Luffy's back is facing you as he sits cross–legged at the foot of the bed, fiddling with the camera on the tripod with shaky hands and sore arms. It's such a polite way of sitting that it makes you laugh, straightening yourself up to shuffle down behind him. Your hands wrapped around his waist, pressing kisses onto his nape.

Your eyes fluttered over to the monitor, it's close to impossible to see your face behind Luffy's back. You peek an eye over to read some of the comments. "They're asking to see my face."

Luffy glanced up at the monitor, his eyes squinting at the screen and his hand fell onto the camera lense as a childish revenge. "What? No." He turned the camera down to face the bed, giving you the freedom to move wherever you want without exposing your face.

"You know I'm fine with it," you hummed, using the freedom to shuffle yourself around to face Luffy as he turned around to meet you.

Luffy frowned, lips pushing into a pout. It's childish, he knows, but he doesn't want them to know what you look like. "I'm not, they already know what you sound, what your body looks like— not giving them your face too." His words are punctuated by his hands pleadingly tight on your hips, rubbing up and down the sides of your torso slowly.

It's almost an idiotic thing to be conservative about, considering your profession, what you've already let the world see. Your face is hardly the problem, not when there's already a base of degenerates that would know the slope of your curves and creases of hidden intimates that you'd be scorned for making public. You don't think Luffy is worried about your reputation though or trying to be consersative in any manner as he sticks out his bottom lip, pouting and opening his mouth to whine like he hadn't just flipped your stomach into itself, snapped a leg of your bed frame— you think, you'll have to check on that later.

For now, you resign yourself to placating the man.