jordan. she/her. 20s. peter parker's best friend. all things #4 and #81. book lover. scorpio. johnny storms gf (real). friends to lovers advocate. celestial child. will associate you with her favorite song or her favorite book. makes oddly specific playlists as a hobby.
masterlist | spotify | pinterest
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ — things to know
★ — i do not under any circumstances tolerate bullying, racism, transphobia, homophobia, violence, or any other types of hate/ discrimination. anyone who violates this rule will be blocked.
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IM ALIVE!!!
ive missed you guys too!! i've been okay! i hope you're doing well, nonnie <3
i don't wanna jinx anything just yet, but i've been working on some things (as well as a life update post cause... oh lord) because i've missed being on here and talking to all of you!
"i'm going to go if i can do it and stay out the way i would just... i'd like to be there for him at the end whatever happens but we'll see if we can make it work and i can stay out the way. i don't want to be getting involved but it would be good to be there"
Summary: you’re in worn joggers and your boyfriend’s oversized hoodie when he decides to walk into Hermès. They look at you like you're dirt on their Louboutins. He notices. And Lando Norris doesn’t do subtle when it comes to someone disrespecting his girl
The London air has a particular bite to it today, a crispness that promises autumn is not just arriving, but settling in for a long stay. It nips at your cheeks, a playful chill that makes you burrow deeper into the ridiculously oversized hoodie Lando insisted you borrow.
It smells like his cologne and clean laundry and that indefinable scent that is just him. You have your hand tucked into the pocket of his own hoodie, your fingers laced with his as you walk.
The pace is leisurely, aimless. A rare Saturday with nothing on the schedule, no flights to catch, no media obligations, no debriefs. Just the two of you, swallowed by the magnificent anonymity of a city that doesn't care who you are.
He’s in grey joggers, worn-in trainers, and a hoodie that matches yours, the hood pulled up over a navy blue McLaren cap. You’re a mirror image of his casual comfort, lost in a sea of Londoners. It’s perfect.
“Are you cold?” Lando’s voice is a low murmur beside you, his thumb tracing idle patterns over the back of your hand.
You shake your head, leaning your shoulder against his. “No, I’m good. Your ridiculously large hoodie is basically a personal tent.”
He grins, a flash of white in the grey afternoon. “See? Told you. Mega. Best thing I own.”
“You own a multi-million-pound supercar, Lando.”
“Yeah, but can I get lost in it? Can it double as a blanket? No. Point, Norris.” He squeezes your hand, pulling you a little closer as you navigate a throng of tourists taking pictures of a red telephone box.
You laugh, the sound bright in the cool air. It’s these moments you hoard, these quiet, unassuming fragments of a life that is often anything but. The rhythm of your steps falling into sync, the comfortable silence that settles between bouts of nonsense, the simple, solid weight of his hand in yours.
You’re talking about nothing — what to have for dinner, whether you should get a dog that would enjoy a tiny matching hoodie, the questionable plot of a movie you watched last night — when he stops. Just … stops. Abruptly enough that you take another step before his grip on your hand pulls you back to his side.
“What’s up?” You ask, following his gaze.
You’re standing in front of an Hermès store. The windows are immaculate, displaying a world of impossible luxury. Silk scarves arranged like abstract paintings, gleaming enamel bracelets, and a single, perfect handbag perched on a pedestal like a piece of priceless art. It’s beautiful and intimidating and a universe away from the cozy, lazy day you’re having.
Lando’s brow is furrowed, a little knot of concentration between his eyes. He’s looking at the window, but his gaze seems distant, like he’s accessing a file in his brain.
“The sandals,” he says, finally looking at you. “The ones with the H on them. You were looking at them online the other day, weren’t you?”
You feel a faint blush creep up your neck. You had been. You’d been scrolling on your phone in bed one night, half-asleep, and had paused on a pair of their iconic Oran sandals in a soft, buttery tan. You hadn’t thought he’d noticed. He was supposed to have been asleep.
“Oh, yeah. I think so,” you say, trying for casual. “They’re nice.”
“Nice,” he repeats, a smile playing on his lips. He turns to face the imposing glass doors. “Well, we’re here. Want to go have a look? See if they have your size?”
Your immediate instinct is to say no. You glance down at your outfit. His giant hoodie, a pair of simple black leggings, your most comfortable trainers. Your hair is in a messy bun, and you have on zero makeup. You look like you’ve just rolled out of bed to go on a coffee run, which isn’t far from the truth.
“Lando, look at us,” you murmur, tugging gently on his arm. “We’re not exactly dressed for this.”
