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pinkthick · 10 months

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You’re okay

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Fem!Reader

Summary: His throat begged for relief as if scorched by an unseen fire. The burning sensation clawed at his senses, a relentless reminder of a desperate need that seemed perpetually out of reach. The elusive promise of a drink lingered just beyond his grasp, taunting him with its absence.

Warnings: Blood, Minor Character death

Credits for the art with Stephen lolojefie/jay on Tiktok.

In the dim haze of consciousness, Stephen Strange found himself suspended in a disorienting void. A throbbing ache enveloped every fiber of his being, a cruel symphony of pain that rendered him powerless. The mere thought of opening his eyes seemed an insurmountable task, as if the weight of the universe bore down upon his lids. His body, a canvas of agony, pulsated with an unrelenting torment. Each attempt to move was met with a searing reminder that something was profoundly wrong. The world around him felt like a blurry, chaotic whirlwind, and the mere notion of steadying himself slipped through the cracks of his fragmented awareness.

His throat begged for relief as if scorched by an unseen fire. The burning sensation clawed at his senses, a relentless reminder of a desperate need that seemed perpetually out of reach. The elusive promise of a drink lingered just beyond his grasp, taunting him with its absence. So so thirsty.

A tempest of anguish stormed through his mind, his head a battleground where every thought waged war against the others. The ache within intensified with each passing moment, a merciless crescendo that threatened to shatter the fragile remnants of his composure. A disconcerting vertigo gripped him, the world spinning in a disconcerting dance that left him suspended in a disoriented limbo. His attempts to move only deepened the sensation, as if the cold floor beneath him had become an unstable sea, threatening to capsize his already battered senses.

His neck, a tenuous link between consciousness and the void, throbbed with a relentless pulse. It felt as if it were melting away, dissolving into the chaos that surrounded him. The sensation of bones breaking echoed through his perception, each imaginary fracture adding to the cacophony of torment that consumed him. Amidst the symphony of pain, he questioned the nature of his own sounds—were they screams of despair or tears of anguish? The line between agony and expression blurred, lost in the tumultuous storm that raged within the confines of his battered body.

A new wave of torment surged through Stephen, a peculiar agony that seemed to originate from within his own mouth. His teeth, usually stalwart guardians of his resolve, now betrayed him with an intensity that bordered on the surreal. It felt as if new teeth were erupting from his gums, an excruciating transformation that defied all logical explanation.

In the midst of his cries, a desperate symphony of pain, he was almost certain he heard a haunting giggle—an unsettling sound that echoed through the darkness, as though mocking his suffering. The cryptic laughter added an eerie layer to his predicament, an unsettling presence that danced on the periphery of his awareness.

His attempts to move, to escape the relentless agony, were thwarted by an unseen force. Something, insidious and unyielding, held him in check. Every strained effort to break free only intensified the pain coursing through his body, as if the very fabric of reality conspired against him.

With a surge of determination, he managed to pry his eyes open briefly, revealing a darkened room that enveloped him in shadows. The feeble illumination hinted at the cold glint of some chains.

What..I..I was on a mission, right?

As Stephen forced his eyes to remain open, the dim light of the room gradually revealed obscured figures in the shadows. His vision, still clouded by the remnants of disorientation, struggled to bring the mysterious shapes into focus. The people in the room appeared as mere silhouettes, their features shrouded in a veil of uncertainty.

A disconcerting realization gripped him—his Cloak of Levitation, a constant companion in the arcane battles he faced, was conspicuously absent. The absence of the sentient garment left him vulnerable. Levi?

He didn’t feel okay. There was a hunger that had never experienced before and it gnawed at his insides.

And then..

A sudden, sharp pain jolted through Stephen's lower lip, drawing his attention to an unsettling discovery. In the dim light of the room, he felt an unusual protrusion—fangs, elongated and alien, had emerged where none had existed before. The realization struck him with a disorienting force, amplifying the dread that coiled in the pit of his stomach. As he explored the newfound appendages with his tongue, a metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth.

Confusion mingled with horror as he retraced the fragments of memory that now clawed at the edges of his consciousness. He recalled going on a mission..to eliminate some vampires. He couldn't believe that he had become the very thing he sought to eradicate.

“No," he muttered in disbelief, the word escaping through his bloodied lips.

The mocking laughter of a woman reverberated through the dimly lit room, a cruel echo that punctuated Stephen's grim realization. Her voice, dripping with amusement, sliced through the air as she observed his plight. "You know, I really thought you wouldn’t have made it, but look at you. A sorcerer turned vampire, we don’t get to see that often," she taunted, reveling in the incongruity of his transformed state.

Stephen's response was a hiss, an involuntary reaction fueled by a potent mix of defiance and the primal instincts that now coursed through his vampiric veins. The expletive, a defiant retort, betrayed the frustration and desperation that festered within him.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words laced with venom as he strained against the chains that bound him. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth, a visceral reminder of the surreal reality he now faced. Unfazed by his outburst, the vampire woman continued her cruel commentary, addressing the unseen others in the room. "Look at him, a newborn vampire. Isn’t he just so cute?"

The condescension in her tone deepened Stephen's sense of helplessness. Each tug on the chains echoed his futile resistance, a symbolic struggle against the insidious fate that had befallen him.

The entrance of a human woman, tears streaming down her face, marked a chilling turn in the macabre tableau. Her anguish was palpable, a visceral counterpoint to the cruel amusement that danced in the eyes of the vampire woman who orchestrated this nightmarish scene.

As they positioned the sobbing woman almost within arm's reach of Stephen, an insidious scent wafted through the air, igniting an unholy hunger within him. His mouth watered involuntarily, and his eyes betrayed a feral transformation—deepening shades of crimson replacing the once-familiar hue.

