#luiza serves everything!

[galvanizedfriend]

Because my ridiculously talented friends never cease to amaze me and make beautiful edits for fics that don't even exist anymore. 😭💖

Another perfect creation by Luiza Beyoncé Lula da Silva, aka coveredinthecolors/itsnotacrimetoloveyou for the Android!AU.

It's so beautiful! 😍😍😍 It almost makes me want to go back and read that fic again. 💓

Thank you so much, friend, for blessing me with these stunning edits! 😭 You are so talented and you truly do everything!

[pepperpills]

The Harvest - RE8 fanfic

The Harvest

A Resident Evil 8 fan fiction by Joana

Notes: It is a headcanon of Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader. I will be uploading chapters' parts everyday and a new chapter will be out every tuesday. English is not my mother tongue, so sorry if there are any grammar mistakes. Please, feel free to enjoy hehe

NSFW content.

Part I – Destiny (1)

It had been a week since the encounter with the creature in the woods surrounding Karl Heisenberg’s lot. It wasn’t the weirdest event you have seen though, of course; you grew up in one of the cabins close to the Village, you, and your people, were way familiar to the rusty metal sounds, the night fogs and the guttural growls living in the forest around the houses. Because of that, one day, when they grew nearer, your people knew the time had come and you too would be absorbed by the Village, being lead – not to say forced – to worship Mother Miranda and her children.

At first, it was odd, the mood was mournful as if your own family had lost the brightness of joy in their irises. Everything there felt uncanny as there was a sweet and mistrusting mist in the air.

You have always known about Miranda and the four lords, but had never laid your own eyes on them. Until your 20s, they have been nothing but whispers in the distance, folk stories to scare the youngsters, so they wouldn’t go too deep in between the trees and their twisted thin branches.

As the months and then the years passed by, your people started making that place feel like home. Luiza, Urias and their own have been very kind and supportive to all of you, they’ve shown you their believes, their rituals and their daily life; in return, the cabin folk shared their knowledge on herbs, flowers and wild animals, which meant hunting instead of raising them. It worked out fine, anyway, you knew you couldn’t stay in the cabins forever, there would be a time when the Village would grow and it did.

To this extent, you felt comfortable, you actually started sharing a feeling of belongness, especially when it came to rituals and festivals. It was astonishing how the Village would gather, sing, dance, bake and eat on special dates – mostly agricultural calendar ones – and helping organizing it, putting up the decorations, the horns distributed in clothes-line, the red fabrics waving as flags on the ceilings, all of these things were very reassuring.

Years passed by and transformed you into a woman, you had your periods every month, the etiquette practices and the daily choirs such as baking and feeding the animals (now you had pigs and chicken to look after). This, however, bothered you, not the baking though, that made you happy, but you would much more appreciate to help your father and brother with the machinery and hunt with the men, which you did, only hidden, for sport maybe, until you improved your stealth and archery abilities so it became a part of you that you liked much more than singing by the lake while doing laundry with the wives, even though that too had its appeal – music always got the best of you, particularly when it came along with dancing.

About the hunt, you would sell it to Duke, the impartial merchant that comes every week. He is the best way to maintain a low-profile about your illegalities, once he also deals with prohibited materials.

Thinking of it, you believe it was fine, definitely bucolic, but you never expected more. And for your mitigation, you had never yet seen all of the lords face-to-face. Miranda came by at least once a month, but mostly spent her precious time with the Village leader. She usually went back to her lot afterwards. The others were… Well, different.

Lady Beneviento was an in-doors person, the only one who had constant contact with her was her groundskeeper who lived closer to her house. Lady Dimitrescu was only seen in her castles’ windows looking way distant and melancholic to anyone that far from her stand. Her daughters too never left the upright protective stone walls, no one knew why, neither bothered to find out. Sometimes girls from the Village would be sent to the castle in order to serve them as handmaiden, some of them came back on special dates, but never spent the night in the Village.

Lord Moreau was the only one who visited more frequently, usually fixing demands for his experiments. He never stayed too long, he probably sensed that the people had less interest on him than they had in the other lords, which kind of made you pity Lord Moreau; however, you never had the courage to speak to him anyway and it didn’t feel very possible to be friends with the lords.

The last one, Lord Heisenberg, you had only heard in the distance when exploring the Altar surroundings, hidden from the others once it wasn’t allowed to be there without a good motive. The villagers told you, sitting around the fire in windy twilights, that he used to wander around more decades ago. Back then most of your friends were kids and nowadays don’t remember him very well, just his temper as he tends to easily lose patience.

They don’t know what made him stay in his factory for so long, but through the time he has been recluse, some said the metal noises have risen as if he has been working to exhaustion on something. When they told you these stories, you hoped never to find out and feared The Harvest.

That was it for your historic with the lords, at least until three months ago when you turned twenty years old and The Harvest took place again. The 20s was a unique age for the villagers, it was when they would know for sure if they had been chosen by Mother Miranda for some position in her family’s choirs. If you were free, as you’d like to say, you should start thinking about your role in the Village, finding a partner and leaving your parents’ place, if not… You would serve, not sure exactly how.

For your absolute pleasure, your 20th birthday was the most beautiful ceremony you had ever attended while living in the Village. It made it easier. It wasn’t made only for you, but for all of the young people who were turning that age in that year, as it was traditional to have The Harvest.

The small town was all dressed in light colours, paper lamps gave the paths a magical blue aura, goat wood sculptures painted white were disposed here and there blessing the birthday boys and girls. Women wore lace Prussian blue dresses below the knees and men were in grey linen tunics. People commemorated in the area around The Maiden of War with gasps and smiles.

You were dazzling. Tradition demanded that the 20s wore white, almost transparent, clothes. It was supposed to show you emerging as a pure being into something else, finally you would be considered a part of the mundane world after two decades of only experimenting it.

The families were responsible for their children’s garment, so each one looked different and unique. In your case, your mother, Ana, made a ravishing job, one that you could only have dreamt of.

Ana sewed you a white mesh ruffle midi dress, almost off shoulder if it wasn’t for the thin straps that held it there. The down skirt’s fabric was tulle and in the breast area you had a lace to tighten it, the ruffle there also worked on hiding your boobs, so you wouldn’t feel completely naked, only your nipples would show due to Fall’s weather.

After celebrating throughout the afternoon with wine, fresh pies, music and the villager’s affection for you and all the 20s being demonstrated, the night fell upon the Village and the oil lamps were lite, they started dancing in your vision like phantasmagorical illusions, inviting you to follow the way they headed. You didn’t fully understand back then, but it probably was Beneviento’s work.

Your heart throbbed immediately, the euphoria peaking your skin, making you feel electric. Maybe you were drugged, maybe a bit drunk, that didn’t matter, once what mattered was that you were absolutely surrendered by the moment. It felt almost like gluttony, the atmosphere made you want more of whatever there was to so deeply desire.

Attending the call, one by one, the 20s started walking towards the ceremony site were their parents, Mother Miranda and the four lords should be waiting for them. That year there were twelve of them, one more than last year, equally divided between men and women.

Even though it was prohibited for any villager, besides Luiza and Urias, to go past the area of the Altar, you knew where you were heading, you have explored every inch of the Village, quietly, never daring to talk about it with someone. On The Harvest, though, you were being guided. A magnificent deer appeared in front of you, it moved slowly, unafraid of your presence, he glanced at you and walked towards the site. You couldn’t help, but following it, somehow you were sure it would lead you to a pleasant event.

Past the gate and there they were, the four lords all together for the first time in your live. Strangely, you felt seduced more than scared, maybe it was the deer spells, maybe something else made you feel welcomed. The night was your wonderwall and nothing bad could happen to you.

[the-huntress]

Little Moth - Chapter 5 - Pine Tea and Dumplings

[Thank you so much to everyone that has read, liked and shared my fanfic so far! I’m so happy to see that people are interested in this. Thank you for being patient this week while I work on this chapter, I really hope that you enjoy it. Feel free to comment on any chapter or let me know if you would like to be tagged in the future.]

Masterlist

Y/N Protagonist, female. Reader X Karl Heisenberg. [18+]

Summary: Your first full day in the village draws to an end after having met two very eminent characters, Urias and Karl, the latter of which you just had a pretty unusual experience with. There was no time to stop and ponder over things as Urias immediately escorted you to Luiza’s house.

Trigger Warnings: Tea. Lots of tea. And stern expressions. Menstruation.

Soundscape Ambience Suggestions:

Cozy Winter Hut

[Photos I have collected from Tumblr]

“So long as you’re not hurt, Y/N.” Luiza soothed, pouring more tea into a teacup so small it looked absurd next to Urias. You touched your arm in thought and then swept a loose lock of hair behind your ear, for it only to fall back a moment later. “I’m fine.”  Luiza watched you, taking in your expression.

It hadn’t taken too long to walk from the inn to Luiza’s house after the incident. With Urias by your side for the duration, you’d felt much safer. The night was dark, but a few candles in the windows of the villager’s homes and the light of the moon had lit the way through the swirling snow well enough. Urias had made sure you were sufficiently warm for the journey and not hurt; you’d explained only briefly to him during the walk what had unfolded once you’d left the inn and he had already been seething from that. Once you got to Luiza’s and explained in full, Luiza and her husband had had to calm the giant man down by distracting him with copious cups of pine needle tea.

Her husband, Vasile, was taking care of the plates and cutlery in the kitchen after a glorious meal that she had cooked up earlier that day. She had started to prepare the goulash shortly after having met you, and slow cooked it to perfection during the time that you spent at the inn. Melt in your mouth beef in a tomato-based sauce rich with warm herbs and spices, topped with sliced onion and served with traditional dumplings. Luiza had proudly announced that this was Czech goulash, a recipe passed down to her from her great-grandmother. It went down a treat, warming you from the inside and making you feel so cosy that you could fall asleep.

“I don’t like to speculate without hard evidence, but I’ve a hunch it was Anton.” Urias grumbled, shifting in his seat and looking away. He seemed not to want to meet anyone’s eyes. You looked from Urias to Luiza. “I didn’t want to say it, Urias, but as soon as Y/N explained that’s the first name that came to my mind too. I know people are growing desperate, but some are growing dangerous.”

“Aye.” Urias looked down, his eyes full of remorse and he scratched the back of his head. “I’ll do what I can to find out for sure, and whoever the culprit is will be fairly punished, but I doubt he will be causing much trouble for a while now, seeing as Karl sure as hell scared him off.”

“And how is the Lord of the stallion crest?” Luiza asked in a dry mocking tone, sitting herself at the other end of the table from Urias, you sat between them, taking everything in and feeling both completely lost in a whole new world but also strangely comfortable. Urias gave a deep rumble of a laugh and looked over at her, sparkly eyed.

“Don’t let him hear you be calling him that, trust me, he won’t like it and we won’t hear the end of it.” He sipped from the tiny teacup. “He’s not happy,” Urias put a hand up, to indicate to Luiza as she opened her mouth to make a remark, that he wasn’t quite finished, “More than usual.”

“Well that doesn’t bode well.” Luiza replied, looking into her teacup. “The wedding?”

“Aye.” Urias said solemnly.

“Karl is your friend, right?” You asked Urias, raising a hand in question, the other softly wrapped around your teacup for the warmth. Your soft eyes met with his and he nodded in response. “Then why wouldn’t he be happy for you to get married?”

Luiza spotted Urias’ resignation and cleared her throat gently, “Karl is unfortunately not the biggest fan of Urias’ bride to be.” She looked over her clasped hands to him.

“And he has his reasons.” Urias added fairly.

“Urias, I am sorry if I seem forward, but who are you marrying?” You asked, you’d already heard so much, you wanted to understand it all in full now.

Urias’ expression became distant and serene, he exhaled and then breathed, “Miranda.”, his accent lingering at the end of it. He caught your expression. “Oh close yer mouth, you’ll be catching flies.” He grumbled, finishing his cup and reaching for the teapot.

“Mother Miranda?” You asked, baffled. “The Mother Miranda?” Your nose wrinkled up.

“Don’t,” Urias started, raising a hand in defiance, “Don’t be judging, how can ye know her, you’ve only just got here.” He tried to relax his huge frame back into the seat. The fire crackled and the torrents of snow seemed to grow louder outside.

“Urias. Mother Miranda’s name was in the notes that I found at Leon’s desk. Along with the phrase ‘The Four Lords’.”

Luiza and Urias looked up at each other at the same time, both seemingly a little shocked.

“I don’t know anything about Miranda, I don’t know what the ‘Four Lords’ are, but my gut is just telling me, I will find Leon through her, and I haven’t got a good feeling about it.”

“You and Heisenberg would get on a treat.” Urias mumbled, leaning his face into one hand defeated. You didn’t know who this Heisenberg was, but you didn’t have time to ask.

“Maybe Miranda does know something about Leon’s whereabouts, but what was he doing here in the first place. How do we know he means the village no harm?” Urias asked pointedly.

“He’s a good man,” You replied. “I’ve known him nearly my whole life, and all he does is good and to help others. If you won’t believe me, if you won’t help me, then I’ll find him myself.” You looked away from him, focusing straight ahead, unblinking lest the tears fall from your weary eyes. “I have to.”

The wind outside grew louder still, the silence between the three of you amplified. Luiza tilted her head and pursed her lips at Urias.

“Oh, all right, all right. We will help.” He pushed back in his chair from the table and began to pace the room.

“There is a meeting at Miranda’s church tomorrow. It is a volunteers meeting, the villagers are all invited and attend in order to see who will be taken on for various jobs for the Four Lords,”

“Which are?” You asked, pointing a finger into the air with the question.

“Who.” Corrected Urias, “Lady Alcina Dimitrescu, a noblewoman who resides in that castle, you won’t have missed it. Dr Salvatore Moreau, although I really am not too sure about his title… we have another doctor in the village… Donna Beneviento, a kind and yet troubled woman. Sadly, she has lost all of her family, and I am afraid it has affected her as you would imagine,” Your face faltered at this and your eyes cast downwards, thinking how it was much the same for yourself these days. “She is a wonderful seamstress though, and even makes dolls. Lastly Karl Heisenberg, who you have already met.”

You perked up, eyes glistening. You really were terrible at hiding your thoughts through your expressions. Luiza gave a soft chuckle, enjoying your demeanour.

“I suggest that you go to the meeting, inconspicuous mind you, strangers don’t tend to fair too well in these parts, listen in on what you can. You will get to see that Miranda is a fair and honourable leader. She has done a lot for the people of this village, and they don’t forget it, least not most of them. Do not make yourself noticed, and do not try anything dangerous, yer here me?” He threw you a stern look, as if he knew you well already. Maybe word had travelled from the Duke. You nodded eagerly.

“I’ll be there, but only for the beginning, I’ve got jobs that need attending early in the day, but Miranda will be busy for some time with the heretic’s judgement.”

“The what?” Your eyes were popping out of your skull. This sounded like a medieval past time.

“Hold yer horses, it sounds worse than it is.” Urias seemed flustered. He was leaning against the mantlepiece above the fire now, balancing the teacup against his great chest. “There have been a seldom few folk, over the years what have somewhat questioned Miranda and the way that things are done here, saying they know it ent right and this and that about the outside world and what have you.”

“Yes?” You encouraged, eagerly, leaning towards him across the table. Surely, he’d realised that something like this was a huge red flag.

“If one of these folk’s nonsense has gone too far, if they’ve become a liability to the greater good, well then,” His voice trailed off.

