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joluvsfinnick · 19 hours ago

Text

The Columnist

f!fashion journalist reader x model finnick odair pt.1

summary - she writes columns. he wears the clothes she drags. when panem’s most beloved victor accidentally likes a tweet accusing her of being secretly obsessed with him, all hell breaks loose. online and off. enemies-to-lovers, Capitol style.

a/n - a mix between a smau and regular fic. please be nice, its my first smau🗿 i hope its not too jumbled.

wc; i have no idea. but tis long. good luck babes

NIGHT OF THE EVENT | 9:07 pm | the president’s mansion

“You’re staring. Hard.” Cinna’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink—once, twice—before dragging your gaze away from the blonde across the ballroom. Finnick Odair, bronzed like a god and dressed like… a lost tourist in a couture accident.

“I’m repulsed,” you mutter, swirling your wine like it might wash the image from your mind.

Cinna chuckles beside you. “It’s not that bad. His regular stylist caught something, so they called in a last-minute replacement.”

“That doesn’t explain the silly armor. Or the belt. Or—” you pause, squinting, “whatever’s happening with those shoes. Honestly, I’d rather marry Caesar Flickerman than be caught dead in that outfit.”

Cinna bursts into laughter. “That’s dramatic. Even for you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“…No.”

You smirk, then murmur almost to yourself, “Kiss, Marry, Exile.”

Cinna raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You nod subtly toward the crowd. “A game. I’ve been playing it all night. One to kiss, one to marry, one to exile. Based entirely on what they’re wearing tonight.”

He leans in, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Kiss Cashmere, her dress tonight? Chef’s kiss. Marry Caesar, strictly for the money. Not because that afterburner suit was anything special, but it was expensive. And exile Finnick, obviously. Because those shoes are a war crime.”

Cinna snorts into his drink. “New article in the making?”

You glance over your glass with a sly smile. “Not a bad idea.”

—

AFTER THE PARTY - 4:32 AM

Your heels hit the floor with a dull thud as you kick them off by the door, barely missing the pile of other shoes you’ve promised to organize. The sequins from your dress still itch at your shoulder, and your head is pulsing with the ghost of champagne and Capitol noise. You groan, tugging your hair free from its pins as you cross your penthouse in a daze, grabbing the green juice you left in the fridge like a peace offering to your liver.

By the time you sit at your desk, the sun is rising.

“Marry Caesar,” you mumble to yourself, cracking your knuckles. “Kiss Cashmere. Exile Finnick Odair.” You pause, let the silence settle for a second, then let out a quiet, amused exhale.

You open your laptop. The keys feel too loud in the morning stillness, but your fingers move fast, your kind of fast. That special buzz crawling up your spine that only happens when the words are sharp and the target’s golden.First, a title. Something simple. Something cruel.

KISS, MARRY, EXILE: Capitol Gala Edition

And then, you begin to write.

—

liked by effietrinket, thecinna, and 352,829 others

@/thecolumnist: had an amazing time last night. between mingling with panem’s finest, gossiping with Cinna, and dodging a few questionable accessories, i may have come up with something new for the next article. let’s just say: it’s a game. and some of you won’t like how it ends. dropping at 8pm tonight. xx.

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glimmerglow: WAIT WHAT DO YOU MEAN A GAME??

district1style: omg what i’m so here for it

fashionfiend44: i’m scared and obsessed already

caesarsnumber1fan: WE’RE READY

effietrinket: already know this is going to be amazing!☺️ liked by author❤️

odairnation: omg??? finnick was there too. PUHLEASE tell me you saw how good he looked

↳ thecolomnist: oh i saw him alright!

thecinna: curious to see who survives your little game. i’ll be reading 👀🖤 liked by author❤️

caesarflickerman: should i be excited or nervous? either way, i’m clearing my schedule 💅✨ liked by author❤️

30 MINUTES BEFORE POSTING | 7:30PM

Writing it was easy. Super easy. Judging or critiquing has always been your thing. How else would you have made it this far in the industry?

The words seem to flow naturally to you, especially when you start on his outfit. He’s incredibly handsome, you’ll give him that. Annoyingly so. But his fashion choices? Consistently offensive. Sometimes, they can’t even be considered outfits. A few draped straps of silk. A sheer shirt that might as well be invisible. And don’t get you started on the fishing net debacle.

People fawn. They drool. They repost his photos like he’s some kind of divine art piece.

You, on the other hand, find it repulsive. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re not convinced whether it’s the outfit that irritates you, or the way he wears it with that smug little grin, like he knows exactly how much people are looking.

Either way, your article nearly writes itself. And by the time you hit publish, you’re already imagining the chaos it’s going to cause.

POSTED | 8PM

Immediately, it blows up. Notifications flood in faster than you can refresh. Twitter, Instagram, your inbox, even the private channels reserved for Capitol elites. Comments range from breathless admiration to dramatic fan threads dissecting every word, every phrase, every deliberate bit of venom dipped in velvet. People live for this. For you.

