Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc. The lyrics don't belong to me either.

This is the first in a series of related one-shots I will be writing. They won't be posted linearly (I have at least one story planned that takes place before this one, and I'll probably think of more) so... Sorry if that gets a little confusing.

By the way, listening to the song while reading this story might be a good idea. Most (if not all) of the one-shots will be inspired by songs. Also, the title was inspired by the song of the same name by Finger Eleven. In case you were interested.

I'm a club rocker that's my personality. It's in fashion to be bla-blasting them beats.
And I like to go out every night. I like to go out every night. I like to go out every night.

Fashion. Chic. Sexy. Freak.
Fashion. Chic. Sexy. Freak.
In fashion. In fashion. In fashion. In fashion.

- Fashion Beats, by The Black Eyed Peas

Fashion Beats

Finnick still has not become accustomed to this...desecration. The airheaded girl hanging off his arm is harmless, really. Ignorant and gluttonous and absolutely repellent – but harmless. When he first came to the Capitol, fourteen years old and full of dreams of glory, he actually pitied people like her. His prep team and stylists, stupid sheep with delusions of depth, he found them amusing and inhuman. Now he simply loathes them.

He doesn't hate them, though. His hatred is reserved for those who know the consequences of their actions, but go on with them anyway, the people behind the machine of the government. President Snow. The Gamemakers. He could make a list, but what would that accomplish, besides driving home the fact that he is hopelessly outnumbered?

Eighteen year old Finnick smirks in apparent amusement at something the girl crowded up against him says. He isn't sure what, but from her tone, the expectant look on her face, the way she is pressing her body against his, he knows what his response ought to be.

No, this girl (for she is just a girl; sixteen, at most, but already modifying her body after some abstract, incomprehensible standard of beauty that is unique to the Capitol... but a girl nonetheless) is not a threat. He knows how to deal with her kind. Her father, a prominent Capitol citizen (Finnick hates him too), told him to show his daughter a good time. He wants his baby's first time to be special. Finnick can do that.

He has to, after all.

"What do you think of my dress?" the girl asks, voice loud so as to be heard over the music. She takes a step away to spin in a quick circle, skirt flaring. The dress is an eye-smarting shade of pink, to match her hair. He's so used to looks like these, he barely bats an eyelash anymore.

"I've never seen anything like it," he replies, which isn't a lie, but it's not the compliment she takes it to be either. Allowing his eyes to slide closed halfway, he makes a show of looking her up and down. "Beautiful."

The girl giggles, blushing as she presses closer to him once again. "When I watched the Games on television, I thought you were so handsome..." she confides. "But you're even sexier up close."

Finnick has to bite back a laugh at the absurd things this girl is spouting. Fortunately he is used to the ridiculous attitudes of the people in the Capitol. "We make quite a couple. I'm sure you're the envy of everyone here," he responds, flashing a smirk.

His own attitude is as much of a sham as anything else within the Capitol. Every night of the Hunger Games, he's out with some customer or another. What other choice does he have? President Snow made it very clear what Finnick's role would be when he returned to the Capitol for the 67th Games. A flirtatious playboy, a new woman – or man, depending – hanging off of his arm every few days. He was nothing more than a piece of meat, to be enjoyed, savoured even, but ultimately discarded by the upper echelon of the Capitol. And he has to pretend he likes it. Loves it.

It's a good thing Finnick is an excellent liar.

"Do you want another drink?" she asks, her gaze darting to the bar.

Finnick can't drink anything alcoholic, actually. It interferes with the medication he needs to take so he can perform. He doesn't say this though. "I'd rather stay here and dance with you, Tavia," he murmurs seductively into her ear, fitting his hands around her too-slim waist. He remembers the names of everyone he has been rented out to, though they will always be 'the girl' or 'the man' in his mind. It is easier that way, to not think of them as a real person.

The girl blushes harder, biting her lip. "Finnick, I love you," she blurts out.

The first time a customer told him that, Finnick was at a loss of what to say. He managed to turn it around, to attribute his stunned silence to be pleased surprise. By now, he is used to such foolish, empty declarations.

"There's plenty of time for loving later," he responds smoothly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "We have all night... Unless you'd rather start now?" His smirk conveys that he'd much prefer the latter, though in reality he wants nothing to do with this shallow, vapid girl.

The girl gazes back at him with obvious adoration. "Let's stay here for a while longer. This club is the most fashionable right now, after all! I want everyone to see me with you, Finnick."

