Well, why not?

[op_fanforall]

ONE PIECE FIC-FOR-ALL

Or, free-for-all-fic, or fic free-for-all, whatever phrasing floats your boat, if you will.

PAGE ONE | PAGE TWO

OKAY and one more thing, guys, if your story is going over five comments or something to that effect and you still have more to post, please start a thread in here, with a link to the prompt or where the first

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Part the first

[anonymous]

This probably isn't quite what you were thinking of, but the prompt took on a life of its own. Also, longer than I expected, so you get several parts. Hope you enjoy, at least a little.

The kid is a hustler. With a grin like that, there’s nothing else he could be.

At first Smoker figured him for a high-school runaway after some easy cash. The boy looks younger than he is-must be the freckles-but his ID is real enough, and he’s well over legal. The second night he showed up at the Anchor, Smoker got his licence number off the barkeep and ran it.

Came up clean as a goddamned whistle. Portgas, Ace D. Twenty-two years old, full-time ship mechanic, part-time university student.

Half-naked pool prodigy.

Unfortunately, Smoker can’t arrest someone for grinning like an idiot and going shirtless in a dive where shoes are optional, so until the kid actually puts a foot wrong, Smoker’s stuck watching as one hopeful fool after another goes down to a killer smile and a talent for running a table no matter how shitty the opening break is.

What Smoker can’t figure out is why Portgas picked the Anchor for his game. It’s a coppers’ bar, and an old-school one at that. The younger cops have their own hang-outs, and the flash usually stays far away from places like this. Obviously, Portgas is either new at pool hustling or likes living on the edge, because for the last two weeks, every night that Smoker’s been in the kid’s been at the far pool table-charming a beer or two off anyone sucker enough to buy, and taking whatever money they don’t spend on alcohol with his cue.

Thanks to Portgas, a good chunk of Smoker’s acquaintance has much lighter wallets of late. Funny thing, though, nobody seems to hold it against him. If anyone else tried to pull the shit Portgas does, they’d have been hauled round back and beaten to within an inch of their miserable life long since.

Not this kid.

Everyone from Smoker’s Precinct seems to like Portgas, and half the guys who come in here are Vice, for god’s sake. Christ, these are the 15th’s finest, and they’re all over in Portgas’ corner, cheering him on as he cleans some poor sap out.

A shout goes up. Smoker assumes Portgas has just made a tough shot. The crowd around the table shifts, and Smoker watches Portgas straighten from his bent-over position. The kid chalks his cue, says something to someone standing out of Smoker’s line of sight, then he looks up and his eyes meet Smoker’s.

Portgas stills. He stares, unblinking, at Smoker, his grin growing until it covers half his face. He waggles his eyebrows at Smoker in something that looks like a challenge, but about then the gap in the crowd closes, blocking him from Smoker’s view.

Smoker downs the rest of his single malt. He’s had enough of this cat-and-mouse bull. He’s going to smoke Portgas out.

It’s Friday night, and Smoker has a weekend to himself, the first in half a year. Unless some moron tries to rob the Anchor (and they’d have to be a moron to go after a cop joint) or the city goes to hell, Smoker can do as he wants, and what he wants is to find out if there’s something more than cocky can’t-touch-this behind Ace D. Portgas’ shit-eating grin.