He looks down at himself, then at you, then back at the store. He shrugs, a gesture of such simple nonchalance it’s almost comical. “What’s wrong with what we’re wearing? We’re wearing clothes. That’s the dress code, innit? Clothes.”
“It’s Hermès, not Tesco. I just … I’d rather not. We can go another time. To the one in Monaco, maybe. The sales associate there knows me.”
“Babe, it’s just a shop,” he says, his tone light and coaxing. “We’re just looking at some sandals. We’ll be in and out in five minutes. I promise.” He gives you the look — the one with the slightly widened eyes and the soft smile that you are physically incapable of refusing. “For me? I want to see if they look as good in person.”
You let out a long, slow sigh, but you’re already smiling. It’s impossible to stay serious with him when he gets like this, all boyish charm and gentle persuasion. “Fine. Five minutes. But if they look at me like I’m a piece of lint they need to brush off their cashmere, I’m leaving.”
“Deal,” he says, his grin widening. He pulls his hand from his pocket only to wrap his arm securely around your waist, pulling you against his side as he pushes open the heavy glass door.
The immediate shift in atmosphere is jarring. The bustling noise of the London street is sliced away, replaced by a hushed, reverent silence. The air inside is still and cool, scented with a subtle, expensive perfume that smells like leather and money. The carpet is so plush it feels like walking on a cloud, muffling your footsteps.
It’s quiet. Almost too quiet. A few other customers drift through the space, speaking in low, modulated tones. The sales associates, men and women dressed in impeccable dark suits, glide around like specters, their movements silent and efficient.
Lando seems completely unaffected, his arm a warm, solid presence around you. He guides you toward the shoe section, his trainers making no sound on the thick rug. You, on the other hand, feel every single eye in the room flicker toward you and then, just as quickly, away. The dismissal is so swift and so complete it feels like a physical slap. You instinctively pull the sleeves of your hoodie down over your hands.
You stand by a display of brightly colored sandals for a minute. Then two. Then five. Sales associates drift past. One rearranges a stack of shoe boxes that are already perfectly aligned. Another engages in a hushed, animated conversation with a woman dripping in diamonds. A third simply stands near the entrance, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond you. No one approaches. No one makes eye contact.
“So much for five minutes,” you whisper, the words feeling too loud in the silent space.
Lando’s relaxed posture has stiffened slightly. He’s still smiling, but it’s a little tighter now. “They’re just busy, I guess.”
“They’re not busy,” you counter, your voice even lower. “They’re ignoring us.”
You watch as a man in a beautifully tailored suit walks in with his wife. Instantly, an associate who had just floated past you and Lando without a glance materializes at their side. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Albright. So lovely to see you again. May I get you a glass of champagne while you browse?”
Lando’s arm tenses around you. “Okay,” he says, his voice losing its lighthearted edge. “That’s a bit blatant, innit?”
“Lando, please, let’s just go,” you plead, tugging at his hoodie. “I told you this was a bad idea. I don’t even want the sandals anymore. Honestly. Let’s just go get a hot chocolate or something.”
“No,” he says. The word is quiet but firm, a hard little stone dropped into the pool of your anxiety. “No, we’re not leaving. We came in to look at shoes for you, so we’re going to look at shoes.”
His stubbornness, which can be infuriating on a race weekend, suddenly feels like a shield. He scans the room, and his eyes land on a woman standing behind a glass counter, pretending to be engrossed in polishing an already gleaming buckle on a belt. He starts walking toward her, your hand still firmly in his.
As you approach, she finally looks up. Her eyes, cool and assessing, do a slow, deliberate sweep. They start at Lando’s worn trainers, travel up his grey joggers and hoodie, linger for a fraction of a second on the logo on his cap, and then move to you. The appraisal is just as thorough and twice as dismissive. A polite, plastic smile is pasted onto her lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Can I … help you?” She asks. The pause is infinitesimal, but it’s there. A chasm of judgment packed into a single breath.
Lando, to his credit, offers her a polite smile, completely at odds with the tension you can feel radiating from him. “Yeah, hi. My girlfriend was just hoping to try on a pair of the Oran sandals. In the tan colour? Gold, I think it’s called.”
The woman’s smile doesn’t waver. “Do you know the size?” She asks, her tone suggesting it’s a trick question.
“A thirty-eight,” you answer quietly, feeling like a student being quizzed by a strict headmistress.
“Hmm,” she says, tapping a long, manicured finger on the glass countertop. “I’ll have to see if we have that in stock.” She doesn’t move. She just stands there, looking at you both expectantly.
The silence stretches. It’s awkward and heavy and deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Lando’s jaw is tight.