Sharp Claws extended from his fingertips, catching him off guard. The realization that he now possessed such predatory appendages intensified the surreal horror that gripped his every sense. What had he become? The question reverberated through his newly altered consciousness.

His gaze fixated on the wounded human, a profound conflict raging within him. A sinister smile played on the vampire woman's lips as she observed his internal struggle. The scent of her blood was intoxicating, an irresistible lure that goaded the primal instincts now coursing through his vampiric veins.

A guttural growl escaped his throat, the struggle against his burgeoning hunger manifesting in the tense rise and fall of his chest. The internal battle played out on his features—a dance of torment, desire, and self-restraint.

The vampire woman, reveling in the macabre spectacle, posed a taunting question to Stephen. "Aren’t you hungry?"

The words hung in the air, a malevolent invitation that pierced through the cacophony of his internal turmoil. Stephen's breath quickened, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions churning within him. The pull of his vampiric instincts clashed with the vestiges of his human morality, and a desperate plea for restraint echoed in the recesses of his mind.

In the grip of his insatiable hunger, Stephen succumbed to the primal urges that now dictated his existence. With an explosive burst of strength, he shattered the chains that bound him to the wall, his predatory instincts propelling him forward.

He practically lunged at the weeping woman, driven by an overwhelming need for the crimson elixir that promised both sustenance and a dark euphoria. The taste of her blood, once a distant temptation, now coursed through him like a potent nectar, momentarily drowning the turmoil within.

The woman's anguished cries filled the room as Stephen, consumed by the ravenous frenzy, sank his fangs into her neck. Each swallow was a macabre communion with the darkness that enveloped him, an unholy ecstasy that eclipsed reason and morality.

"No! Please—I... It hurts so much. Please stop!" she pleaded in vain, her desperate pleas echoing through the chamber. Stephen, lost in the throes of his predatory trance, remained deaf to her cries as the life force drained from her.

It was only when the woman went limp against him that a dreadful realization crashed upon Stephen's consciousness.

The haze of bloodlust began to lift, revealing the haunting truth—he had just taken the life of someone innocent.

As he withdrew from the now lifeless form, horror etched across his features, he recoiled in shock. The woman's face was no longer obscured, and in the ghastly revelation, he beheld the face of his wife, Y/N. A profound wave of grief and remorse washed over him, his heart heavy with the weight of an unspeakable atrocity. He recoiled from the bloodstained reality before him, grappling with the monstrous act he had committed. Y/N's lifeless eyes stared back at him, accusing and haunting.

Stephen's anguished cries reverberated through the dim chamber, a heart-wrenching lament that echoed the depth of his despair. Clutching Y/N's lifeless form to his chest, tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood that stained his hands.

"Y/N! I’m sorry; I’m so sorry darling. I didn’t—" he wailed, the sound of her name a tortured plea that hung heavy in the air. The weight of his grief, compounded by the monstrous act he had committed, bore down on him like an insurmountable burden.

Amidst his mourning, the cruel laughter of the other vampires resounded, a sinister chorus that intensified the throbbing ache in Stephen's head.

In the cold grip of the night, Stephen bolted upright in bed, his labored breaths betraying the remnants of the nightmare that had seized him. Disoriented and consumed by the lingering horrors, he found himself enveloped in the soft glow of Y/N's presence. Her eyes reflected concern as she observed the anguish etched across his tear-streaked face.

Y/N gently cupped his face in her hands, her touch a soothing balm against the spectral memories that haunted him. "Hey hey, Stephen. Breathe, come on," she murmured, her voice a tender reassurance that cut through the lingering echoes of his night terrors.

Stephen struggled to obey, his attempts to draw breath feeling stifled by the lingering shadows of the dream. His hands trembled as he desperately clung to Y/N, seeking solace in the tangible reality of her presence.

"Stephen, love, breathe. You're here, you're home," she urged, her voice a lifeline that pulled him from the abyss of his subconscious terrors. Her words, a gentle reminder of the sanctuary that surrounded him, began to coax him back to the realm of wakefulness.

But as Stephen's breaths steadied, a haunting revelation clawed its way to the surface. His voice, choked with remorse, cried out, "You were... I was the one that killed you. I—"

Y/N, recognizing the depth of Stephen's pain, brought his head to rest against her chest, offering the solace of her heartbeat as a grounding rhythm against the lingering echoes of the nightmare. Silently, he continued to weep, his tears a testament to the profound weight of the dreamscape that had ensnared him.

"I'm not dead, I'm okay. You’re okay. It was just a nightmare," Y/N reassured him, her voice a gentle melody that sought to dispel the haunting remnants of the dark visions that had tormented his sleep.

Pulling away from her chest, Stephen clung to Y/N, his arms wrapped around her in a desperate embrace that refused to let go.

His words, uttered with a mixture of relief and residual fear, broke the silence. "It wasn't a nightmare with Dormammu at least."

Y/N chuckled softly, her fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on his back. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to," she offered.

A heavy silence lingered between them before Stephen found the courage to articulate the haunting images that clung to his consciousness. "I was back in that room, and it was exactly how it happened, except that the woman I killed was..."

Y/N, sensing the weight of his unspoken words, pressed a tender kiss to his lips, a gesture that spoke volumes of her understanding and unwavering support.

"You know it wasn't your fault," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm that sought to dispel the shadows of guilt that clouded his mind. Stephen scoffed, his self-reproach evident in the lines etched across his face. "It sure felt like it was mine."

Undeterred, Y/N continued to hold him, her arms a comforting embrace that refused to let go. In the quiet sanctuary they had carved out for themselves, she reaffirmed, "It wasn't your fault, Stephen. And you know that.”

