constant bagging that plagued my room. Who could it be? I thought sarcastically, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“Robert.” I greeted, barely twisting the knob to let the him in. There was something unnatural about the fact I was on first name terms with a worldwide known rock star, but then again, stranger things have happened. “I look like a hooker.”
The singer inspected the tiny, silver sequined skirt and the matching sleeve-less crop top, both courtesy of the golden god himself. Baring shoulders, legs and a thin hint of stomach, I felt naked. His greeting smile shortened to a sly smirk, and I felt mysteriously confident under his lustful gaze.
“You’re bound to attract a collection of looks.” Robert murmured deeply, almost to himself. “But remember, you ought to achieve the goal in mind.” He recollected himself, snapping out of whatever thoughts had filled his head. “Let’s go.”
Walking down the hotel’s Kubrick-esque corridors, I did a scanning of my own of my companion’s suit. A tight, black shirt clung to his torso underneath a blue satin tailored blazer, with matching trousers. Around his neck, a single, golden feather hanged by a thin chain, and following its trail upwards I found his eyes looking at me. Blushing, I turned away, walking just a tad faster.
“Really, Plant?” Peter’s cheer ranged the length of the lobby as he caught sight of us, his large frame standing besides a gorgeous, platinated Cadillac. “There are a half dozen birds waiting at the club. Never one to be patient, are you?” He laughed enthusiastically, patting Robert’s back like a proud father would.
The manager’s keen gaze then concentrated on me, and his full own grin soon turned south. “Ms. Rayne.” He stuttered, recognizing my unamused face.
“A true misunderstanding, isn’t it?” My tone was harsh, but I managed to slip on an entertained look. One of the roadies opened the door of the majestic car, and I rushed into in before anyone could make another unnecessary comment.
It was quite a luxurious ride, with charcoal colored seats and bottles upon bottles of icy champagne. By the time both Peter and Robert slid in, I had lighted a joint of my special stash, and the sour atmosphere was soon pierced by our ecstatic laughs.
“Bonham has already managed to christen the suite’s bathroom.” Mr. Grant chuckled, gesturing signs of throwing up. I grimaced at the thought, but they laughed it off like it was a normal occurrence. “And Jimmy will only move on his own terms, which is apparently very late and very alone.”
He huffed and puffed the length of the car ride, while we both continued to giggle at his mother like antics. The Californian club came into view, a crowd of extravagantly dressed bodies residing outside its tiny entrance. I was so high I couldn’t manage to walk straight, wobbling in my silver platforms and hanging to poor Robert for dear life.
Inside, whoever, it was an otherworldly rock and roll paradise. Everyone looked like a character out of a Creem magazine. Some with unnatural dark sunglasses covering half their faces: mostly famous personalities that didn’t like being bothered, an excited Plant explained. Crowds of uncovered, glitter-faced girls hopped booth by booth, enthusiastically saluting the male stars. Groupies, I understood, and they soon plagued our surroundings as soon as we took a seat.
Mr. Grant inspected every female that came by, and I observed he only let pass those with plentiful brown hair. Five minutes later they all stood in front of the singer next to me, chestnut and mahogany and coffee colored-hair beauties.
Robert Plant leaned in, and I noticed for the first time his ocean tinted irises. The stare he gave me was very direct. “I have this thing for brunettes.” He stated, and it was quite obvious what he meant by it.
“Really?” I teased, biting my lip. Inclining myself just a little closer, I whispered into his ear. “So do I.”
Over the psychedelic music, our laughs ringed in unison and I felt daggers by the hot gazes of the young girls standing by.
“I really like you.” My companion stated, but his attention was elsewhere a second later. Suddenly, he called something above my hearing range, and motioned his hand over. Craning my head to look in the direction he regarded, I recognized four particular hairstyles, and my heart rate abruptly fell.
Absolutely starstrucked, I watched as The (fucking!) Beatles waved back, their colorful satin suits a different shade each. I felt as though I was seeing them through my black and white tv screen, unreachable and splendid. My every teenage memory was aided by their music, the soundtrack to a period of my lifetime. There was a high chance that my career was chosen upon their influence, and seeing them in flesh and blood, I could only stare.