And you? You’re no stranger to it. You can’t deny the sly smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth as the attention pours in, the kind that says you knew exactly what you were doing. You always do.

Your articles are highly favored for a reason. You don’t just write, you weaponize. A critique from The Columnist is both a death sentence and an invitation to play. You toe the line between elegance and destruction like you were born to walk it in heels. And today’s piece? A flawless blend of fashion, Capitol politics, and a certain veiled jab at the nation’s favorite son with sea-green eyes and a mouth that won’t stop smiling.

They eat it up.

Screenshots circulate. Anonymous sources speculate. Threads are spun. The Capitol spins right along with them, and in the center, you sit, perfectly unbothered, sipping something expensive and sparkling while chaos unfolds under your name.

Everything was going just how you wanted it to.

But then you see it.

His tweet. No, tweets.

Finnick Odair’s tweets.

Directed towards… you??

Your jaw drops slightly, not in shock, not really, more in amused surprise. You weren’t entirely expecting him to bite back, and definitely not as quickly as he did. A part of you wonders if he had been watching your account. Waiting. Watching. Refreshing your page like everyone else.

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.

Of course he saw it. Of course he had something to say. He’s Finnick Odair, the Capitol darling, ego the size of Panem, and apparently, no stranger to the art of digital sparring.

Still. You can’t let him think he’s rattled you.

So you do what you do best.

You ignore it. For now.

You let the comments stew. Let the netizens pick it apart. Let the theories spread, is it flirtation? A feud? A PR stunt? You say nothing, offer no clarification, no clever response.

There’s another event this weekend. One of those glittering, self-important Capitol galas where everyone pretends to be effortless while calculating every move. You’ll be there. You’re always there. And you’re sure he’ll be there too.

He always shows up when the cameras do, and this time, you’re more than happy to let him.

THE NIGHT OF THE EVENT | 7:29 | PRESIDENTS MANSION

You chose the dress with intent, not to provoke, not to seduce, but to remind. You are to be watched.

It’s sleek and architectural, high-collared with sharp shoulders that taper into a body-hugging silhouette the color of spilled ink. Black, but not boring. The fabric catches the light, glinting violet and navy when you move. The bodice is structured, almost armor-like, while the hem trails behind you like smoke. Understated, elegant, a quiet kind of power.

Hair swept up. Lips painted a careful red. No statement earrings. Just a single ring, the one that always draws attention, because you never explain it.

The Capitol is in its usual state of pre-gala panic. Stylists barking orders, assistants sprinting down marble hallways, glitter clinging to the air like pollen. Outside, Peacekeepers mill around the perimeter, tension buzzing just beneath the surface. Someone mutters that Snow has issued a last-minute “reminder” for guests to remain celebratory, gracious, and “ideally sober.” It’s ignored. No one stays sober very long at these parties. The thought of it is almost laughable.

Your car rolls up just late enough to matter.

The flash of cameras begins the moment your foot hits the carpet. Reporters call your name, questions already flying about the article, the tweet, the tension, the dress. You offer only a glance and a faint smile, ducking your head with the practiced grace of someone who knows better than to give them what they want.

Inside, the mansion is glowing, warm gold, soft candlelight, the scent of champagne and fresh orchids in the air. Violin music drifts from a balcony overhead. Everyone is polished to perfection.

You barely make it two steps into the foyer before—

“Darling!” Effie Trinket descends like a parade float, decked out in soft metallics and structured ruffles. She clasps your hands with too much excitement, her grin edged with gossip. “I must say, you’ve caused quite a stir this week,” she says brightly. “Which, of course, means you’ll be right at home tonight. Now, come see where they’ve put you. It’s delightful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Delightful?”

Effie nods, leading you toward the ballroom doors. “I thought it was absolutely hilarious. Snow sure knows how to stir things up! This will have the press talking for days.” She lets out a soft laugh, squeezing your hand in hers.

And sure enough, as you’re guided to your seat, you spot him almost immediately, standing across the long, polished table, right across from your seat. He’s hasn’t settled in his chair yet, but he has a glass in hand. Finnick Odair, flawless smile, eyes already on you.

You watch him carefully, all that effortless confidence as if the whole gala was his personal stage. His suit is… well, something.

It’s midnight blue, sleek and tailored, sure. But then…there’s the collar. Oversized, exaggeratedly high, almost comically flared like something out of an old-fashioned naval uniform, which, knowing Finnick, is probably no accident. The lapels are embroidered with gold thread in intricate swirling patterns, some kind of fancy fish or sea creature, maybe? It’s hard to tell if it’s elegance or satire.

Beneath, his crisp white shirt sports a cravat instead of a tie, a glossy silk affair twisted in a way that screams both old-world charm and deliberate flamboyance. The cuffs have silver cufflinks shaped like tiny tridents, District 4 pride, no doubt, but they catch the light and sparkle like little disco balls.