He didn’t respond as he clung to her, the echoes of the past began to lose their grip, dissipating in the warmth of their shared embrace. Y/N's presence, a steadfast anchor, reminded Stephen that in the sanctuary of their love, the wounds of the past could heal. In that moment, they found solace in each other's arms, reaffirming that, despite the darkness that lingered in the recesses of memory, they were okay.

Notes: Not sure if I should have posted this, but there’s that. 🙃

Hope you enjoyed reading this.

#stephen strange #doctor stephen strange #stephen strange x reader #doctor strange #doctor strange in the multiverse of madness #doctor strange x you #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange supreme #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x you #doctor strange x female reader #doctor strange fluff #doctor strange angst #wong marvel #vampire au #vampires

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j-graysonlibrary · 11 months

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The Xiang Chronicles: Book Three Chapter 17

Title: The Xiang Chronicles: Book Three

Author: Jay Grayson

Word Count: 107k

Genres: Fantasy, adventure, drama, LGBT+

Available on: my website

Synopsis: Only one Xiang remains and her name is Merra. She hopes to unite the land by force and plow down anyone in her way—especially the people of Agni who she deems faithless and the native people of Terra who refuse to cooperate with her.

Raine continues to serve his Lord but he has taken to alcoholism to soothe his grief—a fact he keeps out of his letters with Heidi. Baiya has returned to mercenary work in order to keep his family safe while Kira is on the warpath. He, fully, takes on the title of Chaaya and means to defeat the Xiang he sees as false.

And, in a guarded castle in Enlil, a stir-crazy Princess dabbles in the dark arts, setting in motion something even Tiandi cannot see.

Full chapter 17 under the cut

Chapter XVII:

In the throne room, May found herself fighting with every fiber in her being not to throw her parents around with her new strength. Her fingers twitched and curled inward and she imagined the carnage she could cause if she only let it loose. She could bash their heads together, repeatedly, until all that was left were two sacks of flesh covered in their own blood and brain matter. She could picture it so vividly, she almost thought she had done it a few times when she blinked.

“May, are you listening?” her mother’s shrill voice was what caused her to grapple with the fact she was, actually, still alive.

She snarled. “Yes.”

“Good. Sunny?”

“Yes, mother,” Sunny mumbled and kept her head bowed.

May cut her eyes back to her, to check on her, and she could see that she was just as uncomfortable as she had seemed the last few meetings they held. Prince Raiden stood next to her, however, and not beside their parents. He had been doing that in the last two meetings.

In fact, after the last assembly in the throne room, May had sat down with Sunny and asked her about it. Her sister had, surprisingly, dodged the subject at first.

But then she asked, “You still don’t want to marry him, right?”

“Of course not,” May said with a hiss.

“Okay…good. Well, not good but…umm…” Sunny curled into herself and started to rock back and forth as she struggled with speaking. Sometimes, if she was especially stressed, she would lose the ability to talk entirely.

“What is it?” May probed. “You can tell me.”

“Umm…Raiden is nice.” She started to comb her fingers through her hair, one swift motion after the other. “I...I like Raiden. He keeps me company.”

May’s brow arched. Sure, she knew the prince probably spent more time with her sister compared to her since she actively avoided him—between her training regimen and simply not wanting to, she had probably only seen him a handful of times—but she had not realized he had been around her older sister all that much.

“You…like Raiden?” she spaced her words out carefully.

Sunny nodded but would not say anything else. That told May everything she needed to know and it made her even more wary of the prince.

Her fiancé.

It was difficult and sickening to think of him that way. They would not actually be married though, she kept reminding herself. Even if she had to do it herself, she would ruin the wedding and make everyone involved in the planning suffer.

But, if Sunny actually cared for Raiden then she would have to rethink some of her ideas.

Her eyes drifted to the man who listened to the King and Queen intently. May could not understand why—they were probably just repeating the same things they said the day before.

When she was finally allowed to leave, she darted out the throne room but then slowed her steps when she saw Raiden and Sunny leaving together. They were still close, having their own private conversation.

“Princess, ready to head up?” Fujin’s voice reached her but she did not turn to face her guard.

“No…” May mumbled and kept her eyes on the pair across the hall. A few other guards passed by, briefly blocking her view and she pushed them along with the air, making one of them stumble and curse.

“Careful with that,” Fujin scolded, able to notice immediately.

She rolled her eyes. “No one can tell. Look, I need you to take Sunny to her room.”

Their eyes finally met and Fujin’s brow furrowed. “You want to talk to Prince Raiden?” she gathered but was confused about it.

“Yes.”

Fujin sighed and shook her head. “Alright. If that is your wish.”

May smiled and patted her on the shoulder, sending her on her way. She followed behind, slowly, and watched as Fujin parted the couple and took Sunny’s hand to lead her off. Sunny waved at Raiden and the man waved back with a smile on his face.

“Hey,” May barked once she was close enough to grab his attention without alerting potential prying ears.

The prince jumped and spun around to face her. “M-May! You frightened me!”

“I know, it was funny.” She smiled for a second but then dropped it back into a loose frown. “Look, we need to talk.”

“About the wedding?”

“…No.” May turned her head from one side to the other. “Let’s go to the courtyard.”

There was less of a chance of someone overhearing them there and May also just wanted some fresh air. She took a deep breath as they passed through the threshold into the small bit of nature she was allowed to indulge in. After a long exhale, she set her sights on the man beside her.

“I need to ask you about Sunny.”

“What about her?” Raiden asked, “She is a sweet girl.”

“Woman,” May corrected, “But, yeah, she is nice. I heard you two have been spending a lot of time together. Is that true?”

