#morjas shoes

[newbornwhumperfly]

in defense of lightening...

so, uh, i love when whumpees think they deserve to suffer and it's even more fun when whumpers think so too! 😈😈😈🥺🥺🥺 here's a silly little snippet of Morja suffering at the hands of Jorah "Self Righteous is my Middle Name" Cuthbert 😩

written for the @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 3: "____ deserved it" - because it's glorious and delicious and fitting for my blorbos 💖

title insp. by this hanif abdurraqib quote - “in defense of lightening, there is always a darkness asking to be split open.”

~

Annoyingly, the asset is limping. 

The rec room on this stiflingly small base is stupid-small and doesn’t leave much room for hiding in corners, but Morja seems to be doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way, at least. Small blessings. But he hasn’t left the rest of present company alone, lingering by the water cooler and taking infuriating little sips of a paper cup. 

Short journeys, quiet shuffling steps, from the cooler to the corner. Cooler to corner. Jorah’s jaw tics. The soft drag of the tip of his shoe across the floor. Lift, absence of pressure, drag, tiptoe, mouse-step, take more water, scurry away. Fuck, can’t he just take the whole industrial jug at this point and leave well enough alone? 

Like a mosquito buzzing near his ear and never quite landing, Jorah just can’t ignore it. He’s lost a second round of Battleship to Pfeffer, inducing one of the guy’s booming chuckles in the wake of slipped curses. He doubts anyone else has noticed - it’s not exactly obvious. Whether the asset isn’t feeling very sulky today or else he’s too chicken-shit to fish for sympathy while Jorah is in the room, Morja is behaving himself. 

It’s not like anyone can see it either. It’s not like anyone knows why the little creep is dragging his heels around. But if the twinge of soreness in Jorah’s arm is anything to go by, Morja’s soles have gotta be smarting in the hours since last night. In the cool shadow of the corner, he leans against a wall to spare his stance.

His soles were that pre-bruise red, that deep shade right before purple Jorah knows well by eye, the welts in perfect straight lines over the arch of his thick skin. Jorah has to work for the break in the skin. Had to stop before it bled, before the lines broke altogether, even though a scream, hard to draw out as blood, broke in muffled echo through the rag between the asset’s teeth. Jorah is patient, he’s not some fucking brute who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows when to stop. 

Knows when to reel back, gloved hand gripping the black metal ruler firmly. It’s shimmering ricochet gleams in the low-wattage, unstained by its task. God, Jorah admires military hardware. Even tools as simple as this have many uses, such as drawing out beads of sweat from the asset’s screwed-up face, rolling down into his dark hair, in making the skin of his knuckles bleach white with clenching, making those bare feet quiver and dance to the beat of Jorah’s tune, unable to fake. 

The way those thickly callused toes flinch in their tight bonds can’t be faked. 

It's different than the spasm drawn out by the jolt of electricity across his feet. Jorah's baton can always cause that. Getting the skin tender, blistered. But some days, you've gotta hit something. And the response - the jerk, the whine at the tail end of a trailing yelp, the harsh drag of breath through the nostrils - feels practiced in a way that doesn't at all discourage the conversation.

That’s the beauty of physical pain. It might not “work” for traditional interrogation but it sure does tell you a lot of other shit. Jorah checks the bonds over, the tight security of zip-ties over cloth, no grooves, no marks, good work. He watches a bead of sweat roll down the back of the asset’s calf, catching on dark hairs, a path down to land on one of the welts that match the feet. Watching the clench of his thigh when the stinging salt likely hurts like a motherfucker in the stripes across the backs of this thighs. 

Pain is a language everyone speaks fluently. The perfect fucking teacher. The highest grade in understanding. 

There’s a purpose to the shit he’s going to Morja. Mindless beating accomplishes nothing much - not unless you’ve got a lot of free reign to work with. And here, Jorah simply doesn’t, not with soft-touch attitude of everyone at hand. No. Until Claudia or Cobi or especially Brax - Captain Hutchins - sees the value of it, Jorah’s work has to stay discrete, even-handed, subtle. 

Unfortunately for this guy, he gives Jorah a lot of room to work with. 

“Never knew you beefed it so bad at Battleship, J-Man, wanna switch to Go-Fish?” 