His trousers are sharp, but they have a subtle shimmer under the ballroom lights, like he’s wearing liquid fabric. And those shoes, polished to a mirror shine, but with oversized bows on top, almost clownish if it weren’t for the confident way he wears them.

He’s clearly having fun with this. Or maybe sending a message. And when his eyes meet yours, there’s a flicker of challenge, or maybe amusement. Honestly you can’t really tell, and it bothers you. You can’t decide if he’s mocking the Capitol’s obsession with grandeur, or mocking you.

He looks away for a moment, pulling his chair out and taking his seat before meeting your gaze once more. Hraises his glass slightly, like a toast, or a dare.

You sit. You don’t look away.

The clink of cutlery and glassware fills the room in a soft, elegant rhythm. Waitstaff move like ghosts, pouring wine, delivering small plated courses with the precision of performance. Laughter floats down the table from a group of minor socialites discussing something absurdly expensive and unimportant.

You smile politely at whoever’s seated to your right, some designer’s cousin, you think, but your eyes wander. You’re aware of him in that way you hate: without meaning to. Finnick Odair, lounging in his seat like it was made for him. Elbow resting on the armrest, chin in his hand, a lazy sort of confidence draped over him like the perfectly tailored suit he’s wearing.

You think it might be custom. Subtle ocean tones in the stitching. Fitting, of course. Although you’ve been sitting here for at least an hour by now, he still hasn’t said a word to you. Not yet. But you catch him watching, not constantly, not enough to draw attention. Just often enough that you feel it.

Effie has planted herself at the left of the table, guiding conversation with her usual chirp and glitter. You say all the right things. Smile at the right times. Laugh gently when appropriate.

Then, in a lull, his voice cuts through the table. No one seems to notice, they’re all too busy with their own conversations. Gossiping away the night.

“So,” Finnick says, casually swirling his wine. “Do I need to submit my wardrobe to you in advance now, or do you prefer the element of surprise?” Your fork pauses just slightly above your plate.

You glance up, slowly.

A few people chuckle, but you’re unsure if they actually picked up on what he said or if they’re laughing at their own conversations. You offer a polite smile, tilting your head.

“That depends,” you say, voice light. “Are you asking for my approval, or just worried about making the list again?”

He leans back in his chair, smiling wider now. “Just curious. You seemed very invested last time.”

“Only because your outfit gave me so much to work with,” you reply, taking a sip from your glass.

A small silence between you and him follows —the kind that crackles with something unspoken. Then, soft laughter from his side of the table. The people closest to you have apparently picked up on the conversation, and they give their own slight chuckle as they realized what they’ve just witnessed.

You go back to your food like nothing happened.

But when you look up again, his eyes are still on you. He doesn’t appear angry nor rattled, but rather interested. And honestly? That might be worse.

Dinner spills into the ballroom in a flurry of silk and perfume, the entire evening swelling into its second act like clockwork. Music drifts upward from a live quartet tucked behind crystal drapery, their instruments blending traditional waltz with something more indulgent, more decadent, exactly the kind of hybrid tune the Capitol adores. All around you, the elite gather and glide into place, as if choreographed from birth. Laughter rises like champagne bubbles. The air hums with old money, old secrets, and tonight’s polished spectacle.

You don’t join the crowd.

Instead, you step into the periphery, letting yourself fade just enough behind a marble column near the bar, where the shadows are kinder and the vantage point is clear. This is your favorite part, the post-dinner unraveling. When drinks loosen tongues, when heels start to wobble, when the cracks begin to show. You sip something light and expensive, the kind of thing you wouldn’t drink if it weren’t free, and let your eyes drift across the room like a hunter surveying the field.

Effie appears beside you, delicate and glowing like a doll come to life. She’s wrapped in a frothy gown the color of sea foam and diamonds, her hair sculpted with alarming precision. “Still no dance?” she asks, her voice feather-light and curious.

You tilt your head. “Not unless I’m close to blacking out.”

She laughs as though that’s charming. You suppose, in this world, it is.

And you do what you do best, observe.

There’s a sponsor’s wife dressed like a tropical bird, barely able to walk in platform heels that rise like monuments to poor taste. A young rising actress wearing head-to-toe gauze that does nothing to hide the fact she’s tripping over her own hem. A tribute escort whispering too closely to a Capitol official who is very married. You aren’t even trying, and already you have the bones of a column. It’s effortless.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice glides into your ear, smooth as silk and sharpened by amusement.

“I hope you know you nearly cost me a client.”

You blink, turning instinctively toward the sound, and nearly choke on your drink when you see him—Cassian Merel. The Cassian Merel. Icon, designer, Capitol tastemaker, the man whose fall collection inspired two riots and a perfume line. Tonight he’s dressed in an emerald suit so sharp it might be illegal, the fabric catching light in subtle waves of texture, as if sewn from envy itself. His signature gold hair is perfectly windswept, his smile lazy and wolfish.

