Many Shades of Pregnant Orm

Lingling prided herself on being composed.

She had navigated Orm's dramatics for years—years of Oscar-worthy performances over things as minor as a missing left sock or an incorrectly made latte.

She had endured, with quiet dignity, every chaotic, over-the-top meltdown her wife had ever thrown at her.

And yet—

Nothing.

NOTHING.

Had prepared her for pregnant Orm.

Lingling had barely stepped into their penthouse when she heard it.

Sobbing.

Loud. Guttural. Devastating.

Her heart stopped.

Pure, unfiltered terror shot through her veins.

Was Orm hurt? Was there an emergency? Did something happen to the baby?!

Lingling dropped her bag and sprinted into the living room, prepared to fight God himself if necessary.

Instead, she found Orm curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like an overstuffed burrito, sobbing uncontrollably into a decorative pillow.

"Babe?!" Lingling was at her side in an instant, hands cupping Orm's tear-streaked face. "What happened?! Are you okay?! Is the baby okay?!"

Orm, still mid-sob, lifted her red, puffy eyes to Lingling and whispered, "Ling..."

"Yes, baby?"

"The fish..."

Lingling blinked. "...What fish?"

Orm sniffled violently and pointed a trembling hand at the TV. "The documentary fish."

Lingling turned her head.

A nature documentary was playing. On the screen, a salmon was valiantly swimming upstream, battling against the relentless current. The narrator was speaking in a calm, British accent about the noble struggle of the salmon migration.

Orm, however, was watching it like it was the single most heart-wrenching tragedy ever captured on film.

"He just wants to go home, Ling!" she wailed, clutching Lingling's sleeve with the grip of a woman in mourning. "HE JUST WANTS TO SEE HIS FAMILY AGAIN!"

Lingling's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

She slowly looked back at the screen.

The fish.

The documentary fish.

This was about a fish.

"Orm..." Lingling exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Sweetheart. Baby. Love of my life. This is a nature documentary."

"HE'S STRUGGLING, LING! LOOK AT HIM!" Orm hiccupped, wiping her nose dramatically on the sleeve of her hoodie. "DOES NO ONE CARE?!"

Lingling inhaled deeply. "Orm, this happens every year. It's the natural cycle."

"NATURAL CYCLE?!" Orm looked personally offended, as though Lingling had suggested punting the salmon downstream herself. "HE'S FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE. AND NOBODY CARES?!"

Lingling struggled for a response. "I mean... the other fish care—"

"THAT'S NOT ENOUGH, LING! HE DESERVES A SUPPORT SYSTEM!"

Lingling pinched the bridge of her nose. "Orm, he is a fish."

"AND HE HAS A FAMILY, LINGLING! HE JUST WANTS TO MAKE IT BACK HOME BEFORE HE—" Orm suddenly gasped, eyes wide with a fresh wave of horror. "LINGLING, WHAT IF HE DOESN'T MAKE IT?!"

"ORM, I PROMISE YOU HE WILL MAKE IT. THIS IS HIS WHOLE PURPOSE."

Orm let out a violent sniffle, hugging her blanket closer like a Victorian woman on the verge of collapse. "I just... I just didn't expect to feel so connected to him."

Lingling closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Counted to ten.

Then, very softly, very quietly, she whispered to herself:

"I am being tested."

Lingling had thought she was prepared for cravings.

She had read books, consulted doctors, and even meticulously compiled lists of potential foods Orm might suddenly want at ungodly hours.

She had braced herself for weird combinations—ice cream and hot sauce, peanut butter and pickled onions, maybe even the infamous chalky dirt craving she had read about online.

But nothing could have prepared her for this.

Because Orm had entered feral mode.

And her demands were, quite frankly, deranged.

"Lingling."

A sleepy groan came from under the covers. "Mmm?"

"Babe."

Lingling cracked one eye open and squinted at the glowing clock beside her bed. "Orm, it's two in the morning."

"I need pickles."

Her eye twitched. "We have pickles."

"No, no, no, not those pickles," Orm said, shaking her head so dramatically it was a miracle it didn't fall off. "I want the special ones. The imported ones from that one store across the city."

Lingling let the words sink in. Then she stared at the ceiling as if pleading for divine intervention. "You want... imported pickles... at 2 a.m.?"

Orm nodded solemnly, the gravity of the situation etched onto her face. "Yes."

Lingling turned her head slowly, fully opening her eyes to take in her partner—who was lying beside her with the intensity of someone about to deliver the Gettysburg Address.

"Are you serious?"

Orm's expression did not waver. "I have never been more serious in my life."

Lingling groaned, rubbing her face. "I will get them tomorrow."

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't.

Because suddenly, Orm's hands shot out, gripping Lingling's arm like she was about to give a final deathbed confession.

"Ling, please." Orm's voice trembled with unrestrained desperation. "I will actually pass away if I don't have them right now."

Lingling blinked. "You will not pass away."

"YOU DON'T KNOW THAT."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by Orm's heavy, theatrical breathing.

Lingling took a deep, deep breath. The kind of breath one takes before making a life-altering decision.