“Umm, yes? I suppose that is true.” He started to fidget with his hands. “Does that bother you? I wanted to get to know my future sister so…”

She shook her head. “That is fine. I suppose I wanted to ask what you thought of her.” She mulled the next words over in her head for a second before asking, “If she was the one you were set to marry instead of me, how would you feel?”

“About the same as I feel now?” Raiden frowned a little. “It is not a ceremony of love but of necessity. Whether it was you or her, the result would be the same.”

“Cut the political shit for a second, alright? If you had to marry her would you be upset? Would you prefer a different bride?”

He recoiled at the bite in her voice. “I do not think so? I cannot be sure. I have never considered being able to choose my bride.”

May rubbed her forehead and sighed. “Alright then, you said she was sweet and you like her. What do you like about her then?”

Raiden’s eyes darted about as he started and stopped a few times. Just before May could, not so gently, encourage him, he finally spoke, “She is very smart. I-in the subjects she is passionate about. Sometimes she is hard to reach but when she does talk to me, it is as though she sees me as a person and not just Prince Raiden. It is sort of a relief to talk to her in that way.”

It was not a perfect answer but it was better than the fear May had—that Raiden would openly mock Sunny or bemoan her behavior the second he was given room to do so. Instead, he seemed to genuinely like her company which was more than could be said for their parents.

She supposed she did not have to kill him after all. Sunny would be upset.

“Alright…good talk.” May sauntered past him and back to the living quarters. Thankfully, he did not chase after her with any follow-up questions so she was free to skip along to her room.

But, as she placed her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back to the hall. She bet the Xiang was in Kaz’s room and he was who she really needed to talk to.

She hurried along and tried to let herself in but the door was locked. With a frown she pounded on the wood. “Hey! It’s me!”

It took a second too long for anyone to unlock and open the door. Pangu even seemed surprised to see her as she walked in.

“Can you two stop sucking face for a second so I can talk? And do not lock me out during the day—it’s rude.” May put her hands on her hips.

Pangu and Kaz exchanged a look before a third person appeared from the shadows. “I can assure you they were not ignoring you on purpose, princess. I was having a talk with the Xiang.”

“Oh, Parvati.” May grinned and her voice lightened. “It has been a few days since you were last around.”

“I had other matters to attend to; my apologies.” The woman graced Pangu’s shoulder with her hand before glancing around the room. “I actually must be off again. Unless you need me?”

“Not especially,” May said with a shrug.

She looked back to Pangu who wordlessly shook his head. With that, she stepped back into the shadow and disappeared.

“What did she want?” May asked.

“Just checking on me,” Pangu replied before switching the subject back and reminding her of why she came over in the first place, “What is it you wanted to say?”

“Oh!” She bounced up on her heels. “My parents say the King will be here in a few days so we need to do something tonight. Are you ready?”

“Sure. Will it just be us?”

“Fujin and Kaz will guard the room and stand on alert but we will be the ones going in.”

Pangu nodded. “Okay. Just tell me what you need and I will do it.”

***

Like May, the King and Queen had their own personal guards but, with everyone’s new abilities, they were not even able to scream before they were knocked out. Fujin and Kaz propped them against the wall and took their place at the door, prepared to take down anyone else who stumbled upon the room although there was a slim chance of that happening at all.

Pangu kneeled in front of the door and picked the lock with the air, letting himself and May inside.

If May’s room was large then her parents’ was huge. There was an entire other hall before coming onto their bedroom and another set of guards. May took them out by knocking their heads together and then Pangu pushed them each to the side, clearing their path.

Muffled talking could be heard from beyond the threshold and he and May glanced to each other. Her eyes told him to stay still for a moment—to wait and listen.

“I cannot wait until this is all finalized and done with,” the Queen sighed.

“Me too,” the King agreed, “May will finally calm down, I wager.”

“She had better. If she does anything that reflects poorly on this family…I just do not know what I will do.”

Pangu saw anger flash in the princess’s eyes and he readied himself for action.

“Do not worry. As long as we can make King Ferdan understand what it takes to keep her under control then he will have no problems.”

The Queen chuckled. “Yes. Keep her locked in a tower, for the love of Tiandi.”

May’s face darkened and she ripped around the corner before giving Pangu the signal but he followed behind her quickly anyway. “You maggots!” she seethed and threw them both against the far wall, away from their beds where they had been settling down for the night.

“May!?” they both gasped—her father in surprise and her mother in horror.

Pangu stood behind the princess, ready for instruction, but so far he was impressed with May’s display of strength. Her anger, surely, was aiding her or, perhaps, she had been slacking off in training. Both seemed just as likely.

“You were planning on shipping me off to the mainland after the wedding?! I should have fucking known!” She kept her arm out but her parents were not tossed around any further. After a moment, Pangu realized why as he caught them both struggling to move. She was using her energy to keep them still. “I will NOT be marrying Raiden and I most certainly will NOT be spending the rest of my life locked in some other castle!”

“I-It is for your own good,” her father croaked out.

May growled and then looked back to Pangu. “Make him suffer! Just make sure he does not bleed out—I do not want this to be over too quick.”

“What does that mean?!” The Queen shouted, “Who is this man?”

Pangu almost found it funny that it took them so long to notice him but he was more concentrated on his task. Make him suffer, he repeated in his mind as he looked at the King. His arms were at his sides, gripping at the stone for any purchase and he stared at them with a hanging jaw.

He sent his energy through the stone and opened up a crack in the floor, causing the King’s arm to slip down, to the elbow. He yelped in surprise but Pangu knew he was about to scream much louder. When he clamped the stone around him, he was proven correct and May grinned with delight.

“Keep going,” she encouraged. “I want to see the bone.”

Pangu would have done as she asked no matter what but, when she spoke so directly, he felt a compulsion take over, deep in his being. It was in his muscles, propelling him forward—even in his bones.