You know how to keep your cool. You’ve built an entire career on it. But his presence unsettles something in you.

He gestures lightly with his coupe glass. “Your article last week—the line about my spring line looking like upholstery for rich ghosts?” His brows lift. “Devastating. And accurate. I fired three interns after I read it.”

You part your lips to respond, unsure if he’s leading with sarcasm or genuine admiration, but he cuts in again, that same smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got a cruel eye. I like that. Keep writing the truth, as brutal as it is. The Capitol needs a little fear.”

He lifts his glass to you in a mock toast, and then he’s gone. Just like that. Swallowed back into the crowd, as though he hadn’t just made your entire week.

You stand there a beat too long, glass still halfway to your lips, pulse a shade quicker than before. There’s a smug heat rising in your chest, pride you don’t dare show on your face.

Effie glances over with narrowed eyes. “Well, someone’s glowing.”

You take a sip, trying to hide the smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “Just enjoying the view.”

But of course, the moment can’t last long.

A sharp voice cuts through the buzz near your shoulder, this one higher, thinner, and altogether less welcome.

“Columnist, darling,” drawls Sabine Lex, one of the Capitol’s more persistent socialites and your least favorite kind of subject. “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t mention my name in your last piece. Surely that was an oversight?”

You turn slowly, offering her a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes. “Not at all.”

Sabine’s jaw twitches slightly, though her own smile stays firmly plastered in place. She’s dressed like a walking chandelier, crystals dripping from her sleeves, her neckline, even her lashes. It’s too much, but that’s never stopped her before. She leans closer, voice dripping with venomous sweetness.

“Well. I’m sure you’ll correct that mistake next time. I’d hate for people to think you only write about disasters.”

“I only write about what’s interesting,” you reply, sipping from your glass again. “But I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Sabine huffs a breath of a laugh, like she doesn’t care, but she absolutely does. And when she turns on her jeweled heel and disappears into the crowd, you don’t bother hiding your smirk.

Effie stifles a giggle behind her hand. “I adore when you get like this.”

“I’m not getting like anything,” you murmur, adjusting the fall of your sleeve. “Some people just write their own headlines.”

But even as you slip back into your quiet position along the wall, you feel it—his presence.

Across the ballroom, Finnick Odair is still very much here. Still very much avoiding you.

You’ve caught only glimpses of him since dinner, always at the edge of the room or behind some Capitol elite, never lingering long enough to meet your eye. And you, perhaps out of pride, or something less dignified, haven’t sought him out either. You’re not sure what you’d say if you did.

So you both orbit each other in silence, unspoken words hanging like smoke between you, the weight of that tweet still pulsing beneath the surface.

But tonight, there will be no confrontation. No war of words. Not yet.

You watch the glittering room spin around you, sip your drink, and let the story write itself.

The air is thick with perfume and ambition, and somewhere beneath the surface, you can feel the undercurrent of carefully choreographed chaos. It’s intoxicating.

You don’t bother to smile at the crowd. Instead, your eyes flicker across the sea of faces, sharp and deliberate, each one a potential headline in the making. This is your favorite part—the subtle game of categorizing, a Capitol pastime disguised as casual observation.

You find a thrill in this: finding ones who will be kissed, those destined for marriage, and of course, the inevitable exiles, those you’ll mercilessly dismantle with a few well-chosen words.

Your gaze first lands on the senator’s wife, glowing with that brittle kind of charm polished over years of Capitol life. She’s laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny, trying to mask the sharpness in her eyes. Kiss. Maybe. She’s the sort who could keep a scandal at bay with enough smiles and whispers.

Near the edge of the dance floor, you spot a young stylist, his hair slicked back and his grin too wide to be entirely sincere. Marry, you decide immediately. Ambition wrapped in tailored suits, eager to climb higher but not yet dangerous.

Then, across the room, you find the perfect exile: the hovercraft tycoon, Marcellus Vane. His tailored jacket strains at the seams as he loudly regales a group of sycophants with stories that don’t quite add up. Too loud, too careless. The kind of man who thinks power will shield him from consequence—exactly the kind you love to take down.

You take a slow sip of your drink, the edges of your lips twitching into a faint smile.

The game is already in motion.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—no matter how hard you try to focus—there’s that persistent, ridiculous image.

Finnick Odair. Those absurd, stupid heels with huge bows. That impossible, smirking confidence.

You roll your eyes. Not tonight.

Tonight, you have a story to write.

AFTER THE EVENT | 2:27AM | PENTHOUSE

Back in your penthouse, the city sprawled out beneath your window like a glittering labyrinth, you sank into your chair, the buzz of the gala fading into a distant hum. The night’s performances, the calculated smiles, the subtle betrayals—they all wove themselves into your mind like threads waiting to be unraveled.

Your fingers found the keyboard, and the familiar game took shape, sharp and precise.

Kiss: The senator’s wife, her charm a practiced mask worn a little too tightly, eyes flickering with hidden calculations.