Jorah blinks, shaking away the fucking mosquito buzz around his ear, snorts, flicks a little plastic boat at Cobi’s arm and it bounces off the skin. 

“Owwwww.” Cobi whines, his big dumb face wrinkling up as he flicks the boat back. Sticks his tongue out. “Sore loser.” 

“Grab you a soda and we’ll call it even.” Jorah drawls, drawing cheerful agreement from his friend as he stands, stalks to the nearby little fridge. Drawing out the cold cans in hand, he catches a you, uh, a fan of Go Fish, buddy, it’s cool if you join us, right, Jorah? 

Oh. Right. He’s still fucking there, huh?

Jorah straightens, glancing out of the corner of his eye, catching the asset, catching Morja, stock-still. Cobi’s head tilts back, yellow curled and shaggy, dog-like, beaming in the man’s direction like a spotlight. 

Morja’s stillness is broken by the flicker of his eyes, dark, narrowed, from Cobi to Jorah. Blink. Widen. Blank. Creepy. 

Jorah’s fingertips crack the tab of his soda, the sharp pop snapping through the air, a hiss of cool air, and Jorah’s mouth pulls up at the corners. 

Morja’s throat jumps in a swallow and those black blank eyes blink once-twice. Sways side to side on tiptoe. This close, Jorah hears a small squelch at the sway. Oh. Interesting. Putting cold water in his shoes, huh? Jorah’s eyes flick down to his feet, up again, close-lipped, and Morja blinks faster. 

“Yeah, man.” Jorah says. “You wanna sit down with me and Cobi?”

It’s almost boring the way Morja’s eyes widen. The way he lowers his weight down to rest on his swollen soles to spare his thighs the strain. It’s a little funny though. Like a dog trying its hardest not to look at you when it threw up behind the couch. 

Flick to Cobi. Back to Jorah. Back again. 

“I-“

Almost on cue, Cobi cuts in with a musical you don’t HAVE to, of course, only if you wanna. Jorah can always count on Cobi not to ruffle any feathers. And at that, Morja’s body unfreezes, doing his little at-attention routine, shoulders drawing back like a flinch of its own. 

“Thank you, sir, I have work to do.”

Right answer, Asset. 

“Hey.” Jorah shrugs. “If you have work to do, you should do it.”

There it is, that dumb fucking tilt of the head, like he doesn’t get it. Like he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. Has to be told fucking everything - what to eat, how to kneel, when to talk, where to shit, probably. Jorah’s mouth pulls at the corners again, his teeth grit and bare. Read the room. 

That sends the asset scurrying off, click-swallow-blink, the paper cup tumbling out of his hand into the garbage, squelch squelch squelch, and that awkward thorn-in-foot limp when he retreats, dragging one foot after another. 

Jorah’s body relaxes all at once, shoulders dropping down, rolling his neck. Fuck, corralling people in line is hard work. Whatever, a sheepdog is thankless sometimes. Still. It’s a nice thought that this idiot runs off with his tail between his legs, with wet shoes and a dry tongue, unable to sit or stand. 

Setting the sodas on the table with a wide grin, Jorah lounges back for the first time, guard settled, plucking a new little ship between his fingers. 

“Fuck Go-Fish, bro, I’m stretched and hydrated now, your fleets gonna sink.”

Cobi’s face beams and then frowns a little, glancing back towards the exit, the crinkle in his face making Jorah’s stomach sour again. “Man…I hope Morja didn’t feel left out. I don’t want him to be lonely.”

Jorah flicks another ship at Cobi, drawing another sqwuak. His shoulders are down flat now, hackles soothed. The mosquito has fucked off and the room is cool and calm again.

“Aw, big softie. Get your head in the game or I’m gonna sink your battleship. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

He deserves it. 

~ 

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @haro-whumps @whumpthisway

@whumping-every-day @stoic-whumpee @whumpzone @straight-to-the-pain @redwingedwhump

@wolfeyedwitch @suspicious-whumping-egg @liliability @whumpster-draganies @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

@tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @scoundrelwithboba

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet cause i was so so excited to write something new again!! 🥰🥰🥰 have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly 💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[dansar04]

Diplomatic Ties part 510: E. Marinella.