He pressed harder and the King’s screams grew more and more ear piercing and distressing. His wife tried closing her eyes but May forced her both to turn her head and keep her eyelids peeled so she could see everything.

The stone started to cut the skin and blood spurted out, mostly upward, as the earth pushed and crushed. Bone was harder to sever but, with enough energy, Pangu was able to snap the arm and swallow everything below the elbow. A rush of blood pumped out once the amputation was complete so Pangu shot out a flame, cauterizing the wound in one agonizing second.

That, naturally, brought about more screaming.

“Calm down,” May huffed, “You are not on fire, it is fine.”

The flesh around his elbow was burnt but it was no longer bleeding at least. Pangu looked to May for what he should do next but she did not meet his eyes. She was focused on her mother.

“Did you see that, your majesty? Do you want a matching arm?”

The woman turned her head back and forth while sobbing. “N-no…please…”

“Will you do anything to make me stop?” May kneeled down in front of her. “Anything at all?”

A few more tears streamed down her face. “Yes. Your marriage is canceled—we will tell them you died and then you can leave and do whatever you want!”

May lips pulled upward, slowly, until her smile encompassed most of her face. “Good. But I have some specific demands, if you do not mind.”

“Please, go ahead.” The Queen gulped while the King moaned incoherently at her side, probably slipping in and out of consciousness both due to the pain and the shock.

“I do intend to leave and, obviously, I am not marrying Raiden.” May chuckled under her breath, “But Sunny will be in charge after I go. She is to inherit everything and you will teach her how to run a country. Do not refer to her as a child or treat her as one. Got it?”

She nodded and her lip quivered.

“Great!” May hopped up onto her feet. “Well that was, finally, a productive meeting, mother and father. Thank you.”

As she turned on her heel, the Queen glanced back to Pangu. Some of her strength returned but only so she could ask. “Who are you…?”

Pangu did not blink. “I am the Xiang.”

“The real one,” May interjected and grabbed his arm, pulling him along with her. She looked over her shoulder one last time to add, “The other one, the one you both met with, she’s a fraud.”

“A…fraud…?” her mother’s meek voice faded behind them.

May snickered under her breath and patted Pangu’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

#the xiang chronicles #my novel #my writing

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helloworlddemo1122-yahoopar-blog · 6 years

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‘Project Runway’ Winners: Where Are They Now?

Project Runway has been a guilty pleasure for fans since 2009. After living on Bravo for five seasons, the show found a home on Lifetime, and so did the esteemed judges Heidi Klum, Tim Gunn, Nina Garcia and Zac Posen.

Over 16 seasons, fashion designers from all over the globe have gotten the opportunity to find their voice, including designer Christian Siriano, who was just 22 years old when he won season four. Ashley Tipton was the first designer to use all plus-size models during season 14, and Kentaro Kameyama, the 38-year-old designer from Los Angeles, has been busy working on a new line since his win during the most recent season 16.

After a bit of a hiatus, Project Runway will be returning to Bravo for season 17, with Klum returning as host. Although we don’t have a definitive premiere date just yet, it’s likely it will air this fall.

“Project Runway is coming back where it all started, it's coming home on Bravo," Andy Cohen announced during NBCUniversal’s upfront presentation last month. This is in addition to the Project Runway spinoff, Project Runway: All Stars, which has been renewed for a seventh season.

While we wait for season 17 to grace our television screens, here's what the former winners have been up to since their last appearance on the show.

Jay McCarroll, Season 1 McCarroll is known as one of the few Project Runway winners to never win a single challenge until the final runway show. After winning the show in 2005, he appeared on Project Jay, Eleven Minutes, and VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club. For a while, he was running a blog and online fashion boutique, but the site hasn’t been updated since 2014. He is still active on his Instagram page, though, with a bio stating, “I like colors and stuff.”

streamers. #streamers #confetti #mylar #celebration #sidewalk #happynewyear #color #multicolor #shimmer #shine #plastic #squiggle #squiggly #bushwick #brooklyn #ny #newyork

A post shared by Jay Mccarroll (@jaymccarroll) on Jan 14, 2018 at 12:26pm PST

Chloe Dao, Season 2 After winning season two of Project Runway, Dao went on to executive produce and judge the first season of Project Runway: Vietnam, which ran for three seasons starting in 2013. In 2008, she debuted her own line called DAO Chloe DAO, which is now a boutique in her hometown of Houston. She’s also active in Houston-area philanthropies including Susan G. Komen and the Salvation Army of Houston.

Jeffrey Sebelia, Season 3 Sebelia was portrayed as somewhat of a villain on his season of Project Runway, and many fans were upset when he won. Since then, Sebelia has worked on multiple projects designing kids clothing. In 2013, he participated in Project Runway: All Stars, where he placed seventh out of 11 contestants.

Christian Siriano, Season 4 Known as one of the most successful Project Runway winners, Siriano was also the youngest person to ever win the show. He launched his namesake “Christian Siriano” clothing line in 2008 and now regularly dresses some of the biggest names in Hollywood like Victoria Beckham, Taylor Swift, Rihanna and even Kim Kardashian West.

When @kimkardashian looks reallllyyyyy stunning in a Siriano red silk coat for @vogueindia ❤️❤️❤️ #happyfriday #christiansiriano

A post shared by Christian Siriano (@csiriano) on Mar 2, 2018 at 11:46am PST

Leanne Marshall, Season 5 Marshall has had huge success since winning Project Runway in 2008. She's most notably known for her feminine wave-inspired collection in shades of turquoise and ivory, which impressed judges week after week. She launched her own bridal collection in 2011, which is carried in over 35 boutiques internationally and online.