He caresses her cheek briefly, thumbs across her lower lip, leans down until mere millimetres separate their lips. Her breath smells of alcohol, her perfume is overwhelming, overdone to the extreme just like everything else in the Capitol.

"As you wish," he purrs, and he doesn't mean it, not by a long shot, but he finds dealing with people like this girl marginally more tolerable than dealing with the adults. Because not all of his customers are as harmless as this girl, with her innocent ignorance, her casual desecration of his body. She probably thinks it's romantic, holding his hand and rubbing all over his body in the midst of all these people; she isn't actively trying to defile him, though that is no excuse, because she is doing so anyway.

Everything in the Capitol revolves around fashion; one week, this club could be the spot to be. The next, it's out of business, the crowds moving on to the next exclusive venue. And don't get him start about the appearances within the Capitol. Thankfully he isn't expected to alter his appearance in any way; he's enough of a freak as it is. If he were to physically resemble the freaks of the Capitol, with their tattoos and their makeup and everything, he isn't sure he could stand it.

Afterwards, when the girl is asleep in her luxurious bed, surrounded by the excess of the Capitol, sweaty and sated and ignorant, Finnick rises to leave. This is the arrangement of her father, after all. He gathers his clothes – still intact, which is a luxury he is seldom afforded, actually – and dresses silently, with the ease of long practice. It's amazing the sorts of tricks a whore picks up in two years.

Adjusting the collar of his shirt, meticulously buttoning the garment up, these simple things were nearly impossible the first few times; Finnick's hands shook too badly, revulsion and shame eating at his gut. But he no longer has these problems. Glancing at himself in the mirror to assure that his appearance is meticulous, just the right side of carefree playboy, he flashes a quick smirk.

He exits the room, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind himself; the girl's family is so rich, she has an entire suite to himself. The girl's father is seated casually on the couch. Finnick doesn't even twitch, though the idea that the man might have been outside the room this whole time occurs to him – and disturbs him, not that he lets that show.

"Mr. Roche," he says with false respect, tone low so he doesn't disturb the girl. He gives a bow that's only mostly ironic. He does need to please this man too, after all.

"Finnick Odair," the man replies, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He ignores rising misgivings; the man is married, after all, and Finnick has never heard any rumours about infidelity. He resists the urge to shudder at the way his name rolls off the man's tongue, the irritating Capitol accent rendering familiar syllables almost unrecognizable.

"My daughter seemed very pleased," the man continues, confirming Finnick's suspicions: he had been listening. Disgusting, but Finnick is not even remotely surprised.

"She's a lovely young woman," Finnick lies, smiling.

The man gazes at him, expression unreadable. "Your payment is on the table," he remarks, gesturing. Finnick nods, goes over to collect the meaningless bills. He has no need for money, the prize money from the Hunger Games is more than sufficient for his needs, but he doesn't say that.

"I'll admit, I had my doubts about trusting my little girl to a district whore, but it seems they were unfounded," the man continues. Finnick's hand pauses briefly over the stack of bills, but it's almost imperceptible. He carefully tucks the wad of money into his pocket. "I've recommended you to my friends," he adds, no doubt thinking that this is generous of him.

Finnick clenches his hands then quickly releases them. Tucks them into his pockets before he can do something he will regret. "That is so kind of you, Mr. Roche," he says, humble with just the right amount of awe. "I appreciate it."

The man inclines his hand graciously. "It was nothing, Finnick."

Finnick knows a dismissal when he hears one. Murmuring his goodbyes, he walks out.

This indulgent, cavalier attitude disgusts Finnick. Enjoying something for a few brief, passionate moments before moving on to the next big thing, he can't stand it. Yet he can't help but yearn for the time when going around with the great Finnick Odair will be out of fashion, and he will be just another victor, a past fad.

This will eventually be a Finnick/Peeta story. (I know. Implausible. But I like it, so sue me. Except don't, ok?) It will make sense, or at least I will try to make it make sense. Finnick will still love Annie and of course Peeta will have been smitten with Katniss, but for reasons that you'll discover later on, they're out of the picture.

This story will follow canon pretty closely, until the last few chapters of Mockingjay. Finnick lives, that's all I'm saying for now. Oh, the rating will probably go up later on too ~

Anyway. Comments, thoughts, suggestions? Did I make a glaring grammatical mistake? How was my characterization? Feel free to tell me. I especially enjoy constructive criticism.