Marry: The young stylist, polished and eager, a safe bet whose ambition hasn’t yet tipped into danger.

Exile: The tycoon who filled the room with loud boasts and careless arrogance, certain that power could shield him from any consequences.

You type the words with a cool detachment, each sentence a scalpel peeling back the veneer of Capitol glamour.

No distractions. No hesitation.

Just the cold, clear eye of the journalist ready to expose the cracks.

liked by thecinna, glimmer1, and 281,292 others

@/thecolumnist: another night for the books...or perhaps, the next article. stay tuned xx ;)

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glimmer1: beautiful as always. loved seeing you last night. mwah. liked by author❤️

thecinna: Always raising the bar. Can't wait to read it. liked by author❤️

finnickswifereal: i wonder if finnick will be mentioned again ↳ snowswhitebeard: surely not. two back to back mentions would be insane behavior.

10 MINUTES BEFORE POST | 7:50PM | PENTHOUSE

Ten minutes before the article goes live, you sit at your desk, fingers poised just above the keyboard, the soft glow of your tablet casting shadows across your face. The room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside, a distant murmur of life that feels worlds away from this moment.

Your thoughts swirl. Strategic, sharp and restless.

This isn’t just another piece. It’s another move on the board. Every word carefully crafted, every sentence designed to land with precision. You can feel the weight of anticipation building, like a held breath ready to be released.

You think about the people waiting—those who’ll devour your words, the ones who’ll clutch their pearls, the ones who are waiting to see if they were mentioned in the newest article.

You take a steadying breath. 7:58. One last read-through. Then…

Your thumb slides across the screen. Posted. The game moves forward. And you’re already three steps ahead.

Now, you’re curled up on the chaise in your penthouse, one leg tucked under the other, the silk of your robe catching against the light. The glass in your hand is sweating slightly, something cold and sweet, untouched because your phone has your full attention.

The tweet is still climbing. Hundreds of replies, even more retweets, and the article link, your article, is being passed around like contraband.

You scroll with one finger, slow and lazy, your lips tugging up as the praise pours in.

“INSANEEEE. I just KNOW Caesar is eating this up. He loves this type of stuff.”

“The Columnist really said ‘try harder.”

“Omg HELLO?? Her comment about his suit and how she wished she would’ve had bleach for her eyes? im crying.”

Cinna’s tweet makes you pause. You reread it more than once, not because you need to, but because it’s good. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You smile a little to yourself, your chest warm with something you’ll never admit out loud.

You let yourself enjoy it. The validation. The rush. The quiet power of knowing people are hanging on your words. You earned it. Every snide remark and cleverly worded exile.

WEEKS LATER | 10:29PM | PENTHOUSE

Its been weeks now.

Maybe longer, but you’ve stopped counting. Time folds differently when your words are going viral on a Capitol-wide scale. What started as a cheeky social commentary has become the conversation. Everyone’s playing it now. Kiss, Marry, Exile has spiraled far beyond the confines of your column, into party games, hashtags, even late-night talk segments.

You saw someone do it once with different eras of President Snow’s life.

Baby Snow got “kiss.” Age 18-22 Snow got “marry” (along with some other vulgar words that repulsed you beyond words) and current Snow got “exile forever and ever amen.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or delete your entire brand.

Either way, the momentum hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s grown teeth. And so have you.

Your inbox is stuffed with event invitations. People linger just a little longer in your orbit now, like proximity might make them next week’s “kiss.” or “marry.” You hear your name whispered when you walk into rooms, sometimes followed by laughter, sometimes dread. Everyone wants to be close enough to get noticed, but not close enough to get exiled.

And Finnick?

He holds the record.

Of the 23 installments you’ve published, he’s been exiled in thirteen of them.

The comments always explode when he’s featured. Half of the readers call it justice. The other half act like it’s a personal attack. But no matter the response, one thing is always true: Finnick Odair pulls clicks.

He always has.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he keeps a running tally, if he circles the exile like a little badge of honor. Or if he’s just waiting, biding his time until he can strike back with something clever and cutting and just a little too personal.

But lately?

He’s been quiet.

No tweets. No petty quips. No reactions at all.

And somehow, that’s the most unnerving part.

—

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He definitely isn’t subscribed to your column. And he absolutely doesn’t get the push notifications the second a new article drops.

That would be pathetic. Obsessive. Ridiculous.

(And yet—every Sunday evening, around 8pm, somehow, his schedule clears)

It irks him. Not the stuff thats trending online as people rank his different eras, he’s been ranked before. Over and Over.

But it’s you.

It’s the way you write about him, so specific, so perfectly tailored to get under his skin.

“Finnick Odair arrived in what can only be described as nautical chaos.”

“His outfit seemed to ask the age-old question: what if a sea captain had a midlife crisis in a jewelry store?”

“I would exile him for the shoes alone, but the necklace really sealed the deal.”

He read that one three times.