Spring is coming... someday 🌸 #nottodaythough / beautiful @stephanie_danielle in our Lea #dress shot by @annaperevertaylo

A post shared by Leanne Marshall (@leannemarshallofficial) on Mar 18, 2018 at 7:32am PDT

Irina Shabayeva, Season 6 Following season six of Project Runway, Shabayeva developed couture collections of gowns and wedding dresses, as well as a lingerie line. She got sixth place on season three of Project Runway: All Stars in 2013 and even launched a bridal line exclusive at Kleinfeld’s in 2011.

#tbt #tbs #nyfw #irinashabayevacouture @fgnyfw @tedgibson photo by @stevienaysayer

A post shared by I R I N A S H A B A Y E V A 🕊 (@irinashabayeva) on Mar 13, 2018 at 11:13am PDT

Seth Aaron Henderson, Season 7 Henderson was the first Project Runway contestant to win both a regular season of the show as well as season three of Project Runway: All Stars in 2014. He’s known for his sustainable designs using organic fabrics and recyclable plastic bottles, and even recently created a line of iPad covers for the brand Maroo. Last fall, he worked with the brand Feetz to release the first pair of 3D printed shoes.

@ProjectRunway winner @SethAaronPR7 launches custom-fit, 3D-printed shoes in collaboration with @FeetzShoes 👏👟 https://t.co/nzBAantDGQpic.twitter.com/8C6MroYyT1

— Electric Runway ⚡️ (@Electric_Runway) October 30, 2017

Gretchen Jones, Season 8 Jones may be the most controversial winner of Project Runway ever. She won after a heated debate between the judges, who eventually chose her over fan favorite Mondo Guerra. This year, she graduated with an MBA in fashion from the University of London College of Fashion. She’s spoken publicly at SXSW, Columbia School of Business and Princeton University, and has been featured in numerous fashion magazines like Refinery29 and Elle.

Not casual Friday.

A post shared by gJ (@gretchen_jones) on Jun 1, 2018 at 10:04am PDT

Anya Ayoung-Chee, Season 9 Ayoung-Chee has launched both a boutique, Exhibit A, and a lingerie line, Anya de Rouge, since winning season nine of Project Runway, and even worked with Gunn on the reality show Under the Gunn in 2014 to mentor other designers. In her spare time, she’s also a travel ambassador for Trinidad and Tobago, where she currently lives.

Consistently in awe of the beauty of this country, and in despair over its struggle to find peace. . 📷: @wyattgallery

A post shared by A N Y A A Y O U N G C H E E (@anyaayoungchee) on Sep 30, 2017 at 5:02pm PDT

Dmitry Sholokhov, Season 10 Sholokhov won season 10 of Project Runway as well as season four of Project Runway: All Stars. Since then, he has worked as an instructor at the Parsons School of Design (his alma mater) and has his own label, where he creates high-fashion yet wearable designs.

Love this set🔮#marieclairemagazine #tbt #dmitrysholokhov #collection #designer #fashion #style #design #model #photoshoot #loreal #nyc

A post shared by Dmitry Sholokhov (@dmitrysholokhov) on May 17, 2018 at 9:07am PDT

Michelle Lesniak, Season 11 Season 11 of Project Runway gave Michelle Lesniak the opportunity of a lifetime. Despite her lack of formal training, her daring looks gave her an edge in the competition. She now lives and works in Portland, Oregon, and has a studio in the city, where she does clothing and costume design, called Michelle Lesniak Boutique.

365 day dress. Day two. 70's shag carpet inspiration. #365daydress #pdx #pdxnow #costumedesign

A post shared by Michelle Lesniak (@michelleiswell) on Jan 3, 2018 at 11:44am PST

Dom Streater, Season 12 After Streater won both season 12 of Project Runway and season five of Project Runway: All Stars, she returned to Philadelphia to focus on her designs, launching an online-only womenswear brand. She was even named one of Nicole Miller’s "Most Fashionable Women of Philadelphia."

Sean Kelly, Season 13 Kelly's iconic color-changing dress for the "Rain" challenge helped him win season 13 of Project Runway. Gunn even called Kelly his favorite contestant by the time the season came to an end, so that’s a win in and of itself. Now, the New Zealand-born designer lives in New York City and has designed for clients like Klum and been featured in Marie Claire magazine.

Ashley Nell Tipton, Season 14 Tipton was the first contestant on Project Runway to win by using all plus-size models. “This industry puts a bad view on plus-size women and the way we dress, and it’s because we don’t have options,” she told Buzzfeed during her season. Following her win in 2015, she designed a line with JCPenney and last fall launched her own plus-size line of apparel and eyewear called the ANT Premier Line.

Pairing the old with the new. Yellow lace tank from my collection with JC Penny a couple seasons ago and the cutest wide legged pants from @forever21plus 💛

A post shared by Ashley Nell Tipton (@ashleynelltipton) on May 31, 2018 at 6:47am PDT

Erin Robertson, Season 15 An alum of Massachusetts College of Art and Design, with a degree in both fashion and fiber art, Robertson returned to Boston following her Project Runway win and now has a studio space in the city, where she still designs.

One way to get over seasonal depression is to make summer clothes! Getting ready for a pop up shop happening April 5th at @dewolfe_leather_goods shop on Newbury St! Wiiiiiiiuuuu pic by my lil raspberry @chloeagnesl

A post shared by Erin Robertson (@an_erin) on Mar 16, 2018 at 9:06am PDT

Kentaro Kameyama, Season 16 In a surprising finish to season 16, Kameyama pulled out a win, shocking even the most stone-faced Project Runway judges. Posen went so far as to say that Kameyama “knocked his socks off.” Known for his expertly tailored clothing, the classically trained pianist even had his models walk to one of his original scores during the final show. Now, he’s living in Los Angeles and perfecting his new collection that premiered during Fashion Week earlier this year.