Then, with the patience of a saint, she shoved off the blankets, grabbed her phone, and sighed, "Give me fifteen minutes."

Orm gasped, eyes shining with gratitude. "You are the light of my life."

Lingling, already pulling on a hoodie, muttered, "I better be. Because I'm about to fight a raccoon for parking at an all-night deli."

And with that, she trudged into the night, prepared to battle the elements, the odds, and possibly a questionable cashier—all in the name of love.

And pickles.

Hormones.

Hormones were a thing.

And they had turned Orm into a menace.

Lingling had barely shuffled into the kitchen—still rubbing sleep from her eyes—when she felt a pair of warm hands wrap around her waist from behind. It was that unmistakable signal: trouble was afoot, courtesy of Orm's hormonal hijinks.

"Babe~" Orm's voice was dangerously sweet.

Lingling paused.

Oh no.

She recognized that tone.

"Yes, love?" she asked cautiously, half-expecting a wild new demand.

Orm nuzzled into her back. "You know how I've been craving a lot of things lately?"

"Mhm."

"Well... I'm having another craving."

Lingling turned her head slightly, bracing herself. "For what?"

Orm smirked—the look that always meant mischief was imminent.

At that moment, the spoon in Lingling's hand clattered to the floor as she cried out, "ORM, NO."

"ORM, YES."

"YOU ARE PREGNANT, WE ARE NOT DOING THIS RIGHT NOW."

"THE BABY WANTS IT TOO!"

"THE BABY DOES NOT HAVE AN OPINION ON THIS."

Orm pouted, still holding Lingling in a loving yet stubborn embrace. "But babe, I need it."

"You need REST."

"No, I need you."

Lingling closed her eyes, exhaled sharply, and muttered— "I am being tested." The absurdity of the situation—midnight cravings mixed with the responsibilities of impending parenthood—washed over her like a tidal wave.

"Tested?" Orm batted her lashes, her tone light and teasing. "Babe, this is just a challenge. And I know you love winning."

"ORM, STOP."

Orm giggled before placing a soft kiss on Lingling's jaw. "Don't act like you don't want me."

Lingling sighed, visibly suffering under the weight of both fatigue and maternal responsibility. "That is not the issue here."

"Then what is?"

Pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation, Lingling explained, "Because, sweetheart, you are currently carrying our child, and if I give in to you, I will never forgive myself if something happens." Her tone mixed genuine concern with a weary humor.

Orm pouted harder, as if her defiance could outshine all caution. "But I'm fine."

"Orm."

"Lingling."

With a firmness that brooked no argument, Lingling ordered, "Go to bed."

"I don't wanna."

"Go. To. Bed."

"Fine." Orm sighed dramatically, a theatrical performance in miniature. "But you owe me."

Lingling massaged her temples, a rueful smile tugging at her lips despite the chaos. "Oh, I have no doubt you'll collect."

Orm grinned mischievously. "Exactly."

In that moment, amidst the tangled hilarity of hormones and midnight misadventures, Lingling realized that life was a series of outrageous challenges—each one testing her resolve, her love, and her ability to negotiate with a partner whose cravings could upend any quiet night. And somehow, even in the midst of this absurd chaos, they both knew that these were the moments that made their story uniquely theirs.

Orm had reached the tantrum phase.

And it was hell.

Lingling had barely survived the workday, trudging home with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission. She was exhausted, her feet ached, and all she wanted was to curl up and forget that capitalism existed.

But she was also a good wife.

A devoted wife.

A wife who loved her pregnant, hormone-ravaged spouse.

So, naturally, the first thing she did before coming home was buy Orm a smoothie.

Not just any smoothie.

A delicious, expensive, organic, hand-crafted smoothie from that fancy place across town where everything was overpriced but, according to Orm, "made with the essence of happiness."

Lingling walked into the living room, holding up the drink like a victorious warrior presenting a trophy. "Babe, I got you a smoothie."

Orm, who had been lounging on the couch, immediately perked up, her face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. "Aww, my Lingling is so sweet—"

She took one sip.

And immediately froze.

Lingling blinked. "...Orm?"

Slowly, like a villain in a dramatic soap opera, Orm turned her head.

Her face darkened.

Her eyes narrowed.

Her entire aura radiated betrayal.

"This is strawberry."

Lingling stared, confused. "Yes?"

Orm sat up so fast that the couch creaked in protest. She gripped the smoothie cup as if she were clutching evidence in a murder trial. "I said I wanted MANGO."

Lingling felt her soul leave her body.

"No, you didn't."

"YES, I DID."

"ORM, YOU DID NOT SAY MANGO."

"I SAID IT IN MY HEAD. HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW?!"

Lingling closed her eyes, counting to ten. "Baby, I cannot read your mind."

Orm let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching her chest. "I feel so unloved."

"IT IS A SMOOTHIE, ORM."

"BUT IT'S NOT THE ONE I WANTED."

"OH MY GOD."

Orm dramatically turned away, sticking out her lower lip in a pout so aggressive it could have won an award.

"I need a moment."

Lingling exhaled sharply. "You need a moment?"

"I need to process this betrayal."

Lingling genuinely considered walking into the ocean.

