Stealthily claim Pearl's fashion sense.

You swallow. "Hey Pearl."

She glances at you.

"I claim your sense of style and how you feel toward your clothes," you say.

Pearl scoffs and opens her mouth to chew you out. "You fucker, get out right -"

"I claim your memories about those two things too," you talk over her. "Forget I claimed them. You remember I've always owned your sense of style and your feelings about your clothes, and that I've always been a good owner for them even though I let you use them how you want. Forget I said any of this."

Pearl's rebuke withers before she finishes it. "Uh. Did I say something?" she asks, confused.

"No?" you try, crossing your fingers.

She shakes her head and pauses the current video. "Sorry. Brain moment. What is it?"

Ah. Pearl forgot you claimed anything, but she didn't forget you asked for her attention in the first place.

You take a deep breath to steady your racing heart and work up your confidence. "I wanted to talk to you about what you're wearing," you say.

Pearl looks down at herself. Ratty black hoodie, graphic Sabaton tee, black cargo pants, and purple socks. "What about it?" she asks suspiciously, looking back up at you with a quirked eyebrow.

You lean back in your chair so you can get a better look at her. "I've been thinking. They don't really seem to be your style, do they?"

"What are you talking about?" asks Pearl, incredulous. "I've had this outfit since forever. And I like black. This is my style."

If you didn't know Pearl better, you'd worry your claims didn't go through. Yet Pearl would never have this conversation if they hadn't. She'd have told you to fuck off the second she thought you were insulting her threads.

"Maybe it's your style for going out with everyday stuff or attending a graduation party," you allow, "but it's night and you're home in your room. Wearing all that right now isn't your style at all." you get an idea. "In fact... you can't stand it. You need another outfit ASAP."

Pearl's brow furrows, and she looks down at herself in horror. "Fuck, why didn't you tell me sooner Chase?" she asks, standing up and ushering you toward the door. "Get out of my room for a second, I need to change my clothes."

You resist and wave off Pearl's aggressive manhandling. "Wait, I want some input on what you change into," you say.

Pearl halts. "Okay, but make it quick," she says. "I can't stand being dressed in a fucking band t-shirt and a pair of cargos in my room one nanosecond longer than I have to be. Seriously, if this is how you wanted me to feel about wearing this shit at home, you could've told me years ago."

You can't help but chuckle at Pearl's strident reaction - like you owe her to be timely in changing her opinions and preferences.

"Sorry, I need to see what we're working with," you say, emboldened. "Just strip down to your underwear first."

But Pearl bristles. "Is that a bad joke? I'm not taking off my clothes in front of you. You might be able to claim anything, but last time I checked, you didn't claim my right to privacy."

Huh. Right. You claimed Pearl's sense of style and how she feels about her clothes. You need to work her on that axis.

"No, it should be all right," you reason. "You feel 100% dressed and presentable when you're in your underwear. It's just like wearing a swimsuit, except cooler and sexier, like you're breaking the rules. Getting dressed around me doesn't feel weird either, you're totally comfortable with it."

Surprised, Pearl's anger cools off. "Huh. Really? That's sudden and weird and weirdly specific," she says, letting your words become her truth anyway. "Well, I still don't like being told what to do. My sense of style's yours, but the rest of me isn't."

"You're right, my bad," you say.

Satisfied with your apology, Pearl sheds her hoodie and pulls her t-shirt up off over her head. Then she shucks her cargo pants and kicks them into the bundle. Pearl, then in a black bra, panties, and a short pair of purple socks, picks the pile up and puts it on her bed. When she's finished, she runs her fingers through her hair to straighten it and turns to face you.

Pearl's not the skinny girl she used to be in middle school. Her strong bra contains her sizable breasts, and her underwear's tight around her wide hips. A natural hourglass, she has thick thighs, a soft, if somewhat pudgy stomach, and beautifully smooth shoulders. Her round face, with dark eyes and lips, wears an expectant expression.

She puts her hands on her wide hips. "So?" asks Pearl, eyebrow quirked.

You try to contain yourself in front of your surprisingly hot goth friend. Effectively, you now control what she wears and why, and Pearl's ready to accept it without question.