#natural mucus relief

[drashfaqhealth]

سائنوسائٹس کے لیے ہومیوپیتھک دوا کالی بائکرومیکم

New Post has been published on https://drashfaq.com/weather/winter/492/

سائنوسائٹس کے لیے ہومیوپیتھک دوا کالی بائکرومیکم

ہومیوپیتھک دوا کالی بائکرومیکم سائنوسائٹس کے علاج کے لیے

سائنوسائٹس ایک عام بیماری ہے جس میں ناک اور سائنوسز کی جھلیوں میں سوزش ہو جاتی ہے۔ یہ بیماری مختلف علامات کا باعث بن سکتی ہے، جیسے گاڑھا، ��سی دار، زرد یا سبز رنگ کا بلغم، ناک بند ہونا، سر درد، چہرے کا درد، اور کھانسی۔ ہومیوپیتھک علاج میں کالی بائکرومیکم ایک مؤثر دوا ہے جو سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مددگار ثابت ہوتی ہے، خاص طور پر جب کہ گاڑھا، رسی دار، زرد یا سبز رنگ کا بلغم ہو اور ناک بند ہو۔ کالی بائکرومیکم کے فوائد بلغم کو کم کرنا: کالی بائکرومیکم سائنوسائٹس کے نتیجے میں پیدا ہونے والے گاڑھے، رسی دار، زرد یا سبز رنگ کے بلغم کو کم کرنے میں بہت مؤثر ہے۔ یہ دوا بلغم کو پتلا کرتی ہے اور اس کے اخراج کو آسان بناتی ہے۔ ناک بند ہونا: سائنوسائٹس کے باعث ناک بند ہونا ایک عام علامت ہے۔ کالی بائکرومیکم ناک کی بندش کو کم کرنے میں مددگار ثابت ہوتی ہے اور مریض کو سکون فراہم کرتی ہے۔ سر درد: سائنوسائٹس کے دوران سر درد کا مسئلہ بھی عام ہوتا ہے۔ کالی بائکرومیکم سر درد کو کم کرتی ہے اور مریض کو راحت فراہم کرتی ہے۔ چہرے کا درد: سائنوسائٹس کے باعث چہرے کے مختلف حصوں میں درد کا مسئلہ بھی ہو سکتا ہے۔ کالی بائکرومیکم چہرے کے درد کو کم کرتی ہے اور مریض کو سکون فراہم کرتی ہے۔ کھانسی: سائنوسائٹس کے دوران کھانسی کا مسئلہ بھی پیدا ہو سکتا ہے۔ کالی بائکرومیکم کھانسی کو کم کرتی ہے اور مریض کو راحت فراہم کرتی ہے۔ دیگر متعلقہ ہومیوپیتھک دوائیں اگر کالی بائکرومیکم سے مکمل آرام نہ ملے تو یہاں کچھ دیگر ہومیوپیتھک دوائیں بھی ہیں جو سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مفید ہیں: پلساٹیلا: پلساٹیلا سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مؤثر ہے، خاص طور پر جب بلغم گاڑھا، زرد یا سبز ہو اور ناک بند ہو۔ نیٹرم میوریٹیکم: نیٹرم میوریٹیکم سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مفید ہے، خاص طور پر جب بلغم گاڑھا اور سفید ہو۔ مرکیریس سولیوبلیس: مرکیریس سولیوبلیس سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مؤثر ہے، خاص طور پر جب بلغم گاڑھا، زرد یا سبز ہو اور ناک بند ہو۔ سیلیشیا: سیلیشیا سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مفید ہے، خاص طور پر جب بلغم گاڑھا اور رسی دار ہو۔ ہائیڈراسٹس: ہائیڈراسٹس سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مؤثر ہے، خاص طور پر جب بلغم گاڑھا، زرد یا سبز ہو اور ناک بند ہو۔ اسپیجیلیا: اسپیجیلیا سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مفید ہے، خاص طور پر جب سر درد اور چہرے کا درد ہو۔ بیلاڈونا: بیلاڈونا سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مؤثر ہے، خاص طور پر جب سر درد اور بخار ہو۔ جیلسی میم: جیلسی میم سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مفید ہے، خاص طور پر جب کمزوری اور چکر کا مسئلہ ہو۔ نکس وومیکا: نکس وومیکا سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مؤثر ہے، خاص طور پر جب کھانسی اور بدہضمی ہو۔ بریانیا: بریانیا سائنوسائٹس کے علاج میں مفید ہے، خاص طور پر جب بلغم گاڑھا اور رسی دار ہو۔ کالی بائکرومیکم اور دیگر دواؤں کے استعمال کی احتیاطی تدابیر ڈاکٹر سے مشورہ: کالی بائکرومیکم یا کوئی بھی ہومیوپیتھک دوا استعمال کرنے سے پہلے ڈاکٹر سے مشورہ کریں۔ یہ ضروری ہے تاکہ دوا کا درست استعمال ہو اور زیادہ سے زیادہ فوائد حاصل ہو سکیں۔ درست مقدار: دوا کو درست مقدار میں استعمال کریں تاکہ زیادہ سے زیادہ فوائد حاصل ہو سکیں۔ زیادہ مقدار نقصان دہ ہو سکتی ہے۔ علاج کے دوران مراقبت: دوران علاج اپنی صحت کا خیال رکھیں اور کسی بھی غیر معمولی علامات کی صورت میں فوراً ڈاکٹر سے رجوع کریں۔ کالی بائکرومیکم کے فوائد قدرتی علاج: کالی بائکرومیکم ایک قدرتی ہومیوپیتھک دوا ہے جو بغیر کسی نقصان کے مسائل کا علاج کرتی ہے۔ یہ دوا قدرتی اجزاء پر مبنی ہے اور اس کا استعمال محفوظ ہے۔ آسان استعمال: کالی بائکرومیکم کا استعمال آسان ہے اور یہ مختلف سائنوسائٹس کے مسائل کے لئے مفید ہے۔ یہ دوا بغیر کسی مشکل کے استعمال کی جا سکتی ہے۔ مؤثر نتائج: کالی بائکرومیکم استعمال کرنے کے بعد جلد ہی مؤثر نتائج سامنے آتے ہیں اور مریض کو راحت ملتی ہے۔ یہ دوا تیزی سے کام کرتی ہے اور مسائل کو جلد حل کرتی ہے۔ نتائج کالی بائکرومیکم سائنوسائٹس، گاڑھے رسی دار بلغم، ناک بند ہونا، سر درد، چہرے کا درد، اور کھانسی کے علاج کے لئے ایک مؤثر ہومیوپیتھک دوا ہے۔ اس کے استعمال سے سائنوسائٹس کے مسائل کا علاج ممکن ہے۔ دیگر متعلقہ ہومیوپیتھک دواؤں کے ساتھ کالی بائکرومیکم کا استعمال مریض کو مکمل ��احت فراہم کرتا ہے۔

[pickledpet]

Perhaps it was a mistake to choose dinosaurs as your topic for your university's science fair. Perhaps you screwed up following the instructions or did not read them carefully enough.

You sat in your dorm, half your project done, sat on your desk. A little nest where you were going to present the replica dinosaur eggs, without its crown jewel however the eggs.

You rubbed your humongous stomach self consciously which has stretched to an unimaginable size. You were naked but there was no way you could see further than your gargantuan bullet shaped stomach littered with red and purple stretch marks and veins. 'Gives a whole new meaning to "ready to pop"' you thought to yourself. You squirted more oil you purchased from a dubious store (along with the egg kit of course) on your puffy pussy that you could barely reach and rubbed it in. It made you feel hot all over but still you dutifully resumed your nightly ritual.

The rubbing felt incredible, before you knew it you barely had any oil left and you were writhing beneath your stomach. You probably would've arched your back off the bed too if you weren't pinned against it by the weight. Then suddenly something shifted within you, you could practically feel your pelvis creak as a torrent of fluid flooded your bed.

You tried to at least get yourself up on your elbows to see in the mirror facing your bed, what was going on.

The bed was soaked alright and between your legs was something slimey and brownish.

"What the fuck..." you muttered to yourself, trying to at least somehow maneuver your body on your hands and knees. Was this it? Upon examining it closer, you realised what it was and your heart dropped just as an extreme wave of pain washed over you. It was the fucking mucus plug. But why was it so huge. How much would your cervix have to dilate if this was keeping it sealed. 15 cm? 20 cm?

You started to feel sick. Just how many eggs were there?!

The sudden pressure increasing tenfold halted your train of thought.

At least you were already on your hands and knees right, besides you had the whole night to yourself. You bore down gingerly and hoped that your huge stomach pressing against the mattress would help too. Nothing but more liquid came out and the pain and pressure was only increasing.

After 3 hours of rocking back and forth with 0 results you decided it was time to get serious about this. You steadied yourself, gripped the sheets and gave a huge push.

Nothing.

1 hour into birthing with all your might you didn't even notice how far apart your legs were and how much your lower half felt like jelly when finally you felt something behind your entrance. Encouraged by the progress you began pressing on the top of your stomach with one hand while gritting your teeth and bearing down hard. Something began emerging. Covered in a slimey substance a jelly like egg started poking through your aching cunt. You moaned and pushed as hard as you could, waiting for the relief of it plopping out onto the blanket so you could birth the rest but it never came. With the next effort you buried your face into your pillow, hopefully muffling your desperate screams. Every time you let up the egg would slide back, nestled deep into the warm slick of your pussy.