The rest of the group settled upon one of the more private booths, but a bearded figure made its way towards our table and I asked myself if a heart attack was in the horizon.
“And here I thought Bonham was around.” Paul McCartney stated as soon as he was in hearing range of our table. “I don’t like you that much.” The Beatle joked at Robert, and I felt inside one of their musical comedies, probably sporting the role of a mime.
“Not in front of the ladies, Macca.” Plant banter back, and he turned around to gesture at me when he caught sight of my agitated state, probably understanding what I was going through. “Paul, this is Miss Venus Rayne, rock journalist for Muse Magazine.”
“Why, I had never met a girl music critic.” He presented his hand to me and I hurriedly reached for it, not realizing I was offering the joint bearing fingers.
“Why, I had never met a Beatle.” I responded shakily, and somehow managed to make him laugh based on my clumsiness. Taking the joint out of my hand, he took a deep hit and nodded, apparently impressed with the taste.
“This is good, Miss Venus.”
“I come bearing presents.” I grimaced at my own attempt at sounding amusing, but he only showed me that gentle, kind smile. With a wave and carrying the roll, he was gone, and I could again take a breath. As on cue, Day Tripper began blasting off the club’s walls, and I was soon out of my seat.
“I think this is the best day of my life and I need to dance, and I need to dance NOW.” I told a shocked Robert Plant. I didn’t stick around for a response, as I turn to navigate the sea of bodies towards the dancefloor. I ended up joining a band of dancing groupies, who were just as delighted as I was. The lights, the music and the drugs were overwhelming.
Suddenly, something cut the atmosphere in half. The starting notes to one of my favorite songs began playing, and before I knew it, my hips had reacted to the tempo. It was a slow and seductive latin sound, one that crawled up my body until I found myself hypnotized with the rhythm. By the time the guitar took center stage, I was already swaying to its movements.
The rest of the girls glanced back at me, their eyes curious by my style of dancing. I only smirked back, twirling slowly for everyone to see. After all the occurrences that comprised my day, I felt especially confident tonight. Closing my eyes, I permitted the electric guitar take hold of my steps.
The chords were intoxicating, and the heat of the dance floor produced a submerged energy that had me panting. I was so immersed, drunk on vibrations, that the only thing that broke the spell was the sharp feeling that someone was watching me. Slowly prying my eyelids opened, I became transfixed with a pair of darkened, mysterious eyes. Jimmy Page’s penetrating gaze was poised on me, unmoved and captivated.
Seated afar from any other soul, he seemed unashamed to have been caught staring. Those dark pupils ran the course of my body with such hunger that the moment they were positioned again in line with mine, I was gasping for air. The intensity of his stare was too much for me to bear, and I was the one who ended looking away, feeling lightweight and high over the tension that had taken charge of the ambient.
The song ended, and I stumbled through the mass of bodies, away from the source of my sudden dizziness. There was a need for fresh air in my lungs, and I rapidly found an exit towards the outdoors. I walked past a throng of smokers, the heavy scent lingering on their clothes, until I reached a bulb-covered tree, its branches lighting up the night sky.
Reaching for my lighter, I placed a cigarette between my lips to fight off the chilly afternoon. The flame danced for half a second, and by the time it was extict, I had distinguished a dusky figure marching straight for me. My entire frame froze to the spot. I knew exactly who it was.
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
This chapter is kind of short, so I might update next part soon.
Chapter 2
Slumping my way down the halls, I searched for the 505 inscribed into a door. What should be a once in a lifetime opportunity was turning south real quick, and I let out a sigh of defeat as the number I was looking for came into view. Reaching my pocket for the key Mr. Grant had given me, I stared in surprise as the door was slightly ajar.
Giving it a light push, I was suddenly overcome with both a sweet, earthy smell and the chorus of a Hendrix song. For a second, I thought I had entered the wrong room, but a quick glance at the entrance confirmed that this was the correct one. Weird.