It drives him insane, how easy you make it seem. How casually you tear into him like you know him, like it costs you nothing to shred what’s left of his image into something Capitol-charming and empty and shiny. He doesn’t even know what bothers him more: that it’s clever, or that it’s true.

And he thinks about it constantly.

When he’s getting dressed.

When someone mentions your name.

When he walks into a room and people glance at him like they’re already mentally deciding whether to kiss, marry, or exile him on the spot.

And yeah. Maybe he’s been exiled thirteen times.

He’s counting. He pretends he’s not, but he is.

(He also pretends he doesn’t check if you mention him, and he definitely pretends it doesn’t bother him when you don’t.)

He tells himself you’re just doing it for the attention. The drama. The numbers.

And still, when he lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling of his apartment with nothing but the sound of traffic below, your words loop back through his head like a curse he can’t shake.

You’re clever. Vicious. Effortlessly cool. And, God help him, you’re starting to live in his mind rent-free.

He sees the tweets.

Not just yours, though those are always the sharpest, the ones that land hardest, but everyone else’s, too. They pile in like vultures circling a wounded show pony. People picking apart his outfits, mocking the drape of his shirt or the weight of a necklace he forgot he was even wearing. Some Capitol influencer retweeted your article with a zoomed-in shot of his cufflinks and the caption, “no bc what is THIS.”

He should laugh.

He used to.

But lately?

Lately it’s different.

Lately it feels like the conversation has shifted, like he’s no longer the charming rogue everyone loves to tolerate, but the joke that keeps on giving. And no matter how many parties he shows up to, how many smiles he fakes, the story is no longer his.

It’s yours.

You’ve hijacked the narrative and made it art. Clever, biting art. The kind the Capitol eats with a silver spoon and reposts a thousand times.

And he?

He’s tired of being reduced to a fashion critique with legs.

So he opens his phone. A habit he broke months ago, back when he stopped caring if anyone noticed him for more than his body and a smile. His thumb hovers over the app— Instagram. He hasn’t posted in… what, four months?

He scrolls through his camera roll until he lands on the photo. The one he took just a few days before the first Gala. Before the first article dropped, before everyone decided his accessories and fashion choices (well, his designers) were public property.

He hadn’t posted it then. Maybe because part of him knew what it looked like. Maybe because part of him wanted to be noticed for more than the visual chaos.

But now? Now it’s perfect.

His shirt is white, made of something silky and just reflective enough to catch the light. The sleeves are dramatic, billowing, cuffed in soft gold. The neckline plunges low, too low, if you ask most Capitol critics, and his chest is dusted in layered chains: silver, obsidian, even one sharp glint of green that doesn’t match anything, just because he can.

Rings cover nearly every finger. His pants are fitted. His expression? Bored. Sharp. Dangerous.

He looks expensive and impossible and mildly unbothered, like a man who’s read every article written about him and didn’t flinch once.

But you know better. And maybe that’s the point.

He uploads it without flinching.

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@/finnickodair: exiled in print but always on your mind.

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districtdollie: HER LIKING THIS??? INSANE WORK. INSANE!!!

finnickdilf: omg hello welcome back king

haymitchsgumdrop: if being exiled means looking this good then sign me up

peetabread: this is so messy of u i love it

—

Your jaw slackens the moment the post loads.

Finnick Odair, silent for months, not a single photo or story or petty tweet, has reemerged. And of course, he doesn’t just post a casual photo. No, he posts this: a low shot, deliberate and infuriatingly well-framed. He looks good, annoyingly good. The shirt is deep and dramatic, open at the chest just enough to feel like a statement. The sleeves are cuffed, the jewelry still excessive but… balanced somehow. Intentional. The entire look sits on the edge of being ridiculous and impossibly cool.

But it’s not the outfit that makes your stomach tighten.

It’s the caption.

Exiled in print but always on your mind.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. It’s bold, more bold than you expected. Not just a subtweet. Not a passive dig. This is deliberate. Designed to sting a little. A performance meant just for you.

You stare at it for longer than you should, phone cradled in your palm, thumb hovering like it might do something on its own. Your thoughts spiral, too quick to catch. Is he mad? Mocking you? Or worse, is he enjoying this?

Still, the stylist in you can’t help it. The outfit works. Begrudgingly, you can admit it’s probably one of his better looks in recent memory. And maybe that’s why your thumb finally taps the heart. A like. Nothing dramatic. Just a professional nod of appreciation.

Admiration for the fashion. That’s all it is.

The second you hit the button, your notifications light up. Comments. Tags. People noticing. Reacting. The air shifts, and you suddenly feel like you’ve given him something, even if it’s tiny. Even if it doesn’t matter.

Your phone buzzes again, a new message sliding into view at the top of the screen. Effie.

THAT SATURDAY | 7:21PM | SPECIAL EVENT

The second you step into the ballroom, you’re already searching for him.

You don’t even pretend otherwise.

