#phaidei fanfic

[hks33550336]

#nerdnon but its him being a video game nerd with his hot boyfriend Mydei who cosplays Phainon's favorite characters from his silly (thats what Mydei calls them) games.

[daii-ro]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Hello, I wrote a fic because I was so full with feelings in the last update.

Someone *please* save Phainon

(And let us yap about these guys)

Also here’s a bonus fanart of the two

[ayayayayaz]

HSR 3.7 SPOILERS!! PHAIDEI CRYING UP AHEAD

i will not lie. I embraced insanity with my newly acquired cyrene to do this. i have zero regrets. ZERO. was i cringe?? yes. did i care?? NO.

IM GOING TO GO IN ORDER BECAUSE IM ACTUALLY ACTUALLY INSANE. INSANE. i literally sprinted through the exomyth map to find them my RMC can attest to running at top speed. Anyways. MY LORDDDDDDDDD. MY LORD.

Insane how he dropped the "Deliverer" title (he does clarify about its usage later), and this is so GREAT. The word was always sort of tainted with Phainon's destiny of worldbearing and having that weight off his back must be so relieving. Also it's just nice to see them both calling each other by name because. I'm insane.

Oh haha! Cool! You casually brought food made by your mom for him! The same mom you hadn't seen in YEARS. the same mom whose food you said you missed! You brought them! For mydei! And remember his pomegranate juice with milk! Oh! Cool!

OH! You want to meet his parents as well! You didn't ask for mydei to deliver it to his parents, no no no, you asked to PERSONALLY meet the himself to pass it over! COOL!! COOLCOOLCOOLCOOLCOOLCOOL.

Started crying because i thought he was going to ask for his hand in marriage. Cried even more after i realised how ridiculous i was being. Cried even more at that realisation. Continued cry—

HE'S SO FORMAL ABOUT IT. DONT THINK IVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOUR DAMN FUCKING LIBRARY PHAINON.

ITS BEEN MONTHS. I NEVER FORGOT THIS LINE. ALL THE WAY IN 3.1, AS A DEDICATED PHAIDEI PLAYER WHO IS ALSO INSANE, I REMEMBER YOUR LIBRARY PROMISE. FUUUUUUCK.

Anyways so i cried even more.

I BAWLED. OH MY GOD. THIS IS THE MOST INSANE THING EVER. i fucking wish this was voiced because god, knowing mydei's character is one who is unabashed and straightforward in his speech to say this... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. I hate these two for making me so insane I literally punched my table in grief and agony.

HE'S SO EXCITED ABOUT IT TOO 😭! The "!!!" GOD. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. YOU'RE INSANE.

anyways ran out of picture space because tumblr is restricting me, but oh my god this was the best possible thing I could imagine for them. Phainon is so so pure and wholehearted in his love for everyone and also getting to be more open with his desires (like asking Mydei to go to the library with him?? unthinkable) and Mydei is so so sweet and understanding GRRR. the way he knows how to tell phainon to just be honest about what he wants and then tells him possibly the most romantic thing known to man?? phaidei have had so many moments from 3.0-3.7 and I just. I adore them. So much. SO much.

~

Thank you for reading to the end! If you did. I went a bit stir-crazy but can you blame me? xD this was 9-10 months in the making!

anyways shameless fic promo if anyone wants to check it out~! A soulmate AU of phaidei with our favourite tropes: angst, humour, and a happy ending :) GOOD DAY AND SEE YOU ALL TOMORROW

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[notesfromthemirror]

To Keep (Phaidei Drabble)

Word count: 1148

They sparred every day, as if the world itself demanded they never stop testing each other—equal parts obsession and search. Violence barely contained by rules, two men circling, all sharp edges and leashed aggression. Mydei fought like a man with nothing left to lose. Phainon fought like he had everything to prove.

“Is that all the famous Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos has? The mighty Mydeimos?” Phainon teased, blood trickling from a split lip.