I walked in anyways and found that my luggage had somehow found its way into the bed, and even stranger, had been opened. My precious vinyls that I took everywhere, and my clothes, were spilled: a shoe rested near the fluffy pillows, tinted sunglasses laid neatly side by side, a flower skirt was draped on the floor. But all this of course could not come close to what I encounter modeling my favorite blue kimono in front of the full-length mirror.
“Holy shit.” I murmured.
Robert Plant seemed absolutely unfazed by my presence in the room, parading himself around the carpet, his chest uncovered by my unbelted robe. You would think such a feminine fabric would make him look unmanly, but it only enhanced his elongated frame, making him appear elegant and unobtainable. I could only stare.
“Actually, the red one fits better.” He observed, taking off the piece of material and letting it slide to the floor. And just like that, the lead singer of Led Zeppelin was half naked in my hotel room. Talk about improvement.
There was a change of tune, One Rainy Wish began playing, and on queue John Paul Jones appeared off the balcony door, a blue paper covered joint playing on his lips.
“Oi, this is really good.” He blurted, showing off a lopsided smile. I could’ve laughed at the way his expression changed suddenly when he caught sight of me, but the only thing that moved was my jaw.
Suddenly deeply embarrassed, the bass played tried to utter some apology about the fact he had taken a pre-rolled out of the stash that I kept on my baggage. But I just smiled, holding my hand out, a clear sign that I wanted some of that. I was definitely going to need it to handle whatever this situation was.
“So, who picked out Axis: Bold as Love?” I inquired after taking a hit, wordlessly passing the joint to Robert. A hand timidly rose, and I winked at Paul Jones. “I like you.” I teased, letting a true smile show up. The tension in the air was suddenly non-existent, and we all laughed, already tingling from the smoke.
“See? I told you she could be fun.” Robert Plant smirked triumphantly, settling on the bed with the scarlet robe of his liking. “Bonzo owns me twenty…How is it you called it here? Bucks?”
“Oh man, you really made a bet whether I was boring?” I covered my face in shame, talk about a good first impression.
“Well, you clearly are something else.” John emphasized, skimming over my vinyl collection. “You are the first girl I know that carries around a case full of records.”
“I can’t manage to go to bed without having Roger Waters sing me to sleep.”
“Is that so?” Robert leaned in, eyeing the discs. “Any chance a Zep album might pop out?”
“She’s got Led Zeppelin III. Twice.” They giggled in unison as I reached for the trunk, already feeling a slight burnt on my cheeks. Great.
“I think that’s enough. Look, let me play something great for you.” I babbled, reaching for Santana’s latest album. I stumbled through feeling lightweight, until I approached the phonogram, changing the disc. The first few notes echoed back at the wall, and I saw both band members nod their heads approvingly.
“You are a guitar girl.” The singer remarked, his curious eyes slightly slanted.
“Totally not. I appreciate the unison of sounds. A mere guitar cannot achieve the magic alone.” The weed was doing some talking for myself, but I knew my statement to be true.
“Just don’t let Page hear any of that sort.” John pointed out, amused at whatever came out of my babbling mouth. I grimaced at the thought, after all, it was the guitarist I was bound to impress.
“Right. The guy who wants nothing to do with me.” I sighed theatrically for the boys. Trying to summon my best puppy eyes, I turned to them. “Mr. Grant told me that if he doesn’t agree with the interview, I won’t get to publish anything at all.”
“Do not give it much thought. He’ll come to his senses once he meets you. Pagey just doesn’t sympathizes with critics after all those awful reviews.” Robert declared, and John nodded understandably. Some hope spiked inside of me.
“You really think so?”
“Of course, pretty bird. See, we have a welcoming party tonight, it’s the perfect opportunity to talk to Jim. He’ll be very drunk, which is normally his most understanding stage.” I felt a smile creep to my face, and a mirror appeared on both the boys’ faces. “We just have to find you something appropriate to wear.”