“We don’t actually know what’s happened to all of them, but we, that is, the village, we suspect they have most likely been executed in some form or manner.” Luiza worded it so very elegantly, but nothing could cover how this was sounding to any of the three of you.

Your throat had grown dry just hearing that. “You all live in fear.” You uttered. “How can you marry someone that does that?” You asked, standing up, looking accusingly at Urias. You hadn’t meant to raise your voice, you hadn’t meant to move even, but something burned angrily inside of you now.

But Urias didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look annoyed. He looked sad. “I know that this isn’t normal, this Village, us, the way we do things… the hellish creatures that live here among us. But this is home, and we do what we can, this is our normal, our families. Believe it or not, I do genuinely love and trust Miranda. I trust her with the well-being of the village. Like I said, she has done so much for us for so long. She. She is unearthly, beautiful… like she is made of something so pure and so dark all at once. She is so strong, truly magnificent. What she wants above all else, is just to find a way to bring her daughter back, and I believe that she can do it. Hell, I know that I would bring my daughter back if I knew how.” He looked up from his slouched position in the well-loved armchair and held Luiza’s gaze. Her eyes twinkled back with some distant memory.

You didn’t stay up much longer after that. Vasile came to join the three of you in the parlour, Urias stayed for a spell, discussing agriculture and such things with the man. The two seemed to get on well and you caught Luiza smiling between them and looking lost in thought a number of times. Snow had piled up during the time that you’d eaten and discussed the matters at hand. Urias took his leave, the door opened for as little time as possible to let him out, all the warmth of the parlour gone just like that. Luiza had already been so kind by inviting you for dinner, but then went out of her way to run you a bath in a small copper tub, big enough to sit in, and deep enough as to reach your midriff, but at least you could soak and wash the last few days from you.

You checked your wounds down your side, they actually didn’t seem too bad. You were still bleeding, as was the way with your cycle. You tried to count days, was it two or three now? You weren’t sure. You couldn’t even remember how long you’d been in the Village now. In some ways it already felt like a long time. You hoped that you’d find Leon soon and then you could just go home to normality. Maybe he was staying with another of the villagers here?

Wrapped in a towel you peered from a window in the corridor on the top floor. It looked out over the village. Small lights flickered in windows here and there through the torrents of snow. Urias could not be seen, you hoped that he’d got back to his own home safely. Was Leon stuffed and full of goulash in one of those homes? Was he fast asleep? Maybe he was with Karl wherever he lived. That Heisenberg.

You drifted from the window to the guest room that Luiza had set up for you. The fire burnt gently, the bed freshly made and warmed with a bed pan which had been removed only a few minutes ago. Your own clothes were folded neatly on a small, rickety children’s chair in the corner, and a fresh cotton night dress was laid out on the bed for you. You threw it on and eagerly clambered into bed.

Yes, that Heisenberg. You clasped your hands together, and stared up at the ceiling, watching the light from the candle on the bedside next to you dance and flicker over it. You found yourself frowning just by thinking of him. Why did he act so strangely after he saved you from that man? And why did it bother you so much? It wasn’t like you needed him to like you… and yet, and yet you felt that would be nice somehow. He felt so warm, almost hot to the touch even through his clothes in the snow. You felt your cheeks flush and you turned onto your side trying to ignore it, but then let out a frustrated sound in annoyance.

“Please let me sleep.” You whispered to the image of the man burnt into your mind’s eye. His image was, almost as if he was hiding. The hat, the shades. You were desperate to see his eyes. What were they like? Were they brown? Blue or green? He seemed so serious at the inn, so full of rage. Could he be happy? From Luiza’s and Urias’ conversation earlier you weren’t too sure. Something knotted in your stomach like the feeling of nerves and another cramp kicked in. You were thankful for the heat from where the pan had been on the almost scolding bed. If he can be happy, then I doubt very much that someone like me could be the one to make that happen. You thought to yourself. You threw your hands over your face.

Argh! Why am I thinking like this? I am here to find Leon. I am here to find Leon and bring him home. Nothing else. This is stupid. You turned, leaning on your elbow to blow out the candle and as you did caught sight of the top of the turrets of the castle out of the window. Will he be there tomorrow? You wondered, Karl’s image taking over your mind again. “Bloody hell, go to bed.” You huffed at yourself out loud and blowing out the candle this time.

Sleep came sooner than you’d imagined. The bath had relaxed your aching body somewhat, the covers of the bed were soft and warm, your head gently sinking into the pillow just the right amount, and the sounds of the fire mixed with the howling winds outside helped any thoughts swirling in your busy mind soon lay to rest.

All was still for some time. The snow continued to fall outside the window. Your breathing slowed. The fire cast a gentle glow and crackled. The chamberstick, fire poker and bed pan gently hummed, hanging in the air.

[sunshineandfangs]

O K A Y... So how about Klaroline + first time going to a sex club/dungeon? Please and thank you 😇

To Possess and Cherish (Sugar and Spice - The Prequel)

Warnings: BDSM, Dom!Klaus, bondage (fabric tie, cuffs, and spreader bar in various scenes), blowjob/deep-throating, quick erotic asphyxiation, name-calling, sex club/sex show, voyeurism/exhibitionism, use of toys, some temporary orgasm denial, a lot of sensation play (ice, wax, impact, vampire fangs, violet wand, etc.)

Note: I’m NOT at all  an expert in BDSM, apologies, but this is pure fantasy. And I take some liberties with what’s likely possible because they’re vampires. 

And to Luiza: This is late, late, late. Sorry! D: 

Posted to my AO3

Caroline’s breath hitched, her body shuddering as feather light touches caressed her arms.

“Do you trust me, Caroline?” His hot breath tickled her ear as he spoke.

“Yes,” she answered, voice hoarse, unable to prevent herself from shifting slightly in his arms. Another hot flash of arousal rushed down her spine and coiled low in her belly, even as a warning pinch against her side reminded her of what she had forgotten.

“Yes, Master,” she corrected.

Three Days Earlier

Caroline lounged in bed, her silken dressing gown loosely tied. She didn’t have to worry about flashing anyone as only Klaus would enter unannounced. (Okay, so that was a lie. Only Elijah and Freya actually had manners and bothered to knock before barging into people’s private rooms, but thankfully all of Klaus’ siblings were wreaking havoc elsewhere in the world this decade.)

But that wasn’t her main concern at the moment. Her eyes darted across the page, intrigue and arousal stirring.

Megan gasped as a streak of fire painted itself across her ass. Her fingers dug into the bed frame as she struggled not to squirm under her Master’s onslaught, not to break the position she was ordered to hold.

Her legs were spread at his command, but she knew how wet and swollen she must be, judging from the way she could feel her pulse between her thighs.

She had been with Klaus for a few decades now and she had yet to…indulge in this particular avenue of sex. She liked her control and Klaus’ frequent lack of control when it came to touching her. And so she hadn’t considered such games before.

“My beautiful pet,” her Master praised, his hand stroking along the red lines he had marked her with. Her body quivered from the dual sensation of sharp pain and aching pleasure. “You like this don’t you, pet? Letting your Master show the world who owns you.”

Rolling her lip between her teeth, she began to reconsider her stance. Distracted by her thoughts and the growing heat in her belly she didn’t hear when someone else entered the room.

The rumble of Klaus’ chest vibrated against her back as she suddenly found herself enveloped in his embrace.

“Caroline, whatever has you so worked up?” His voice was low and thick by her ear, his inhale audible as he spoke.

She flushed a bit, knowing he had smelled her arousal, that even now he was breathing in the scent of it. But it had been a long time since she had felt embarrassed by her desires and she tilted her tablet in his direction.

One of his arms shifted from her stomach, settling his hand over her own on the tablet. His fingers stroked down hers as he read, an intrigued noise emerging from him.

“I didn’t know you had an interest in BDSM.”

Caroline purred as she settled back into his embrace, reveling in the feel of his body pressed against her. She tilted her head against his shoulder, shifting slightly so she could properly see his face. His pupils were dilated, swallowing all but a narrow ring of gold as he returned her stare.

“Neither did I actually.” A wicked little smile curled on her lips as she licked them. “You’ve kept me more than satisfied, I didn’t even think about it.”

In a blur, she found herself turned around, her legs now straddling Klaus, her robe gaping open from the loosened tie, barely covering her nipples. “But what a tragedy that it seems I haven’t fulfilled your every desire.” His fingers reached for the belt, toying with it, but not untying it completely. “Would you like to play, my love?”

Caroline squirmed in his lap, feeling the hard press of his own arousal against her as she moved. His words sending a shiver down her spine. “Yes,” she panted.

Smiling, Klaus released the belt to trace her bottom lip with his thumb. Then he leaned forward until his lips just brushed hers, his hands moving to cradle her face. She felt his words as he whispered to her. “Good girl. Later we’ll have to discuss these newfound fantasies of yours, but for now I am your Lord husband. Do you understand?”

Caroline let her eyes flutter closed for a moment as she leaned her forehead against his. She felt a fierce rush of affection even as her panties dampened  further at his words. Opening her eyes she met his darkened gaze. “Yes, my Lord.”

Leaning back a bit, he released her face, his fingers trailing across the line of her jaw as he did so. Returning to the tie of her robe he easily tugged it from its knot, pulling the belt from its loops in a whisper of fabric.

“Don’t move, my lovely, I wish to admire what is mine.” Caroline’s breath hitched at his blatant possession, somewhat expecting the way her core clenched. He smirked at her, seeming to sense the direction of her thoughts as he slid her robe off, tossing it somewhere behind her.

There was something inherently naughty about the way she straddled his lap, clad in only panties while he sat fully dressed. Yet he was gentle as he pulled her hands behind her back, twining the belt around her wrists. He didn’t tie it. Not that it would matter since she was a vampire, but it still made her heart flutter when he curled her fingers around the end of the belt instead.

“If you touch me this ends, Caroline. Alright?”

She may be a novice, but she understood perfectly. He literally put her self-restraint in her own hands, but if it became too much for her he would know instantly.

Her eyes were soft as she looked at him.

“I understand, my Lord.”

He caressed her cheek, his own eyes softened by her response, and she eagerly leaned into the touch. A slight smile crossed his face before the tender moment soon turned heated once more.

“Greedy,” he murmured. “Already looking for loopholes around touching me.” He slid his hand down her face to trail along the column of her throat, pressing his palm against her collar bones as his thumb feathered over her pulse point. The slow, heavy beat of her undead heart throbbed under his touch.

He pressed his lips to her pulse, his fingers now threaded through her hair as he pulled her head back. His other hand slipping under her bound arms to press against the small of her back, pushing her body against his, the fabric of his clothes teasing the hardened buds of her nipples.

“Your heart…” His mouth worked its way down her body, his arms easily supporting her weight. As he dipped between her breasts, he shifted taking one of her nipples in his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue, the slight suction and scrape of blunt teeth pulled a moan from her. “Your body,” he continued as he pulled back again. “It belongs to me. Does it not, my lovely Caroline?”

Her breath was strained as she struggled to peer down at him from where his gaze scorched her. His eyes now blazing gold.

“Y-yes, my Lord.”

Pulling her upright until she was perched on his lap once more, his reply was a deep growl, all Wolf and hunger.

“But mere words are hardly enough.” Slipping his fingers into her soaking panties, he let them rest against her entrance, his palm putting slight pressure on her clit. She shuddered, automatically pressing down against his hand even as he tutted at her, keeping his touch light and teasing. “I warned you about your greed, my lovely. Your pleasure is mine to give to you.”

Caroline forced herself to still. “Please, my Lord.”

“Tell me what you want, Caroline” He ordered, his fingers still lightly stroking her.

“I want you to touch me, my Lord!”

“Oh, but I am touching you, lovely,” he cooed, his fingers moving up to roll her clit once.

She cried out, a mix of pleasure and frustration. “Your cock, my Lord. Please, I want it in me. I want you in me.”

A twitch of his fingers easily shredded her panties and another blur of movement exposed his fully erect cock, already leaking precum. He lifted her until she hovered just over the tip, his hands hot, iron bands on her hips.

“Who do you belong to, my love?” As he spoke he rubbed against her, prodding her clit and then her folds, nudging against her entrance, though he never penetrated her. He repeated the motion, again and again. Taunting her as he coated his cock with her dripping arousal.

“You, my Lord!” Her fingers tore at the belt, putting holes in it even as she continued to hold it in place. Just as the last syllable left her lips he stilled, poised right where she wanted him the most. His eyes blazed as he suddenly pulled her down without warning.

She shrieked in surprised, her walls clenching around him. The sudden stretch burned though it only served to heighten the pleasure. She could feel where the head of his cock kissed some place deep inside her. The slight bite of his zipper, making everything seem that much more obscene. What a picture they must make: her bound and naked in the lap of a fully clothed man.

He thrust up slightly, scattering her thoughts as he kept her fully impaled as he moved, the motion more of a hard rocking. She tried to move with him, but he kept her firmly locked in place, only able to take what he gave her.

“That’s right, my love,” he growled between thrusts. “You belong to me. And this is how we’ll come, with me buried so deeply inside you. So, you remember who it is that owns every piece of you.”

She chanted her agreement in a flood of “yes” and “my Lord”, her pleasure building quickly. She wasn’t going to last long. His growls vibrated through where they were connected, sending her even closer to the edge.

Her eyes rolled back, sparks dancing on the back of her eyelids. The unexpected burn of his venom as his fangs pierced her throat sent her into a screaming orgasm. Every part of her was being claimed. Every pull he took of her blood, every pulse of his cock as he coated her inner walls sent new waves of pleasure through her.

As she came back to herself, the two of them riding out the aftershocks of their mutual orgasms, she felt Klaus reach behind her to tug what remained of the belt from her. Once freed, she wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him close.

His tongue caught the last drops of her blood as he shifted to bare his throat to her. Taking the silent invitation, Caroline buried her own fangs in his neck, groaning at the rush of pure power, the decadence of his blood.

Klaus was stroking her hair as she drank, a habit he had never tried to break. When she finally pulled away he lapped at the single bead of blood at the corner of her lips, taking the opportunity to steal a quick kiss.

“Well, my love, did it live up to your fantasies?”

“More than,” she grinned, eyes bright. “We should definitely do this again. Although,” she pouted, “as hot as it was, I could do with fewer clothes on you, Klaus.”

His answering grin was amused. “However will you learn, if I give you everything you want.” Even as he spoke though he was moving her, pulling out from where they had still been connected, and shucking his shirt and pants.

Caroline rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe don’t actually give me everything I want then.” She squeaked in surprise as Klaus swung her into his arms and carried her toward the bathroom.

“Such impertinence, lovely. I think you owe your Lord an apology, hm?”

She grinned into his neck. “Yes, my Lord.” Her words turned into a slight squeal, as he took the opportunity to swat her ass with the hand not supporting her. A mix of her renewed arousal and Klaus’ release trickled onto her thighs.

His eyes were once more lustful as he set her down in the shower. “Greedy. Impertinent. Filthy,” he listed as he raked his eyes over her form, lingering on her glistening thighs. “Whatever am I to do with you.”

Caroline slowly sunk to her knees, peering up at him from beneath her lashes. “Whatever pleases you, my Lord.”

He pet her hair once before sinking his fingers into the strands, curling them around his fingers. “Such a devious little mind you have, lovely. Already trying to sweeten my mood with your honeyed words.” He stepped closer, his once more erect cock bobbing in front of her face. “But I think this mouth of yours could be put to better use. Open,” he ordered, punctuating his words with a sharp tug of her hair.