Mydei’s answer was his blade whistling past Phainon’s ear, close enough to part hair. “Keep talking, Deliverer,“ Mydei snarled. “See where it gets you.”

They beat everything out of each other daily. Brutal, unforgiving sessions that left them both dirty and breathless, neither willing to be the first to yield. It was less sparring than barely civilized warfare. A way to work out whatever restless fury drove them both without seriously hurting anyone.

The other Chrysos Heirs learned to stay clear as well as other spectators.

“You fight like an animal,” Phainon spat one afternoon, wiping sweat and grime from his face.

“Good,” Mydei replied, not even winded despite the vicious pace they’d set. “Animals survive.”

But savagery became routine. Routine became ritual. And somewhere in all that controlled violence, they started paying attention to things beyond who could hit harder.

The baths were a necessity—washing off dirt and sweat, tending cuts that would scar if left alone. At first, they barely spoke, just two warriors licking their wounds in silence.

Then Phainon, because he couldn’t help himself, started talking.

“Do you wake up with that braid, or is there some elaborate Kremnoan morning routine I should know about? Something your people do for you?”

Mydei’s response was characteristically flat. “I can braid it myself.”

“But I want to know how it feels,” Phainon said. The honesty slipped out wrapped in challenge, like everything else between them.

Mydei studied him with those predator eyes. Then, like accepting another fight, he muttered, “Fine.”

So Phainon learned the texture of warrior’s hair—coarse from weather and battle, still damp from their violence. Learned that Mydei’s breathing changed when calloused fingers worked near his neck. Learned that even Kremnoan stoicism had limits.

“These red markings,” Phainon said later, tracing the patterns with hands that still ached from gripping his sword. “What do they mean?”

“I might tell you one day,” Mydei replied, not flinching from the touch. “If you can keep up.”

But Mydei had his own fascinations. The golden sun across Phainon’s neck drew his attention like a target. His scarred fingers would map its rays with surprising tenderness.

“This suits you,” Mydei said one evening, palm covering the tattoo’s center.

“The sun?”

“Warmth and radiance. But also blazing heat.” A pause. “Something that can burn everything it touches, but also brings new life.”

When Mydei looked at him again, his golden eyes were glimmering. “Fire. Heat. Light. Sun and flame both.”

Phainon laughed softly. “And you think you can master that?”

“Not master,” Mydei said. “Match.”

Their public interactions stayed vicious, competitive. All teeth and claws and barely contained violence. But alone, steam rising around them, something shifted. Challenges became something else. Something neither of them wanted to name.

“You’re staring,” Mydei said, not looking up from cleaning blood from under his nails.

“Your markings,” Phainon replied. “They move when you breathe.”

“And?”

“And I’m wondering how many there are.”

Mydei smirked. Phainon let his fingers wander, tracing each marking slowly, deliberate and thorough, as if tallying them by touch alone, refusing to leave a single one untouched.

The first kiss happened because they were testosterone-fueled men who’d been fighting desire as fiercely as each other and finally gave in.

They’d been fighting over something stupid. Pride, challenge, whatever. It ended with both of them in the dirt, Mydei’s hand at Phainon’s throat, close enough that Phainon could see every red marking on his skin.

“Yield,” Mydei demanded, all controlled fury and barely leashed strength.

“Make me,” Phainon whispered back, and then Mydei was kissing him like another kind of fight. Desperate, claiming, brutal in its honesty. Phainon’s hands fisted in Mydei’s hair, pulling him closer, deeper, tasting copper and sweat and something that was purely him. Mydei’s grip tightened on his throat, not choking but possessive, like he was trying to brand the moment into both their memories. When they finally broke apart, it was only because they needed air, both of them panting like they’d been drowning.

They broke apart stunned, breathing hard like they’d just gone ten rounds.

“Huh,” Phainon said.

“Training tomorrow?” Mydei asked, already pushing himself up.

“Obviously.”

They didn’t talk about it. Just picked up their weapons the next day and kept trying to beat each other like nothing had changed.