This went on for another hour or so when you finally gave a push hard enough that got the egg to a point it wouldn't slip back from. You almost felt relieved. It will slide out any second, right?

Your pussy was stretched to its natural limit as you panted and pushed. But this birth was anything but natural...your only luck was that you kept up your oil regimen because soon you felt something slick and almost gelatinous touch your inner thighs, even with your legs spread.

"Wh-what?!" You whined into the pillow.

Fuck.

No no no no no.

This was supposed to be several small eggs not ONE. Cold sweat covered every inch of your body as the realisation hit. How would this ever come out?! There was no way you could call for help, what would you say, not to mention that you were fully immobilised by the gargantuan egg spreading you open way past what should be humanly possible.

Back when you realised what was happening to you, you tried watching at least SOME birthing videos though you knew your experience would be nothing like that. You tried to think back to them hoping to remember anything from the ones where petite women would have to squeeze out a 10lbs kid. Although even those babies would seem like light work compared to whatever was stuck in you. The pain made it much to hard to think but then suddenly you had an idea!

Gravity would help.

You gathered all your strength to heave yourself up from your hands and knees only onto your knees you could hopefully get into a crouching position from there. However as soon as you glanced up and caught your reflection in the mirror, in a split second, before you could change the outcome you realised it was a huge mistake.

The egg was absolutely humongous and your pussy was stretched grotesquely around it, completely white and on the brink of tearing and worst of all you could not kneel down as the egg was so gargantuan. It was touching the mattress. Or at least you couldn't kneel down without the egg sliding back into your tortured cunt a few inches with a sickening squelch.

You held back the urge to throw up and fought until you were in a squatting position.

You didn't care about making noise anymore, you screamed while pushing down on your pulsating stomach that was urging you to expell the giant egg while with your other hand you reached down to rub your clit. The clit you could barely locate as it was practically flat against the egg with your pussy pulled so taut.

This seemed to be somewhat helping you progress however an earth shattering orgasm caught you off guard and you lost your balance.

You fell onto your back and with the sudden change of position your birth canal caused the hideously massive egg to practically be sucked in once more. All the progress you made was undone and the wind was knocked out of you at the ginormous intrusion. You screamed and thrashed on the bed, violently pressing down on your stomach and pushing with strength you didn't know where you got from.

By this time you were laboring for over 8 hours. You laid in bed and just felt wave after wave of contraction wash over you, the weight of the egg in your birth canal had to be about 50lbs and every 10 minutes or so you felt a dull sensation of pleasure course through you as the contractions were easing the egg out of you agonising by agonising millimeter and every once in a while it'd brush against your tortured clit just right.

You were just about to resign yourself to your fate when you realised the small bottle of oil was within reach in this cursed position. There was still some left, not that it'd make much difference now, you were probably going to die like this. With a humongous egg wrecking your lower half.

You picked up the bottle and with hazy eyes read the instructions again. This was your last hope. Maybe you missed something.

'MORE effective if orally taken?!'

Your eyes widened as you wasted no time gulping down the last of it. Too bad you didn't read another sentence which would've clarified that you only need droplets in a glass of water.

It immediately took effect and kicked your labour into high gear again, you screamed as you practically felt your womb and birth canal undulating, forcing you to scream and push like never before. You spread your legs nearly into a split while thrusting your hips into the air.

"Fuck! FUCK! My cunt will tear, fuck fuck my pussy!!!"

The egg slowly slid out and stopped at its widest point. This made you trying to hold your legs back an utter waste as the egg was already doing it for you. The pain made you unable to breathe properly. You took shallow panicked breaths but by this point you lost all sense of your dignity.

You HAD to give birth then and there.

You let out an animalistic scream and screwed your eyes shut. A vein popped out on your forehead and no doubt you burst a few blood vessels. You didn't care anymore, you used both hands to push down on your stomach and gritted your teeth hard enough to chip them

"FUCK, COME OUT ALREADY!!"

Then with a contraction that made you see stars, the egg erupted from your canal, not to mention the aftershocks of your final effort pushed out at least 5 liters of whatever fluid this was out of your pussy along with the huge egg, mixed with urine that you couldn't bear to hold any longer. Your bed was sopping wet and your cunt twitched and pulsated as one of the most intense orgasms of your life ripped through you.

Before you passed out you mustered enough strength to glance at the clock on your bedside table.

It was almost midday.

Didn't the science fair end at 11...?

[reality-detective]

Let’s make natural antibiotic for cough and sore throat! 🍯

🌿 Natural healing for immunity, respiratory health, and relief from seasonal ailments! 🌿 This garlic-anise-Ceylon cinnamon honey blend combines nature’s powerful allies for combating coughs, sore throats, and respiratory inflammation.

🌱 9 cloves Garlic – Known as a natural antibiotic, garlic is rich in allicin, which helps fight bacteria, viruses, and fungi, strengthening the body’s defenses.

⭐️ 1 tsp Anise – With its expectorant properties, anise helps clear the airways, soothing stubborn coughs and aiding in the removal of mucus buildup.

🍯 ½ tsp Ceylon Cinnamon – Known for its mild, warming qualities, Ceylon cinnamon is anti-inflammatory and antioxidant-rich, further boosting immunity and overall respiratory health.

Mix with 1 cup of pure honey. One tbsp every 4-6 hours.

This blend supports your respiratory system, provides protection for the mucous membranes, and adds a natural immunity boost to your wellness routine. 🤔

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 6: I'm The Resident Leader Of The Lost And Found]

A/N: Be sure to vote in the poll pinned to the top of my blog AFTER you finish reading! It will be available for 1 week 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, RIP Jace...unless...??

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “St. Jimmy” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.2k (she's a little chonky)

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

What happens to the people who turn? You know because you saw it back at Saratoga Springs, an EO from Oklahoma named Greg Flurry—Equipment Operator, he spent his days driving a forklift, everyone called him Snowflake—who returned from weekend liberty with a bite on his left wrist that he said was a gift from some drunk girl who attacked him outside of a 7-Eleven. You had all laughed and taken turns poking at the wound, making him wince: a ring of tiny bruises, not deep at all, the skin only punctured in a few spots, corporeal gemstones of trapped-blood amethysts and sapphires and rubies. Snowflake rubbed it down with a splash of Grey Goose vodka—the same kind your Mama always drank—and didn’t think of it again for the rest of the day.

On Tuesday, he felt fine; but the bite mark, paradoxically, was not healing. On the contrary, it was turning dark and angry, maroon trails along the paths of veins that shuttle blood back to the heart. Snowflake got a shot of antibiotics at the med clinic and was back in the driver’s seat of his forklift before lunch.

On Wednesday, he had a headache and nausea that wouldn’t go away. Snowflake attributed this to particularly questionable chicken fried steak from the chow hall. At night he tossed and turned in his bunk, and when Rio went to check on him, Snowflake was burning up with fever, sweating through his sheets, staring blankly through pupils like pinpricks. You, Rio, and Parker carried him to the med clinic.

On Thursday, in the early hours of the morning, Snowflake began to decompose. But he was still alive. His skin turned grey and sloughed off, his body purged itself: vomit from his throat, diarrhea from his intestines, blood beading out of his pores like sweat. His corneas went cloudy. His lungs flooded with decay-dark mucus. Snowflake sobbed and shrieked as you and Rio sat with him and held his disintegrating hands, as the corpsmen phoned every hospital they could to try to get him transported. All the ambulances were unavailable. All the hospitals were already overwhelmed. They gave the corpsmen peculiar guidance: Palliative care. Prepare to restrain him if he becomes a danger to others. The virus appears to be transmitted via bite wounds.

“Virus?” Rio had said, dropping Snowflake’s hand. “What the fuck kind of virus does this to someone?”

The corpsmen had shaken their heads—We don’t know—and attempted to administer narcotics intravenously. Snowflake received no relief. His blood vessels were collapsing, dissolving, turning to a noxious soup beneath what was left of his skin. Becoming a zombie is not unlike radiation sickness. It rots you from the inside out, and you can feel everything.

As the sun was rising, Snowflake died. And by then you were glad; it was the most merciful outcome. The corpsmen covered him with a sheet and called around for a morgue. They were full too. As you all stood in an exam room trying to understand what had just happened to Snowflake here, what was going on in the world outside Saratoga Springs, the fresh corpse sat up on the table. You had screamed and clutched for Rio; he shoved you behind him. The corpse, still covered with the sheet stained with black and brown and red, followed the noise of your voice and staggered towards you, snarling and groaning, arms outstretched, teeth clicking as they gnashed beneath the sheet. The corpsmen tried to grab him, then shrank away when the ghoul clawed at them, putrefied fingers peeking out from beneath the linen. The zombie lurched closer, and Rio struck out: colossal knuckles to a soft skull, the monster sent hurtling headfirst into a wall. The body plunged to the floor and, enveloped by a puddle of its own bodily fluids, died for the second time.