#NYFW #mewyork #designerkentaro @hayleysforsblom

A post shared by Kentaro (@kentarokameyama) on Feb 16, 2018 at 12:04am PST

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: Helen Frankenthaler’s Panoramas of Paint

Helen Frankenthaler, “Madame Butterfly” (2000), 102-color woodcut from 46 woodblocks on three sheets of handmade paper, 41 3/4 x 79 1/2 inches, Helen Frankenthaler Foundation (© 2017 Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, Inc. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / Tyler Graphics Ltd., Mount Kisco, New York)

WILLIAMSTOWN, Massachusetts — The dual exhibitions of Helen Frankenthaler’s paintings and woodcuts at the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute offer a compact, revelatory, and frequently stunning look at an artist whose reputation has been all too often yoked to a single, if singular, technique.

As the story goes, and it is well known enough not to bear repeating, in 1952, when Frankenthaler was all of 23 years old, she painted “Mountains and Sea,” an epic-scaled abstraction (86 5/8 by 117 1/4 inches) now in the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. “Mountains and Sea,” a masterpiece in anyone’s book, was executed in her pioneering “soak-stain” method, which was quickly heralded — in the words of the Washington Color School painter Morris Louis — as “a bridge between Pollock and what was possible.”

Louis’s invocation of “what was possible” is as succinct an encapsulation of formalism’s diminishing returns as you are likely to get — the kind of blinkered nonsense that postmodernism, at its outset, gleefully kicked aside. Not that “Mountains and Sea,” in which Frankenthaler suffused the canvas’s fibers with oil paint thinned to the consistency of watercolor, would be any less of a personal breakthrough if it weren’t hijacked by a predetermined reductionist narrative — but it is useful to keep in mind the paradox that, in the context of the time, the “possible” was envisioned as a narrowing of one’s sights (towards an ideal of flatness) rather than a cracking-open of the pictorial imagination.

It is a paradox because the cracking-open of the pictorial imagination is exactly what Frankenthaler’s post-stain career was about, and these two exhibitions, As in Nature: Helen Frankenthaler Paintings and No Rules: Helen Frankenthaler Woodcuts, move deftly across the decades, offering a potent overview of the artist’s ever-shifting concerns.

Helen Frankenthaler, “Off White Square” (1973), acrylic on canvas, 79 3/4 x 255 1/2 inches, from the Louis-Dreyfus Family Collection, courtesy of the William Louis-Dreyfus Foundation Inc. (© 2017 Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, Inc. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)

In her lucidly written catalogue essay for As in Nature, guest curator Alexandra Schwartz, in an attempt to tread the slippery line between form and content in Frankenthaler’s work, wades deliberately into a now-forgotten tempest-in-a-teapot, namely the degree with which an abstract painting should be seen as referencing the world outside its edges.

Revisiting the survey exhibition Nature in Abstraction: The Relation of Abstract Painting and Sculpture to Nature in Twentieth-Century Art, organized in 1958 by John I. H. Bauer at New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art, Schwartz writes that Bauer’s “qualified, even tentative, claims” regarding nature’s “indirect” and “subconscious” influence on the artists in the show — claims that barely deviated “from the standard lines on Abstract Expressionism” — did not immunize the premise from “utter vitriol in the art press.”

And yet Frankenthaler, despite her professional and personal alliance with Clement Greenberg, seems to steer clear of the doctrinaire approach wielded by supporters of Greenberg’s formalism on one side of the aesthetic divide, and of Harold Rosenberg’s arena of psychic struggle on the other. In a passage that Schwartz quotes from the catalogue for Nature in Abstraction, Frankenthaler states:

I could say that nature has very little to do with my pictures. And yet I’m puzzled: obviously it creeps in! […] I don’t have a fixed idea about this, and I seem to find myself in something new in terms of nature. I think that, instead of nature or image, it has to do with spirit or sensation that can be related by a kind of abstract projection.

The idea of “abstract projection” rather than “nature or image,” in its precision and humility, couldn’t be farther from the nebulously teleological “bridge between Pollock and what was possible,” but it proved to be the key to Frankenthaler’s explorations as an artist — never locked into a particular path, but always probing, scrabbling, and sometimes stumbling in search of a particular pictorial truth.

I use the term “particular pictorial truth” because, of the dozen, mostly large-scale paintings on display — other than a pair of deliberately coupled (on the part of the curator) canvases from the 1990s — no two are alike.

From the earliest painting in the show, the pre-stain “Abstract Landscape” (1951), in which green, yellow, red, blue, and tawny shapes resemble floral Matisse cutouts, Frankenthaler’s allegiance to High Modernism and her penchant for a referential perspective toward nature are undeniable.

Helen Frankenthaler, “Giralda” (1956), oil on unsized, unprimed canvas, 94 x 83 1/2 inches, Helen Frankenthaler Foundation (© 2017 Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, Inc. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)

Next along the timeline is “Giralda” (1956), a bona fide “soak-stain” oil painting whose explosive, earth-toned composition includes a sketchy depiction of the Giralda bell tower of the Seville Cathedral in Seville, Spain (here rendered as atilt as its Pisan counterpart, though it doesn’t lean in real life). Frankenthaler curiously tops the tower with an onion dome rather than the Renaissance lantern it now flaunts, evoking its original incarnation as a minaret. (A nod, perhaps, to Matisse’s Tunisian period?)

But unlike “Abstract Landscape” and even “Mountains and Sea,” there is a noticeable degree of grit and awkwardness in this work, an indication that the artist is working against a natural tendency toward elegance and has become more willing to flirt with unresolvable conflicts of texture, color, and shape.