Suit from Caruso, Charvet shirt, tie from Marinella, Shibumi ps and shoes from Morjas. Scent: Frédéric Malle Geranium pour Monsieur.

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

[dankusner]

Moc-Toe

Lately, there’s been some griping that menswear didn’t have much by way of trends this year.

That we’ve been stuck in an “everything is fire” mindset for a little too long.

To that I say:

Look down.

Because increasingly, I’m clocking guys wearing mocs.

Not the light brown, shearling-lined slipper kind, but a slightly more elegant, stripped-down take on the style, designed with rubber soles for city life, and structured with the intention to be worn with tailoring and sharp pair of jeans instead of, say, a flannel pajama set.

Take a survey of the footwear on offer this season and you'll also notice that the humble moc-toe shoe is back in a big way.

A design rooted in Indigenous North American footwear, traditional moccasins are crafted out of a single piece of leather, which is then wrapped around a foot mold, and sewn into shape on top with that iconic “moc-toe” raised stitching.

As a result, moc-toes typically have the same slip-on ease as a pair of Vans, making them the perfect shoe for the sneaker guy who’s looking to make more of an effort, without it feeling like an effort to do so at all.

Many I classify as a perfect travel shoe:

light and flat in a suitcase, but dressy enough for any spontaneous, more formal adventures.

Not to be confused with loafers or traditional boat shoes, the current crop of moc-toe shoes—some in soft suede, some in pebbled leather—trade the preppy, aspirational vibes of a penny loafer for a far more relaxed energy.

All of these positives mean there are a ton of plentifully-stocked (and approachably priced) mocs on the market right now.

And at least 13 of those pairs are truly formidable options, which are exactly what I’ve gathered below.

Saman Amel City Moc

City Moc Full-Grain Leather Boat Shoes

I'd wager that the undisputed shoe of the year is Saman Amel’s City Moc, which is slated to be restocked for the third or fourth time due to excessively high demand.

Stockholm atelier Saman Amel’s handmade-in-Italy moc has a tough, comfortable rubber sole, but on top of it sits a quiet silhouette—no boat shoe-style side lacing here.

This means they can play with a suit as well as some Dickies, and it’s exactly that versatility that has had so many folks willing to fork out the admittedly eye-watering $630 for a pair.

Quoddy Maliseet Oxford

What truly sets Quoddy’s mocs apart—beyond its four eyelets, premium leather upper, and ultra-grippy Vibram sole—is a breathable insole that’s specifically designed for barefoot wearing.

The beauty of that?

Once you’ve broken these in beautifully over the winter, they’ll be ready and waiting for your sockless summer.

L.L.Bean Handsewn Moccasin

L.L. Bean

Handsewn Camp Moc

When many people think of Mocs, their first association is with L.L. Bean—and for good reason.

Introduced in 1936 by Leon Leonwood Bean himself, the brand’s handsewn (and handsome) Camp Moc currently has over 1,000 five-star reviews testifying to its durability, comfort, and style smarts.

And honestly, there’s something almost Miu Miu-esque about the way the leather has been finished—props to the Bean for leaning sophisticated when they could have otherwise gone full Grandpa. Morjas Boat Shoe

For a similarly pared-back, well-made, elegant moc—only at less than half the price—take a look at Morjas.

A Recommends-favorite when it comes to rising shoe brands, the Stockholm-based shoemaker crafts its designs by hand in Italy, in this case adding flexible rubber soles, sanded soft suede leather, and the same three finish options as Saman Amel’s category-definer.

Yuketen Canoe Suede Boat Shoes

Yuketen

Canoe Suede Boat Shoe

Through his Yuketen brand, Japan born, L.A.-based Yuki Matsuda has been making slightly freaked, exceptionally covetable American footwear for years now.

He’s perhaps best known for his blucher, but it’s these supple, “canoe suede” stompers—complete with memory foam footbeds—that play right into this moc moment.

Rancourt Classic Ranger Moc

Handcrafted in Maine, Rancourt’s classic Ranger Moc is, by the brand’s own admission, their most comfortable, best fitting design.

(In part, that’s thanks to the three-to-four eyelets on the lacing, which hold the foot a little more snugly than two can.)

Their original Ranger is still available, but this Huckberry exclusive adds a lug sole for even more comfort and capability on urban adventures.