And Rio had glanced down at where Snowflake had been bitten—now indecipherable on his black, gangrenous wrist that jutted out from beneath the sheet—then turned to you and said: I guess it only takes once.

~~~~~~~~~~

You doze against Aemond’s shoulder as Baela drives the Honda Odessey across Indiana, goldenrods and dogwood trees, green weeds growing tall and wild, red bloodstains on pavement. Visions of the past come to you in spider-thread thin fragments of dreams.

Building dams of sticks and pebbles in the swamp-colored creek that runs along Kentucky State Route 1087. Balancing atop rusted railroad lines that once connected coal mines like ligaments link bones, bare feet, box turtles and milk snakes, autum leaves falling into your hair. Scratching black-ink battleships into the pages of your fifty-cent Walmart notebook as teachers drone on about things that mean nothing to you, things that will not take you away from here, Shakespeare, the Krebs cycle, the Tet Offensive, Spanish words for colors and animals. Mama glancing up at you as she scrubs dishes in a sink nearly overflowing with bubbles, too nonchalant to intend to be cruel: You’re lucky you ain’t too beautiful. Do you know what happens to beautiful women? Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, Natalie Wood, Anna Nicole Smith? Horrible, horrible things. And then they die.

Once in a while you pass a car or truck or SUV coasting east as you roll west, strangers who wave and give you nods of grim, transient greeting. Good luck. I’m sorry you’ve lost people. I hope you live. At a Speedway outside of Kokomo, Aemond, Aegon, Rio, and Luke draw Uno cards to see who will attempt to siphon gas from the three vehicles you find there with closed fuel caps. Aegon loses with a blue four. The Kia and Toyota are empty; there’s almost a full tank left in the Ford. You refuel the Honda Odessey and scrounge through the convenience store for supplies. Helaena seems to have developed a sort of fixation with pain pills, hoarding Advil and Tylenol. Aegon finds a few more packs of Marlboro Golds. He puffs on them, windows down and breeze blowing, neon green plastic sunglasses shielding his eyes, as Baela skirts around Indianapolis. Even from fifteen miles away, you can see the billowing smoke from the fires, hear the manmade thunder of explosions.

“Bet people are having a great time there,” Aegon murmurs as he takes a drag, embers glowing and blonde hair thrashing in the wind.

Baela follows the course he plotted, swinging just south of Peoria, Illinois to avoid the nuclear power plants between there and Chicago. You cross the Mississippi River and into the southern tip of Iowa over the Fort Madison Bridge, the toll booth occupied only by a carcass that buzzards are pecking apart, a zombie that someone else already put a bullet in…or perhaps the man did it to himself. Maybe he didn’t see a point in sticking around to watch the dead inherit the earth. You cannot agree. Each day you find more reasons to stay alive in this treacherous new world. It’s like when you were back in Soft Shell, Kentucky. You can’t give up, you can’t surrender. The only way out is through.

The black Honda Odessey—a good soldier, having taken you six hundred miles and into the vast flat vacancy of the Midwest—at last runs out of gas as you are approaching Bonaparte, founded in the 1830s as a lumber mill on the banks of the Des Moines River. You unload the minivan and trek into town; you will find somewhere to spend the night and then in the morning head south to Route 2, which you will follow all the way across Iowa to the Nebraska border.

The first house you try is at the edge of town, eggshell-colored vinyl siding and an empty gravel driveway. Rio tries the front door—locked—then tells everyone to back up. He kicks it once, no dice, gets ready to try again. Then the door opens. A woman with wide fearful eyes stands there with two boys cowering behind her, maybe ten and twelve.

“Please don’t break the lock,” the woman says softly. “We need it. Sometimes they try to get in.”

“Oh hey, lady, I’m sorry about that. We didn’t know anyone was home. You okay in there?”

Her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her. “Please leave us alone.”

Aemond climbs the steps of the front porch, taps Rio’s shoulder to tell him to back up, and kneels in the doorway so he isn’t so tall. He asks the woman: “Do you need supplies? Food, medicine?”

“Please leave us alone,” she says again.

“My name is Aemond, and those two are my brothers Aegon and Daeron, and that’s my sister Helaena, my cousin Luke, and then Rhaena and Baela. The big guy is Rio, and the girl over there…” He smiles as he gestures to you. “We like to call her Chips. Everyone is healthy, and everyone is here by choice. We’re going to the West Coast, Oregon and California. Do you want to come with us?”

But the woman shakes her head almost violently. “We’re safe in the house. We have to stay. My husband is a long-haul trucker, but he’s on his way back to us.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Go away. Please just go away. Before they see you.”

The woman shuts the door and you hear her throw the deadbolt. You leave like she asks you to; but not before Aemond collects an armful of supplies you can spare and places them in a pile on the porch for them to take inside once you’ve vanished.

The sun is sinking into the west as Helaena lights candles in Bonaparte Baptist Church and Rhaena shakes out dusty, mothball-smelling tablecloths to use as blankets. Luke finds gallons of grape juice and bags full of tiny flat bread wafers in the cabinets of the kitchenette, once used for sinless communions. It’s Daeron’s turn to stay awake for first watch. If Jace was still alive, it would be his too; instead, Aemond takes his place and refuses all offers of relief. You lie down on a pew with thin violet cushions and are thinking that you’ll never get comfortable enough to fall asleep when you are abruptly swallowed by omnipotent, black nothingness.

You jolt awake sometime in the middle of the night, a bad dream you don’t remember and don’t want to. Daeron is perched on the altar and using a hunting knife from the cellar back in Distant, Pennsylvania to sharpen the sticks he’s gathered into arrows. Baela is sitting with Aemond, their backs against the wall and voices hushed so as not to wake the others. Aemond is telling her that everything is going to be okay, that he’s still here, that Jace is gone but he’s not going anywhere, and candlelight is flickering across his scarred face, and he’s afraid but he doesn’t show it. He can’t. Too many people need him.

Oh, you realize; and it doesn’t feel awful at all, doomed or apocalyptic, a curse or a plague. It feels better than anything you knew existed. I might fall in love with him after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aemond, take a look at this,” Luke says, offering him the binoculars. You have walked several miles on Iowa State Route 2, an asphalt atoll in an ocean of emerald green flora, buffalograss and prairie roses, ash trees growing over defunct power lines.

Aemond peers through the binoculars. It’s a small farmhouse about a quarter mile off the road, rugged and weatherworn, besieged by a flock of zombies. There is something large and rectangular flapping in the wind like a white flag of surrender. “Hm,” Aemond hums sympathetically. “It’s a shame. Poor guy.”

“What do you see?” you ask, and he gives you the binoculars. The zombies, approximately thirty of them, do not appear to have breached the interior; they shuffle through the yard and up and down the steps of the porch, smack their palms against the wood siding, leave stains of gore on the boarded-up windows. None appear to be aware of you yet. The bedsheet that hangs from the attic window has a message painted on it in something dark and viscous, perhaps motor oil:

One alive inside

I can hunt, fish, and fix things

Please help me

God bless you!!!

“We should be able to get to Cantril before dark, it’s about twelve more miles,” Aegon mutters, pondering his map. “Boner-party. Who names a town something like that?”

Aemond stares at him. “Bonaparte. Like Napoleon.”

“Who?”

You pass Rio the binoculars, then say to Aemond: “We’re going to help him, right?”

“We sure as hell aren’t,” Rio replies as he studies the farmhouse. “You want to risk our lives killing all those bastards? I don’t.”

You turn to Aemond, incredulous, but he concurs with Rio. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s going on?” Baela says testily from where she’s sprawled on the pavement sipping a half-full plastic gallon of bruise-colored grape juice. She’s already exhausted, but you have no way of transporting her.

Rio points across the field. “There’s a sign saying someone’s trapped inside that house. Tough fucking luck, ain’t it?”

Baela stares at the farmhouse uneasily, her brow furrowed. Rhaena fans her with a paperback copy of Catching Fire. Daeron has wandered off the road to collect more sticks to sharpen and fill his quiver; Helaena is with him picking wildflowers.

“That was us,” you tell Rio. “We were stranded on that transmission tower and we would have died if we’d been left there. But we weren’t. Someone saved us.”

“Things were different then,” Aemond says, unemotional, uncompromising. “We had the Tahoe. Now we’re on foot, and we’d have to kill each of them individually. And there’s no way to make a fast escape if something goes wrong.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?” Aegon says doubtfully, his large ocean-blue eyes flicking between you and Aemond. He stuffs his map back into his shorts pocket and scratches at the tattoo on his forearm: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

Rio groans. “Come on, man, we don’t even know if anyone’s still alive in there! What if he’s dead already? What if he got bit or starved to death or fell down the steps and snapped his neck or something?”

“What if he’s not a good guy?” Aemond adds.

“There’s a Trump 2024 sign in the front yard,” Luke says. He has the binoculars again. Aemond opens his hands, an I told you so sort of gesture. Luke amends: “Not that anyone deserves to get eaten alive or transformed into a walking corpse. But, you know. I figured I’d mention it.”

You are not swayed. Had you stayed in Soft Shell, Kentucky, you might have believed the same things. “People deserve to have the chance to start over.”

Aemond’s eye is on you, narrow and seeking, desperate to understand. “Why are you so fixated on this stranger?”