That said, there is one painting in the show that matches the ecstatic — that is to say, unconflicted — content of “Mountains and Sea,” and that is “Milkwood Arcade” from 1963, one year after Frankenthaler abandoned oil paint for acrylics. Cloaked in milky green, raw sienna, ultramarine blue, and a patch of salmon against a bright yellow field, the work is a shock wave of paint poured across the raw canvas with the infatuation of a new love.

Helen Frankenthaler, “Milkwood Arcade” (1963), acrylic on canvas, 86 1/2 x 80 3/4 inches, Helen Frankenthaler Foundation (© 2017 Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, Inc. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)

The chronology then skips 10 years to 1973, which is represented by two paintings, “Summer Harp” and “Off White Square.” “Summer Harp” is a tall (108 by 75 1/2 inches) canvas that manages to fuse Matisse’s bright color and linear grace with the schismatic composition of Clyfford Still. But as arresting as it is, the drop-everything, must-see painting in the show is “Off White Square,” an astoundingly beautiful work that, at 79 3/4 inches tall and 255 1/2 inches wide, commands an entire wall and everything else around it.

Awash in pink, yellow, green, and blue, the painting is a monumental self-contradiction, in which the liquidity of the poured paint feels conceptually at odds with the exactitude of the red, orange, and violet streaks breaking up the picture plane like a stepped mountain range. The titular off-white square is scumbled onto the surface in the upper central portion of the canvas, lending an additional abrasiveness in opposition to the cloud-like forms, while a ghost-square, below it and to the left, dissolves into a purple haze. The tensions generated on the surface get under your skin even as you’re irrevocably seduced by the color and scale — a sensation that can only be described as exquisite irritation.

This painting, along with seven others, are from the Louis-Dreyfus Family Collection, while the other four are from the Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, which means that many of the works on display have rarely, if ever, been seen by the public, and the sense of discovery is rewarding even where the stresses piled onto the work become too much for its sometimes fragile scaffolding, as with the nasty slashes of fluorescent green that chop up the poured passages of “Jockey” (1978), or in the paired canvases from the 1990s that the curator associates with Frankenthaler’s admiration of the paint handling in the work of J.M.W. Turner and Gustave Courbet.

Those two paintings — the all-alizarin “Red Shift” (1990) and the grisaille “Barometer” (1992) — to my eye, tip the balance too much in the direction of representation (in their case, bottom-heavy Turner-esque seascapes), so that the “abstract projection” that characterizes Frankenthaler’s work at its best is diminished, losing a good deal of its metaphorical ambiguity and modernist bite.

The exhibition No Rules: Helen Frankenthaler Woodcuts is installed in a separate wing of the Clark’s dazzling Tadao Ando redesign, a distance that allows the artist’s accomplishments in one medium to sink in before plunging into another. Organized by Jay Clarke, the museum’s curator of prints, drawings, and photographs, the show covers a range of work starting with “East and Beyond” (1973), the artist’s first woodcut, which she made at Universal Limited Art Editions (ULAE), run by the legendary Tatyana Grosman in West Islip, Long Island, and ending with her last, “Weeping Crabapple” (2009).

Frankenthaler’s first prints were made by jigsawing a single block of wood into various shapes, inking the separate parts, and then running the carefully registered pieces separately through the press. The inking of these pieces was often executed in a painterly way, which resulted in an individualized character for each print. She did not attempt a run of perfect matches.

You might think that Frankenthaler’s unmitigated love of paint and lifelong practice of spontaneous innovation would leave little patience for a procedure as exacting and collaborative as the woodcut, but it turns out that her audacity and vision were more significant forces in the shaping of this remarkable body of work than any medium-specific skill set.

This is particularly evident in the later works in the show, which were made after she traveled to Japan and worked with the master woodcarver Reizo Monjyu and the printer Tadashi Toda, who were peerless in traditional Ukiyo-e methods.

After this transition, the process becomes confounding in its complexity: Frankenthaler would complete a painting on wood to be used as the design for the work, just as Hiroshige or Hokusai would create a black-and-white drawing. As many as 46 woodblocks would be carved and 102 colors deployed (as in the spectacular triptych, “Madame Butterfly,” 2000) to make the print. Every scrawl, splash and drip would be represented by the wood carver, who, according to curator Clarke, would at times sand down the block edges to simulate a stain effect, while the artist’s characteristic paint layers were recreated through the use of opaque and translucent inks.

Helen Frankenthaler, “Japanese Maple” (2005), 16-color woodcut from nine woodblocks on handmade paper, 26 x 38 inches, Helen Frankenthaler Foundation (© 2017 Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, Inc. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / Pace Editions, Inc., New York)

And yet Frankenthaler did not intend these prints to be mistaken for paintings, making a point to emphasize the wood grain in the base layer of a number of works, including the series, “Tales of Genji” (1998), “Madame Butterfly,” and the intensely red, blue, and purple “Japanese Maple” (2005) — going so far as to create trompe l’oeil wood grain where the natural impressions weren’t visible enough.

That Frankenthaler would go so far as to employ trompe l’oeil — creating the illusion of a natural artifact as the ground for the “abstract projection” of nature — is brain-teasing in the implications it holds for reality and its double. But it is also consequential as a marker in the life work of an artist who was once the poster child for pictorial flatness and self-referential aesthetics, but refused to be limited or defined.

As in Nature: Helen Frankenthaler Paintings continues at the Clark Institute (225 South Street, Williamstown, Massachusetts) through October 9, and No Rules: Helen Frankenthaler Woodcuts continues through September 24.

Travel to Williamstown and hotel accommodations were provided by the Clark Institute in connection to the opening of the exhibitions.

The post Helen Frankenthaler’s Panoramas of Paint appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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