“So … are you going to go and see?” He asks, his voice still level, but with a new, sharp edge to it.
The woman gives a tight little nod. “Of course.” She turns and disappears into a back room with all the urgency of a snail wading through treacle.
“I hate this,” you whisper, turning to Lando. “This is horrible. Can we please, please go now? She’s going to come back and say they don’t have my size, and then we can leave. Please?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, his eyes blazing. It’s the same look he gets when he’s been undercut in the pit lane or blocked on a fast lap. It’s his competitive glare, and you know, with a sinking feeling, that this is no longer about a pair of sandals. This has become a matter of principle. “She was rude. They’ve all been rude. They look at you like you’re something they scraped off their shoe. Not happening.”
“It’s because of how we’re dressed, Lando. It’s my fault. I should have just said no to coming in.”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, his voice dropping lower. He turns you to face him, his hands coming up to cup your face. “Do you hear me? You can wear whatever you want, wherever you want. You look beautiful. They’re the ones with the problem, not you.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks, and for a second, the rest of the store melts away. There’s just the warmth of his hands and the fiery loyalty in his eyes.
The sales associate returns, holding a single, unwrapped sandal. Not a box, just one shoe, held delicately between her thumb and forefinger as if it might be contaminated.
“We have one in the display size,” she says, her voice flat. “You can try this one on for fit.” She gestures to a small, hard-looking stool in the corner, clearly not offering to help.
You look at Lando, your eyes pleading. Let it go.
He ignores you. He takes the sandal from her, his fingers brushing against hers, and crouches down in front of you. “Here, babe. Let me.”
The entire store seems to hold its breath. You can feel the eyes on you now. The man in the suit, the woman with the diamonds, the other sales associates. They’re watching Lando Norris, Formula 1 driver, though they don’t know it, kneel on the plush carpet of a Bond Street Hermès in his joggers to help his girlfriend try on a shoe.
Your cheeks are burning. “Lando, you don’t have to …”
“Shh. Lift your foot.” His voice is soft, for you only.
You do as he says, and he gently slides the sandal onto your foot. It fits perfectly. He looks up at you, his expression softening as his eyes meet yours. “Looks good,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “Really good.”
In that moment, you don’t care about the judgmental saleswoman or the silent, watching customers. There is only the absurd, beautiful, romantic reality of your boyfriend kneeling at your feet in the middle of one of the most exclusive stores in London.
You smile, a real, genuine smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he breathes.
He stands up, turning back to the sales associate. Her expression is one of pure, unadulterated boredom.
“It fits,” Lando says, his tone brisk again. “We’ll take it. In the box, please.”
“As I said,” the woman replies, her voice dripping with condescension, “that was the display model. I’m not sure we have a boxed pair in a thirty-eight.”
“Could you be sure?” Lando asks. The politeness is gone now. His voice is cold. “Could you go and have a proper look in your stock room? And while you’re at it, maybe you could find someone who actually wants to do their job and help us.”
The woman’s plastic smile finally cracks. A flicker of indignation flashes in her eyes. “Sir, I can assure you I am doing my job. Our stock is limited.”
“Right,” Lando says, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his lips. He looks around the store, his gaze sweeping over the glass cases filled with leather goods. Then his eyes land on the wall of bags behind the main counter, the holy grail. The Birkins and the Kellys, displayed like museum artifacts.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. It’s the smile he gets right before he pulls off a ridiculous overtake. It’s the smile that says, game on.
“Lando, no,” you say, grabbing his arm. You know exactly what he’s thinking. “Don’t. It’s fine. I don’t even like the sandals that much. Let’s go.”
He pats your hand, his eyes never leaving the sales associate. “It’s not about the sandals anymore, love.” He takes a step toward her, closing the distance. “You know what? Forget the shoes. We’ve changed our minds.”
A look of smug triumph crosses the woman’s face. She thinks she’s won. She thinks the scruffy kids are finally leaving her pristine store. “Very well, sir.”
“We’d like to see a bag instead,” Lando continues, his voice smooth as silk. “A Birkin. Do you have any available?”
The woman actually lets out a small, sharp laugh, which she quickly smothers with a cough. “Sir,” she says, as if explaining a complex scientific theory to a toddler, “one does not simply walk in and see a Birkin. We have an extensive client list. The wait can be years.”
“Right. Of course,” Lando says, nodding thoughtfully. He pulls out his phone. You hold your breath, thinking he’s going to do something drastic, like call his manager. Instead, he just taps the screen and holds it up. It’s a picture of your closet in Monaco. Specifically, the shelf where four Birkins — one black, one orange, one brown, one pink — are neatly lined up, with the rest of your handbag collection sitting proudly around front of them.