“He hunts, he fishes. What are we going to do when we get out into Wyoming and Nevada where towns are fifty miles apart and there’s hardly anywhere to scavenge for food? What are we going to eat when the beef jerky and Skittles run out?”

“You said everyone hunts where you’re from.”

“Not literally everyone. I don’t hunt.”

“You can shoot.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to track animals. And even if I killed a deer, I wouldn’t know how to dress it.”

Aegon blinks at you. “To what?”

“To remove the skin and organs and everything.”

“Oh. Okay. That makes more sense.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Aemond repeats. Rio is nodding in agreement. Baela’s lips are pressed into a thin, thoughtful, rigid line. Daeron and Helaena have returned to the road to see how the discussion unfolds.

“There are about thirty zombies out there,” you say. “I can take fifteen. I just need you guys to do the rest.”

“Everyone here is my responsibility.” Aemond is severe, but he isn’t angry.

“Then you’re responsible for their humanity as well.”

“I can’t justify risking our lives for this.”

“I’ve killed people, living people, and I didn’t like how that felt. Make no mistake, this is killing too, just by omission instead of with bullets. We’ll all have to carry that weight. The man in that farmhouse hasn’t threatened us. He’s helpless, and he’s trapped, and if we don’t save him, who else is going to do it? What if it was you in there? What if it was me?”

Aemond, frowning, contemplates the house that has become a prison. Rio looks at you, one eyebrow raised. You gaze stoically back. He sighs. “Okay, what the hell, let’s rock,” Rio says.

Baela holds up her Ruger in one hand, slips her hammer out of a belt loop of her shorts with the other. “I’m on board.”

“You shouldn’t be on anything except bedrest,” Aemond tells her.

“I can take fifteen of the zombies myself,” you say again. “I have two M9s, thirty bullets total. I won’t need more than that.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron says.

“Shut up,” Aegon replies, though his tone is gentle. “You can’t even donate blood.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron insists, clutching his compound bow. “At least ten.”

Aegon swings his golf club around. “I can take…like…probably approximately three.”

Rio grabs his face and squeezes his sunburned cheeks as Aegon giggles and slaps at him. “You won’t get the opportunity, Honey Bun. Stay in the kitchen and bake apple pies until Daddy comes home from work.”

“You really think this is the right thing to do?” Aemond asks you. It’s not a challenge, only a question. He’s at war with himself, you can tell. He’s trying very hard to treat you like someone he’s not terrified to lose.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He pulls his Glock out of its holster. “The gunfire will attract more of them.”

“Then we’ll have to move quickly.”

Aemond turns to Baela, still wilted on the pavement. “You, Rhaena, and Helaena will follow behind us with Luke and finish off any zombies we missed.”

Baela gives him a weak, acquiescent thumbs up, breathing heavily. “Got it.”

“Helaena, you still have your Ruger, right?”

“I won’t need it,” she murmurs, wildflowers tucked into her long blonde hair, watching a ladybug skitter across her knuckles. Aemond is exasperated.

“I’ll make sure she’s okay,” Luke promises. He’s using his binoculars to scout for any threats on the horizon, additional zombies or approaching strangers. Evidently, there are none.

“The grass,” Helaena says. “It makes it hard to see the snakes. Watch your step.”

Aemond replies distractedly: “I think we have bigger worries at the moment, babe.” As Rio pumps his Remington and Luke fumbles nervously with his Marlin .22 to make sure it’s fully loaded, Aemond walks a few yards away from the others and gestures for you to follow him. Aemond’s voice is low, the blue of his eye river-clear and blade-sharp. “I want you to stay near Rio.”

You give him a small, teasing smile. “So you won’t worry about me?”

“So I’ll worry slightly less.” He brushes a piece of buffalograss from your hair, his fingers lingering there longer than they need to. “Rio’s the biggest, he’s the best fighter. And if one of those things catches you by surprise, he’ll be able to crack its skull no problem. So keep close.”

“I’ll try, but sometimes it’s more complicated than that.”

“Please work with me. I’m giving you what you want.”

To be useful, to be merciful. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Thank me by not letting anything bite you. Not today, not ever.”

“Well, except you of course.”

He laughs, the tension in his face breaking; he skates his thumbprint over your cheek and kisses your forehead, swift like a reflex, unthinking, instinctive.

“Good to go?” Rio asks with a grin, holding his Remington with both hands.

Aegon’s golf club is resting across his shoulders, and you have a sudden vision of Jace doing the same thing with a baseball bat, a vengeful ghost peering out from beneath his curls with cunning dark eyes and a smirk. “Yeah, Chipotle, you’re leading the charge here.”

“No she’s not,” Aemond says, striding to the edge of the road. Across the field is the farmhouse, the white bedsheet S.O.S. still whipping in the wind. “I’m in front. Everyone else is behind me.”

“Oh yeah? Then who’s gonna watch your blind side, huh?” Aegon jogs over and whacks Aemond’s left shoulder with an open palm, beaming up at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll still get to be the hero. I was born talentless.”

“You have talents, Aegon,” you say. “You can sing.”

“Not relevant in a zombie-riddled apocalyptic hellscape, Cow Chip.” He and Aemond start across the field, then you and Rio, then Daeron, darting around in your peripheral vision, nocking sharpened sticks like arrows. Luke, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena trail at a distance.

You have closed half of the gap between the road and the farmhouse—and Daeron has already felled several zombies—before the beasts begin to turn around and notice you. They do not understand danger; they only understand hunger, and they lurch towards you with teeth gnashing and claws outstretched, strips of decaying flesh hanging like sleeves from their arms. You hate the way they move, like they’re trying to imitate life, like they are receiving some sinister transmission that reverberates inside them, like they are soulless vessels to be used in the darkest ways.

You stop, plant your feet in the earth, and raise one of your Beretta M9s. Your eyes find the sights; your finger settles on the trigger. You are rusty at first: a miss, a bullet in a rotting shoulder instead of a skull. Then you click into a rhythm and the zombies drop as they stumble towards you, infected dark blood spewing, brains pouring out onto the soil. When your clip is empty, you shove the first M9 back into its holster and pull out the other.

Daeron is putting his makeshift arrows through eye sockets, Aemond is firing his Glock, Rio is erasing entire heads with the grotesque power of his Remington. Aegon is swinging his golf club around wildly. His Marlin .22 hangs from its strap across his back, but he’s hopeless with it; his aim quite literally could not be worse. You hear other gunshots too, maybe Luke. A stranger appears from the front door of the farmhouse: red flannel shirt, roomy jeans, tan work boots, long messy russet hair pulled back in a man bun, almost as big as Rio. He is carrying an axe and begins helping to cut down the remaining zombies. Rio realizes you’re no longer with him and turns around to find you.

“I’m good!” you shout, waving him forward. “Go, go!” Rio nods and takes off again towards the farmhouse, blasting his Remington 12 gauge like a cannon.

Your ankle snags on something, a gnarled root, an old piece of farm machinery. You fall hard, hitting the ground and knocking the air out of your lungs. Your M9 is flung from your grasp. You roll onto your back and sit up to see what you’re caught on. It’s the grasping hand of a zombie, an old man, long white hair and dead milky eyes, only a torso, nothing below the ribcage except a tangle of dirt-coated intestines. It is scrambling towards your legs, jaws rattling, teeth covered in the blood of the other people it has eaten.

You shriek and try to kick it away. You reach for the empty M9, rip it out of its holster, and hold it by the barrel so you can use the grip, the heaviest part of a pistol, to bash the zombie’s skull in. But you aren’t Rio; when you strike the zombie’s head, it keeps hissing and scrabbling towards your flesh that sings to it like a siren, irresistible, divine.

I can’t let it bite me, I can’t let it bite me—

There is a boom and the zombie drops face-down to the earth. You are saved; you are free. You turn to see Rhaena standing beside you, clutching her tiny Ruger in trembling hands…but her eyes are closed. Slowly, petrified, they come open, one after the other.

You gape up at her. “Did you aim?!”

Rhaena shrugs guiltily. “I don’t remember how.”

“Jesus Christ. Well thanks, I guess. Glad you missed my pelvis.”

She laughs shakily. “Yeah. Me too.” Rhaena holsters her Ruger and helps you to your feet. By now, everyone else has realized you’re in trouble and are sprinting over, including the new guy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, holding up your arms and skimming your palms down your bare legs to show them you haven’t been bitten. “No need to despair. Rhaena rescued me.”

Aemond gets to you first. “Can I see?” he asks breathlessly. You give him your hands and with his fingertips, he reads you like Braille: palms, forearms, throat, jaw, gingerly turning your face away from him and then back again. He exhales, relieved. “Good job, Rhaena,” Aemond says, and she smiles. Baela uses her hammer to smash the skull of a zombie that’s still squirming. Aegon yanks a snarling toddler to its feet—Pokémon t-shirt, left leg missing, wearing one of those child leashes—and swings his golf club so hard its whole head pops off and rolls away into the buffalograss with sick wet thumps.

“I thought you couldn’t kill the kids,” you say.

Aegon spits on the corpse’s collapsed, headless body. “It’s different now. These monsters ate Jace. Fuck ‘em all.”

“I can’t thank y’all enough,” the axe-wielding stranger says. “I was sure I was going to die in there like a rat in a trap. There’s a hog farm on the property behind mine, and I think the…you know…all the meat attracts zombies. A pack of them saw me in the yard and followed me to the house, and when they’re in a group like that, they seem…well, I just couldn’t get rid of them. Alone they wander wherever, but a hoard has structure, it has a mission, and they were waiting me out. I didn’t have my guns, I didn’t have my truck…”