Except everything had changed.

Now when Phainon worked war-knots from Mydei’s hair, his hands lingered with intent. When Mydei traced the sun burning across Phainon’s neck, it felt like claiming territory. Their tension carried new weight, loaded with want neither would voice.

“You’re thinking loudly again,” Mydei said one evening, both of them still bleeding from fresh cuts.

“I’m thinking about you,” Phainon admitted, like confessing to a crime.

“Good,” Mydei replied, pulling him close with hands that could break necks, fingers spreading possessive across the sun. “I was hoping.”

The second kiss was a choice. Deliberate. Mydei’s palm against Phainon’s jaw, Phainon’s fingers tracing red markings, both of them finally done pretending this was anything but what it was. This time it was slower, deeper. A claiming rather than a collision. Phainon melted into it, into the careful way Mydei’s thumb traced his cheekbone, the way strong fingers tangled in his hair. When Mydei’s tongue swept across his lower lip, Phainon opened for him without hesitation, letting himself be consumed by heat and want and the taste of pomegranates on Mydei’s mouth. They kissed like they had all the time in the world, like they were memorizing each other, until Phainon was dizzy with it.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Phainon asked afterward, voice rough from fighting and other things.

Mydei considered the question like he considered everything—seriously, completely. “Because you make all control feel like a wild mess.”

“And you like control?”

“I do,” Mydei said, pressing their foreheads together, thumb brushing over golden rays. “But I also like this.” His grip shifted, steady and grounding, as though daring anyone to take Phainon from him. “You.”

They still fought each other every day. Still competed and drove each other past every limit. But now there were also moments between the violence. Hands braiding hair, fingers tracing skin, pomegranate seeds shared between kisses that tasted like copper and want.

Now there was this: Mydei’s warrior hands mapping sun-gold lines like battle plans, Phainon’s fingers following red paths across skin like claiming victory.

Two men circling, not to destroy—but to keep.

____

A/N: I was thinking about their dynamic (as I often do), and it struck me how naturally it would shift without either of them making a big deal out of it. So this happened. Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs, and comments mean the world and fuel my writing. :)

[intensely-reading]

If we have no shippers, that means I'm dead

Word Count: 20.2k words (1/1 Chapters)

Relationship: Mydei/Phainon

Tags: Idol AU (honestly more like Fandom AU because we focus more on Phainon's Adventures into Fandom!), Crack treated seriously, childhood friends to lovers technically, pining, Phainon's honestly just extremely inept at fandom AND at communication and both cause 99% of his problems

Summary:

Phainon wakes to his Phaidei account exploding with notifications, a small war in his comments section, and half the people convinced he’s running the Phaidei account, with the top reply being: Deliberber @phaifan33550336 replying to @phaidei Dawg look at my deliverer shipping himself with Mydeimos we’re cooked It’s enough for him to click on his Weaver account in a frenzied panic, scroll to the settings, and click “delete”—mashing all the buttons, captchas, and “deletes” until he finally sees the “This account no longer exists” on his page. “Oh my god,” he mutters, heart racing. He chucks his teleslate on his bed and flops back down. (In which Phainon, an idol, attempts to run a fan account shipping himself with his childhood best friend, Mydeimos—another idol.)

Read it here!

Author’s Comments:

I mentioned this in the notes, but as much as I dog on the Idol Fandom in the fic, it is also something I really enjoyed when I was in it (about 4 years ago now) and this is as much a fic about stantwt culture as much as it is a dumb fic about Phainon being dumb in fandom

Yes, Mydeism and Cult Pienon meet in real life and get together. Yes, it was planned from the start that they'd expose Phainon and all of his accounts. Yes, it was supposed to be enemies to oomfs. Yes, I always knew Hephaestion would out Phainon to Mydei. This fic's easter eggs were VERY intentional hehe