Caroline moaned slightly, shivering from his proprietary treatment, finding it way hotter than she expected. Obediently she parted her lips, leaning forward to take him in her mouth. Another tug on her hair pulled her back as he tsked at her.

“This is your apology, lovely, you only do as I order you. Remember, if you touch me this ends, Caroline.”

She panted, rubbing her thighs together. “Yes, I understand, my Lord.”

“Good girl.”

Squirming, she waited impatiently for his next command. It seemed like an eternity before he finally pushed her head toward his cock.

“Suck.”

As her lips closed over his tip, she could taste their combined release. She flattened her tongue against the underside, fluttering and swirling it every so often as she sucked. Klaus’ soft growls of pleasure heightened her own arousal, and she let him maneuver her head as he pleased.

“Lovely girl, such a sweet mouth you have. But a true apology requires that you take all of me.” His eyes looked down at her, streaking with gold at whatever licentious image she presented. Unable to reply, she kept her tense hands on her thighs, an eager moan spilling from her at his words.

Maintaining eye contact, he slowly pushed her head farther down his shaft. Nose now brushing his skin, she swallowed, feeling the walls of her throat uselessly convulse.

“That’s it, my lovely. Keep doing that.” He shifted, encircling her throat with his fingers. He stroked her where she knew he could feel her body flexing to accommodate him, moving slowly as he took in her every reaction. Her eyes were surely pleading with him, hands balled into fists as her own arousal went ignored.

“Good girl,” he praised, tightening his grip and causing her mind to go hazy. She was still coherent, though she felt like she was floating on a cloud of pleasure. His voice sounded slightly muffled as he spoke, her focus caught on the feel of his cock, his hands on her throat.

“I could easily come like this, lovely, but I think I want to mark you again. Because you belong to me, Caroline. You should be covered in my scent, so everyone knows that you are mine.”

She didn’t move to push him away, leaning into his hands as he pulled free, spurts of his seed falling onto her lips and breasts.

Though she didn’t need to breath as a human would, her breaths were still ragged once Klaus loosened his grip, her body still riding high.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart. And good girls deserve rewards. Do you want your reward, love?”

Caroline nodded hurriedly. Her “please, my Lord” hoarse and raspy.

Klaus grinned at her wickedly, hefting her up onto his shoulders. He buried his face between her thighs, her core now level with his mouth. She shrieked clenching her thighs around his neck as she gripped his hair with her fingers. She felt him move to pull away and, realizing she was touching him, begged him to continue as she released his hair.

“Please, my Lord, keep going! I want it! I need it!”

He pulled back just enough to tell her she could touch him now if she wished, that he would stop only if she asked him to.

But ‘stop’ was the last word in her mind as she re-threaded her fingers in his hair, thrashing wildly as his expert tongue and lips and teeth sent her rocketing toward an orgasm. When she crashed over the edge, she would have fallen had he not caught her, easily disentangling her limbs and lowering her back down.

She sagged against him, letting him support her weight as the last tingles of pleasure rolled through her. Pressing a kiss to his chest she mumbled her thanks, the words swallowed by the shower turning on.

A slight giggle escaped her as she realized how long they had been in the shower without using it for its intended purpose.

“It’s a shame I can’t leave this mark on you longer,” Klaus purred in her ear, having turned her back to his chest as he spoke. He kept his arm looped around her waist as he reached for one of the body washes. “Alas, we won’t be able to talk if you smell quite that much like me.”

“Isn’t that your soap?” She asked, amused.

“Well, I can’t let all my hard work be undone, my lovely.”

“Of course not, my Lord.” She drawled.

“Now, now,” he said lightly, squeezing a dollop of soap onto his palm. “You just finished apologizing to me.”

She just hummed, keeping her commentary to herself as she luxuriated in the feeling of Klaus’ hands stroking over her skin. The motions were more soothing than sensual, her arousal stirring a little when he lathered her breasts and dipped between her legs.

Though that sensation faded when he massaged first shampoo and then conditioner into her hair. She was purring and dazed from the simple, relaxing pleasure of it, once again relying on Klaus to keep her from falling into a boneless heap.

When it was her turn to help him wash he may have had to swat her admonishingly away from his cock, but they eventually made it out of the shower.

The two of them sprawled across the bed, towels carelessly flung from when they used them to dry off. Both of them now in dressing robes, Caroline once more resting in Klaus’ embrace, tablet in hand.

“So, what sparked your interest, love?”

She shrugged. “Technically, nothing. One of my friends recommended the book to me so I gave it a read.”

“But then it intrigued you?”

“Mm-hm. I wasn’t really expecting it to be honest, but I’m glad I gave it a try.”

“And what are your thoughts on further exploration? You said you wouldn’t mind doing this again and I could tell you enjoyed everything we did today. But would you prefer this to be a one off thing or do you want to experiment with such a lifestyle?”

Caroline half-turned to look at Klaus, seeing only honest curiosity on his face. “I’m not really sure. I mean today was really, really hot, but I don’t actually know that much about BDSM. I don’t think I would want to do this 24/7, but trying out some more things? I definitely wouldn’t mind.”

Klaus nodded thoughtfully before typing something into her tablet. “I know you’re quite fond of your research, my love. So, this should be a good starting point.”

Caroline took it, taking in what looked like the homepage of some kind of BDSM sex club, its sidebar having several links including one titled “resources.” Her eyes narrowed as she whipped to face Klaus.

“Wait a minute, is this something you’re into. Why didn’t you tell me?” She wasn’t sure how she felt that Klaus seemed to have hid this from her. Did he still expect her to run? A pang went through her at the thought.

He tucked a curl behind her ear, seeming to read the direction of her thoughts.

“It’s certainly something I have enjoyed in the past, but you alone have made me happier than any of those casual play partners. I didn’t say anything because I don’t require BDSM to have a meaningful sex life with you, love. You are more than enough.”

Caroline relaxed, affection bubbling up inside her. “I love you too,” she said as she pressed a soft kiss against his lips. She pulled back with a smile, turning back around to peruse her new research.

After a half hour she rummaged around for sheets of paper to start compiling lists, the action of actually writing things out and color coding them relaxing to her.

“Enjoying yourself, love?” Klaus asked, amused, as Caroline resettled herself in his lap.

“I want my safeword to be ‘hummingbird’,” she announced, ignoring his teasing. His fingers twitched against her stomach.

“…Any particular reason why?”

She turned to look at him, blunt and honest and unafraid of her feelings.

“Because of you, Nik. Because some fifty years ago you told a story about hummingbirds and the Andes to a naive, baby vampire and made her realize that there was more to you than the newest Big Bad. And that vampire grew older and wiser and found that no place provided more love or safety than with you.”

The intensity of his lips crashing into her’s didn’t really surprise her, but it still filled her with warmth to feel the extent of his emotions.

He pulled back, breath a bit shaky against her face.

“I don’t deserve you, Caroline, but everyday I am grateful that you’re here. That you chose me.”

Caroline took his hand and kissed his knuckles, muttering an, “I will always choose you,” into his skin, before turning around and snuggling into him, pulling his arms back around her. He made a contented noise as he tightened his grip, resting his chin on her shoulder as she resumed her list making.

They spent the next few hours sitting together as Caroline compiled her lists. Occasionally she would ask Klaus for his opinion or if he had any experience with a particular kink, but she mostly tried to keep her view unbiased.

The end result, after a couple similarly spent days, was an extensive and comprehensive list. (All numerically rated, of course.)

Handing the neatly bound pages over, she explained her meticulous coding. “Okay, so red is 0’s for never while orange and yellow are 1’s and 2’s for things I want to talk about. The purple and pink are 3’s and 4’s for fantasies and things I want to try while green is 5’s for absolutely yes.”

She narrowed her eyes in warning as she observed Klaus’ twitching lip even as her own began to quirk upward. Still his focus when he took the lists from her was genuine, his sincerity obvious when he thanked her.

“And what does the black represent?” He asked after having scanned through.

“Neutral. I don’t feel hesitant about them, but I don’t have any great desire to try them right now either.”

Klaus nodded thoughtfully, flipping through the pages several times as he read. “I can take you to Paradise Lust tonight if you wish. It would be a good opportunity to actually see a great many of the things on this list.”

Intrigued, Caroline agreed eagerly. Fantasies already starting to spin in her mind.

Her attention abruptly shifted as Klaus set the list down and stalked over to her. 

“Before that,” he muttered tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before pulling her to him, his thumbs tracing circles on her hip bones, “there are a few other things to address.”

She rubbed her thighs together, letting out a faux-casual, “oh?”

He hummed. “You’ve been addressing me as your Lord these past few days, but I prefer ‘Master’.” His eyes blazed gold as he leaned even closer. “I possess all of you, my Caroline. You give yourself to me to pleasure and cherish and in return you offer your obedience and submission. I want you to remember that each time you address me.”

Her breath hitched.

“Yes…Master.”

He smiled, the curve of his lips pleased and wicked.

“And you, Caroline, you are my love, gorgeous and fierce. But that’s not all you are, are you?” He slid one of his hands up her side, caressing the curve of her breast. His voice lowered. “For me, you are also my pretty little slut and whore. So greedy for my touch, isn’t that right, pet?”

She bit her lip, shifting in his arms as her arousal grew. It was a weird mix of intimacy and obscenity to be called such names by him. To know that no matter what show they put on for others, everything she does is only for him and everything he does is only for her.

“Yes, Master.” Her tongue wet her dry lips as she tested out his title once more.

“Good girl.”

She shuddered.

Caroline stood in the entry hall of Paradise Lust, struck with a tiny burst of nerves, wondering if she was ready for one of the top supernatural dungeons in the world. Ready for the scene they had discussed. The warm press of Klaus’ hand rested against her lower back as he leaned closer to whisper in her ear.

“If you don’t feel comfortable we can go home, Caroline. I would be perfectly happy to have you all to myself.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she relaxed into him, a firm, steady presence at her back. Her curls bounced as she shook her head, voice confident. “No, it’s alright. I want to try this.”

He seemed to weigh her sincerity, before relaxing himself, shifting his hand from her back to her hip and tugging her into his side.

“As you wish.”

The two walked farther in, passing through a few sitting areas where people in various states of dress were playing. Some were subtle, glimpses of hands under clothes, the sly fiddling of a vibrator’s controller, while others reveled in tongues between their thighs, fingers delving between glistening folds and parted cheeks.

As they moved, Caroline could feel the air teasing her heated core, the tiny skirt of her leather dress offering no protection for her pantyless bottom.

Klaus chuckled his fingers rubbing at the edge of her skirt. “Aroused already, pet?”

“I guess I’m a bit of a voyeur after all,” she joked, trying to stop herself from getting too distracted.

“Well, you’ll enjoy the show then.” As he finished speaking, Klaus guided them into another room, this one with a small crowd gathered around a center stage.

The first thing she noted was the pair’s similarity to a certain other two people in the room. The man with his short curls and stubble. The woman a blue-eyed blonde. Her eyes darted over to glance at Klaus, his expression a provoking smirk.

She hissed.

“You did this on purpose!”

His hand sneaked under her skirt, delivering a sharp pinch to the curve of her ass. “Manners, pet. I would hate for you to miss the show.”

Caroline jolted, having momentarily forgotten their current roles. “I’m sorry, Master, I was surprised.”

He hummed, the palm of his hand soothing the spot he had pinched. “You’ll make it up to me later, as you were correct, I did plan for this. So, I want you to watch carefully, my pet.”

Caroline nodded as the two merged into the back of the crowd, her back once more pressed to Klaus’ front, one of his hands now resting on her stomach and the other on her thigh. She kept her eyes trained on the pair on stage, trying to ignore the patterns Klaus was tracing against her skin.

The woman stood naked save for a collar and little bells dangling from nipple clamps. She looked confident and sexy as the man strode up behind her, clad only in form fitting leather pants.

He circled around her, seeming to pay no heed to their audience. “Dirty little slut, you’re already dripping for your Master, aren’t you?”

The question seemed to be rhetorical as the blonde said nothing, just eyed the man with dark, hungry eyes.

He stepped behind her, not touching, just letting her be aware of his presence. “Why don’t you show them, slut. Show them how wet your Master makes you.”

She moaned parting her legs and reaching a hand down to spread her folds, the scent and sight of her arousal easily apparent.

Caroline’s pupils blew wide, her own arousal rising rapidly as Klaus stroked teasing fingers up and down her inner thigh.

“Do you like watching them, pet?” He breathed in her ear. “Or are you wishing you were her? Getting off on obeying her Master, demonstrating what a good girl she is for him?”

Caroline swallowed a whimper. “Both.”

Klaus rewarded her with a single stroke of his finger, tracing a line from her entrance to her clit. He caught her wiggling hips.

“Be still, my greedy slut. Be a good girl and watch the rest of the show and I’ll reward you for your patience.”

It was a struggle for Caroline to hold still as he continued to randomly caress and tease her, the show onstage only serving as a second arousing taunt.

The man held a ben wa ball to the woman’s still parted folds, rubbing the metal against her until it glistened. He then slowly inserted it, letting everyone watch the way it was swallowed. He repeated the process with a second one and then a third.

“Take a little walk around the stage. How does it feel?”

The woman took slow, careful steps, seeming to be particularly sensitive to their movements as little moans escaped her lips.

“It feels wonderful, Master. Thank you!” She panted.

Klaus continued to tease her as he murmured in her ear. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Caroline. He’s been trying to teach her to withhold her orgasms, but she’s. So. Sensitive.” He punctuated his words with little thrusts of his fingers as she clenched around them. “Look at how her movements are a bit jerkier. Hear how the bells are ringing almost twice as often.”

Caroline barely absorbed his words, focused on delaying her own orgasm. She shuddered, cutting her lip on a suddenly extended fang, as she barely hung on, the sound of the other blonde’s cries ringing in her ears.

She kept her eyes clenched shut, hoping the lack of visual would aid her. Klaus quickly thwarted that plan with a light slap to her clit. Her eyes shot open, the sensation bringing her perilously close to the edge.

“No cheating, pet. Watch,” he ordered.

Caroline again absorbed the tableau taking place before her. The other blonde now bent over a padded bench, legs spread and bound to its supports while her arms were tied behind her back.

“You lack discipline, my pretty little slut,” the man chided, a cat o’ nine tails in his hand. “Count every strike and thank me for the correction.”

“You’re doing well, love.” Klaus pressed a kiss against the curve of her shoulder as he pulled a small vibrator from his pocket. He held it before her eyes as he let it rest in his palm, turning it on with a quick twist. “Five counts, pet.”

Caroline took a deep breath, digging her fingers into the arm still banded around her waist. At the same time the first blow landed on the woman’s ass, Klaus pressed the vibrator against her.

She keened, and a few eyes turned to look at her and Klaus, causing fire to run through her veins.

“Oh, god,” she panted.

“Two. Thank you for the correction, Master.”

Caroline struggled to keep her eyes open as the third blow landed, her body curling forward, depending on the support of Klaus’ arms. Her involuntary writhing sent additional jolts through her core and she tried to stop when she noticed.

“Four! Thank you for the correction, Master.”

“Good girl,” Klaus praised. “One more.”

The strike landed.

“Come, Caroline.”

Her orgasm crashed over her, a sobbing moan leaving her lips as she jerked and quivered. A rush of air sent her sensitive skin prickling and she realized Klaus must have moved them.

She kept her eyes closed as the last sparks of pleasure dissipated. And as awareness returned, she could sense they were the only two people in this new room.

“Keep your eyes closed, Caroline.”