“What happened to them?” Rio asks.

“I got robbed, that’s what happened.”

“No!” Baela says. “Really?”

“A week ago, five men I’d never seen before broke in while I was sleeping. They must have drugged my dog, who knows with what—she slept for twenty hours, have you ever heard of something like that?—and locked me in my bedroom. By the time I kicked the door down they were gone, and so were quite a few of my earthly possessions. It was nice of them not to murder us, I guess. I have a couple boxes of ammo left, but that’s all. Mostly 9mm.”

“That’s exactly what I need,” you say.

The stranger gives you a curious, appraising glance. “I’m very glad to be able to assist you, ma’am.” Then he finally gets a good look at Aemond, who is glaring at him. “Lord almighty, what the hell happened to your face?”

“A piece of sheet metal fell on me.”

“He stitched it up himself,” Luke says. “I watched. It was wild.”

The man is impressed. “You’re a doctor?”

“No, no, no,” Aemond amends. “Just an intern.”

“He’s basically a doctor,” Baela says.

“Well, you’ll be useful to have around, I expect.” The stranger offers his hand and Aemond, somewhat unenthusiastically, shakes it. “I’m Cregan Stark.”

“Aemond Targaryen.”

“Targaryen?! That’s a heck of a name, sir.”

“It’s Greek,” Aegon says.

“Where are y’all headed? Not all the way back to Greece, I hope. That’d be a hike. And a swim too, I guess.”

Aemond smiles tightly, polite but guarded. “Not that far away. We’re on our way to the West Coast, California and Oregon.”

“And you’re on foot?! You need horses.”

“We haven’t come across any that are still alive.”

“Do you want to travel with us, Cregan?” Luke asks amiably.

“I reckon I would, for now at least. I got nowhere else to be and no one to care for.” Cregan looks to Aemond. “That alright with you, doc?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies ungenerously.

“My folks got a trailer over towards Cantril, and a truck parked out back too if nobody’s stolen it yet. We can stay the night there if you want and then drive west in the morning.”

“Cantril! That’s on our route!” Aegon exclaims, he of the map and the gel pens.

Aemond narrows his eye at Cregan, suspicious. “If your parents are so close, why aren’t you staying with them? Why didn’t they swing by to check on you and see you were in trouble here?”

“Well, ‘cause they’re dead,” Cregan says, and Aemond is abruptly remorseful. “When all this started, I went over to get them and they were out in the front yard, just bones. All the flesh was chewed right off. But I found their wedding rings in the grass, and Mama’s pearl necklace that her Grammie gave her when she got married, Mama never took it off as long as she lived. It looked like a string of rubies.”

Aemond swallows noisily. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothing I can do about it now,” Cregan says, staring out over the field and biting his lips so they don’t quiver.

“Did your parents have guns?” Rio asks hopefully.

Cregan chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’d be swell, wouldn’t it? Daddy got all his guns taken away when I was in high school.”

“Taken away…?” Baela echoes.

“Yeah,” Cregan says casually. “After the methamphetamine conviction.” He whistles, and a dog comes loping out of the front door of the farmhouse. It’s huge and mean-looking, fur the color of ashes or smoke. It goes directly to Cregan and noses his hands; you are reminded of how Aemond searched you fearfully for injuries. “She’s half-German Shepherd, half-grey wolf. Her name’s Ice.”

“Does she bite?” Aemond asks tentatively.

“My little princess?! Hell no! I wish she did, then maybe those robbers wouldn’t have gotten what they wanted. But she knows when those things are around.”

Aegon pats her angular, steel-colored head. Ice puts back her pointy ears and closes her eyes, basking in the attention. “Hey, fuzzball. I’m going to call you Blue Raspberry Icee.”

“You can call her whatever you want to as long as she’s allowed to come with us.”

“She’s welcome if she sniffs out zombies,” Aemond says.

Baela is struck by a thought. “Cregan, what kind of truck did your parents have? I hope it’s big. We’re a lot of people.” She’s resting her hands on her belly. And we’re about to add one more.

“A Chevy Tahoe,” Cregan says. You all begin chattering excitedly, then have to explain why.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Y’all like fishing?” Cregan asks. He’s cooking dinner for everyone with his dead parents’ Coleman butane camping stove, only one burner, each course prepared individually. You are all seated around him on the living room floor, sipping cans of Coke and Sprite—what Cregan calls “pop”—and eating turkey-flavored instant stuffing that came out of a cardboard box. Now Cregan is working on Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, tiny white flakes like snow that puff up in boiling water. Rhaena is staring at the pot with horror. Baela scarfs down her stuffing like she’s been starving to death. Flashlights illuminate the room in dim ocher like a setting sun, the roof vents open to let in cool night air. The trailer smells like cigarette smoke and dust and mildew. Piled haphazardly in corners are old newspapers, mounds of unfolded clothes, empty boxes and plastic bags, VHS tapes—Star Wars, 80s rock concerts, Clint Eastwood movies—and unwashed cups.

Aemond chuckles like it’s preposterous. “No.”

“Garth Brooks?”

“No.”

“NASCAR?”

“Who watches NASCAR?!” Aegon says.

You smile. “Everyone’s got a driver where I’m from.”

Cregan, vindicated, thumps a closed fist against his chest. “I was a Jeff Gordon guy. His car reminded me of a box of Froot Loops or something.”

“My brother Denver covered the inside of the garage with Dale Earnhardt Jr. stuff. I got obsessed with Juan Pablo Montoya for a while, he was cute.”

“So you chase the dark-haired fellas,” Cregan says, grinning, still stirring the potatoes. Everyone else’s wide, perplexed gazes fly between you and Cregan as they eat their Stove Top stuffing from Styrofoam bowls.

You titter nervously. “I don’t usually chase anyone.”

Aegon notices a taxidermied largemouth bass mounted on the wall, approximately fifteen pounds. “What the fuck,” he whispers, dismayed.

“WWE?” Cregan asks you.

“Oh, Rey Mysterio, no question. He was cute too.”

Cregan snorts. “He literally never took off his mask!”

“He was cute underneath it. I could tell, I have a sense for these things.”

“I’ll let you live in delusion.”

“I thought wrestling was real back then. When he’d get beat up and covered in fake blood, I’d start crying because I figured he’d die. Who was your favorite?”

“John Cena.” Cregan waves an open hand back and forth in front of his face. “You can’t see me!” You both burst out laughing. No one else gets it.

“It’s John Cena’s signature move,” you explain.

“Hm,” Aemond says, but he’s watching you and Cregan with deep grooves in his forehead and a solemnness in his lone blue eye, tapping his chin restlessly.

“Now, we might not have any butter…” Cregan picks up one of the containers scattered around him, a plastic jug of Great Value powdered coffee creamer. “But this makes for the best potatoes on the planet.” The others watch, stunned, appalled, as he adds several heaping spoonfuls to the pot.

You smile wistfully. How is it possible to be so nostalgic for a place you once believed was killing you, wringing you dry until all your blood dripped onto the floor and you were left a husk, a ghost, a myth? “My Mama always did that. She put it in mac and cheese too.”

Cregan serves you first, taking your empty stuffing bowl and returning it nearly overflowing with Hungry Jack instant potatoes. “Here’s a taste of home.”

And he’s right; you take a bite—hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth, rich, soupy in texture—and it’s just like being five or ten or fifteen again, when this was your idea of luxury, a good day, lounging on a sagging couch torn to hell by the cats and watching The Simpsons or Malcolm In The Middle with your brothers. Cregan scoops Hungry Jack into all the bowls. Baela digs in enthusiastically. The others, following your lead, take cautious tastes, shrug, and decide it’s tolerable for one night. Cregan grabs a new pot and dumps a box of Rice-A-Roni into it, along with the packet of seasoning, a bottle of water, and a single spoonful of coffee creamer for good measure. As the rice cooks, he distributes one can of barbeque-flavored Vienna sausages to each guest. Rhaena pops hers open and immediately begins retching. Aegon feeds his to Ice.

After dinner, Cregan compiles all the extra blankets and pillows he can find, then supplements with bath towels and bedsheets from the closet in the hallway. The trailer is small, only one bedroom; you all agree Baela should get it. She will share with Rhaena and Luke, as she always does now. She doesn’t like sleeping alone. Cregan offers to take first watch, a gift in return for being rescued from a slow death by deprivation. Aemond agrees, but only because Rio—with a wink and a knowing smirk—volunteers to stay up too. Rio will keep tabs on this almost-stranger; Rio is the only one big enough to knock Cregan around if such an occasion ever arose. Aemond tells them to wake him up halfway through the night so he can take over and let them rest. You say you want to do the second watch too, and this time Aemond doesn’t argue.

Helaena gets the couch and Daeron curls up on the olive green carpet beside her, Aegon claims the tattered old recliner, you arrange your pillow and blanket—thin, scratchy, a weak blue mottled with dark stains you can’t identify—against the wall on the other side of the living room. Rio is teaching Cregan how to play Uno on the small plastic folding table by the kitchen, only spacious enough for two. Ice is stretched out beneath the table with her grey muzzle resting on her paws. At the moment, Aemond is supervising; he’s still trying to decide how much he can trust Cregan.

Aegon wanders over to you then bends down, his hands on his knees. “This place is revolting,” he whispers.

“It’s alright.”

“Where did you grow up? Alcatraz?” You laugh, and Aegon gives you his pink CD player, Ava still written across the top in rhinestones. “Just in case you need to get away for a while. It’s wasted on me. I’m going to be unconscious about two seconds after my head hits the pillow.”

“I’ll take good care of it.”

“If you see any meth lying around, you let me know. I’m always in the market for new ways to shorten my life expectancy.”

“I’ll keep any such discoveries to myself. I enjoy you too much.”