G. H. Bass x Madewell Ranger Moc

G.H. Bass

x Madewell Wallace Suede Moc

Just as Huck and Rancourt linked up to perfect their Ranger, Madewell and loafer legends G.H. Bass joined forces to create their own.

The Wallace suede moc has all the loose, relaxed appeal of a Wallabee, but raised above a stronger, thicker sole for years more durability.

Paraboot Michael Shoe

What hasn’t already been said about potentially the most important shoe in menswear?

Well, maybe just that the eternal, goes-with-anything Paraboot Michael has wrongly always been put in the derby category, when it’s actually—with just two eyelets and that unmistakable toe stitching—a total Moccasin.

Sebago James Fringe Lug Derbys

Sebago

James Fringe Lug Derbys

We now enter the world of Moc-style footwear—like these from loafer experts Sebago, which provide all the presence and structure of a classic black derby, only softened at the last second thanks to a Moc toe and fringed kiltie.

Astorflex Carlifex

Astorflex

Carlflex Moc Toe Derby

Blend a Wallabee, Derby, and traditional Moc, and you get Astorflex’s Carlflex shoe.

And if those elements alone weren’t enough to win you over, consider that Astorflex—a sixth-generation shoemaker that still crafts entirely by hand, in Italy—has an untouched reputation for combining the comfort and flexibility of rubber soles with the durability and charm of leather uppers.

Vinny’s Michel Mocassin in Black

Vinny's

Michel Leather Moccassin Loafers

Alongside Morjas, Denmark’s Vinny’s also earned a nod in Recommends’ top five hard-bottom shoe brands to watch.

Their take on the Moc is as close to a loafer as I’ve seen Mocs come—which might also make it the first Moc I can picture striding through the gates of Goldman Sachs.

Clarks Wallabee Derby

Perhaps the most iconic take on the classic moccasin look is the Clarks Wallabee.

The distinctive, squared-off moc-toe remains, as does the use of supple suede leather, but Clarks built on a traditional moc by adding a crepe sole and higher ankle, for extra comfort and support.

Consistently in production for 57 years now, the shoe has at different times been embraced by 1960s Jamaican “rude boys” and 1980s New York rappers. It’s your turn next.

Red Wing Shop Moc Oxford

Red Wing’s Classic Moc needs no introduction, but its lower profile Oxford Moc just might.

Like its taller parent, Goodyear welting means these can be resoled as many times as you’d like.

But unlike the OG, the low-top means this is that rare pair of Red Wings you can slip on as you hurry out the door.

What’s the difference between a moccasin and a boat shoe?

Good question.

Because all boat shoes come with a moc toe, retailers frequently use the two categories interchangeably.

But the answer is that while boat shoes are shoes that are specifically designed for boating—and use the comfort and ease of some moccasin design details to achieve that goal—the world of moccasins is far broader than just boat shoes.

Because moccasins were typically designed for casual, land-based activities, they can come in a far wider range of fabric uppers (suede, for example) and sole materials (crepe, or leather) than boat shoes, which always have to take being on the water into consideration.

What’s more, a boat shoe will always look like a boat shoe, no matter the clothing you pair it with.

But a moccasin is typically more versatile—it can play formal in darker leathers and lower profiles, or more casual in beefier silhouettes and softer, lighter suedes.

[lovefrenchisbetter]

The Tassel Loafer - Cuir Lisse Noir

[sowhatelseisnew]

Recent stuff

[lartenascosta]

John Goldberger for Morjas

[mathiaslefevre]

If you know me just a bit, you will be aware of my loafer obsession. This is why I was very excited when I discovered that my friends at @morjasshoes were launching a new Penny Loafer in partnership with @arketofficial. Cut from tonal black leather, the shoe is sleek and versatile and can go with a suit as well as a casual look. Goodyear-welted and handcrafted in Spain, it’s a yes from me. #MORJAS #ARKET #ThePennyLoafer #MathiasLeFevre #PaidPartnership (at London, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CF_jfmrDNvw/?igshid=15fi2ejfdd2y5

[aleksjj]

Lookbook shoot with @dennisbarlundphoto Wearing @deoveritas shirt - @blugiallose sports coat - @ajattired lapelchain - @bypelote trousers - @morjasshoes shoes - @carldagg_umbrellas umbrella • Www.Aleksjj.Com • #lookbook #deoveritas #blugiallo #pelote #morjas #madetomeasure #sportscoat #tasselloafer #umbrella #carldagg #lapelchain #aleksjj #ajattired (at Malmö, Sweden)