She obeyed, tensing as new anticipation built once more.

His finger slowly traced up along the ridges of her spine before trailing back down again and grasping the zipper of her dress. He tugged it down just as slowly, letting her feel each loosening of fabric, every quiet click of the metal teeth.

Her nipples pebbled against the cool air, the dress a pile at her feet.

Caroline’s breath hitched, her body shuddering as feather light touches caressed her arms.

“Do you trust me, Caroline?” His hot breath tickled her ear as he spoke.

“Yes,” she answered, voice hoarse, unable to prevent herself from shifting slightly in his arms. Another hot flash of arousal rushed down her spine and coiled low in her belly, even as a warning pinch against her side reminded her of what she had forgotten.

“Yes, Master,” she corrected.

“Good girl.” His hands left her arms, tracing down her body all the way to her ankles. His fingers made quick work of the straps of her heels, before he stood once more, placing a supporting hand on her back and guiding her to step out of the shoes.

She wasn’t sure what was going to happen now, their planned scene already done. Klaus was as well attuned to her as always, and he answered her unspoken question.

“You’re very sensitive, Caroline. Pain,” he pinched one of her nipples, giving it a slight twist as she cried out. “Pleasure.” He released the sore bud, soothing away the ache with gentle pressure as she softly moaned. “I wish to know every reaction I can elicit from you, my love. Every sensation that will make you writhe. Would you like that?”

Caroline swallowed, throat dry. “Yes, Master.”

His hands encircled her wrists, thumb rubbing circles on their sensitive underside. “Now, I am going to restrain you, pet, spread you open for my pleasure.” He paused waiting for any objection, but she said nothing, just as excited by his words as he was.

In a pulse of air, Caroline felt Klaus vanish and return. With a click, he secured padded metal cuffs around her wrists. The attached chain shorted with several turns of a crank, her arms pulled up and over her head, tethering them to some fixture overhead. Similar cuffs encircled her ankles, and a few clicks sounded as Klaus adjusted the spreader bar, her legs now widely parted.

“You look beautiful like this, pet.” She felt more than heard Klaus circle her bound form, and a shiver ran down her spine. He came to a stop behind her, his warmth close enough to feel against her back. “I have ten things I would like to try today, Caroline.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you wish to stop for any reason, love, say ‘hummingbird’ and we’ll stop. Alright?”

She smiled, leaning back a bit to feel his solid presence, noticing that he had shed his own clothes at some point. “Yes, Master.”

“Good girl.” He stepped back, her ears catching the noise of whatever object he picked up.

She waited.

A shock of cold enveloped her nipple. She twitched at the unexpected sensation as he circled her nipple with the ice’s slowly melting edge. It was an odd feeling, like a numb bite, somehow sharp and dull at the same time. He gave her other breast the same treatment, and she squirmed in her bondage, a flicker of arousal stirring. He pressed the remaining chip of ice inside her eliciting a shocked squeal.

She bucked against the hand still pressed against her, the throb of growing arousal mixed with the numb ache of the ice.

“You respond delightfully to cold, pet.” There was a click and the scent of flame. “But it doesn’t make you burn.”

She jerked again as drips of hot wax landed on her still chilled nipple. Searing sparks ran down her spine, numbness quickly dissipating.

“Klau-Master,” she tripped over his address, her inner walls clenching on the last remnants of the ice. He switched sides as the next few drops fell, and she shouted out again.

“That’s it, pet, let go.” A mini-orgasm sent little shocks of pleasure through her, her body still overwhelmed. “Shh, love, I have you.” He stepped closer, letting her lean her weight back into him. He held her as she calmed. “Do you still wish to continue?”

It took a few more moments for her to answers.

“Yes, Master,” she panted. “I trust you, and it did feel good.”

He gave her a few more breaths before releasing her to pick up the next object. It felt a bit coarse as it rubbed against the sensitive skin that had been under the wax. Klaus knew what he was doing as the two sensations once more played off each other, building a second wave of heat and pleasure. 

Something primal washed through her as she realized the texture reminded her of animal fur.

“Is this your Wolf’s claim, Master?” She asked daringly, not sure where the wild impulse came from.

He froze, the fur pressed against her sternum. Then he was growling in her ear, his voice sounding wrecked. “What a filthy mind you have, my little slut. If only you knew what my Wolf wishes to do to you.”

His tone send a bolt of heat directly to her core and she couldn’t resist taunting him a little bit more. “Maybe one day,” she panted out.

“Such insolence,” he stated as he released her. “Naughty little sluts like you need lessons, minx. To be reminded that they receive pleasure at their master’s leisure.”

There was a pause, two, and then a whistle as something cut through the air. Caroline cried out as multiple knotted lines impacted her back. They burned and she didn’t have much time to think about it before a second blow landed. Then a third. But rather than diminishing her pleasure, it just summoned something feral to rise from within her.

She could feel her monster clawing at her skin, fangs and veins appearing on her face. She thrashed in time with the pulsing of her core. The monster in the woman knew it had taunted the predator in her mate. And now he was showing her who she belonged to. Demanding her submission. Owning her.

She clawed at the chains as she felt the sharp points of her mate’s fangs at her throat. They traced the line of her carotid and she stilled as they pressed against her beating pulse.

“Submit,” he snarled. She felt herself instantly go limp, her head tilting to farther bare her neck.”Mine,” he hissed as he sunk his fangs in her neck and his fingers in her core.

Her scream was silent as her orgasm struck. His fingers still curled in her, his mouth pulling at her blood. The heady combination of monster and woman and unrelenting claim knocked her out for a moment, as when she came to his wet fingers were petting her stomach and his tongue licking at the last drips of her blood.

He let her daze clear some before pressing his other wrist to her lips, the cure coating her tongue in a delicious rush.

“That’s it, love.” It took a few moments for her to fully come down and let her vampire feature recede once more. “My apologies, Caroline, I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”

Now, that the haze had dissipated from her mind and Caroline could properly think once more she could acknowledge that they had both been lost to their beasts. However, she had not felt frightened or threatened. It had felt safe to lose her normally rigid control. And even their monsters only wished to claim one another.

She turned her head to nuzzle into him. “It’s alright, Nik. I liked it, and even in retrospect that was hot.” She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Please, continue, Master?”

His exhale felt a bit shaky, though his lips were warm and firm as they pressed against her brow. “As you wish, Caroline.”

This time he started off slow again. Tickling her skin with the barest brushes of a feather. It wasn’t so much arousing as it was sensitizing, her skin feeling hyper aware of each of his movements, of even the air moving around her. When he replaced the feather with soft swats from a paddle, that awareness heightened further. Every bit of her skin tingled and she could feel herself quickly growing slick once more.

So, it was a delightful torment when he loosely looped a strand of silken fabric over her breasts and under them, crossing across her stomach, and between her legs. It whispered as it glided across her skin, feeling like the gentlest of caresses as he pulled the fabric free. He did it again and again, the silk soon growing wet with the evidence of her arousal, painting trails of it across her skin.

“Master, please,” she finally begged.

“Yes, pet? What do you want?”

“I need more, Master!”

“Is that so?”

Caroline had a feeling her begging had been too vague from the deviousness she heard in his voice. But before she could plead a second time, something leather pressed itself against her lips and Klaus hushed her.

“Shhh, my greedy slut, patience.You will take nine strikes and then there will only be one object left. Understand?”

She nodded, the leather tongue of what she realized was a crop still pressed against her lips. At her consent, she felt the crop trail down from her lips and between her breasts before stroking along her side to her back. It flicked over the curve of her ass before landing with a hard thwack.

Her body jolted, the blow a harsh contrast to the earlier teasing. It traced over the surely reddening patch of her skin before striking her again, criss-crossing the same spot. Then a third time. He gave her little mercy, only deigning to switch cheeks and give the same three blows on the other side.

She licked her lips when the leather tongue once more trailed across her skin, up her spine and side and around to the front once more. This time it caressed her nipple. He hefting some of her breast’s weight on the end of the crop as it gently flicked up before landing with a crack.

A cry emerged from her lips, the sting of the leather a whole different feeling on her sensitive nipple. The burn smarted even as she could feel herself dripping and she braced for the matching blow. And the expectation only heightened the pleasure and the pain.

She could feel herself quivering, her body and mind alight in an endless dance of pain and pleasure.

He took care to draw out his final blow. The leather tongue traced across her skin for the third time. But this time it seemed directionless, just aimless wandering as he increased her anticipation. So it was an honest surprise when the last strike landed on her clit and flicking down between her folds.

She shrieked, sparks dancing on the back of her eyelids. 

Throbbing and on the precipice of a climax, a cool orb pressed against her core. Klaus clicked it on and literal electricity shot through her. Behind her eyelids her eyes rolled back and she couldn’t tell which jolts were from her orgasm and which were from the electric toy he had used on her.

And then his cock was pressing against her still fluttering walls, thrusts sharp and aimed, sending her careening into a second orgasm with ease. She had felt how aroused he had been all night, and he quickly reached his own end, a flood of his seed filling her. When he pulled out she felt a trickle of their combined release paint her thighs.

“You were magnificent, Caroline,” he praised as he reached up to release her cuffs.

With a clink her arms fell to her sides, boneless. Exhausted she let him pick her up, carefully supporting her still spread legs. She cracked her eyes open for the first time, noting an arrangement of bondage furniture, but too tired to examine them more closely.

He reached a padded bench and set her down across his lap, unlatching the spreader bar and letting her slump against his chest. It had been a long time since sex could wipe her out as a vampire, but that’s how she felt. It was certainly a good tired, but she didn’t fight the pull of sleep. She drifted off feeling to the soothing stroking of Klaus’ hand over her hair.

[luizavickers-blog]

Glyphosates are Working their way into the Entire Food Chain

Glyphosate is one of the most extensively utilized herbicides in records. Farmers scatter these substances to treat every acre of cropland. Everywhere around the world, this practice of spreading herbicide around is famous. Glyphosate is studied as a herbicide having as a wide spectrum, It implies that I dangerous for all the vegetation it’s sprinkled on. Initially, in previous years, its usage was very less but now the usage has increased manifold. Farmers spatter it wherever they want to destroy all vegetation, for example, in between the rows in farms or grapevines, in industrial lots, also it is sprayed near the train paths or power line.

Many experiments have been conducted by the Food and Drug Administration who have examined honey for glyphosate, the bureau has discovered that some parts of the honey have been infected by the glyphosate and some are left since glyphosate is never undeviatingly practiced to bee swarms. The glyphosate is proceeding its move into honey via the bees that assemble it from diffused plants, this can’t be controlled unless its usage is controlled. But apparently, bee breeders are not violating any laws because they aren’t the people who are applying the weed killer.

Another test conducted by researches on food items is of the testimony that the signs of glyphosate have been found out in the organic eggs too. So this is another example quoting how Gyphosfates is entering our food chain. The matter of concern here is that anyhow glyphosate is entering up our bodies through the food chain, and slowly steadily it will harm our body. So not only a normal human being having zero medical conditions is harming from this dangerous chemical which has entered the food chain but also our children, pregnant ladies are the one who is most prone to this danger. Not only the humans but the growing usage of the glyphosate is also crashing the metabolism, germination, and breeding of aquatic beings and could be decaying the vital abdomen bacteria of creatures like bees. This herbicide is hitting both the human and the animal race.

The principal Consideration for this issue of Gyphosfates entering into the entire food chain as observed by Luiza Vickers is that this chemical has the capability of inducing cancer in humans but still the consumption level is not that much high for it to be dangerous. But this is just the beginning, small bits make the oceans, its widespread usage has led it to enter the food chain and within no time it will affect the human life as it will be present in everything we consume and then automatically the level of consumption would increase. 

The need for the hour according to Luiza Vickers is to lessen the widespread usage of this herbicide, the government should set control limits on its usage and also some other substitutes should be found to serve their purposes which are less affecting the human and the animal race.

Originally Posted: https://www.allperfectstories.com/gyphosates-are-working-in-entire-food-chain/

[writersofatlantis-blog]

Possuindo uma escrita detalhada, intensa e profunda, Esquecimento ganhou o primeiro lugar do concurso deixando aquele arrepio no corpo. Leitura de tirar o fôlego por sua narração impecável, retrata a face que o excesso traz, experimentada não só por Jamie, alcoólatra no passado, como também por seu namorado Javis, refém da cocaína. 

Não só retratando as faces do vício, Fran traz para os leitores os detalhes do relacionamento entre Javis e Jamie, por vezes tomado pela confusão, e da vida pessoal de ambos, também com altos e baixos. Detalha sentimentos e situações com maestria e riqueza de palavras, usando-as de forma a cativar o leitor e a fazê-lo querer continuar lendo sobre Jamie e Javis.

1. Faça uma breve apresentação:

Daqui já lhes alerto que não tenho a mínima habilidade em falar de mim mesma. Podem me chamar de Fran, tenho 15 anos. Sou ariana, mas tento ser legal na maioria das vezes. Minha paixão é a comida, em seguida vem a escrita; logo depois leitura, gatos e algumas banalidades. Ouvinte de todos os ritmos, amante de rock e MPB. Sou um tanto cismada com besteiras mas principalmente com a escrita, já que sou uma coleção ambulante de erros e a escrita é um acerto perdido por aí. Meio tímida, meio solta com amigos e pela internet. Deus não me deu o dom síntese: o problema é começar, por que após o estopim não acho mais a rédea da minha boca.

2. Esquecimento trata de dois importantes temas: alcoolismo e homossexualidade. Qual foi sua inspiração para tratar de ambos no conto? Foi algo que você construiu do zero ou teve alguma situação real para se basear?

Homossexualidade já é um tema que estou um pouco habituada, apesar de hétero, tenho uma amiga bissexual e um amigo homossexual. Minha família também tem uma grande fatia preconceituosa, minha mãe e meu pai são um pouco mais relaxados; já minhas tias são um poço de preconceito, especialmente em relação a isso e a religiões. Não conheço nenhum alcoólatra ou viciado, mas já vi gente nova bebendo a ponto de ir para o hospital; por ser uma droga lícita, muitas pessoas banalizam o álcool. Mas Esquecimento não foi baseado numa situação real específica, ela está no contexto de outra história minha que estou desenvolvendo, então foi até tranquila de desenvolver. O único conflito que construí do zero foi o do vício em drogas ilícitas.

3.  Em sua conta do Wattpad há apenas o conto publicado. Essa foi a primeira vez que você publicou uma obra ou costuma usar outras plataformas? Por quê?

Minha conta do wattpad era um enfeite, só criei por que uma amiga pediu. Eu costumava usar o Nyah fanfiction, onde postei duas histórias e algumas crônicas e poemas, mas excluí tudo. Atualmente não tenho nada publicado além dos textos no meu tumblr e o conto, apenas planejo; e como já me conheço (não continuei as duas histórias do Nyah por falta de ideias e organização), só postarei algo quando estiver concluído.

4.  Por que e quando começou a escrever?

Não lembro exatamente quando comecei a escrever, escrevo pequenos textinhos desde sempre. Mas quando eu era mais nova tinha uma imaginação fértil até demais. Montava histórias na minha cabeça e meu sonho no início era ser cartunista ou fazer filmes, mas não tinha (nem tenho) o mínimo talento, então me conformei com a escrita para escrever minhas historinhas e no final deu certo até demais.

5. Qual foi a primeira coisa já escrita por você?

A minha primeira história, se é que se pode ver como história, foi uma de fantasia quando eu tinha 9 anos, e já imaginam: um desastre. A primeira a ser publicada foi uma fanfic (é claro, sempre começamos assim) de Harry Potter, sobre os marotos, quando eu tinha uns 11 anos.