Aegon recoils, lets that sink in, then beams as he saunters back to his creaking recliner.

“Hey, Chips?” Luke says, approaching you shyly. He’s holding his Marlin .22. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but my rifle was shooting way to the left today, and I don’t think my aim’s that awful.”

“No problem.” You take it and remove the remaining bullets so there’s no chance the gun will accidentally fire, then examine the sights. “Can you get me Baela’s hammer?”

“Sure.” Luke dashes off and then returns with it moments later.

“You said it was skewed to the left?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

You take the hammer and tap the rear sight a few times. Luke watches you, fascinated, troubled. When he speaks, his voice is soft and miserable.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at everything.”

“You know, this is the only possible scenario in which someone like you is worth less than me.” You give him an encouraging smile. “I didn’t go to a fancy school. I work with my hands.”

“But you’re smart, Chips. You could have gone to college if you wanted to.”

How would I have paid for application fees, or to take the SAT? How would I have gotten Mama to fill out the FAFSA? What school would have given me a scholarship with my mediocre grades in standard-level classes? Who would have driven me to school and helped me move in? How would I have bought books, shampoo, tampons, a laptop? Where would I have gone if I had trouble finding a job after graduation? What if the people there saw through me? What if they shrank away from the frayed threads I’m built of? There is no point in saying these things. The gulf between you is too great; it will only confuse Luke and hurt you. “I wouldn’t have known where to start.” You reload the Marlin .22 and pass both the gun and the hammer back to him. “I think it’ll work better now.”

“I bet you wish Jace was here instead of me,” Luke says, and it shocks you. “Everyone does, except maybe Rhaena.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jace was a good fighter, and he was smart, and brave, and capable, and I’m just this…this weak scared loser who only knows how to write screenplays. And what goddamn use is that? Hollywood doesn’t even exist anymore! Scraps of Tom Cruise are probably stuck in some zombie’s teeth right now!”

“Luke, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I shouldn’t have left Jace,” he whispers, distraught. “I betrayed him. He was always protecting me and I couldn’t even save him once.”

“We did everything we could. And we all left Jace, not just you. It was me and Rio who said it first. You haven’t earned the blame.” If Jace’s ghost comes knocking, it won’t be your door he opens, Luke.

“Okay,” Luke replies softly.

“Baela is very, very grateful to still have you and Rhaena, Luke. She told me.”

Luke stares at you, doubtful, hopeful, wanting to believe. “Really?”

“I swear she did. I think you two are keeping her sane. The world, the baby, Jace…sometimes what’s most valuable to people are simple things, kindness, gentleness, compassion, support. I can kill zombies, sure, but I’ve never been good at knowing the right thing to say. You are.”

“Okay,” Luke says again, but he seems more at peace now; perhaps even the tiniest bit proud. “I guess I should go make sure Baela has everything she needs before I go to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Luke walks a few steps, then turns back towards you, smiling. “I think you know the right thing to say once in a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Luke insists, then disappears down the shadowy hallway and into the bedroom.

Aemond arrives at last with his blanket and pillow, arranges them beside yours, then joins you where you sit cross-legged on the floor. “You didn’t stay with Rio today when we rescued Cregan,” he says; not an accusation, a statement, a surrender of sorts.

“No. I didn’t.”

You must be visibly preoccupied. Aemond asks: “What are you thinking about?”

You decide to tell the truth. “How you were never supposed to meet me.”

“What do you mean?”

You point to him. “Rich boy with a beach house on a cliff.” Then you tap your own heart. “Poor girl who grew up playing with sticks and box turtles.”

“And that’s why you like Cregan so much.”

“It’s nice to have someone around who speaks the same language, sure. It’s nice to not have to explain things or think up lies so I can fit into other people’s idea of what the world is. But I don’t like Cregan more than I like you. Not even close.”

Aemond smiles, a warm glow like fire from under his scarred skin. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even if it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry I’m not…” Someone sophisticated, seductive, experienced, bewitching. “I’m sorry I don’t already know how to do everything.”

“I don’t care. I would have liked you however you were when I found you.”

You look up at him skeptically. “Really?”

“Yes. Zero boyfriends or ten or twenty, I would want you the same way I do now.”

It hits you so suddenly you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, the shimmering tears in your eyes. “Aemond, please don’t die.”

“I’ll do my best.” He lifts the CD player from your lap and offers you an earbud. You accept it and slip it into your right ear as he puts the other into his left, then clicks the play button on Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. What you hear are the opening ukelele plucks of Riptide, and you are spirited back to 2013: middle school, oversized hoodies and ripped jeans, hair you have no idea what to do with, the librarian letting you browse music videos on YouTube during lunch because you never cause any trouble, taking bites of your sandwich—one piece of Wonder Bread folded in half, a glob of Skippy peanut butter—and chewing slowly to make it last longer.

Aemond lies down and you rest your head on his chest as he covers you both with his blanket, circles his arms around you and pulls you in closer; and through the music you hear him mutter: “I wish this disgusting Hoarders trailer had two bedrooms.”

You laugh, burrow deeper into him, let his warmth and the drumming of his heartbeat lull you into darkness, still and serene, a place that exists beyond the world and the fear that it is ending.

When you open your eyes again, Aemond is up and speaking in hushed voices with Cregan and Rio in the kitchen, but he hasn’t tried to rouse you yet. I shouldn’t be awake, why am I awake?

Because someone is shining a flashlight directly into your face. You blink and swat at the blinding yellow-white gleam, your eyes aching, your vision hazy and distorted.

“He must check below the racks,” Helaena says. She is on her hands and knees and peering down at you like a bird of prey, like a goddess on Mount Olympus.

“What…?”

“He’s tall, so he won’t look, but that’s where it is. Below the racks. He must see it. Promise me you’ll make him see it.”

“Who’s tall…?” Aemond, Rio, Cregan?

“Promise me!” she hisses fiercely.

“Okay, Helaena! Okay. I promise.”

She crawls away without another word, climbs onto the couch, clicks off the flashlight, and tumbles back into the abyss of sleep with her back to you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Chevy Tahoe—2001 instead of 2023, a dull rusty red instead of glossy dark blue—barrels down Route 2 past fields of soybeans ravaged by deer and rabbits, high feral weeds, tree branches entombing power lines and houses and barns, leaves freckled with cicadas and caterpillars, hay bales and archaic churches, life in shades of peridot and malachite and bloodstone and jade. Baela is driving, Ice has her big shaggy head hanging out of an open window, Cregan is examining Aegon’s map…and meanwhile, Aegon and Rio are singing along to the Enrique Iglesias song blasting through the speakers as one of the mixtapes spins in the Tahoe’s CD player, pretending to serenade and propose marriage to each other.

“Bailamos, let the rhythm take you over, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, bailamos

Gonna live this night forever, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, te quiero!”

Up ahead there is something in the middle of the road. No, not something; someone, parked across the double yellow lines on a small black motorcycle. As you approach, this person—made blurry by the distance—removes their helmet and seems to wait for you.

“What’s up with that?” Baela asks apprehensively, slowing down from her previously brisk eighty miles per hour.

Aemond frowns at the figure and then scans the fields on either side of the road. “I don’t know. Luke?”

Luke stands up through the sunroof to get a better look with his binoculars. “Oh my God, it’s…it’s…”

“Jace!” Baela screams, and slams on the brakes. She bolts out of the Tahoe before remembering to put it in park; the SUV rolls along sluggishly until Rhaena yanks the gear lever into the proper position. Now everyone is pouring out of the doors and rushing to him. Jace is laughing; he embraces Baela as she crashes into him and sobs into the curve of his neck. Jace is wearing jeans and a leather jacket despite the heat, safety precautions for the motorcycle. If he were to fall off, he’d keep most of his skin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you guys. I didn’t know if I was too far ahead or falling behind.”

Aegon gawks at him, sputtering. “How did…? How are you…?”

“You showed me your map, idiot,” Jace says; but he sounds relieved. “Route 2 all the way across Iowa, that part was pretty easy to remember. I figured if I could get here, I might be able to find you. If not, I’d just surprise you in California.” He grins, huge and teasing, ecstatic tears glittering in his eyes.

“The river,” Luke says, thunderstruck. “We thought you were dead…we left you…Jace, I’m…I’m so sorry we left you…”

“Hey, I get it. The bridge situation was fucked, there was no way you guys could fish me out. The river washed me miles downstream, way too fast for the zombies to keep up. I eventually got dumped on the shore near where some people had set up camp for the night. They were living out of a school bus, about fifteen of them. They heard me coughing and moaning, hunted me down, and dragged me back to the bus. Super nice, right? I told them about the zombies, and we relocated in a hurry. They were headed for a town up near Chicago, Rockville or something, so they took me with them and then one guy gave me his bike and taught me to ride it so I could go west. It’s a Honda Rebel 300. It can get 70 miles to the gallon. I’ve barely had to siphon any gas! And the siphoning hose my new friends gave me is the kind with a pump. No more Uno roulette, bitches!”