[camango]

19.11.03

Morjas - The Oxford

[newbornwhumperfly]

no one will feed you anymore...

oh, y’all know what time it is by now, don’t you? 😈🥺😈 i stretched the definition of this delightful prompt - @whumpmasinjuly day 12: caught - and it really stirred my creativity! so it's time for morja to sufferrrrrrrrrr...😭😭😭

(sidenote: this training scenario was heavily insp. by this incredible art by @elgrajaz cause it gives such whumperflies 😍)

title insp. by this concept art quote by jenny holzer - "if you're considered useless, no on will feed you anymore."

~

Your job today is to run. 

Until, anotèros?

There’s a blister on his ankle already. The friction of the shoe against skin, the rub-rub-rub, burn, burn, heat, sore, heat, foot falling flat against the ground, push off, spring forward, burn. 

Until you catch up.

Morja blinks wet into his eyes and it stings, blurs, his feet pound their rhythm still. Can’t wipe it away. Keep going. He knows where he’s going and he doesn’t need to see. Just run. 

Chase the buggy. The small white cart and the whine of the wheels as it speeds ahead, the anotèros driving, the anotèros with the stopwatch in his hand, the black glasses, don’t watch his face, just run.  

He has caught the buggy before. Dog with rabbit in his teeth. Grab the bar, swing himself into the backseat, stopwatch clicking stop. 

But it is so hot.

What is this track made of, anotèros? 

His trainer’s eyes had squinted, slitted sideways down at Morja, and the skin of his palms itched. 

The burn is all over. Heat. Heat in the legs, the thighs, the feet, the pulse of fire through each foot. 

Raw, sharp, prick of fire, as the blister peels. Heat. Blood. Blood in the sock. Bad. Wash later. Run. 

Keep going. 

Keep going.

The heat is inescapable. It’s the worst part, really, of anything. He’s lived in heat. Used to heat. Born in it, raised in it, put in it day after day and still, it is the most inescapable. 

Polyurethane, mostly. Does that answer your question, diathèsimòs?

Morja’s palms itched harder and he squeezed them into balls behind his back.  

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. 

Good. Now get out there and run. 

Fire jars through his chest with each breath, breath dragging sharp across his lungs, filling up with knives, throat a razor trap, chest a dozen blade tips. Breathing out is an ache but better, better than swallowing the fire of air. 

Back straight. Drag air through the nose. Thick, rubber-scented, hot. It’s so hot in the building, foggy, every window had fog on it when he walked in today. 

Polly-your-a-thane. Rubber. That’s the smell. Mixed with latex. The stuff that sticks to skin. Poured over asphalt. Bouncy over solid. 

Knowing why your shoes stick to the track in the rain, in the heat, in the cold, doesn’t make you faster. It doesn’t help. 

Morja sees sweat gleam on his trainer’s head, wrist swiping it away, the stopwatch gleaming bright, pinpoint-sharp, and the lights are bright. Big bulbs in the ceiling that hum against his skin they’re so blue-bright-sharp. 

Keep up. 

His sides pulse. The pulse has started now and the stabbing will only get stronger. Stitch. A needle pulling air through his body on a barbed thread. Poke. Drag. Poke. Drag. 

They haven’t told you to stop.

Morja always has to remind himself his throat isn’t bleeding. It feels like it is. It isn’t. Not like his feet. Those are bleeding. 

He can’t even hear the clink of his cuffs, thick leather slick and sticking to his flesh in an itching snick-snick-snick at every jostle. The piston of his elbows at his sides is short and doesn’t yank the chains trailing behind the buggy. 

The slow whir of wheels-on-rubber is just a buzz now. Everything is a buzz, ears full of static, only the thudthudthud of blood rushing, water, past his ears, like his head is under the water, don’t think just run. 

He won’t catch up to the buggy if he doesn’t run.

(It will outrun him anyway. That’s the point. It has to. Of course it will. It’s a buggy and Morja is on foot. There is no point.)

No. He can catch the buggy. He was told to and he can. 

