A month ago, you found her on the shore of a quiet island—abandoned, fragile, and alone.
Kid had resisted. Loudly. But he knew that kind of loneliness too well.
So the baby girl came aboard the Victoria Punk.
Now, one month later, the ship has been completely overtaken by a tiny princess in lace-trimmed booties—and you’ve taken full responsibility as her mama.
Everyone agreed on Bonnie. But she still goes by Princess, or Sunshine—or, as Eustass Captain "Dada" Kid put it, Brat.
Kid insists he “doesn’t care.”
Yet he’s built her multiple cribs.
One in your quarters. One in the galley. One in the mess hall. One in the strategy room. And one in his own captain’s quarters.
“For emergencies,” he’d snarled. “Where we gotta keep the brat safe.”
Heat, Wire, and Killer were instantly smitten—hovering, cooing, and volunteering for guard duty far too eagerly. Killer watches with quiet fondness, Heat melts every time she giggles, and Wire pretends not to care while fixing her toys.
Quincey, Hip, and Emma helped you pick out her unicorn plushie, frilly dresses, and soft headbands—already coddling her like overprotective aunties who would absolutely throw hands for her.
Whenever the crew encounters rival pirates or Marines, the princess is secured in Kid’s quarters—warm, guarded, and never alone.
Kid stations someone outside every time.
He calls her “the brat.”
But the way he checks on her? The way his voice drops when she sleeps? The way the Victoria Punk has become a floating fortress for one tiny life?
Yeah.
The Kid Pirates didn’t just take in a baby.
They adopted a princess—and Eustass Kid would burn the seas before letting anything happen to her.
Kid insists he’s only in his quarters because it’s quieter.
You’re seated on the edge of his bunk, the baby girl curled against your chest, bundled in soft fabric that looks wildly out of place among metal walls and weapon racks. One of the many cribs Kid built sits nearby—this one reinforced, padded, warm.
Kid stands near the workbench, arms crossed, glaring at a half-finished weapon he hasn’t actually touched in minutes.
She stirs.
A small sound leaves her mouth—not a cry, just a soft, uncertain noise.
Kid tenses instantly.
“…She awake?” he mutters, already moving closer despite himself.
You adjust her carefully, whispering something gentle. Her eyes blink open—dark, curious—and she lets out a tiny yawn before her gaze drifts.
Straight to him.
Kid freezes.
He’s too close now to retreat without it being obvious. His massive frame looms awkwardly, one mechanical arm hanging stiff at his side, his real hand hovering uselessly in the air.
“Don’t—” he starts, low and sharp. “She’s grabby.”
Too late.
Her tiny fingers curl around his index finger, warm and impossibly small.
Kid goes still.
Completely. Like the world just slammed into pause.
Her grip is weak—barely there—but it’s enough. Enough to make his breath hitch, enough to make something crack open in his chest that he’s spent his whole life welding shut.
“…The hell,” he whispers.
She tightens her hold, a soft sound escaping her throat. Content. Safe.
Kid swallows hard.
He doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t speak.
His thumb twitches, then—carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking her—he adjusts his hand so she’s more comfortable, letting her keep hold as long as she wants.
“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, eyes fixed on her tiny hand wrapped around his finger. “Alright. I’m here.”
And for the first time since she came aboard the Victoria Punk—
Eustass Kid stops fighting it.