6. Há autores ou livros que servem como fonte de inspiração para você?

Acho que não há nenhum autor específico. Tenho uma mania de absorver um pouco da escrita do autor que estou lendo no momento, meu escrever é feito de retalhos de outras escritas. Larguei a mania de descrever todas as falas dos personagens lendo O Silêncio Dos Inocentes, aprendi palavras mais complexas com O Manuscrito, fiz descrições mais detalhadas inspiradas nas maravilhosas de Tolkien, e mergulhei um pouco nos diálogos lendo livros de narração mais leve com os de John Green. Tudo que leio e gosto serve de inspiração para mim. Mas acho que Sherlock Holmes (tanto livro quanto série) foi um dos que mais me inspiraram.

7. Você acredita que a escrita e/ou a leitura possam libertar as pessoas de seus vícios? Como?

Acredito, mas não seria a única medida. Vício é algo complicado, mesmo os ditos mais “leves”. A escrita é um modo de desabafar, por para fora o que está guardadinho ali, lhe consumindo, quando você não tem facilidade para falar ou um ombro amigo para chorar. A leitura é mais um jeito de relaxar, se desligar um pouco do virtual ou do mundo quando se precisa de um tempo, como o efeito de uma música boa. Também é um complemento à escrita: quanto mais se lê, melhor se escreve. A leitura é, em geral, uma ótima fonte de aprendizado para qualquer coisa. Mesmo assim, dependendo do vício, podem não ser suficientes.

8.  Se você pudesse trazer à vida apenas um personagem de Esquecimento para ser seu melhor amigo, quem seria e por quê?

Ok, essa pergunta me pegou de jeito. Adoro Javis, muito, mas acho que para um melhor amigo os mais adequados seriam Holly ou Jamie. Acho que escolheria Holly. Jamie é meu xodó e tem muitos defeitos com quais me identifico, além de qualidades que eu admiro e gostaria de ter; mas como se dá a entender pelo conto, a primeira impressão dele quase sempre é desagradável, e como eu sou dramática não conseguiria me aproximar dele a ponto de descobrir que é uma boa pessoa. E, mesmo que conseguisse, acho que ele não me suportaria. Holly é uma pessoa mais divertida, mais bagunçada como eu, e convenhamos, quase todo mundo gostaria de ao menos conhecer uma Holly na vida. Não sei se daria certo duas caóticas juntas, mas adoraria tentar.

9. Você tem um gênero preferido para escrever? Se sim, qual é?

Já escrevi de tudo, não sei bem ao certo. Mas adoro escrever descrições e cenas com mais sentimentalismo, mais intensas, não necessariamente românticas. Já escrevi muita cena triste. Uma bad sempre faz sucesso. Também admiro o gênero suspense.

10.  Há algum empecilho durante o processo de escrita que impede as palavras de fluírem? Conte um pouco para a gente.

Claro, todos os escritores tem isso. Bloqueio criativo, um furo na história que você não consegue rebocar (maioria dos meus casos), palavras repetidas numa mesma frase que você não consegue trocar, uma palavra que você não se lembra etc etc. Acho que o caso mais comum para mim, além dos furos, são os diálogos. Travo muito em diálogos, principalmente quando se tratam de algo muito descontraído ou muito sério, como brigas.

11. Deixe um recado para os leitores.

Quero agradecer (como já agradeci muito) às elaborados do concurso, minhas férias teriam passado em branco sem ele. A todas as pessoas que leram, votaram, me parabenizaram ou me ajudaram com o conto (mesmo que algumas não leiam isto), pois além de achar que não ganharia, achei que quase ninguém fosse lê-lo graças ao tamanho. Em especial a Malu/Luiza (autora de 1953 e amiga minha) que me trouxe para o concurso e me deu opiniões sobre o conto, e dar os parabéns a ela também, né gente. A Gab da catscantwrite, é claro! Por ter comentado na história e ter sido um amorzinho comigo.Parabenizar também a Layse Amaral, autora de Everything is Blue, por que amei o conto e tanto ela quanto Luiza mereceram ficar no pódio;  parabenizar só não só a elas como a todos os outros escritores que se esforçaram para participar deste concurso.Enfim, Esquecimento foi escrito com muito carinho e esforço, e espero que tenham gostado.

[dippedanddripped]

In February, the Brazilian fashion industry made global headlines. Donata Meirelles, then fashion director at Vogue Brazil, was celebrating her 50th birthday in the predominantly black city of Salvador, Bahia. During the celebration, journalist Fabio Bernardo snapped a photo of Meirelles, who is white, sitting in a traditional throne-like chair flanked by two baianas (Afro-Brazilian women wearing white lace gowns and headpieces), which he then shared on Instagram.Mexico accuses Carolina Herrera fashion house of cultural appropriationTo many who saw the post (which has since been deleted), the scene evoked colonial Brazil, when white elites ruled over black slaves."What happened there is what happens in this country built on racism, bodies, sweat, blood and black tears," Afro-Brazilian actress and activist Tais Araujo, Vogue Brazil's November 2018 cover star, posted to her Instagramaccount in the days following the event. "This suffering is so naturalized that it is difficult for people who do not identify with the girls standing by the chair to feel what the black population feels. Everything becomes natural."While the party was not an official Vogue event, the backlash was enough to warrant Meirelles' resignation from the title just a few days after the event, and a public apology from the magazine, who wrote on Instagram that they hoped the discussions sparked by the incident had "served as a learning opportunity." (Both Meirelles and Vogue Brazil declined to be interviewed for this story.)Former Vogue Brazil fashion director Donata Meirelles in 2016. Credit: Fernanda Calfat/Getty Images South America/Getty ImagesAnd it has: On social media and beyond, the industry and the public have been having long overdue conversations about race and representation in Brazil's fashion community.I learned to love my freckles. After this week's social media debate, will China?According to a Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics study released in 2016, 54% of Brazilians identify as black or multiracial. And yet black people have been all but erased from the mainstream fashion industry -- in front of the camera, on the catwalk and behind the scenes.Historically, model diversity at São Paulo Fashion Week has been so low that in 2009, following intense pressure from anti-racism activists and state prosecutors, the organizing body mandated that 10% of models in each show must be black.At last edition of São Paulo Fashion Week (SPFW), which took place in April month, black models were still in the minority, and for the last three seasons, only one black designer -- Luiz Claudio of Apartamento 03 -- has participated. (SPFW CEO Paulo Borges told CNN that organizers are aware of the disparity and are discussing ways to bring in new players.)Why model Leomie Anderson is fighting for change"In a country where most of the population is black, it's troubling to think that fashion, one of the most important vehicles of cultural and social expression, excludes such large numbers of creators and consumers," Afro-Brazilian artist and fashion designer Carol Barreto, who teaches gender studies at the Federal University of Bahia, said in an email.Photograph of Miss India finalists stirs debate over country's obsession with fair skin"The entertainment world is highly susceptible to reproducing stereotypes, so it's important to study the limits and latitudes imposed when dealing with questions of race," she continued, because the propagation of negative images can contribute to perceptions of Black people as inferior.Juliano Corbetta, founder and editor-in-chief of the online menswear publication Made in Brazil, has witnessed how racial inequality in Brazil can affect a magazine financially.In early 2018, Corbetta set out to publish an issue that was would feature predominantly black talent (including producers, photographers and models) to inspire "16-year-old kids dreaming of breaking into a fashion career." Though he had no trouble finding talent to fill the pages, he was frustrated by how difficult it was to secure the advertisements needed to fund the issue."Reality hit. For the first time in nine years in publishing, everyone declined. No one wanted to include this (magazine) in their 2019 plans," Corbetta said. Many brands, he claims, told him an all-black issue wouldn't resonate with their audience.Ozwald Boateng celebrates black masculinity in HarlemHe connects the issue to the fact that, in Brazil, discussing race and racism is still widely taboo. "We never talk about apartheid. We didn't have a Martin Luther King. We didn't have a Rosa Parks. We didn't have an actual militant anti-racism movement. We have never talked about prejudice, even though it exists, so brands don't talk about it either."In this landscape, Brazil's black creatives -- like many marginalized groups around the world -- are increasingly turning to the internet and social media to create spaces for themselves in response to a lack of mainstream opportunity.Rio de Janeiro-based Luiza Brazil, an influencer and writer, has built her personal and professional brand online. Credit: Courtesy Luiza BrasilThis was the route taken by Luiza Brasil, a Rio de Janeiro-based influencer and columnist for the Brazilian edition of Glamour. In 2015, she created Mequetrefismos, an online fashion, beauty and lifestyle publication, to promote the work of black people working within those fields; and, as a curator for the Casa Ipanema lifestyle boutique in Rio, has brought brands runs by black women to the forefront."We see more black people featured on magazine covers and in advertisements for luxury stores, but who are the people behind these campaigns? (The fact that they are usually white) says a lot about the lack of black people in organizations and leadership roles," Brasil said in a WhatsApp message. "The black population is in the majority -- at 54% -- but our narratives have always been constructed by white people."In pink, florals and short shorts, Bad Bunny champions a new masculinity"I think the Afro-Brazilian (empowerment) movement has always existed, but it's always been invisible. With the help of the internet, the Afro-Brazilian movement has gained momentum."Kevin David, a 25-year-old based in São Paulo, agrees. As executive creative director of MOOC, a Black-run creative collective, he's used the power of social media to land youth-oriented collaborative campaigns with the likes of Levi's, Converse, GQ Brazil and Schutz."There are fewer opportunities (for black creatives), but we are taking over. We have entered the market ... Weren't happy with the way the market was treating us," David said. "We didn't want anyone else to tell our story. We wanted to take action and show that we believe representation means at this moment in Brazil."Brasil believes that the ongoing empowerment black creatives in the digital sphere will help challenge existing narratives and give Brazil more complex, diverse representations of black identity -- within Afro-Brazilian communities and in the mainstream."We no longer only represent an image of the ghetto, of blacks speaking only to blacks, but an important snapshot of society and our media in general", she said.

[biofunmy]

Over 40 Art Shows to See Right Now

Canal | Upper East Side | Lower East Side | Chelsea | SoHo | Brooklyn | Helpful Tips

Below and Above Canal Street

“The art world should be understood as a complex ecology with many microclimates and some macro ones,” said the curator Okwui Enwezor, who died in March. He could have been describing the geography of New York City galleries. In the 1970s, the climates were macro and few (the Upper East Side, SoHo). In the 1980s, they were joined by the East Village; in the 1990s, by Chelsea; and in the 2000s, by the Lower East Side and Brooklyn. And there are spillovers everywhere. Today, it can be hard to tag a gallery by district, as I learned when visiting a handful that straddle either side of Canal Street, a cross-island axis that runs from SoHo to Chinatown, without claiming full allegiance to either. HOLLAND COTTER

1. 56 Henry, ‘LaKela Brown: Surface Possessions’

This small storefront gallery, in Chinatown, is a distance from Canal Street, but well worth a walk for the local debut of the artist LaKela Brown. The look of her mostly white plaster reliefs is austere. The subject, ornamental bling associated with 1990s hip-hop, is the opposite: door-knocker earrings, rope neck chains and gold teeth. All are artifacts of the pop culture Ms. Brown grew up with in Detroit, her home city. Although the show’s title, “Surface Possessions,” hints at a critical remove from that culture, the work itself, exquisitely done, feels like an honoring gesture. Lining the gallery walls, the reliefs might have been lifted from an ancient royal tomb. Through June 16 at 56 Henry Street; 518-966-2622, 56henry.nyc.

2. apexart, ‘Dire Jank’

For 25 years, the nonprofit apexart has been inviting curators from across the globe to produce thematic group shows in its small space. Many of the curators have been artists, as is the case with Porpentine Charity Heartscape, the digital game designer who assembled the current show, “Dire Jank.” Keeping her checklist short, she has surrounded her own work with that of just three fellow gamers, all but one transgender. The exception, an artist who calls himself Thecatamites (Stephen Murphy), takes a sardonic look at old-school games in a click-heavy conquest narrative that goes nowhere, very slowly. Tabitha Nikolai, self-described as a “trashgender gutter elf” from Salt Lake City, offers a tour through a luxury mansion that houses a Borgesian library, a sexology institute, and opens up onto vistas of cosmic space. Devi McCallion, the rock star of the bunch, delivers a despairing, pulsating plea for environmental awareness in a music video. As for Ms. Heartscape’s work, centered on the risks of queerness, it’s startlingly soul-baring. Where most conventional games are about predation and its thrills, hers are about the evils of predation. I should mention that in the gallery I found the interactive pieces glitch-prone. (Maybe they’re meant to be? After all, jank is gaming talk for, among things, low quality.) But when I reran the show on my laptop everything worked like a charm. Through May 18 at 291 Church Street; 212-431-5270, apexart.org.

3. Alexander and Bonin, ‘Tandem: Gabriel Abrantes and Belén Uriel’

Alexander and Bonin is one of a handful of galleries that recently jumped Chelsea for TriBeCa. (Bortolami, Andrew Kreps and Kaufmann Repetto are others; more are on the way.) With the move, the gallery has gained airy duplex quarters, and filled them ambitiously. On the main floor there’s a large, intriguing photography show called “Exposures,” which uses little-seen work by some house artists to tease the line between documentary and creative nonfiction. Downstairs is the first of what will be five two-artist shows selected by the Lisbon-based curator Luiza Teixeira de Freitas. For the initial offering she’s paired cast-glass sculptures of everyday objects by Belén Uriel with a very funny seven-minute film by the young American-born artist Gabriel Abrantes about the imagined origins of Brancusi’s phallic 1916 sculpture “Princess X.” (Mr. Abrantes’s zany feature-length “Diamantino,” a collaboration with Daniel Schmidt, was a hit at Cannes last year.) Through April 27 at 47 Walker Street; 212-367-7474, alexanderandbonin.com.

4. Sapar Contemporary, ‘Ming Fay: Beyond Nature’

You get a foretaste of Chinatown in TriBeCa with the exhibition “Ming Fay: Beyond Nature” at Sapar Contemporary. Mr. Fay, who was born in Shanghai in 1943 and came to the United States in 1961, specializes in super-realist sculptures of vegetal forms — fruit, nuts, seedpods — modeled on what he finds in Chinatown’s street markets. What he adds is scale: everything in his botanical universe measures in feet, not inches — sweet peppers the size of satellites, maple seeds as big as drones. He magnifies other forms too: seashells, bird skulls (and shrinks a few in the case of some unexceptional bronze human figures). The show, organized by Alexandra Chang, looks like a glimpse into a wonderland in which Mr. Fay seems to say, nature really is. Through June 1 at 9 North Moore Street; saparcontemporary.com.

5. Bridget Donahue, ‘Jessi Reaves: II’

In her second solo show at Bridget Donahue, Jessi Reaves complicates the kind of work that made her a standout in the 2017 Whitney Biennial. Her medium is assemblage; her material is recycled furniture; her method is to puzzle that furniture together, intact or cut up, into sculptures. The joining is ingenious; the look bulky but agile. What’s most distinctive, though, is the complex mood the work generates. There’s nostalgia built into the domestic middlebrow furniture Ms. Reaves chooses; violence implied in the way she strips it of practical use; and something like solicitude in the way she gives trashed things a funky new purpose. Through May 12 at 99 Bowery, second floor; 646-896-1368, bridgetdonahue.nyc.