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
Chapter 1
Fixing my suit, I stood just a little taller amongst the welcoming crowd on the hotel lobby. The flight to Los Angeles had been short, and now I stood waiting for the mighty Zeppelin to arrive, fashionably late as always. I had on my most conservative clothes, the ones I had gotten as a Christmas gift from my mother, to show I was a respectable and professional journalist. It consisted of a long sleeve suede brown shirt, which looked more like a blazer, and an ankle long skirt made of the same material, with my favorite black knee length boots underneath it all.
Around me, roadies dashed back and forth, carrying all sorts of strange stuff, like black colored candles and freshly picked up flowers. I kept glancing at the entrance, like I could summon one of my favorite bands to simply appear out of thin air.
By the time I had rearrange the bun on my head, I saw a wide figure appear before me. His small, slitted eyes posed down on me, as though he knew exactly who I was.
“Oh, if you have those little lavender smelling soaps, take them away. The boys hate them.” The bald man said to me, as though I could do something about it. “If you don’t, they’ll throw them out the window, and there’s really nothing I can do about it.”
The moment he opened his mouth, I knew who he was by his heavy English accent. Peter Grant, manager to Led Zeppelin and probably the guy I had to deal with. I tried to summon my very best smile, without too much luck.
“Good afternoon Mr. Grant. Welcome to America, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.” He started walking away as soon as I started my greeting, and I turned around to face him. “My name is Venus Rayne, and I was appointed by Muse Magazine as your interviewer.”
I swear I saw him freeze mid step as soon as I utter the words Muse Magazine back at him. He turned, around slowly, his huge frame inspecting my whole body, as though he could make my outfit disappear.
“You are the girl I asked for?” The way he pronounced the sentence, it was as if he couldn’t deal with the way I looked. I stared back, half a smiled already disappearing behind his judging look.
“Isn’t it a pleasure, this California weather?” I heard a thick, British voice behind me, and Mr. Grant’s eyes opened a little wider, if possible. Turning around, I came face to face with a golden-haired God, past the six-foot mark and with bouncy, ideal curls framing his masculine face. I had seen a million and one photos of him on multiple music covers, but I could not believe I was standing before the very one and only Robert Plant.
“Well hello there.” He said, inspecting my five-foot five frame, a handsome smirk spayed across his face. “Why exactly are you dressed like my dear old nana?”
Any smart response that could come out of my mouth left my mind as soon as I saw a smaller figure appear behind him, dark hair and heavy mustache resting above his lips. John Bonham took a single look at my clothes and began laughing, heavily and boisterously, until everyone turned towards him, like the inside joke belonged to every single one of them. I blushed, profoundly.
“She’s the lass from Muse, remember?” Peter Grant almost lamented in front of the band. “The one who’s going to do the piece on Zep-“
“I’ll do a bloody interview when hell freezes over.” We all turned towards the voice in question, and the shadowy figure didn’t stop to give us no more than an uninterested look. I stared at the legendary guitarist as he marched his way in the direction of the rooms with full, determined steps.
“Beware Jimmy Page most of them all”, Mr. Callaghan had warned me in his office. “There’s a disturbing energy that accompanies his every move, as though his aura is made entirely of shade.”
Never one to rely on prejudices, I hadn’t taken seriously what my boss had pointed out, simply waving it away as some hippie belief or common stardom gossip. But I couldn’t help but feel a strange shift in the air as he walked past. The rest of the gang spaced behind their lead composer, having lost much interest in me and whatever my role was.
“You. My office. Now” Mr. Grant no less than commanded, and I followed his full figure through a throng of people. We finally arrived at a small studio with a single round window and number of items laid randomly on every surface available. There were several signed vinyls of the band’s latest album, pages among pages of itineraries, a half sewn pink matador style jacket and a single empty guitar case. It was far from being an office, but the improvised space served its purpose.
Before Peter could open his mouth to probably utter offences at me, I handed him the essay I had done on The Who, as a token of what I was capable of. His minuscule pupils darted left to right, left to right, all along the length of the page. I shifted nervously on my seat until I saw him crack a smile and then a deep, throaty laugh.