You’ve told yourself it’s for research. For the column. For the next Kiss, Marry, Exile piece that’s already half-drafted in your mind ever since his little Instagram stunt. That caption, “Exiled in print but always on your mind”, still echoes in your head like a taunt you haven’t figured out how to answer.

You’re not obsessed. You’re a writer. A professional. And if your gaze just happens to drift across the room every few seconds, it’s purely out of curiosity. Strategy. Definitely not nerves.

You’ve already imagined what he might be wearing, something dramatic, probably. Over-styled, definitely. Maybe another nautical disaster with too many rings and something shiny at the throat. You’re already drafting one-liners in your head, your mental notes cruel and clever and just biting enough to stir a reaction.

But then—

You spot him.

And every word disappears.

He’s standing near the center of the room like he owns it, the soft golden light from the chandeliers slipping down the smooth lines of his chest and the sharp cut of his jaw. The first thing you see are the leather pants. Fitted. Black. Absolutely criminal. They stretch over long legs and leave very little to the imagination.

His shirt, if it can be called that, is silk and barely opaque, loose and open at the collar like he got halfway dressed and decided it was enough. And the pearls. Draped across his collarbone like they were poured there on purpose. They swing gently as he moves, catching the light and drawing your eyes down the slope of his chest.

It’s unfair. It’s intentional.

And the worst part is—he knows it.

Because before you can even recover from the sight of him, he moves.

Not away. Not across the room.

Directly toward you.

Your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause for effect. No lingering glances or drawn-out tension. He walks like this was the plan all along. Like you were the destination.

The music hums low. Voices blur. And your whole body sharpens into awareness.

And now he’s here, stopping in front of you, standing just close enough to make your breath catch and your brain stall.

He steps closer, that slow, confident smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops just low enough for only you to hear.

“Hope you brought a pen. I dressed for the column.”

You meet his gaze without blinking, a slow, sharp smile curving your lips. “You dressed like that and expected not to be written about?” The words hang between you, playful but loaded, a challenge wrapped in velvet. He chuckles, eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, now you’ve got your material.”

He leans in closer, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of the ocean mixed with something sharper, cologne, maybe, or just the way he carries himself. His eyes never leave yours, daring you to keep up.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “I was starting to hope you’d run out of things to say about me. That maybe you’d finally admit defeat.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head like you’re entertaining a foolish notion. “Admit defeat? Please. You underestimate my capacity for creativity. Especially when you make it so easy.”

Finnick smirks, that cocky tilt returning. “Is that what you call it? Creativity? I thought it was obsession.”

You don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let your gaze flicker around the room, as if noting the throng of well-dressed Capitol citizens who haven’t yet noticed your little exchange. “Maybe a little of both. You’re fascinating, after all.”

He laughs softly, a sound that’s part amusement and part something darker. “Fascinating enough to be exiled thirteen times, apparently.”

The weight of that stings for a fraction of a second before you recover, leaning back slightly. “And yet here you are. Still standing. Still causing a scene.”

Finnick’s smile widens, a flash of teeth, like he’s daring you to say more. “You’re trouble.”

“Maybe. But you’re not complaining.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “Not yet.” The gesture shocks you, your breath catching for a moment.

There’s a pause then, thick and charged, before the orchestra swells and someone nearby calls for attention. He straightens, glances around like the moment never happened, then fixes you with a final, smoldering look.

“Enjoy the party, Columnist.”

“Enjoy the headlines.” You reply, voice low.

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts, and the unmistakable certainty that this dance is far from over.

MID-EVENT | 11:54PM

The party has settled into that sweet middle stretch, guests just tipsy enough to say things they shouldn’t, reporters weaving between gold-dripped gowns and half-finished drinks, the music swelling in elegant, forgettable waves.

You’ve stationed yourself near one of the marble pillars, a flute of champagne in hand, surveying the room like it’s prey. The wheels are already turning. You’re mentally collecting details, who’s had one too many, who’s swapped clothes mid-event, who whispered what into whose ear. The next column is practically writing itself.

But then you hear it.

Not just your name, though that would’ve been enough to make your ears perk. It’s the voice that says it.

Smooth, confident, infuriatingly amused.

“Her? Oh, she’s dangerous. But smart. Sharp enough to make you regret not behaving. I mean, I’ve been exiled thirteen times now.” A pause. A chuckle. “But I can’t really complain… she’s got great taste. And legs.”

You turn. Eyes narrowing.

The holo-screen mounted near the bar is flashing live coverage, interviews with the victors, the glowing chyron reads.

And there he is.

Finnick. On camera. Shirt still scandalously unbuttoned, pearl strands glinting beneath the lights, that same lazy grin stretched across his face like he owns the whole city.

The interviewer asks something you miss, but his answer cuts through the room like a dart made of glitter and spite.

“She pretends not to like the attention, but we both know she lives for it. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Your stomach drops.

Sweetheart.

He said it on live Capitol television. With cameras. With half the city watching. With you standing there, absolutely frozen.