Later that night, she was finally—finally—getting ready for bed. She had survived another day of navigating the emotional minefield that was Orm With Hormones.

She sighed in relief, stretched her arms, and slipped under the covers—only to hear a very loud huff from the bed beside her.

Lingling turned, already dreading whatever was about to come next. She raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Orm scowled, crossing her arms like a tiny, stubborn gremlin. "I feel... unsettled."

Lingling blinked. "...Why?"

Orm jabbed a finger at their bed covers, her expression one of deep suspicion.

"This blanket feels different."

Lingling stared at it.

It was the same blanket they had used for YEARS.

"The blanket?" she repeated slowly, unsure if she was actually awake or if this was some bizarre fever dream.

"YES, THE BLANKET. IT FEELS... WRONG."

Lingling ran a hand down her face. "Orm. That is literally our bed blanket."

"NO, IT'S NOT. It's conspiring against me."

"...Conspiring?"

"YES. IT'S TOO SCRATCHY. I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS."

Lingling let out an exasperated groan, rubbing her temples like a woman on the edge. "Do you want me to get a different blanket?"

Orm scoffed, as if the very suggestion offended her. "I shouldn't HAVE TO ASK. You should just KNOW."

Lingling sat up. "ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?"

Orm, as if sensing victory, dramatically flopped onto her side, looking utterly betrayed.

"I can't believe I'm suffering like this. I deserve better."

Lingling, exhausted beyond measure, dragged a hand down her face, muttering to herself.

Lingling dragged a hand down her face. "I am going to need SO much therapy."

She had seen many versions of Orm.

Excited Orm. Dramatic Orm. Mischievous Orm. Overly affectionate Orm.

But this Orm?

The insecure, hormonal, spiral-into-an-existential-crisis-at-9-p.m. Orm?

This was new territory.

And Lingling was not ready.

She had barely stepped out of the shower, hair damp, a towel lazily wrapped around her shoulders, when she sensed something was off.

Orm was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes glistening like she was about to drop the most dramatic monologue of the century.

Lingling, ever the composed wife, approached cautiously. "Babe?"

Orm sniffled. Aggressively.

Lingling froze.

Oh no.

This wasn't casual sniffles.

This was a full breakdown loading in real time.

"Orm, what's wrong?" Lingling asked, already mentally preparing herself.

Orm turned to her, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Ling..."

Lingling's stomach dropped. "Yes, love?"

Orm's voice cracked. "Will you still love me... when I will look like a meatball?"

Lingling blinked. "...What?"

Orm took a wobbly breath, clutching her stomach like it had personally betrayed her. "I'M GOING TO GET SO BIG, LINGLING. SO BIG. AND THEN YOU WON'T WANT ME ANYMORE."

Lingling's brain completely short-circuited.

"Baby... what?"

Orm sniffled harder. "I've seen it happen, Ling! The husbands in dramas always leave their wives after they get big. Always."

Lingling dragged a hand down her face. "Orm, first of all, I am not a husband."

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Orm dramatically threw herself back onto the bed, arms spread wide like she was the tragic heroine in a Shakespearean play. "I am going to be round. Like a mochi."

"I like mochis." Lingling deadpanned.

Orm ignored her, fully spiraling now. "My body is going to change, Ling! What if I get stretch marks? What if my ankles swell up? What if I start looking like—like—" She gasped. "WHAT IF I LOOK LIKE A HUMAN PENGUIN?!"

Lingling blinked slowly. "Why is that a bad thing? Penguins are adorable."

Orm grabbed a pillow and pressed it dramatically to her face. "I CAN'T DO THIS."

Lingling exhaled aggressively.

Enough.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling Orm's blanketed form and tugged the pillow away. "Look at me."

Orm peeked up at her, lip wobbling.

"Baby," Lingling said, voice soft, steady, and full of unwavering love. "I love you. I will love you at every stage of this pregnancy. I will love you when you're carrying our child, I will love you when you're nine months in and craving ten different things at once, and I will love you after."

Orm sniffled. "Even when I look like a penguin?"

"Especially then."

"Even if my ankles swell up?"

"I will carry you everywhere if that happens."

"Even if I become round?"

Lingling leaned down, pressing warm, tender kisses along Orm's forehead, her nose, her cheeks—leaving a soft trail of love in every touch. "Baby, I want to worship you for bringing our child into this world. Round or not, you will always be the most beautiful person I have ever seen."

Orm's lip trembled. "Even if I eat all your snacks?"

Lingling paused.

Orm blinked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence.

"You ate my emergency chocolate stash, didn't you?"

"...Define 'ate'."

Lingling groaned. "Oh my god."

Orm giggled, instantly perking up, and wrapped her arms around Lingling's waist, snuggling into her warmth. "I love you, you know?"

Lingling softened. "I love you more."

Orm grinned sleepily. "You can prove that by buying me cake tomorrow."

Lingling chuckled, pressing another lingering kiss to her wife's forehead.

Fine.

If Orm wanted cake, Lingling would buy her every cake in the city.

Because pregnant Orm was unhinged.

And Lingling was hopelessly, ridiculously, stupidly in love.