6. Front Room Gallery, ‘Sasha Bezzubov: Albedo Zone’

In his 2001-7 photographic series “Things Fall Apart,” Sasha Bezzubov chronicled the effects of natural disasters — hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunami — on landscapes in Asia and the United States. The series that followed, titled “Albedo Zone” and now on view at Front Room, refers to a scientific theory about climate change that has triggered such disasters. Ideally, the theory says, the earth’s surface reflects, rather than absorbs, sunlight, with ice being a protective reflector and water, an absorber. At present, global melting, caused by human carelessness, has thrown the balance dangerously off, a reality Mr. Bezzubov documents in black-and-white images of water and ice shot in Alaska. From a distance, the large-format photographs look abstract. Once you know the story behind them, they take on a very specific urgency. Through May 5 at 48 Hester Street; 718-782-2556, frontroomles.com.

7. Fierman, ‘Circus of Books’

Even smaller than 56 Henry, this storefront is packed to the ceiling with another cultural homage, this one to an excellent big group show. It’s organized by the artist Rachel Mason, whose parents until recently ran two adult bookshops in Los Angeles. Both were called “Circus of Books” and both served, since the pre-Stonewall 1960s, as unofficial social centers for the local gay community. The show evokes that community with work by nearly 60 artists, most gay, some well known (Ron Athey, Kathe Burkhart, Vaginal Davis, Tom of Finland), others (Chivas Clem, Scott Hug, Jimmy Wright) on and off the radar. Stacks of vintage porn magazines add a sex shop vibe, but it’s the art, installed salon-style, that holds the eye and kicks off still-important communal conversations in art and social history. Through May 6 at 127 Henry Street; 917-593-4086, fierman.nyc.

Some other exhibitions to visit while you’re in the area: Alan Sturm (through May 26) at Situations Gallery, 127 Henry Street, situations.us; Azza El Siddique (through June 2) at Helena Anrather, 28 Elizabeth Street, helenaanrather.com; Wendy Red Star (April 28-June 2) at Sargent’s Daughters, 179 East Broadway, sargentsdaughters.com; Katarzyna Kozyra (through June 1) at Postmasters Gallery, 54 Franklin Street, postmastersart.com.

The arc of the Lower East Side gallery scene bends toward youth. It is probably home to the greatest number of starting-out dealers showing the works of emerging artists in New York. This gives the art scene in this neighborhood and the ones developing around it — in NoHo, East Village South, Chinatown or Little Italy — a certain lightness of being. We’re often looking at first, not necessarily mature or final, artistic statements. It helps that the area lacks the dwarfing juggernaut of big-name, property-proud galleries and blue-chip artists that give Chelsea or the Upper East Side their weight. Most of the shows reviewed here emphasize youth in various forms. ROBERTA SMITH

1. Rachel Uffner Gallery, ‘Arcmanoro Niles: My Heart is Like Paper: Let the Old Ways Die’

The new work in Arcmanoro Niles’s third solo show in New York in three years and his second at Rachel Uffner comes with the vulnerable overall title “My Heart is Like Paper: Let the Old Ways Die.” The works depict members of a family, including the artist at home, usually lost in thought, even sad as suggested by titles like “Longing for Change (“I’ve Given up on Being Well),” or “Does a Broken Home Become a Broken Family.” The paintings are dark in mood, which Mr. Niles’s distinctive palette elevates with a dark, glorifying radiance that evokes a modern Byzantium. The brown skin of his figures often hints at gold, and their hair is rendered in dense coats of hot pink glitter, suggesting halos. The paintings have an unexpected gravity and grandeur that is almost religious. “My Heart is Like Paper” shows the artist alone in a gold-and-pink bathroom, wearing an orange undershirt. He is a man who has come to a turning point, a momentous choice. I’m not sure what the ghostly sex scenes outlined in red, or the gremlin-like stuffed dolls wielding knives, add, but they add something. Through April 28 at 170 Suffolk Street; 212-274-0064, racheluffnergallery.com.

2. Pierogi, ‘Sharon Horvath: Where Owls Stare at Painting’s Busted Eyeballs’

Some shows aren’t so much about youth as youthfulness, an ageless state. This seems to be the condition of Sharon Horvath’s show at Pierogi, “Where Owls Stare at Painting’s Busted Eyeballs.” Whatever the title means the artist is showing a substantial number of beautiful new paintings, which often conjure vistas in outer space, including “Out There Or In Here,” her largest canvas to date, whose green and black forms seem to show the enormous wraparound control board of a cockpit. In addition, she has transported virtually her entire studio to the gallery, laying out in vitrines everything she uses to make or inspire her art. It is a great deal of material, much of which is from her parents, who were artists, and her sister. This is a dense novelistic show that lays before us the important ways memories and especially family memories can figure in art-making. Through May 5 at 155 Suffolk Street; 646-429-9073, pierogi2000.com.

3. Bureau, ‘Julia Rommel: Candy Jail’

In Julia Rommel’s fourth show at Bureau, “Candy Jail,” she continues her brand of corrupted formalism, exploring ways to revivify Minimalist abstraction with a non-Minimalist, piecemeal sense of process. Ms. Rommel works on her paintings in stages, as they are stapled to ever-larger stretchers. This gives them an almost cinematic sense of growth and expansion. The monochromatic surfaces of earlier, smaller paintings shift about, becoming squares or rectangles within larger compositions — except that their edges are weirdly raised. The new efforts have more layers, which makes them less legible, as does the increase in arbitrary brushwork that is not related to the central process. There is sometimes an echo of the work of Richard Diebenkorn that she needs to resolve. But Ms. Rommel’s color is as beautiful as ever, especially in simpler works like “Volvo 240,” where two orange squares both divided by and edged in green rivet the eyes. Through May 5 at 178 Norfolk Street; 212-227-2783, bureau-inc.com.

4. Chapter NY, ‘Aria Dean: (meta)models or how i got my groove back’

Aria Dean, who graduated from Oberlin College in 2015, is having her second show in New York. Her works weave the gallery space into a web of intersecting, sometimes contradictory languages and perspectives, as suggested by the show’s title “(meta)models or how I got my groove back.” (Not to mention the double remove of “meta” and “models.”) A video monitor in the middle of the gallery shows a camera dancing around a pedestal made of mirrored, or two-way glass, familiar to viewers of police procedurals. This pedestal sits on a New York sidewalk, providing chaotic, fragmented views of houses, cars and pavement. It’s a “non-site” — recalling Robert Smithson’s 1970s use of mirrors in small, temporary earthworks — except urban, in danger of being broken, a pedestal awaiting an artwork. We hear what appear to be three young men, identified as D.J.’s (it’s actually a single actor), move effortlessly between street talk and a kind of Beckettian theory-talk — riddling observations about a nothing that can be something but is ultimately a void, a form of invisibility. (The dialogue borrows from, among others, the writings of Heidegger, Robert Morris and Fred Moten.) Around the screen, on the floor or attached to the wall, four vaguely figurative shapes cut from the mirrored glass add to the disorientation. They are blank nothings but they also suggest leaping ghosts, Saturday morning cartoons (Casper) and the silhouettes of the bodies of murder victims, outlined in chalk on the street. Through May 5 at 249 East Houston Street; 646-850-7486, chapter-ny.com.

5. Lyles & King, ‘Mira Schor: California Paintings: 1971-1973’

Youth in art doesn’t always mean newly made. It can also be an older artist’s early work that virtually no one has ever seen. So it is with “Mira Schor: California Paintings, 1971-73,” a stunning show of gouache on paper works that this leading feminist painter made while in graduate school at the California Institute of the Arts. She started out in Judy Chicago and Miriam Schapiro’s legendary feminist art program, but left to make these richly colored highly personal paintings about loneliness, longing and sexual awakening in which she frequently starred. The many works here have the flat, matte colors, deep space and lush greenery of Rajput painting and also call to mind the solitary women in the work of Leonora Carrington and Joan Brown. Historically, they form an unexpected addition to the early 1970s Conceptual offshoot known as Story Art, and also point to the return to painting the figure that transpired in the late 1970s and is once more ascendant. Through May 19 at 106 Forsyth Street; 646-484-5478, lylesandking.com.

6. Simone Subal Gallery, ‘Cameron Clayborn: Through the Wrong Tongue’

The sculptures and wall pieces in Cameron Clayborn’s New York solo debut have both historical and contemporary references. His preferred materials are leather-like vinyl and glittered vinyl sewn into stuffing-filled shapes that evoke the soft forms of Post-Minimalist sculpture of the 1970s. But he often adds gleaming sharp-pointed hardware associated with late ’80s Neo-Geo art. He pushes this combination into the present with subtle and not-so-subtle suggestions of gender, drag, race and violence. The show’s first artwork puts you on alert: “Roompiercer With Tool” might be described as a phallus of two different skin tones hanging from a sharp, shiny spike. “Toolholder” is a drape of glitter vinyl, the color of white flesh, hanging from steel clamps. In the crux of the vinyl rests a solid steel lozenge about four inches long. It suggests a man in drag, distilled to abstraction. Not everything in this show is as effective or as promising as these works, but much of it is. Stay tuned. Through May 12 at 131 Bowery, second floor; 917-409-0612, simonesubal.com.

The cockamamie real estate market has turned the good old Upper East Side into the most stimulating gallery neighborhood in New York — and as downtown stultifies and Chelsea wilts in the shadow of Hudson Yards, the old blue-blood quarter has grown manifold. Up here the big-ticket dealers in grand townhouses exhibit alongside younger galleries in walk-ups and outposts of international dealers; the last few years have welcomed Nara Roesler and Mendes Wood of São Paulo, Almine Rech of Paris, Simon Lee of London and Kurimanzutto of Mexico City. That’s not to mention the dealers in antiquities, Asian art and rare books.

On 57th Street you’ll find things to see in the gallery-rich Fuller Building, along with stalwarts like Pace and Marian Goodman (where Tino Sehgal, the Greta Garbo of philosophical performance art, opens a new show on May 3). Start there and work your way up Madison Avenue, where the galleries cluster from the mid-60s to 79th Street. If you haven’t had your fill yet, turn left and head for the Metropolitan Museum of Art; if you’re worn out, rejuvenation awaits in the hotel bars. JASON FARAGO

1. Throckmorton Fine Art, ‘Graciela Iturbide 1969-2019’

This uncommon gallery, founded in 1980, deals both in Buddhist and pre-Columbian antiquities and in contemporary photography from Latin America, all of it shown in an unpretentious space where classical music tinkles in the background. Up now is a show of Graciela Iturbide, one of Mexico’s greatest photographers, whose black-and-white images of women, children and animals combine the slippery identifications of ethnography with the glamorous precision of the film still. (Her work is also on view at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, through May 12.) Ms. Iturbide shot these pictures everywhere from Madagascar to East Los Angeles, but the most compelling are her photographs from Juchitán, Oaxaca — above all “Our Lady of the Iguanas” (1979), in which a Zapotec woman stares confidently into the middle distance, her head crowned, Medusa-like, by a collection of reptiles. Through May 18 at 145 East 57th Street, third floor; 212-223-1059, throckmorton-nyc.com.

2. Van Doren Waxter, ‘Moira Dryer: Paintings & Works on Paper’

Here is a show of an abstract painter ahead of her time, and whose stylistic promiscuity belied a deep rigor. Moira Dryer, a Canadian artist who came to New York in the 1970s, made her most successful works by applying wavy stripes of black, teal, jonquil, and oxblood red to wood supports; the thin application of pigment, which in places spills top to bottom in trickles or floods, emphasizes the objecthood of the wooden paintings and the artist’s careful balancing act between design and chance. This show also includes a few lovely gouaches, alive with the Mediterranean colors of Matisse, that testify to Dryer’s artistic omnivorousness and ability to surprise. Her death in 1992, at 34, deprived art history of what was already a superb career, but her example saturates the studios of New York’s contemporary painters. Through May 24 at 23 East 73rd Street, second and third floors; 212-445-0444, vandorenwaxter.com.

3. L. Parker Stephenson Photographs, ‘Claude Tolmer: Photographiques’

East Midtown and the Upper East Side bulge with photography galleries, and this one-room space at the top of a Madison Avenue walk-up is a hidden gem. Up now is a stellar show of vintage prints by the French modernist photographer Claude Tolmer (1911-1991), whose images of the 1930s include dense, high-contrast visions of airplane propellers and merry-go-rounds; spectral photograms of scissors and goblets; and still lifes montaged with squiggly hand-drawn additions that recall Cocteau. They are strikingly bold, yet many of them had commercial uses — Tolmer’s father ran a leading firm for the packaging of luxury goods, and his photographer son put these images to use on advertisements and boxes. It’s worth remembering, as Instagram savagely injects the profit motive into all photographic communication, that an earlier avant-garde found its own methods to slide between artistic activity and commercial necessity. Through May 11 at 764 Madison Avenue; 212-517-8700, lparkerstephenson.nyc.

4. Ceysson & Bénétière, ‘Pierre Buraglio: PB. 1978-2018’

This French gallery’s outpost, now two years old, is presenting the first New York solo of Pierre Buraglio, a lone ranger of European painting and assemblage. His “Masquages Vides” of the late 1970s were cunning “paintings” that, in fact, collaged the color-streaked masking tape used to make earlier works into spare new compositions. (Their quixotic emptiness rhymed with the paintings of Supports/Surfaces, a high-concept approach to abstraction that’s seen a revival in fortunes lately, though he never formally joined that movement.) Later he turned to found objects, such as fragments of window frames and even the whole door of a Citroën 2CV, whose window he infilled with an abstract landscape of blue and green. After decades of neglect in New York, postwar French painting is everywhere these days, and there’s a good reason; long before we realized it, artists like Mr. Buraglio averred that there was no necessary boundary between painterly and conceptual sophistication. Through April 27 at 956 Madison Avenue, second floor; 646-678-371, ceyssonbenetiere.com.

5. The Artist’s Institute, Tauba Auerbach

If you forced me to name the most dependably challenging exhibition maker in the neighborhood, I’d pick Jenny Jaskey — the director of this nonprofit gallery, associated with Hunter College, whose semester-long experiments push established artists outside their comfort zones. Currently Tauba Auerbach, better known for her abstract paintings, is trying out something new: her first kinetic sculpture, solar-powered, composed of twisted, tensile wires that pull away from a soap-slicked central tube and produce coruscating but evanescent diamonds. The sculpture has the childlike legibility of a game of cat’s cradle, but two mildly nasty videos here, documenting surgery to the fascia that enclose human organs, inscribe the sculpture into a trickier domain of bodies and fluids. Through June 1 at Hunter College, 132 East 65th Street; 646-512-9608, theartistsinstitute.org.

6. Henrique Faria, ‘Eduardo Kac: Inner Telescope’

Another gallery with a strong Latin American focus, this dealership is presenting a show by the Chicago-based Brazilian artist Eduardo Kac that is, quite literally, out of this world. Mr. Kac (pronounced katz) teamed up with a French astronaut on the International Space Station, whom he instructed to cut a simple construction out of white paper: a capital M pierced by a cylinder. In a video here, plus preparatory drawings and research documents, you see the construction gently tumbling through zero gravity, and spinning to resemble the letters M-O-I (“me”): a spare but memorable evocation of the self lost in space. Through May 11 at 35 East 67th Street, fourth floor; 212-517-4609, henriquefaria.com.