The laughter that follows—gentle, indulgent—burns worse than the word itself.

Your grip tightens around your glass, lips parting slightly as you watch him flash that camera one last smile, toss a flippant wink, and walk away like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in the middle of your evening.

You swallow the fire rising in your chest.

That’s it. That’s the moment. The exile was inevitable, but now? Now it’s personal.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. And again.

You don’t even have to look. You already know who it is.

You sit your phone down, eyes scanning the room as you see people whisper and point.

Oh, he’s definitely paying for this.

AFTER THE EVENT | 1:39AM | PENTHOUSE

You sit back in your chair, silk robe slipping off one shoulder as your fingers glide across the keys. This one writes itself. Fueled by fury, champagne, and the ghost of the word “sweetheart” still echoing in your skull.

It starts as a whisper.

Then a sentence.

Then the headline forms. It’s sharp, and clean, yet also delicious.

KISS: Johanna Mason.

For wearing a full velvet suit and punching a reporter in the same night. The range. The drama. The sheer feral elegance. I’ve never seen someone elbow a camera and look better doing it. Honorable mention: her boots. I don’t think they’re technically legal.

You pause only to grin. The next one is obvious.

MARRY: Peeta Mellark.

Wore a soft brown suit with a matching linen tie, and asked if I’ve ever wanted to learn how to bake. The answer is yes. Always yes. Gentleman. Golden boy. Will likely frost your birthday cupcakes and also build you a bread oven.

And then. The one. The name your readers wait for. The one they’ll screenshot, repost, and quote into oblivion.

You crack your knuckles. And type.

EXILE: Finnick Odair.

For reasons already clear to the public and now permanently archived in print. For the leather pants. For the pearls. For looking me in the eye and calling me sweetheart on live television.

Consider this a formal declaration: exile status has been reinstated. Do not pass go. Do not collect applause. Can someone please confiscate his jewelry. For public safety.

You sit back, rereading the paragraph. The grin that spreads across your face is slow, wicked, and deeply satisfied.

It’s way too early to post this article. Your regular scheduling is at 8pm on Sunday evenings, but with how everything went down tonight, you can’t help yourself.

You click publish.

Then text Cinna:

“Kiss: velvet. Marry: bread. Exile: war.”

And with that, you toss your phone to the side, shut your laptop, and crawl into bed.

—

2AM | FINNICK’S PENTHOUSE

It’s late. Too late for anything productive.

2 AM.

Finnick’s sprawled across his bed, still dressed from the party. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, the sleeves rolled, his tie tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed. The leather pants…yeah, still on. Too much effort to remove. One pearl earring dangles from his left ear, the other lost in a champagne-fueled blur hours ago.

His room is quiet except for the soft hum of the city below and the dull blue glow of his phone in his hand.

He’s not really doing anything. Just scrolling. Aimlessly. The way you do when your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to quit. He’s already checked the news once. Twice. He saw his own name trending, again. Not shocking. The fallout from tonight was inevitable.

Still, he’s surprised when he gets the notification.

The Columnist just posted a new article.

His brows furrow. “Now?” he mutters.

She never posts this early. Her usual publishing window is Sunday evening, an intentional, calculated drop, like she wants the entire Capitol to have their tea with a side of tension.

But this? 2 in the morning? That’s emotional. That’s pointed.

He should ignore it. Let it sit. Let her words wait.

But his thumb is already tapping the link.

The page loads slowly, just long enough for him to feel the weight in his chest. The familiar knot that always comes before reading her words.

And then, there it is. His name. His exile. Again.

He skims Johanna’s bit—velvet, violence, applause. He almost smiles. Peeta gets a pass, as always. But Finnick?

Exile: Finnick Odair.

For reasons already clear to the public and now permanently archived in print. For the leather pants. For the pearls. For looking me in the eye and calling me sweetheart on live television.

He huffs a low laugh and drops the phone on his chest. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs to the ceiling.

But he picks it back up. Of course he does. The article’s trending. His name’s trending.

And then, there it is.

A tweet. Liked over a thousand times already.

“She pretends to hate him but we all know she’s obsessed. Classic enemies to lovers bait.”

His lips twitch.

He shouldn’t laugh. He shouldn’t like it. But—

He clicks the heart before he can stop himself.

And just like that, he’s given them more fuel.

He tosses the phone to the side with a sigh, scrubs a hand through his hair, and finally lets his eyes fall closed. But he knows sleep isn’t coming.

Not when she’s still on his mind.

END OF PT.1

—

a/n - oh. my gosh. my hands hurt. my brain hurts. who thought a smau was a good idea. wHO????? anyways. obviously there will be a pt.2. i just had to post this cause i felt like it was becoming ridiculously long. I HOPE YALL LIKE IT😭🙏

#the hunger games #finnick odair #joluvsfinnick #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #thg fics #finnick x reader #finnick odair fluff #smau #thg x you #thg x reader #social media au #finnick x y/n #finnick x you

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