“That part about Townshend picking his women like he does his guitars is absolutely right.” He chuckled, and my high spirits were up once again. Peter’s slight smirk dropped at the sight of my excitement and he handed me back the magazine. “Don’t get cheeky girl, this doesn’t mean I like you.”
“No, I didn’t meant to insinuate tha-“
“Listen here, lassie.” Mr. Grant interrupted me, “The press has not been exactly pleasant with the band, and the boys share certain, let’s say mistrust towards any rock journalist. They are not exactly thrilled at the idea of being covered by a magazine.”
I raised my eyebrows at the last comment.
“Alright, alright, so they loathe the idea. That’s why I wanted a girlie, you know? Women tend to be so much more…persuasive.” He wiggled his eyebrows at that word and I only stared back. Peter let out a huge sigh and rubbed his tired eyes. “Look, I cannot do more than give you all access to their every move. But if you really want a story, you shall have to get it your own self.”
“So, not only do I have to construct a piece, I also have to convinced them to do it?” This assignment was becoming more and more impossible one minute at a time. The manager looked almost sorry at my disappointed face.
“Well, I shall hand you some helpful advice.” He stared intensely at my frame, as though he could change what he was eyeing. “Your hair. Robert normally goes for dark beauties. Start there. If you manage to somehow convince him, Bonham and Paul Jones will follow shortly behind. Which will leave you only with..”
“James Page.” I finished his sentence, and he glanced nervously around, as though the mere sound of his name could summon the elusive rock star.
“You should really be a blonde.” Mr. Grant stated, as though this could truly be the solution to the problem in hand. “If he is in, the deal is done. If he is not, there is no way possible that the article could be printed. And we could use some good press.” Digging through his deep pockets, he produced a key with a 505 inscribed in it. “Best of luck, Missy” He concluded, handing me the piece.
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Jimmy Page Fanfic
right i have no idea what i’m doing. but i’ve had this idea running though my mind for some time now, so i thought, why the hell not. english is not my first language, so i am sorry for any discrepancies here.
Prologue
The smoked curled, sometimes in patterns and sometimes in plain disorder, as I took another long drag of my burning cigarette. The city below was not yet awake-a clear element that came in hand with the fact that it was Friday and nobody wanted to move a hand.
“Venus,” I heard the high pitch voice of my coworker and didn’t resist rolling my eyes. Everyone knew a smoking break meant I’m-tired-of-the-bullshit break. “Mr. Callaghan wishes to see you.”
I turned around then, my hair whipping all over my face from a current of warm, summer air. It wasn’t everyday that my boss called specifically for me, considering I had only worked on Muse, one of America’s top music magazines for over three months now. My time was spent mainly serving coffee and correcting monstrous grammar errors for over the top male writers.
Speeding past the girl who had carried the message, I jogged along the office, trying to ignore the blast of music coming from each cubicle. Pop, Blues, some Foreign, each cubicle had a different genre and I smiled, knowing I belonged in the one and only Rock. I finally reached the biggest office of them all: Mr. Callaghan, Senior Editor.
I burst through the door, a smile hanging on my face until I caught the look of a familiar douche bag sitting across Mr. Callaghan: Alex, head writer of the rock column and the cause of my every headache. Ah shit.
“Alright! You called my secretary.” My mouth hanged open at Alex’s remark. I was definitely not a secretary, especially considering he had used some of my lines on his shitty column. At most I was an assistant, and a writer all on my own.
“Ms. Rayne, I’m glad you came.” I felt my grin return to my face as my boss signal me to take a seat. “I was just informing your coworker here of the latest assignment involving the magazine.” I smirked at Alex at how Mr. Callaghan remarked the word coworker. “I will need to request a number of things from both of you for this particular task.”
We both nodded excitedly, knowing very well that the fact the boss was informing us privately of the matter meant it was big.
“First of all, there will be secrecy surrounding this, the band doesn’t quite enjoy journalism. Second, I will expect the final draft on Sunday, because it will be included on this month’s edition of Muse. A race against time, will you say.” It really was, two days to write a column wasn’t nearly enough to have it perfect. “Third, Alex here will tend to any need you might have Venus, since you are handling the job.”