He doesn’t say a word. He just holds the phone up for her to see.
The sales associate’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. She looks from the phone to you, and for the first time, a sliver of doubt enters her cold gaze.
“We’re looking to add to her collection,” Lando says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, loud enough for only her to hear, though the malice is clear. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe our business isn’t welcome here. I’m sure your store manager would be interested to hear about our experience. Or maybe … maybe I’ll just mention it in my next stream. See how Hermès feels about being known as the place that treats its customers like dirt based on a bloody dress code.”
Panic flashes across the woman’s face. The mention of a press conference clearly strikes a nerve. She doesn’t know who he is, but he’s talking with the kind of casual confidence that implies he’s someone who haspress conferences.
“Sir, that’s … that’s not necessary,” she stammers, her professional composure finally shattering.
“Isn’t it?” Lando presses, taking another step closer. He’s not shouting. He’s not making a scene. But the quiet intensity radiating from him is more intimidating than any tantrum. “My girlfriend and I came in here to spend money. A lot of money, as it happens. And from the moment we walked in, we’ve been treated with nothing but contempt. By you, especially. So, I’ll ask you again. Do you have a Birkin we can see, or should I just ask for your manager’s name?”
The woman pales. “I … let me just …”
She turns and practically flees toward a discreet door at the back of the store.
You grab Lando’s arm, your nails digging into the soft fleece of his hoodie. “Lando! What are you doing? This is insane! You can’t just buy a Birkin out of spite!”
“Watch me,” he says, his jaw set, but when he looks down at you, the hardness in his eyes melts away, replaced by a fierce, protective tenderness. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not letting them get away with how they looked at you. How they made you feel. Okay? Just trust me.”
Before you can argue further, the sales associate returns, followed by a man in an even sharper suit. He has the sleek, polished look of a manager. His face is a mask of polite concern, but his eyes are sharp, darting between the two of you, trying to assess the situation.
“Good afternoon,” he says, his voice smooth and practiced. He extends a hand to Lando. “I am Richard, the store manager. Is there a problem?”
Lando ignores the offered hand. “Yeah, there is, mate. We’ve been in your store for twenty minutes. We’ve been ignored, judged, and spoken to like we’re idiots by your staff.” He gestures vaguely toward the now-trembling saleswoman. “We came in to buy my girlfriend some shoes, but after the stellar customer service, we decided we’d rather buy a bag. A Birkin, to be specific. But apparently, that’s not something you do for people who aren’t wearing a three-piece suit.”
The manager’s professional smile doesn’t falter, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. He turns his gaze to you, then back to Lando. He’s trying to place him. The McLaren cap is a clue, but it’s not clicking.
“Sir, my sincerest apologies for any misunderstanding,” Richard says carefully. “Perhaps we can start again. As my associate mentioned, our more exclusive pieces are typically reserved for our established clientele.”
“Right,” Lando says, his patience worn paper-thin. He sighs, a sound of pure exasperation, as if this is all a massive inconvenience he is being forced to endure. “Look, can you just check your system? The name is Norris. Lando Norris.”
He says it quietly. Without fanfare. Just a name.
Richard’s polite mask freezes. The sales associate, who had been hovering in the background, stops breathing. There’s a moment of stunned silence where the name hangs in the air, clicking into place like a key in a lock.
The manager’s eyes widen. They flick to Lando’s face, really seeing him for the first time. The boyish features, the familiar smile he’s seen on a thousand television screens, the cap that is not just a fashion choice but a piece of his uniform.
The change is instantaneous and absolute. It’s like watching a switch being flipped.
“Mr. Norris,” Richard breathes, his voice suddenly full of a sycophantic warmth that makes your skin crawl. “My god. Forgive me. I … we didn’t recognize you. A thousand apologies. Of course. Of course, we can assist you. Anything you need. Claire, why are you just standing there? Take Mr. Norris and his guest to the VIP salon. Immediately. And bring champagne. The good champagne.”
The sales associate, Claire, jumps as if she’s been shocked. “Yes, Richard. Right away, Richard.” She turns to you and Lando, her entire demeanor transformed. Her face is wreathed in a sickeningly sweet smile. “This way, Mr. Norris. Ma’am. My deepest apologies for the wait.”
You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. This is a million times worse than just being ignored. Lando, however, looks entirely unfazed. He just slips his hand back into yours, gives it a reassuring squeeze, and follows the manager.
You’re led through another discreet door into a private room. It’s a world away from the main store — soft lighting, velvet sofas, a thick Persian rug, and a single pedestal in the center of the room. Champagne is produced, along with a tray of delicate macarons.