I have to spread the MICO, Day6, and The Rose agenda. I don't seriously follow any of these artists but I love Day6 and The Rose. And MICO I found through Epic: The Musical. Music has always had a HUGE impact on my life so it only felt right to share which songs I associated with Phainon and Chryseus :D

[ks-phaistelle-quarantine-zone]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[shawtbredd]

Untitled, probably

Heyyyy... so Phaidei... One of the cycles, maybe a couple hundred thousand in, where Khaslana crosses Mydei in the baths still looking relatively like himself. He dare not shatter the lie, though his touch will only ever contaminate what it holds. Contains: angst + some hurt/comfort, Mydei washes Khas, they skirt around flirting, the baths work with game logic idk it's technically true anyway Wc - 1.9k

Khaslana stares down at the battle-worn clothes on this body. Okhema stands proud and unblemished, the Phainon of this cycle walking leisurely alongside Aglaea and Tribbie into the baths. He gazes from afar, as if remembering a time long ago. Kephale’s statue looks on in much the same way.

It is not that there is a lack of time.

Soon enough, while staring at an unmoving sun, night falls in name only, with no moon to mount the sky. Khaslana wanders about the halls of the Marmoreal Palace with naught but the soft echoes of his footprints as accomplice. Swashing water plays a constant melody, and whilst he did not stray from the shadowed walls, he could not escape being found.

“Deliverer?” A voice asks, confused.

Khaslana could only turn dejectedly, facing the mettlesome man. Mydeimos’ face is cast in pale light, his brows low, brights of his eyes but thin slits.

“What happened to you?”

His voice is raw, lip curling up at the edge. Khaslana almost hesitates as he turns tail to leave, yet a curling grip over his wrist prevents him from taking a second step away.

“You were fine just hours ago,” Mydei presses blatantly, likely suspicious. “How…?”

Khaslana stills. How long it had been since he had felt a gentle touch like this, he does not know. Detached as ever, Mydei only deigns to pull on his wrist with fingers sheathed in gauntlets, stiff gold clawing against his skin in a way far more beautiful than how the man’s blood might later stain it.

At any time, he could free himself and walk away; still, Khaslana lets himself be pulled into one of the secluded bath rooms. He doesn’t look at Mydei’s back—doesn’t acknowledge that wrongly placed trust—but when those feet breach the water, Khaslana realises he is simply helpless to follow. Mydei turns to see him awkwardly step into the shallow end of the bath.

“I won’t ask, then,” he speaks, hand releasing Khaslana’s wrist, “just bathe, Deliverer. You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

Water brushes up against Mydei’s waist as he settles into the water, watching Khaslana expectantly. He settles opposite, like how they always used to sit, though his muscles are stiff with a soul-deep tension.

Khaslana swallows dryly. “This is unnecessary.”

Dirt clings to him like a thinner second skin, or perhaps it is his skin because his soul knows not the difference. Khaslana is blood and mud and numbers.

Mydei holds his gaze like a demand. “You know better than to let things fester.”

“It’s curtain-fall hour. We shouldn’t be in the baths.”

“Would you prefer we go to your room?”

Khaslana looks away—he has no room here.

Hot water ripples in a steady stream, doing away with the old water and bringing in the new. The muck on his body taints the water. When Mydei moves, Khaslana’s head whips up to look.

Mydei raises a brow. “You need soap. I’ll be back.”

Maybe this would have been Phainon’s cue to make a joke. Any attempt to do so now turns to ash on his tongue, though he expects it would be too little, too late either way, and Mydei leaves him. Khaslana reminds himself of the choice to leave and how he has always had it, wondering what exactly keeps him here. He is tethered to this moment like it might save him.

Wading to one side of the bath, he curls his hands at the edge, where water ends and floor begins. Droplets spill over the threshold. He notices the flecks of gold under his fingernails. 

Whose blood could it be? Where is Mydei? Right, Mydei left to get soap. Khaslana is sure of this, he thinks. Doubt seeps in like a vignette, where lines have always been blurred to him. If this is real, when is the bloodshed?