In that moment, I really wished I had a camera at hand, since Alex’s mouth fell open at the last remark. I felt a laugh growing in my throat, but it stopped dead in track when I realized what my boss has just told me.
What. The.
“But she’s a GIRL! An amateur! She doesn’t know a thing about rock music! You cannot possibly give her…” Alex protested before I could finish freaking the hell out, but was cut off by Mr. Callaghan, his frown deep and face serious.
“Alex, I will ask you to leave now. I must discuss the details with Ms. Rayne here.” Out of the corner of my eye I watched as Alex froze in shock, his eyes turned cold towards me. I smiled proudly back, trying to ignore the nervous churn I felt on my stomach. Suddenly, Mr. Callaghan rose behind his dark desk and accompanied my zombie coworker outside, locking the door behind him.
Holy shit. My first official assignment. Holy fucking sh….
“Now, Venus,” I snapped right back as Mr. Callaghan retook his seat, rearranging his wool jacket. “You are to leave today for L.A., considering they are starting their tour here on the west coast. You will spend Saturday creating a profile and getting all the information needed, including assisting their concert that night, so you can finish the essay on Sunday and you know, polish everything real good. Any questions?”
“Uh yeah.” My mouth was dry, and it was not because of the cigarette I had just smoked. “I mean, you haven’t told me what band it is. I listen to pretty much everything, but my specialty is rock.”
“Right. Well, you’ll do just fine Ms. Rayne, since the band in question is Led Zeppelin.”
The cavernous space was filled with my laughter, as I doubled over holding my stomach. Yeah right, Led Zeppelin. The biggest band on the world just happened to want a writer and they choose me, the rookie.
“C’mon Mr. C, Zeppelin is famous for their antagonism against rock reviewers.” I couldn’t understand how he didn’t get it, as he stared at me seriously, slightly amused. “And any case, you would never pick an amateur for a column belonging to the high leagues. I have barely written a complete essay-“
“That column on our past issue, the one on The Who, I know you did most of the work there. And it was excellent. The writing was clever, and you managed to capture their style. I’ve received nothing but good reviews on that one.” My cheeks blushed over his remarks, I thought nobody knew I had written that particular essay, after Alex had left it incomplete and with a terrible structure. “Oh yeah, and Zeppelin asked for a girl.”
My heart sank to the bottom of my wedges. Mr. Callaghan hadn’t picked me because I was talented or because my writing was good. It was because I had breast and a uterus. With all the stories of the wild parties behind their tours, I felt rage at the thought of the reason behind it.
“So, I’m bait, right?” Tears pricked at my eyes. “I am supposed to please their sexual desires, so Alex can come in and get all the right info?”
“What? No. No, Venus.” I felt some relief as Mr. Callaghan looked horrified at the idea. “Look girl, you have potential. Look at this as your big shot. If you killed this assignment, you’ll have your name on the map for interviewing the most elusive band on the planet.”
My mind ran free with the image, as I pictured myself getting offers from journals all over the country. Creem, NY Times, Rolling fucking Stone. Oh yeah, that sounds great.
“Now, there is only one thing I want to talk to you about, specifically.” My ears picked up as I bolted awake from my fantasy. Mr. C looked uncomfortable. “I’ll be direct. You are a woman. That is a disadvantage on our field of work. Females aren’t taken seriously if they aren’t writing about fashion or cooking.”
I looked at him. “Right, I kind of am aware of that.” I said, knowing very well it was a challenge I faced daily.
“Right. Okay, I’ll just say it. You can’t sleep with any members of the band, because the rock journalists will only see you as a groupie, and they will never respect you. You understand what I am saying?”
There was something clicking in my mind. Pictures passed by: Robert Plant photographed with skin tight pants, Jimmy Page doubled over his two-necked guitar, the band taking stage after a long concert drench in sweat. And then, a picture I hadn’t seen before. I saw myself lounging on an office of my own, asking for a vanilla cappuccino while having my boots stretched along a long, mahogany desk.
“All right, I get it Mr. C. I’m ready to rock and roll.”
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