Art and real estate development met elsewhere in the city, but they got married in Chelsea. Tall, expensive buildings are rising around 10th Avenue, and gallery rents are rising along with them. Young art dealers arrive to try their hand in the official gallery neighborhood, and often fold-up shop quickly, as the promisingly offbeat American Medium, which started in Brooklyn, did recently. The juggernaut of mega-gallery showrooms continues, with behemoths like Hauser & Wirth mounting impressive historical shows (and starting their own bookstores, publishing houses, magazines and nonprofit foundations), and David Zwirner is planning a Renzo Piano-designed space to open in 2020. Meanwhile, the High Line looms ubiquitously overhead, like a people mover transporting tourists (mostly) from the new Hudson Yards on the north end to the gleaming Whitney Museum of American Art on the south. Contemporary art is everywhere though, including the High Line, where you’ll find a monumental sculpture by Simone Leigh, who just opened a show at the Guggenheim, along with other notable displays. Art has saturated the neighborhood, and you can see everything from work by emerging artists to the long deceased. Here are a few places to start. MARTHA SCHWENDENER

1. Jack Shainman, ‘Paul Anthony Smith: Junction’

What you are viewing in Paul Anthony Smith’s exhibition at Jack Shainman are painstakingly altered large-scale photographs that he works on in his Brooklyn studio and which he calls “picotages.” The color photographs were taken in his native Jamaica, but also other locations, including at the West Indian American Day Parade in Brooklyn. They have been covered with pointillist dots of paint or colored pencil. Mr. Smith studied ceramics in Kansas City, Mo., and you sense the idea of glazing in his work, of images and things being covered over — although this works metaphorically, too, and suggests covered over events, people and histories. A face, a garden, or an urban scene peak through the dots in the picotage, resembling but never fully revealing themselves. Through May 11 at 513 West 20th Street and 524 West 24th Street; jackshainman.com.

2. Pace Gallery, ‘Raqib Shaw: Landscapes of Kashmir’

Raqib Shaw’s works have not always fared well with critics, and his current paintings at Pace Gallery exhibit some of the flamboyance and excess that have raised the ire of high art’s gatekeepers. From a distance, the high-gloss, virtuosic enamel paintings look like Thomas Kinkade landscapes mixed with Hieronymus Bosch scenarios: pretty, anodyne landscapes peppered with apocalyptic micro-hells in which mythic demons cribbed from traditions in Mr. Shaw’s native Kashmir battle with contemporary humans. The best works in the show are the most self-aware, in which Mr. Shaw depicts himself tending his artwork, pets or plants in a completely focused and self-absorbed manner — an effete maestro engulfed in “flow” while the hideous violence of the real world erupts outside his colonnaded window. Through May 18 at 537 West 24th Street; 212-421-3292, pacegallery.com.

3. Gladstone Gallery, Vivian Suter

One of the highlights of the international Documenta exhibition in 2017 was Vivian Suter’s display of loosely painted canvases, unframed, fluttering like elegant laundry outdoors in Athens and brightening up a glassy storefront in Kassel, Germany. Working for over 30 years near the volcanic Lake Atitlán in Panajachel, Guatemala, Ms. Suter was an art world drop-out who never dropped out of art. “Vivian’s Garden,” Rosalind Nashashibi’s film about Ms. Suter and her mother, Elizabeth Wild, also an artist, captured their art-centered lives in Guatemala. But Ms. Suter has re-emerged in the last few years, bringing that magic-garden feeling to traditional art spaces. She has transformed Gladstone’s space in Chelsea into a kind of ethereal Eden in which canvases hang from the ceiling, lie on the floor and generally work together, like branches on a tree or petals on a flower, to create an ecology of painting rather than a discrete-object experience. (Ms. Suter also has an installation on the High Line this season.) Through June 8 at 530 West 21st Street; 212-206-7606, gladstonegallery.com.

4. The Kitchen, ‘ANOHNI: Love’

Although you’re not always sure what you’re looking at, “ANOHNI: Love” at the Kitchen looks and feels like an art installation. It’s also deeply political. Near the entrance is an enlarged death certificate for Marsha P. Johnson, a gender activist after whom the Anohni-fronted musical group Antony and the Johnsons were named, and whose death by drowning in the Hudson was deemed a suicide (but many think was homicide). Nearby is a bookshelf with the library of Julia Yasuda, a former member of the Johnsons, which also serves as a memorial and a template for the group’s ethos and philosophy. Rough sculptures, collages, a film and the theatrically lit space create a moody ambience. It’s an apt approach for an artist for whom performance is a life project and gender is a medium. Through May 11 at 512 West 19th Street; 212-255-5793, thekitchen.org.

5. Mitchell-Innes & Nash, ‘Martin Kersels: Cover Story’

Martin Kersels characteristically splits the difference between performance and objects in his exhibition at Mitchell-Innes & Nash. Cut-up and collaged record album covers are hung as relief wall sculptures, and on May 4 at 2:30 p.m. he will reprise a performance of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” (1968), the 17-minute pop song by Iron Butterfly on a tricked-out stage in the gallery. Part comedy, part homage, Mr. Kersels’s work is a reminder that, despite the emphasis on art as business, there is still room in Chelsea for the absurd. Through May 18 at 534 West 26th Street; 212-744-7400, miandn.com.

6. Paula Cooper, Walid Raad

The works in Walid Raad’s exhibition at Paula Cooper follow a format he innovated in the 1980s and ’90s: “real” photographs paired with texts that may or may not be fictional. Applied to recent history in the Middle East — and particularly his native Lebanon and that country’s long civil war — photographs here of storefronts and people accompanied by “explanatory” texts show how para-fictions often become facts or official histories. The centerpiece is a new video made up of kaleidoscopically mirrored film loops that show buildings in the Beirut Central District being destroyed to create a new and, theoretically, better postwar city. The psychedelic forward-and-reverse motion of the loops simply but effectively questions the linear march of time and progress. Through May 24 at 521 West 21st Street; 212-255-1105, paulacoopergallery.com.

1. Peter Blum, ‘Paul Fagerskiold: Flatlands’

Oil paint can be sculptural, especially if you use as much as Paul Fagerskiold does on “Flatland.” The young Swedish-born painter lays so much blackish-purple paint on this enormous canvas that the finished surface of its figure, a monochrome rectangle with a bowed bottom edge, has the definition of hammered bronze. Each ridgy brush stroke is an eddy, and the whole is a view of the ocean — but it’s a restless one that won’t subside into the easy diffidence of most two-dimensional images. Not for nothing did Mr. Fagerskiold name the painting, and the show it appears in, after Edward Abbot’s 19th-century novella of mind-bending sci-fi geometry. Through May 11 at 176 Grand Street; 212-244-6055, peterblumgallery.com.

2. Jeffrey Deitch, ‘Austin Lee: Feels Good’

Austin Lee’s analog portraits of cyberspace are strangely fascinating. After drawing floppy cartoon hearts, stumpy, grinning figures and prancing ponies on an iPad, the painter then renders the images by hand, at a much larger scale, with brush and airbrush. Maybe it’s the adeptly balanced hot pinks and neon reds, or the promise that a virtual world might someday seem as joyful and genuine as the real. Or maybe it’s just the marrying of such disparate mediums, the quiet shock of confronting computer effects in physical form, which makes it so difficult to look away. Through May 18 at 18 Wooster Street; 212-343-7300, deitch.com.

3. Team, ‘Scenes of the American Landscape’

We all know something’s askew — and the artists in “Scenes of the American Landscape,” which I was able to sneak into before it officially opened on Thursday, know it, too. Video installations by Collin Leitch and Theodore Darst channel the restless sense of imbalance in contemporary American life into a twitchy, unrelenting shifting of styles that feels very much like a new kind of rhythm. Andrew Jilka’s oil and enamel painting of sailor tattoos and cartoon Picassos puts the same effect into freeze frame. Color photographs by Lili Jamail, of an empty armchair, and Jheyda McGarrell, of a half-dressed woman seen through her window, are a deliberate tilt both jaunty and alarming. And an untitled painting by Alissa McKendrick, in which fiddly figures unspool against an intensely worked red background, is suffused with vertigo. Through June 1 at 83 Grand Street; 212-279-9219, teamgal.com.

4. Peter Freeman Inc., ‘Silvia Bächli and Eric Hattan: Between Windows’

The Swiss artists Silvia Bächli and Eric Hattan undertake a sublime exegesis of that simplest of artistic gestures: the line. A line is an emblem of sustained effort, but also a paradox. Whether as the confident green and brown stripes of Ms. Bächli’s elegant gouaches or the wonky metal poles that Mr. Hattan stands upright and sets in concrete, the line only gets richer in isolation. Mr. Hattan’s “Schnurvideo (String Video)” is a 20-minute close-up on the artist’s hands as he untangles a clump of string and winds it up again into a grapefruit-size ball. Notice how tightly he holds it, and how, when the string slips off, he simply presses an errant loop against the ball and keeps winding. Through May 25 at 140 Grand Street; 212-966-5154, peterfreemaninc.com.

5. Ronald Feldman, ‘Bruce Pearson: Shadow Language’

Bruce Pearson makes text paintings, technically. But by overlapping text and imagery in complicated patterns, cutting those patterns into foam, and painting every resulting divot a different color, he arrives at arresting compositions that evoke tropical camouflage or the inside of a psychedelic pomegranate — even when, as sometimes happens, the original text remains legible. This should be the case with “Shadow Language,” opening this weekend at Ronald Feldman Gallery. One star is likely to be “Not to Interrupt Your Beautiful Moment,” an orange-themed pixelation of an entrancingly ambiguous phrase. April 27-June 8 at 31 Mercer Street; 212-226-3232, feldmangallery.com.

It would take half the gallerists in America to make the vast expanses of Harlem into an arts district as pedestrian-friendly as SoHo, so take it in pieces. Galleries worth visiting on the east side include 1) David Richard Gallery, lately of Santa Fe, which is currently showing the brightly colored steel of the Canadian sculptor Robert Murray (through May 4); the nonprofit 2) WhiteBox next door, just relocated from SoHo, and inaugurating its new home with the thought-provoking group show “Waiting for the Garden of Eden” (through May 5); and 3) Hunter East Harlem Gallery, whose “do it (in school)” plumbs the overlap of conceptual art and arts education (through June 1).

On the west side, the former Chelsea gallerist 4) Janice Guy’s latest show at a project space called MBnB is a terrific run of photographs by Judy Linn (through May 5). Finely observed but never precious, they’re a thrilling demonstration of artistic self-reflection undertaken for its own sake — particularly a sequence that starts with an image of a photo of James Joyce taped to a foggy window and ends with the back of James Caan’s neck on a Trinitron TV. Opening this weekend at 5) Gavin Brown’s palatial establishment on West 127th Street is a show of balletic nudes in green fields and huge new landscapes roiling with stormy energy by the 92-year-old master of slick painterly flatness, Alex Katz (through Aug. 3). And at 6) Columbia University’s Leroy Neiman Gallery, on Harlem’s southern edge, is a multimedia solo show by South African artist Mary Sibande (through May 1). WILL HEINRICH

Like so much else in Brooklyn these days, the art scene there seems to be in flux. Galleries that were familiar presences have closed; others have changed names and moved to Manhattan. Neighborhoods that previously served as linchpins now have fewer dedicated art spaces; rents are high, and other parts of the city promise greater foot traffic.

Yet in a way, transition has always been central to a geographically scattered scene that’s uneven in its offerings and anchored by a handful of larger nonprofits alongside a rotating cast of small spaces run as labors of love. Even commercial operations seem to work differently here: Jenkins Johnson Gallery’s outpost aims to build a relationship with the surrounding community (and its coming show “Free to Be,” featuring Rico Gatson and Baseera Khan, should be worth a visit). Part of the thrill of seeing art in Brooklyn is that you don’t quite know what you’re going to get.

This list is just a sample of what Brooklyn has to offer. It will take you from Bushwick down to Park Slope and focuses on exhibitions that are, quite loosely, about identity. These artists are exploring how cultural, national, social and other factors shape us, even as they take very different approaches. It’s a fitting theme for a borough that, despite becoming a brand, is still a haven for those looking to make a creative life in New York City. JILLIAN STEINHAUER

1. The Chimney, ‘Sara Mejia Kriendler: Sangre y Sol’

Industrial art spaces aren’t as au courant as they used to be, but Brooklyn and Queens still have their fair share. The Chimney rightly embraces the roughness of its home by commissioning artists to create work for its brick walls and concrete floor. Sara Mejia Kriendler has even extended her solo show onto the ceiling, covering it with mounds of gold-tinted foil. Down below, broken terra-cotta hands are piled in a huge circle on the ground, like the remnants of an ancient society or mysterious ritual. Inspired by her Colombian roots, Ms. Kriendler uses simplicity and scale to turn the gallery into a space that feels simultaneously sacred and profane. Through May 5 at 200 Morgan Avenue, Bushwick; thechimneynyc.com.

2. Tiger Strikes Asteroid NY, ‘baseball show’

The seven galleries in this building have had consistently strong programs. Tiger Strikes Asteroid is one of the smaller spaces but regularly swings for the fences, focusing on solo presentations for underrepresented artists and group exhibitions with unusual themes, like the current “baseball show.” Organized by Andrew Prayzner, the show brings together an array of astute work, including Elias Necol Melad’s clever paintings of baseball cards without their figures (and thus their value) and Christopher Gideon’s incriminating scans that show dipping tobacco tins in players’ pockets. The nine artists treat the sport not simply as a beloved pastime but as a cultural phenomenon worth examining. Through May 5 at 1329 Willoughby Avenue, No. 2A, Bushwick; 347-746-8041, tigerstrikesasteroid.com.

3. Recess, ‘Lex Brown: The Inside Room’ and ‘American Artist: blue are the feelings that live inside me’

The nonprofit Recess does something different than most other art spaces: It gives artists the gallery and roughly two months to realize their projects on-site. So the work happens before the public’s eyes, and it’s best to visit multiple times to follow the progress. Right now, Lex Brown is building a studio for the production of an experimental TV show that will disregard the typical conventions of the medium — scenes and story lines will be improvised, multiple people will play a single character — to focus on human interaction. Hanging in the front room are disquieting photographs by American Artist of books from the Blue Lives Matter movement — an extension of their recent, powerful show at Brooklyn gallery Koenig & Clinton. Through June 8 and May 11 at 46 Washington Avenue, Clinton Hill; 646-863-3765, recessart.org.

4. Open Source, ‘Ronny Quevedo: Field of play’

Located in a renovated carriage house near the Prospect Expressway, Open Source is something of an outlier in a neighborhood without many art galleries. That hasn’t stopped it from mounting ambitious exhibitions. Ronny Quevedo’s current solo show continues his investigation of games and their relationship to the migration of people. On the floor, he’s placed gold and silver tiles that turn the space into a kind of board. Some of them hold concrete sculptures of misshapen sports balls, while prints on the walls turn the shapes associated with various games into evocative abstractions. With the whole gallery as a “Field of play,” as the exhibition is titled, it falls to the viewer to invent the rules for navigating it. Through May 11 at 306 17th Street, Park Slope; open-source-gallery.org.

5. Theodore:Art, ‘Peter Krashes: Contact!’

Once upon a time, 56 Bogart was the place to see art in Bushwick; today it’s no longer the neighborhood’s artistic nerve center. The galleries that remain are a mix of newcomers and longtime holdouts, of which Theodore:Art, at almost a decade old, is one. Peter Krashes’s current exhibition is a poignant reflection of the changes being felt throughout Brooklyn. The artist is a longtime community organizer, and in his gouache-on-paper paintings he captures street festivals, encounters with the New York Police Department and celebrity sightings near Barclays Center. Krashes paints with smooth, confident strokes but leaves blank specks throughout, suggesting the gaps of memory that make even the best representations of reality imperfect. Through May 18 at 56 Bogart Street, Bushwick; 212-966-4322, theodoreart.com.