“I can’t believe you’re okay,” Baela whispers, tears flooding down her face.

“Don’t cry, I’m here, I’m back, everything’s the way it should be again. Now how’s my baby doing…?”

You, Aemond, and Rio exchange astonished glances. Luke snaps out of his shock and runs to hug Jace and Baela, and Rhaena follows him. Daeron searches the horizon for movement, for danger. Helaena rips the pristine white petals off a bloodroot blossom one by one.

For the first time, Jace notices Cregan. Ice stands beside the flannel-wearing Iowan on the pavement, wagging her long grey tail. She barks at Jace uncertainly. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Cregan Man Bun Stark,” Aegon says. “And his anti-zombie wolf Blue Raspberry Icee.”

[polarspaz]

WerewolfLeonRE AU! (( Because F!@# me, apparently I can’t go a week without making another damn werewolf AU for some reason..!    ૮ ⚆ﻌ⚆ა  ))

What Leon doesn’t realize is that the dog he saved from the bear trap was in fact, not a normal dog, far from it. The so called dog is actually a wolf spirit that has lived the woods for eons, a supernatural creature that held some powerful sway over nature.

Leon’s mercy endeared the spirt, but his battle prowess with the El’Gigante impressed it as well. So when the battle is over and Leon gives the wolf a heartfelt thanks, the spirit decides right there to bless him with it’s ‘gift’.

Before Leon can act, the wolf lunges forward and bites into his neck. Leon bucks his arms underneath the wolf, who immediately lets go and allows Leon to throw it backwards. When Leon snaps around, his knife out ready to parry a follow up attack, the wolf is simply gone. Even weirder is that he felt teeth pierce his skin, but he looks, his shoulder bears no signs of wounds or blood.

Disturbed and confused, Leon brushes the event aside and heads off after Ashley.

Then twenty minutes later he’s throwing up the Plaga that had been residing inside his chest. The small thing lets out a pitiful whine as it dies in his puddle of vomit, much to the shock of Luis and to his own relief.

But like a creeping cold Leon starts to feel off. Smells and noises are becoming almost unbearably acute. The rancid smells of blood, rot, and mucus have intensified and Leon finds himself stopping to gag a few times and collect himself.

And damn, when were guns this loud? It takes way more effort than he would like to stop himself from full body flinching every time he fired his guns now. Yet it all comes to head when they get to the mines and he yanks Luis back, making the other man narrowly miss a knife aimed for his spine.

The ensuring fight with Krauser ignites a fire in Leon and suddenly he’s transforming. Both Luis and Krauser share a moment of sheer bafflement as they watch the agent morph into a 7 foot tall, snarling werewolf.

Leon, not really aware of what is happening, uses this opportunity to beat the ever loving shit out of Krauser, who escapes after, still utterly confused. 

Luis finds himself awkwardly standing there with panting beast, who looks at him sharply with it’s blue eyes. Neither of them move for a moment until Luis puts his hands up and smiles nervously. “Leon? You’re not gonna eat me are you?” 

Leon jolts at the sound of his name and looks down at himself before making a confused warbling growl. Then, within a few scant seconds he’s back to being a human again. 

“What the actual fuck is going on?!” Leon manages to ask after a moment, looking to Luis who honestly looks just as confused as he is....

[blindmagdalena]

I have a headcannon that the reader is apart of the 7 (which would make it the 8 instead) and they've just gone through a nasty break up and homelander finds them crying and he just awkwardly pats them on the back and sits next to them while they sob

Homelander being Bad at emotional communication/comfort but making an attempt anyways because he believes it's his duty as the leader of The Seven—primarily to maintain his team as an extension of himself—is so, so good.

he naturally talks like an awkward dad. I can so clearly see him hesitantly meandering in and being like, "Hey, champ. Something up?" and he doesn't really want to know, but he feels obligated to at least ask. Ideally they'll give a brief answer, he can say, "Chin up! You're a hero, after all." y'know, spout the usual party lines.

but the answer is not brief. it's detailed, there's this immense relief from them over the fact he asked at all. suddenly he has his hands full with a heavy emotional burden that he has no idea what to do with other than nod and make the occasional hum.

listening to someone crying is probably a sensory nightmare for Homelander. hearing every wet blink, every snotty sniffle, the mucus in the back of the throat while they speak, the rattle of their breath. pair that with his sheer inexperience and emotional immaturity? he's tapping his fingers on his thighs, enduring more than he is actually comforting.

but then it's over, and they're looking at him with watery eyes and a red nose and a smile. "Thank you, Homelander," they say. he's not sure why he's so offput by their gratitude. he's entitled to it, of course. he just sat here for god knows how long (less than 5 minutes) suffering alongside them. he deserves to be thanked, so why does his skin feel so itchy under his suit?

He's not ready to think about how much easier his life would have been if there had been just one person willing to be there for him when he had suffered. how different things would be if he hadn't been so alone, his mind had to invent someone who would sit in for him.

Because he's not ready, he gives a broad, toothy grin that drips insincerity and stands up. "Teamwork makes the dream work," he says flatly, and pats them a little too sharply on the back, jostling them. they look as confused by the gesture as he feels. he clears his throat.

"Right. Go get yourself cleaned up! No one likes to see a hero in the dumps," he says, and turns on his heel. He doesn't want to listen to one more second of wet, sad breathing.

"Wait!" They say, and he stops. doesn't look back, keeps his look of impatient disgust to himself. "If you ever, you know... need someone. I'm here. I can be your someone."

Tightly, he bares his teeth in that same smile, the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and turns back around. Offers them a cynical little thumbs up. "You bet'cha."

Finally, he gets away. He exhales roughly. He feels uncomfortably warm and prickly all over, unable to put his finger on why.

I can be your someone.

Those words rattle around in his brain for the rest of the day.

I can be your someone.

They grow from a whisper in the back of his mind to a loud and ugly distraction.

The fucking nerve of them. He doesn't need anyone. He's fucking Homelander. As if he'd ever be caught dead sobbing his "widdle feewings" out in the conference room.

Pathetic.

And yet...

The next time Homelander feels it, that bubbling rage broiling up from his gut to his throat, burning like bile, those words come back like the flashes of a nightmare resurfacing from his subconscious.

I can be your someone.

Which is precisely how Homelander winds up tracking them down and sitting next to them with a vicious flourish of his cape.

"Oh, Homelander, hey—"

He puts his finger up sharply. "Shut... up. Sit there and be..." Be my someone. "Be quiet."

The silence is tense at first. Seconds tick by like minutes, minutes go on like hours. He listens to the patter of their heart. It shot up when he snapped, but it's beginning to calm now. Their breaths are steady. His own breathing, initially sharp huffs from his nose, gradually evens out. His churning stomach settles, and bit by bit, he feels himself again.

No destruction. No thick coppery tang of blood lingering in his nose. Just slowing breaths, steady heartbeats, and someone who will be there.

Eventually, Homelander clears his throat. "Thanks," he says, voice tight. "Teamwork makes the dream work," they reply. He looks over at them with a quirked brow. They're smiling faintly, a little playful. That catches him off guard. At first he thought they were mocking him, but they just look relieved. Something unspoken has occurred, and neither of them know what to say.

Homelander looks down at his hands. The leather of his gloves squeaks when he flexes them. "Anyways—"

A touch to his back startles the words off of his tongue. He looks at them. No judgement, just quiet sympathy as they rub back. Oh, he thinks, recalling the forceful way he'd patted them. This is what that's supposed to feel like.

He looks away, and they linger like that a moment longer. His cape and suit muffle much of the feeling of their hand, but still, the contact is nice. It bridges the isolating gap that Homelander experiences in his day to day interactions. Somehow, there is more connection here than in some of his intimate experiences.

He leans back into the touch slightly, blinking.

Pathetic, he thinks as his eyes burn wetly.

Homelander stands briskly, clapping his gloved hands to his thighs. "Right. Good. Back to work," he says, unsure of what it was they had been doing in the first place. He just needs to leave.

"Okay," they say, voice full of such gentle understanding. It only makes the burn in his eyes worsen, tinged with resentment. Where was this when he needed it most? "I'll see you later."

He opens his mouth, but stops himself. He bites the inside of his cheek, and then clicks his tongue lightly. "Yeppers," he says simply, at a loss. He leaves that way, heart heavy with a mix of strange, uncomfortable feelings, and yet undeniably lighter than when he had first arrived.

He doesn't know what to think of any of it. All he knows is that it will require further examination, and further interactions with his...

Someone.

[five-miles-over]

Your Remedy

Pairing: Jaguar Villain!Thomas x Reader

Summary: He may be one of the most powerful and feared man in London, a terrifying villain to the outside world, but when you're sick with a cold, your paramour Thomas spends the entire evening by your side taking care of you.

Word Count: 1,827

Warning: Implied criminal activity, talk about mucus and coughing, mostly fluff

"Hi, love." You blew your nose into a tissue and sat up in bed, wrapped in blankets. "You look like you've had a long day." Offering him a tired smile, you threw the tissue into a small waste bin. You ran your hand through your hair, smoothing any flyaways. You hoped that even while you were dealing with an irritating cold, you could still look nice enough for Thomas when he came home. 