“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Richard fusses, practically bowing. “Claire will bring a selection for you to view, Mr. Norris. Is there any particular leather or colour you have in mind for the lady’s new addition?”
The emphasis on ‘new addition’ is so blatant, it makes you want to laugh.
Lando sinks into one of the velvet sofas, pulling you down beside him. He looks completely at home. “Surprise us,” he says with a wave of his hand. “But my girlfriend prefers gold hardware.”
He winks at you. You want to be angry at him for his stubbornness, for the sheer audacity of it all, but you can’t. You can’t because underneath the principle and the flexing, this is all for you. He’s doing this because his love for you is so fierce and so protective that he cannot stand the thought of anyone, anywhere, making you feel small.
Claire returns a few minutes later, her hands covered in white gloves. She is followed by another associate, and between them, they carry three enormous orange boxes. They handle them with the reverence of ancient artifacts.
One by one, they are opened. The first contains a Birkin 30 in a classic black Togo leather with gold hardware. The second, a stunning Craie Epsom leather, the color of chalk. The third takes your breath away. It’s a Birkin 25 in Vert Criquet, a soft, vibrant green like the first leaves of spring. It’s beautiful and unique and completely perfect.
Lando sees the look on your face. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. “The green one?” He whispers.
You nod, unable to speak. The whole situation is surreal. You’re sitting in a secret room in Hermès, drinking champagne, because a sales assistant was rude to you.
“We’ll take the green one,” Lando announces to the room, as if he’s deciding on a flavor of crisps.
Richard beams. “An exquisite choice, Mr. Norris. Truly. The Vert Criquet is from this season. Very difficult to acquire.”
“I’m sure it is,” Lando says, his voice dry.
While Claire and the manager bustle around, packaging the bag with an almost comical level of care — wrapping it in tissue paper, placing it in its felt dust bag, and settling it back into its orange throne — Lando turns to you.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice soft again, all traces of his earlier confrontation gone.
You finally let out the breath you feel like you’ve been holding since you walked through the door. You lean your head on his shoulder. “This is the most ridiculous, over-the-top, insane thing you have ever done.”
He grins, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Top five, maybe. I think crashing in Brazil was probably more insane.”
“I’m serious, Lando. You spent a fortune just to prove a point.”
“No,” he says, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him. “I did it because they were disrespectful to the most important person in my life. I’d spend ten times this amount to make sure no one ever makes you feel like you’re not good enough to be wherever you want to be. Got it?”
Your heart does a stupid little flip. “Got it,” you whisper.
“Good,” he says, and he kisses you, a soft, sweet kiss that tastes faintly of champagne and victory.
The transaction is completed in hushed tones. Lando taps his card without even looking at the figure on the screen. Richard himself carries the large, square orange bag, tied with its brown silk ribbon, to the front of the store. He and Claire both walk you to the door, showering you with apologies and invitations to call them directly next time.
The moment you step back out onto the street, the cool London air feels like a balm. The noise of the city rushes back in, and the spell of the silent, pristine store is broken. It’s just the two of you again, standing on the pavement.
Lando is holding the giant orange bag in one hand, your hand held firmly in his other. He looks utterly ridiculous and completely wonderful. A grin is plastered across his face.
“Well,” he says, looking from the bag to you. “That was an adventure.”
You can’t help it. You start to laugh. A real, deep, belly laugh that makes your eyes water. “An adventure? Lando, that was a scene out of a movie. That was the most Pretty Woman thing that has ever happened in the history of the world.”
He joins in, his laughter echoing yours. “Big mistake. Huge! Should’ve said that, shouldn’t I? Missed opportunity.”
You shake your head, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye. “You are unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says, his smile so full of love it makes your chest ache. He lifts the hand he’s holding and kisses your knuckles. “But you have a new bag. A very green, very expensive bag to add to your collection.” He mock-whispers the last part, mimicking his own earlier emphasis.
“I have a very unhinged boyfriend, is what I have,” you say, but you’re squeezing his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.
He starts walking again, pulling you along with him, the bright orange box swinging between you like a trophy. “Unhinged and very, very good at shopping,” he corrects. “Now, where were we? Hot chocolate, I think you said?”
You look at him — his stupid, wonderful, smiling face, his McLaren cap pulled low, his arm looped through the handle of a bag that costs more than a car — and you know that you wouldn’t trade this ridiculous, dramatic, beautiful life for anything.
“Yeah,” you say, leaning your head against his shoulder again as you meld back into the anonymous London crowd. “Hot chocolate sounds perfect.”