Keep the pace. This track doesn’t end. Run. 

Inescapable.

Run.

He is a diathèsimòs and he must keep running. 

The thud of his shoes against the track, the springing-then-solid, the reaching out with one hand, no, not close enough to reach and sweat blinds him again. Fuck. 

He should have caught them already. 

He must catch them. 

Every step burns. Every breath burns. The lights burn. The track is a circle and he rounds a corner into a corner into a corner in pursuit. 

The length of chain yanks, every step jolts his ribs against the inside of his skin, like every step jolts cuff against wrist, the chain growing tauter, the breaths shorter, harsher, dragging, razorwire, like the lungs being whipped. 

The shredded grunt of each breath can’t be coming from him, he doesn’t think, but it must be. It’s so loud in his ears, like his heartbeat, as knife of breathing stabs, stabs, stabs. 

The buggy is getting further away, inch by inch, and there is no way his lungs can bleed, like a horse. He is a diathèsimòs and his lungs don’t bleed. 

Breathing and seeing are fire. 

Hot rubber and hot copper and the itch of sweat is all he can think about. The sting of it in his open blisters. The crawl of it down the waistband of the pants, into the neck of the shirt, in his dry mouth like spit, in his dry eyes like tears. 

The track is designed to help you not slip. That’s how running tracks are made. That’s why the rubber smells so strong. 

But a stab, too-sharp, too-blinding, doubles him. He jerks against the cuffs and it’s done. The buggy keeps going and Morja doesn’t and his shoes fly out from under him and he hits the track. 

Rubber. Asphalt. Body. 

All the ragged breath is slammed from his lungs as his chest hits the ground, chin tucked against the fall, and the track burns across every inch, shoulders sharp and shocking at the jarring pull, pull, pull, dragged behind the buggy-

“Stop! Time.”

The burning stops and Morja lays there, heaving, light pulsing with every sharp heartbeat behind his eyelids, and he’s curled up on the ground, arms stretching out with their chains behind the buggy. 

Get up. 

He can’t.

Then kneel. 

Rolling, belly first, then dragging one leg, burning, stabbing, shaking, up beneath him. Another. He does kneel up and his lids, bleary, blink open as the shape of his anotèros floats from the buggy. The squeak of leather as the shape bends to crouch in front of him, a rolling smell as sharp and bright and cold as the overhead bulbs swallows him up, clean scent and sharp corners, holding up a gleaming pinpoint in Morja’s face. 

The stopwatch. 

The only cold Morja’s felt today stabs into the hollow of his stomach as numbers, bright electric lines, become clear. 

Slow. 

Fuck. 

I was slow.

“Gonna have to work on your speed, diathèsimòs. Guess you didn’t manage to catch up. You know the drill - don’t stop running until we’re caught.” 

Morja tastes blood in his mouth. Not from his lungs. Of course not. He takes his teeth out of his cheek and the smell of rubber fills his nose as he bows his head to the ground. 

Polyurethane, soft against his skin. 

“…Yes, anotèros.”

~ oooh, a little glimpse into morja's training regimen, which is very fair and achievable!! 🥺🥺🥺

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @whumpthisway @i-eat-worlds

@wolfeyedwitch @whumpzone @whumping-every-day @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain

@stoic-whumpee @liliability @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpster-draganies

@whump-me-all-night-long @suspicious-whumping-egg @scoundrelwithboba @kixngiggles @tears-and-lilies

i hope everyone has a very merry @whumpmasinjuly! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[dansar04]

Diplomatic Ties part 509: E. Marinella.

Suit and shirt from Attolini, Marinella tie, ps from Shibumi and Morjas shoes. Scent: Ermenegildo Zegna Italian Bergamot.  

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

[dansar04]

Diplomatic Ties part 508: HN White.

Suit from Belvest, Canali shirt, tie from HN White, Berg & Berg ps and shoes from Morjas. Scent: Heeley Cardinal.

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

[dansar04]

The Olive Tie.

Suit from Isaia, bespoke shirt, tie from Boivin (for Kimono, Paris), Berg & Berg ps and shoes from Morjas. Scent: Profumum Roma Antico Caruso. 

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Summer is for Espadrilles

The Espadrille - Toile ivoire

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Summer In Espadrilles

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Waiting on espadrille season