Where is Mydei? He left to get soap. This is a conclusion he is becoming less sure of. If he looks closely, there is blood under his fingernails and it’s on his hands, too, and in the water, and Mydei’s body bobs like a buoy on sea where the currents of the black tide swallow him whole and turn him into one of those hulking masses born of something corrupt, and Phainon will have to draw his sword again to cut him down. He weakly clamps a hand over his mouth, looking on in a kind of horror he hasn’t felt for lifetimes or maybe just hours because he’s beginning to lose track of the difference. Khaslana’s lungs stutter to a stop. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. Khaslana can’t move from where he stands, watching monsters devour his friends like how the people of Aedes Elysiae were helpless to the tide and turned to consume their kin with limbs seeping with rot.

If he is their hope, and he has all but lost it, what now?

Khaslana’s hand is torn from his mouth, vision swimming with motion. He thrashes weakly as his back hits the bath’s edge.

“Titans, Deliverer. Breathe,” Mydei grunts, holding aside both his wrists.

Mydeimos is gold, always—a molten and lustrous gold, inside and out. Dawnbreaker does not pierce his back. Where there was once blood, the water is clear. Only they occupy the space. Which is the illusion? The here and now, or the seconds-ago nightmare?

He stares for a long while, studying every feature on Mydei’s face as if picking apart a veil, but there is no illusion to be found. Not after checking once, nor twice, nor after glaring at Phagousa’s blessed water so hard he is sure he curses it. 

Mydei has warm hands, felt even under the gauntlets. After some time, he realises they are breathing the same pattern. Khaslana is torn between pulling him closer and stabbing Dawnbreaker through his spine. He recoils at the thought, looking at Mydei like a deer in headlights. The man only releases Khaslana’s wrists in lieu of crossing his arms.

“Oh,” Khaslana says.

“Glad you’re back with me,” Mydei says as he steps forward, picking up the soap bottles he’d dropped at the edge of the bath. “I brought mine. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

They both smile weakly.

“Look,” Mydei sighs. “I said I wouldn’t question things.”

Khaslana blinks; he looks off, somewhere far. “Are you trusting of anyone who wears my face?”

“Do you happen to have a doppelganger?”

Shrugging, he runs a wet hand through his hair. He wants to laugh and he wants to cry.

“I don’t know anymore, Mydeimos. I’m just so tired.”

“Let’s clean you up. Then, you can rest.”

Khaslana laughs bluntly, grabbing a fistful of his own hair and tugging on the strands. He doesn’t know what to do anymore, tired of trying to live among constant loss. If he relaxes now, he might simply never wake again.

“There is no rest.”

Huffing, Mydei grabs his arm. “Tough. I’m making it happen.”

Soap lands on the back of his hand. Before it can slide from his skin, Mydei catches it—he quite literally is making it happen—and rubs the viscous liquid over his begrimed flesh.

“When did you go soft?” Khaslana’s face screws up.

“We aren’t fighting right now, Deliverer,” the man responds, proceeding to dunk Khaslana’s head under the water with a grip at his neck. When he pulls him back up, dripping and gasping with shock, Mydei grins. “What, I can’t do something nice?”

Khaslana laughs despite himself, pressing back some sopping blond strands from his eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

“The sentiment is shared.”

Shoving the soap into Khaslana’s arms, Mydei peruses the label of his shampoo with a tease. “Are you sure you can wash yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he hums. “I might need the crown prince to do it.”

It takes a few moments to peel off his sodden shirt. It’s a little freeing to disregard the rules every once in a while, though he’s worried this bath may need a deep clean once he’s done with it.

(Phagousa’s waters are said to cleanse the wounds of the soul—Khaslana is sure to corrupt any benefits of this particular bath for the indefinite future.)

“That can be arranged,” Mydei hums as he slides his gauntlets off his wrists.

He glances at Khaslana’s chest, where traces of gold weave jutting lines over his skin like open wounds. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, yet can only look on with a sense of mild vexation. Khaslana takes notice, regarding his own body like it is a shameful object.

