#morjas shoes

[thurstongrey]

[lovefrenchisbetter]

The Tassel Loafer - Cuir Lisse Noir

[sowhatelseisnew]

Recent stuff

[lartenascosta]

John Goldberger for Morjas

[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.

[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

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Summer is for Espadrilles

The Espadrille - Toile ivoire

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Summer In Espadrilles

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Waiting on espadrille season

[lartenascosta]

John Goldberger for Morjas

[lartenascosta]

John Goldberger for Morjas

[lartenascosta]

John Goldberger for Morjas

[woodstocknavy5-blog]

綺麗目ミリタリースタイル。 #denimcap#ues #militaryjacket#usnavy#ユーティリティジャケット#wauper #vest#brownsbeach#ブラウンズビーチ#therealmccoys#リアルマッコイズ #pants#calee#キャリー #shoes#morjas#morjasshoes ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• #アメカジ#ミリタリースタイル#ミリタリーコーデ#メンズファッション#メンズスタイル#militaryfashion#militarystyle#mensstyle#mensfashion#outfit#dailylook#밀리터리룩 https://www.instagram.com/p/CWU9P05LfPr/?utm_medium=tumblr