6. Art in General, ‘Chim↑Pom: Threat of Peace (Hiroshima!!!!!!)’ and ‘Don’t Follow the Wind: Non-Visitor Center’

This storied nonprofit is best known for presenting conceptual shows that contain an ambitious site-specific element. The current centerpiece is the Japanese artist collective Chim↑Pom’s affecting, tunnel-like installation made of paper cranes that people from around the world have sent to Hiroshima as a gesture of peace. The city keeps the cranes — millions of them — in a special warehouse, where the collective also filmed a new video. On view concurrently is a “non-visitor center” for “Don’t Follow the Wind,” an exhibition created inside the radioactive Fukushima exclusion zone by Chim↑Pom, other artists and the curator Jason Waite (who organized both shows at Art in General). Visitors can glimpse the restricted area via a 360-degree video and contemplate the sobering past and present of our nuclear reality. Through July 13 at 145 Plymouth Street, Dumbo; artingeneral.org.

Helpful Tips

People can find visiting galleries intimidating, mysterious or irksome, but it needn’t be, even for beginners. There’s no time like our annual Spring Gallery Guide to discuss the basics (and pleasures) of this time-honored activity. My fellow critics and I have fanned out across the city to take the pulse of the scene, but before you get to our recommendations, let me offer some advice:

Galleries don’t charge admission. New York City has the largest concentration of art galleries anywhere; there’s a great deal of information and many experiences to be had, free of charge. These are welcoming places that don’t exist only to sell art. They’re also a public service, a way for artists and art students to see what other artists are up to, but also for the rest of us as well.

Be engaged. Wave or smile to the people at the front desk when you enter (and maybe say “Thank you” when you leave). Join the ritual of signing the sign-in book. (Most galleries have them.) It lets artists know you’ve been there and provides a little private moment before plunging in. You’ll also see news releases by the sign-in book. They give you the title of the show (if there is one), some whiff of the artist’s intention and a short biography. There’s a good chance there will also be checklists, almost always with photographs of the works. This provides the title, date, materials and dimensions of every artwork on view. It’s your map.

Take the process seriously. Give every show a chance. Art is never trying to pull the wool over your eyes. Walk around the sculptures; study the paintings — and their surfaces — from various distances. Examine the checklist, and think about how the art objects were made and of what. Can you identify the materials used on first sight?

Listen to yourself. Realize that you are having reactions and forming opinions even if you can’t quite articulate them. Tally up what you like or don’t like about a certain piece. Strike up a conversation with someone who seems to be looking as hard as you. Compare notes. Got questions? Ask them of whoever behind the desk looks the least busy. Keep in mind that many people in these positions at galleries are young artists or writers and usually quite smart. You never know when you’re talking to the next Huma Bhabha. ROBERTA SMITH

Top image grid, from top left: ChimPom and Art in General; Dario Lasagni; Dawn Mellor and TEAM Gallery; via Alexander and Bonin, New York; Joerg Lohse; American Artist; ANOHNI and The Kitchen; Arcmanoro Niles and Rachel Uffner Gallery; Aria Dean and Chapter NY; Dario Lasagni; Bruce Pearson and Ronald Feldman Gallery, New York; Austin Lee; Cameron Clayborn and Simone Subal Gallery; Dario Lasagni; Mark Mulroney and Mrs. Gallery; Vivian Suter and Gladstone Gallery, New York and Brussels; David Regen; Claude Tolmer and L. Parker Stephenson Photographs; via apexart; Eduardo Kac and Henrique Faria, New York; Jessi Reaves and Bridget Donahue NYC; Greg Carideo; Sasha Bezzubov and Front Room Gallery; Sharon Horvath and Pierogi; Julia Rommel and Bureau, New York; Dario Lasagni; Mira Schor and Lyles & King; Walid Raad and Paula Cooper Gallery, New York; Peter Krashes and Theodore:Art, Brooklyn; Martin Kersels and Mitchell-Innes & Nash, New York; Silvia Bächli and Peter Freeman, Inc.; Moira Dryer and Van Doren Waxter, New York; Stefan Hagen; Ming Fay and Sapar Contemporary; via 56 Henry; Object Studies; Raqib Shaw, via Pace Gallery; Pierre Buraglio and Ceysson & Bénétière; Graciela Iturbide; Lili Jamail and TEAM; via Artist’s Institute at Hunter College; Paul Fagerskiold and Peter Blum Gallery, New York; Etienne Frossard; Paul Anthony Smith and Jack Shainman Gallery, New York; Sara Mejia Kriendler and The Chimney; Reggie Shiobara.

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Fun and Games – the inside track on Rio de Janeiro

Five insiders reveal how to run with the locals in the Olympics host city a spectacular tropical metropolis with great beaches, music, views and food

If the Olympic movement is having a hard time of it, consider the year the host city is having. In the build-up to the 2016 Games, Brazil is sinking under a tickertape parade of bad news. Given stories of polluted water, gang and police violence, an economy in freefall, the Zika virus, terror attacks and a president impeached, the reports of unfinished infrastructure for the Games almost pale into insignificance.

The Rio de Janeiro area

Lovely Rio, its easy to imagine, might just think twice given the chance to bid for the Olympics again. And yet, despite everything, the metropolis remains arguably the most beautiful city in the Americas, if not the world: whatever might happen in the sporting arenas, the Olympics has never had a backdrop as stunning as this.

The view over Rio from the Vista Chinesa. Photograph: Alamy

And despite all their worries, most cariocas, as Rios residents are known, are proud of their amazing city. As they prepare to welcome half a million visitors to the Games, we asked five insiders to talk us through the best of their tropical seaside home.

Eating out

Rafael Costa e Silva, chef-proprietor at Lasai, one of the citys five Michelin-starred restaurants

Rafael Costa e Silva Photograph: Claire Rigby

So Paulo has more options than Rio in terms of cuisine, but we outshine them when it comes to avant garde, contemporary local food. As well as Lasai, we have Olympe, owned by the chef who pioneered the fusion of Brazilian and French cuisines; Roberta Sudbrack, with a bistro feel and sophisticated, eight-course tasting menu. Also Oro, which reopened in Leblon recently, is extremely creative.

Were closed on Sundays and Mondays, so those are the nights we can get out to eat. For special occasions, we love Olympe; but we often go to Azumi (on Facebook), a Japanese restaurant in Copacabana. The broths, the udon and the soba there are great (12-21).

Bar Urca looks out over Guanabara Bay.

Bar Urca is a Rio classic highly recommended for visitors. The food isnt the greatest, but you go there for the ambience to meet friends and drink beer sitting on the wall outside, looking out over Guanabara Bay.

Theres a restaurant in Centro, the old commercial heart of Rio, where I dont go as often as Id like, but that I love Escondidinho (on Facebook). My dad used to go when he was young, I go there sometimes, and probably my son will go too. Its a traditional lunchtime restaurant going since the 1940s and known for its beef ribs in broth, with fried cassava and watercress (32, serves two or more). The meat starts to fall off the bone before youve even picked up your knife and fork.

We have a culture of botecos, classic neighbourhood bars where you grab a beer and a snack say a pastel (a small meat or cheese pie) or a coxinha (chicken-and-cassava fritter). Theres a great one in Praa da Bandeira (in north Rio, very near the Maracan stadium, which will stage the Games opening ceremony) called Aconchego Carioca that does all our national dishes and snacks very well indeed.

Aconchego Carioca in Praa da Bandeira

A more rustic, classic boteco is Bar da Gema in Andara. They do fried polenta with oxtail stew on top (10), and you eat it with your hands. Its amazing. They also serve pastel de feijo gordo (1.50), little pies filled with feijoada black-bean stew, our national dish. They are so good I could eat about 10 of them.

Brazil isnt so strong on street food, but the Saturday morning farmers market in Jardim Botnico, on Rua Frei Leandro, opposite Olympe restaurant, does a great tapioca, a kind of cassava pancake. It serves up a version with cheese, tomato, onions and oregano, using a cheese called queijo minas meia-cura, whichmelts perfectly when it hits the griddle.

Bars and nightlife

Alice Guedes, bartender at Brigites, a bistro in Leblon. She has twice finished in the top 10 in Brazils best bartender competition

Alice Guedes at Brigites. Photograph: Claire Rigby

Musically, Rio is incredibly rich its often music that gets people out at night. Monday is outdoor samba night at Pedra do Sal, in Largo Joo da Baiana, 10 minutes walk from the new Museum of Tomorrow (which is definitely worth a visit). Musicians go straight there to play after they get off work, from about 7pm. They play old-school, very traditional samba. Take a taxi if you dont know this area.

Samba dancers at Pedra do Sal. Photograph: Mario Tama/Getty Images

And on Wednesday nights at Praa Tiradentes theres a jazz scene in the middle of the square, just people hanging out and playing and listening to jazz. Its free. They just turn up and start playing, and if you get there at about 9pm, its generally in full swing. Cariocas are experts at making something happen out of nothing.

Praa So Salvador in Laranjeiras is another one: on Friday nights, the square gets packed with hundreds of people getting together in the open air, and guys selling beer from ice boxes. Everyone loves it.

Mixing is a kind of speakeasy in Rio Comprido, between Centro and Tijuca. During the day its a school of mixology, but on certain nights it transforms into a bar. Youd never guess it was there from the outside you go through a garage, up some stairs and along a corridor and there it is.

Traditionally, Rio has always been about caipirinhas and chope (light draft beer) but theres a growing cocktail culture. The challenge for Rio bartenders is to convince cariocas to go for drier, more complex drinks as they tend to veer towards sweetness. Bar DHotel, inside Marina All-Suites, has one of the best drinks menus in Rio; another is the new Bar Astor inside the Astor hotel, on the Ipanema seafront. Theyve brought high-level So Paulo-style mixology to Rio, which I love.

In Rio, music on the street is enough to get the party started. Photograph: Felipe Dana/AP

The new Atlntico Rio de Janeiro in Barra da Tijuca is one of the most Rio-spirited bars I can think of, though its owner isnt even Brazilian. Tato Giovannoni came from Buenos Aires, where he owns the bar Floreria Atlntico, and just did something different created a really good beach bar with amazing cocktails and fresh seafood.

He makes a dry martini with a tincture of sea salt, right there on the beach, and serves oysters at about 1 each. Theyre also doing a pop-up bar during the Olympics, at Clubhouse Rio.

For me, the best saideira (nightcap) is at Galeto Sats , open till late in Copacabana. Lots of bartenders and chefs go there after work for beer and grilled chicken. Its a tiny, old-fashioned joint where people spill on to the pavement. My order is a shot of good cachaa and a plate of grilled chicken hearts.

History and culture

Luiza Mello, art producer, Automatica, which produces the annual art event Travessias in the Complexo da Mar favela in north Rio

Luiza Mello. Photograph: Claire Rigby

A place I love to take visitors is Instituto Moreira Salles. Its a wonderful example of modernist Brazilian architecture, with gardens by Roberto Burle Marx and a beautiful panel by Cndido Portinari, facing the pond. It was once the home of a very wealthy family, but today its a cultural institution with an impeccable programme they hold great exhibitions, plus theres a photo collection, a music collection and a photography magazine.

Parque Lage is always good another very beautiful place, home to the EAV School of Visual Arts, with an interesting gallery in the former stables, called Galeria das Cavalarias.

Young people contemplate leaping into the sea by the Museum of Tomorrow Photograph: Alamy

Culturally, Rios downtown area, Centro, just gets more and more interesting. There is a great area around Praa XV, with art galleries, cinema and theatre in the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil ; the former imperial palace Pao Imperial, which is one of the citys most historic buildings and now a cultural centre; and the Casa Frana-Brasil, a contemporary art space in Rios oldest neoclassical building. The Candelria and Carmo churches are also both worth seeing.

An exhibition by veteran Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama at the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil. Photograph: Yasuyoshi Chiba/AFP/Getty Images

Centro has another cultural hub now: Porto Maravilha, Rios regenerated port district, with the MAR Museum of Art and theMuseum of Tomorrow. Close to that but less well-known is Cais do Valongo, the archaeological site of Rios former shipping wharf, where hundreds of thousands of the slaves brought to Brazil came ashore. Theres also the Galeria dos Pretos Novos, an art gallery, and part of a memorial complex on the site of an ancient slave cemetery.

Pao Imperial on the Praca Quinze de Novembro. Photograph: Alamy

Pedra do Sal is another historic site in the area, where there was once a quilombo, a community of former slaves and their descendants. Its just behind the MAR, and a very interesting place to visit.

Beaches and nature

Nicole Casares, blogger, Cariocando no Rio. She runs tours of some of her favourite places, booked via her site

Nicole Casares at Parque Lage. Photograph: Camila Neves

Rio is full of quiet spots from which to observe the citys curves, the contours of the hills and the green vegetation against the ocean. There are lovely parks, such as Parque Lage and the Jardim Botnico, and even the gigantic tropical rainforest, Floresta da Tijuca invades the city limits. Or just being in the sea is a peaceful experience.

Palm tree avenue at the Jardim Botnico Photograph: Alamy

If you only go to one beach, Id recommend Ipanema, at Posto 10 (postos are the beaches demarcation points and come every kilometre). Its one of the safest parts of the beach, and it attracts a lot of young, cool people. Theres a good place just across the road for lunch called Balada Mix, with great sandwiches and juices, including aai. Arpoador, a headland between Copacabana and Ipanema, is special too you have to see it at sunset, when people climb on to the rocks to look right down Ipanema beach to the sun setting behind the Dois Irmos peaks.

Surfers on Prainha beach, Barra da Tijuca. Photograph: Alamy

I also like the long beaches to the west: at Barra da Tijuca and also Praia da Joatinga, where the water is a beautiful green colour and there are no crowds. To reach it, you follow a steep trail down on to the sand. Some of Rios very best beaches are even further west, on the very edge of the city, like Praia do Secreto and Prainha.

Because of all the mountains dotted around, Rio must have the most spectacular views of any city in the world. My all-time favourite view is from Mirante Dona Marta. Its breathtaking you can see Sugarloaf Mountain below, with the sea all around it, the boats in Botafogo harbour and all the way across Guanabara Bay to Niteri. And in the other direction you can see Christ the Redeemer close up.

Rio must have the most spectacular views of any city in the world. This view is of Sao Conrado beach and the Rocinha favela. Photograph: Alamy

This unique topography means you can also hike and climb within the city. Of Rios best-known hikes, Dois Irmos is light to moderate, about 45 minutes climb from the top of Vidigal favela (which is safe to visit). You can take a van to the foot of the trail, or a motorbike taxi. Or inside Parque Nacional da Tijuca, Pedra Bonita is a nice, easy walk, about 40-45 minutes. Its steep, but if you take it slowly, its fine, and the view are similar to those from the top of Pedra da Gvea, which is a far harder climb.

One of my favourite, lesser-known trails is the Trilha do Morro da Babilnia. Its really easy only 30 or 40 minutes and has great views of Praia Vermelha beach and Po de Aucar. You start at Ladeira Ary Barroso in Leme, and walk up into Chapu Mangueira favela. Guides from Coop Babilnia, a residents cooperative, will take you up the trail for about 14. Its best to go early in the day, and make sure to be out of the community before evening.

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