White - Among Us Show

White stirred under the unfamiliar sheets, head pounding like someone had been using their visor as a drum. The room smelled of last night’s red wine and something faintly expensive like perfume or cologne they couldn’t place. Their round body shifted, the white backpack was lying somewhere on the floor, purple polo wrinkled and half-unbuttoned.

White blinked hard then their visor flickered into a wide, shocked oval.

Oh god.

There was someone in the bed with them wearing casual clothes. Not the tailored jackets and glittering accessories White was used to seeing at these parties. Just… normal fabric. The kind of outfit people wore when they didn’t have money to throw around.

White’s mind raced, still half-drunk and spinning. They had gotten hammered on the good stuff (the expensive bottles their parents always stocked) and then… everything after that was a blur of laughter, music, and hands. Hands that had felt good, quick and eager, exactly the kind of careless fun White liked when the wine hit just right. They remembered the heat, the breathless sounds, the way their body had moved without thinking. Switch mode fully on, taking and giving in equal measure until everything went fuzzy.

White sat up carefully, short legs dangling off the side of the mattress. Their visor tightened into a worried squint as they stared at the casual clothes still half on the other person. “Oh god,” they whispered under their breath, voice small and horrified. “I slept with a poor person.” The thought landed like a rock in their stomach.

White rubbed their face with both hands, the visor flickering between panic and pure spoiled disbelief. The hangover made everything worse. Their body still felt the leftover warmth from last night, the pleasant ache of quick, messy sex, but all of it was tainted now by the realization.

White stirred beneath the silk sheets like a starlet waking from a thousand-dollar haze, head pounding so hard as if their own visor had been used as a drumstick. The room reeked of spilled red wine and that intoxicating, expensive perfume-cologne blend that clung to their skin like a secret lover’s scent. Their round, white body shifted under the unfamiliar fabric, the white backpack tossed on the floor like it had been abandoned mid-orgy, the purple polo shirt wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, buttons popped open like they’d been ripped away in a frenzy of eager hands.

Beside them lay someone in plain, everyday clothes: nothing glittering, no tailored jackets or sparkling accessories, just normal fabric, the kind White had always assumed belonged to people who couldn’t afford a single extra button. The thought hit them like a stage spotlight slamming down, blinding and merciless.

Oh god.

White’s mind spiraled in full, heart-wrenching, over-the-top dramatic panic, still half-drunk and dizzy with leftover wine. They remembered every glorious, filthy second of it: the heat, the breathless gasps, the way their body had moved on pure, shameless instinct. Switch mode fully activated, taking and giving in equal measure, hands gripping hips, hips grinding down hard and needy, until the world blurred into wet, obscene sounds and skin slapping skin and desperate, love-drunk moans. They’d fucked like it was the last time on earth, laughing breathlessly between kisses, drunk and reckless and so fucking in love with the feeling, their own voice cracking out those pathetic, over-the-top “oh god”s while they rode the stranger like they’d never get enough. But now the evidence stared back at them in harsh, merciless daylight: a stranger in thrift-store threads, someone who probably wore the same pair of pants twice because money didn’t stretch that far.

White sat up slowly, short legs swinging off the edge of the mattress with theatrical drama, the mattress creaking under their weight like a confession. Their visor tightened into a horrified, squinting oval, voice small and cracking with pure spoiled, dramatic despair.

“Oh god… I slept with a poor person.”

The words left them in a shattered whisper, heavy as broken glass, like they’d swallowed something sour and sharp that twisted right into their chest. Their stomach knotted into a cold, dramatic knot, the rock of it dropping deep and twisting like a knife. They rubbed both hands over their face, the visor flashing between raw terror and this twisted, dramatic disbelief. The hangover made it worse: the leftover warmth between their legs, the tender ache of quick, messy sex, all of it now poisoned by the realization. Their round, sensitive body felt exposed and vulnerable, like they’d thrown away one of their precious privileges on a nobody with calloused hands and no designer gear.

White stayed there, not moving, just breathing hard through their nose, the whole room spinning around them like the party had never left. Their mind kept replaying it in looping, heartbreaking slow motion: the hands on them, the sounds they’d made, the way they’d wanted it... everything tainted now by the thought that it had all been with someone who had nothing. Someone who probably looked at them and saw a joke. Someone who would never understand what they were throwing away. The ache in their chest was worse than the pounding in their head. They wanted to scream. They wanted to run. They wanted to go back to that moment and tell their drunk, greedy, over-the-top self to stop, to stop picking the wrong kind of person entirely, to stop being so fucking gay and so fucking spoiled and so fucking doomed.