Eyes downcast, he splays a hand over the marks. “Ah, I guess they’ve gotten bigger.”

Who knew so many coreflames could cause your body to burst at the seams?

“You’re incredibly reckless,” Mydei frowns. “Need I remind you to take care of yourself?”

Smiling, Khaslana looks aside. “No,” he says, lips wobbling imperceptibly. “But you always do, and it means a lot to me. What would I do without you, Mydei?”

Slowly, in a manner that may likely be attributed to reluctance, Mydei pours some shampoo onto his palm before setting aside the bottle. He gestures for Khaslana to turn around and then plants his hands in his hair.

“Deliverer.”

Mydei’s nails scratch against his scalp occasionally, Khaslana leaning into it against his will. For all that the man can pack a punch, his touch can be twice as gentle.

“You are the finest warrior I know.”

Trickling water echoes about the room, leaving faint, moving patterns to bounce and reflect over the walls. Khaslana swallows something bitter—he never wanted to be the Deliverer. Nonetheless, the praise is scooped up in feeble hands and cradled as if it’s the fuel that will keep them moving. 

“Yet you come to me with your open wounds,” Mydei grazes a finger over a small mark on his shoulder, “and look at me like you want to be saved.”

He lets Mydei scoop water over his hair, rinsing out bubbles with a large palm at his forehead, keeping the suds from his eyes. Khaslana wants to lean back, to lay his head on Mydei’s shoulder and maybe curl around him like a parasite. An ugly, foreboding sort of feeling clawing at his insides.

Khaslana pulls away, turning to glance at his friend. “I’m sorry, Mydeimos. I think I’ve spent too long here.”

Mydei only levels him a look, as if to call him out on his poor excuse to leave. 

“Being vulnerable sometimes is an admirable thing,” he says, that one strawberry blonde plait of his brushing his collarbone as he tilts his head. “I won’t let you push me away because you feel weak for it.”

Straightening, Khaslana blinks. “Of course…”

“I care about you.”

Somehow, both their eyes widen, though Mydei settles his gaze soon after. It's more than true, but things still feel left unsaid.

Khaslana’s lips draw into a grim line. “And I—Mydei, I,” he stammers, blazing gold eyes like a soft, patient weight on his form. “Me too, I really…”

After taking a short breath, Khaslana’s head drops, hair casting his eyes in shadow. His mind replays every moment, every cycle where he’s wanted nothing but to sit in peace like this with the man beside him. It mocks him with his own memories, recalling the only fate that responds. Just once; can he have this just once?

“I really like you.”

Regret never follows his words. How could it, when they will not be remembered? Still, the words are only an implication of the truth, of his truth, so much so that it’s agonising. Nothing concludes; nothing will.

He watches Mydei’s hand lift and ball itself into a loose fist, unnaturally stagnant. Without another word, Khaslana turns his back to him.

---

Tysm for readingggg & if you want a part 2 lmk how you want it to go bc I can't decide

[xthelastknownsurvivorx]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Title: all that you seek (and a way home)

Fandom: Honkai Star Rail (hsr)

Rating: Teen

Ship: Phainon/Mydei (phaidei)

Tags: pre-canon, cooking, escape rooms, banter, mydei pov

Welcome, heroes, to this kitchen game of mine. My request is simple: transform my bounty into something new, sublime. Please me, and soon you shall know: all that you seek, and a way home. "Oh, this must be a challenge left by the great Phagousa," Phainon says. "It makes sense—they are the Titan of Banquets in addition to oceans and wine, after all." He scans the clue once more. "I think… we need to cook a feast in order to get out of here and obtain the information Aglaea sent us here for."

Or, Mydei and Phainon must work together to cook their way out of the ruins of Styxia, escape room-style.

Written for @phaidei-week Day 3: Rivalry. Loosely inspired by their English VAs' streams together and Escape the Kitchen.