Home. Yes, it felt strange sometimes, calling the two-bedroom flat that your paramour had bought for you four months ago your home. But Thomas was never one to take things slowly. Merely a month after meeting you, he asked you to be his lover, his sweetheart, his closest companion. Yes, those were the words he used. Thomas considered himself - and you - to be above plain terms like 'girlfriend'. And a week after you agreed to be his, he began sending a chauffeured town car to pick you up every day, though that was mainly because Thomas wanted to keep you safe from any of his enemies that could try to harm you. Also, it was his way of secretly learning what groceries you liked to buy, so he could keep your flat stocked with them. Most recently, Thomas brought you as his date to a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the West End. He had your gown selected in your favorite color and your favorite style, and proudly introduced you to all of his associates and employees during the intermission. He regaled them with little anecdotes about how he personally selected each and every gift he gave you while you were courting, thinking about which one would bring him a step closer to winning your heart. It made you all the more stunned when one of his associates tapped you on the shoulder when you were alone just to inform you that you were involved with one of the most feared men in the United Kingdom. But to you, those words were as hollow as…as a politician's promises on election night. Thomas, no matter how angry he seemed to get with his professional life, never gave you a reason to be terrified of him. 

Thomas closed the door, removed his black blazer, and sat on the edge of your bed. He pushed your hair back, giving you a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Far too long. All day, you were the only thing on my mind, my love." Then, he pressed the back of his hand against your cheek. "Not too feverish," he remarked. "That's good." Thomas rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom.

He turned on the hot water. "Have you been drinking your fluids and resting? I hope you haven't been outside, it's a bit nippy in the air." "I made some tea, and read." You chuckled before coughing. His caring, almost protective, nature bugged you at times, but it was one of the reasons you loved him. And also one of the reasons you found it hard to believe that he was one of the most feared men in the United kingdom "And no, I haven't gone outside today." You blew your nose into a new tissue.

Thomas nodded, turning off the faucet and poured some scented bath salts in to the hot water, causing them to fizz. As the bubbles rose to the surface of the bath, Thomas offered his hand to help you out of the bed. "Good."

"Thomas, you don't have to draw me a bath…" You innocently protested between coughs, him lovingly dragging by your arm towards the tub. 

He merely untied your robe with a grin. "Get in the tub. I'll be right back, darling."

You removed the rest of your clothes and climbed into the bathtub, letting the bubbles and the steam surround you along with the scents of eucalyptus and menthol. You could almost feel your sinus clear up a little bit more, causing you to smile with relief. While you relaxed and coughed, a few of Thomas's words from the other room caught your ear.

"Shelby," you could hear Thomas harshly talk, "I don't want to talk about it now…I'm quite busy, if you must know. Just make sure no one sees you enter, and dispose of the weapon when you finish. I politely insist that you don't make me repeat myself."

You heard Thomas end the phone call with the push of a single button. Then, the room was filled with the dulcet sounds of a soft guitar melody, possibly a vinyl on the record player in the corner of the living room. 

Thomas breathily sang under his breath as he waltzed back into the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he stole a kiss and rubbed your bare shoulders. "When the night," he crooned just for your ears only, "has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see." You giggled, wiping a stream of mucus from your nostril. "No, I won't be afraid…no, I won't be afraid…Just as long as you stand by me. Stand by me." 

He tucked a lock of wet hair behind your ear, gazing at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You cleared your throat as more mucus accumulated, and laughed as Thomas continued singing.

"So darlin', darlin', stand by me." Thomas lost himself in his performance for a moment, emphasizing the 'darling' lyric.  "Oh, stand by me. Oh, stand…Stand by me, stand by me." 

You coughed while continuing to laugh, exchanging a smile with Thomas. He always loved how you brought out the fun side of him, getting him to do simple things like enjoying the small moment of life. Out in the world, Thomas wore an emotionless, almost cutthroat facade of ruthlessness. But between the two of you, inside the little haven you called home, Thomas was free to spoil you and love you in any way that he could. There was no trade deal to be negotiated, no enemy to watch out for, and no government red tape to cut through. Even though he was the one constantly hiring chauffeurs, installing security cameras inside your flat, and keeping a check on almost every move of yours, there was something about being with you that made Thomas feel safe. And if he could have it his way, Thomas would spend the rest of his life making sure that you knew how secure you made him feel.

He finished rest of the song with the vinyl record, lathering your arms with bubbles and washing them. You tried to join him, but couldn't sing too much because of the coughing and mucus. 

"Let's get you out of the tub, darling." Thomas gently took you by the arm and helped you out. He draped a clean towel over you, peppering your cheek with kisses while he dried you. Normally this would have turned into a more sensual moment between you, but Thomas was perfectly content with comforting you right now.

You coughed, putting the towel aside and getting into a set of silk pajamas Thomas bought for you from Paris. Thomas flipped a small lever on the bathtub and drained the water. Much to his dismay, his phone rang.

"Answer it, Thomas. I can make us some tea-"

"Ah, ah." Thomas corrected. "You are not to lift a finger when I'm around, darling." Thomas urged you to rest on the couch with some blankets, encouraging you to turn on the television. 

You promptly snuggled in front of a rerun of "Strictly Come Dancing", continuing to smile in Thomas's direction. Meanwhile, Thomas held the phone to his ear and made his way to the kitchen. Barking orders regarding a large sum of money, a warehouse location, and a passcode. 

You never wanted to pry into his work life, even though you were in a perfect position to do so. Shortly after you met Thomas for the first time, you learned that it was futile to ask him about what he truly did for a living that required so many phone calls and late night meetings. So, you held the blankets close to your chest, blew your nose several times, and tried to invest yourself in the dance reality show. 

Despite his tone being full of anger, Thomas appeared to be in control of himself enough to boil some spaghetti in a pot of salted water, open a can of tomatoes, and smash a few cloves of garlic. He discussed a business matter while putting the simple ingredients together in a careful manner, adding a mix of dried basil and parmesan at the right moment. "All taken care of? Good." Thomas spoke on the phone while the garlic and tomatoes cooked in olive oil. "I'll meet with you tomorrow and we can talk about the next steps. In the mean time, not a word of this too Richard. Or Shelby. Yes, take care of yourself." When the dish was assembled, Thomas ended the call, turned off the stove, and brought the plate of hot spaghetti to the living room for you.

"Enjoying the show, darling?" Thomas teased, siting next to you on the couch with a silver fork in his right hand. "I know it's not what most doctors would prescribe for your illness, but…" Thomas moved closer to you as he twirled the fork, "it's what I used to have when I was a little boy." He brought the fork to your mouth and fed you. 

You held your hand in front of your mouth, your clogged sinus making it hard to chew without pausing to breathe. "Really?" You swallowed, taking a moment before Thomas could give you another bite.

"It was one of the things I learned to make." He twirled the fork again and brought it to your chapped lips. "You pick up a few unexpected skills living in the Italian enclave during your formative years."

"This is the first time you talked about your life, Thomas." You remarked between bites of spaghetti. Innocently, you took the fork from his fingers and fed him too. Thomas knew it was a risky game sharing food with someone who was clearly under the weather, but he'd eat if it meant seeing you happy. "How did you end up in an Italian community? I heard you were part Scottish."

Thomas chewed, taking a moment to contemplate his next words. "Why don't we deal with that naughty little cold of yours first, and then…" he pecked your cheek, "I'll tell you anything you want to know about me. No question will be off the table." Thomas put his arm around you, letting you rest on his shoulder while a new episode of "Strictly Come Dancing" played on the television. 

"Okay." You shyly smiled, piqued with an interested you never thought you could feel before. "I'd like that."

Tagging: @lokischambermaid @mischievoushiddleston @smolvenger @thatdummy-girl @holdmytesseract @icytrickster17 @winterfrostlovetriangle @cakesandtom @mischievoushiddleston @lady-rose-moon @turniptitaness @jennyggggrrr @the-haven-of-fiction @fantasyfan4life @hellomadamebutterfly @sallymagnoliaposts @gigglingtigger @marveloushiddleston @lokisgoodgirl

[cmisayali]

Throat Lozenges: Alleviating Sore Throats New Findings Offer Promising Relief

What are Throat Lozenges?

Cough drop are medicated candy-like tablets that are designed to provide quick relief to coughs or sore throats. They dissolve slowly in the mouth, allowing the ingredients to coat and soothe the throat. Key Ingredients in Throat Lozenges

Throat Lozenges generally contain one or more of the following active ingredients that work to relieve throat irritation : Anesthetics - Such as benzocaine or phenol aid in numbing throat pain. They work topically to reduce throat sensitivity. Anti-inflammatory Agents - Like menthol or eucalyptus oil work by reducing inflammation. They promote mucus drainage to clear congestion. Demulcents - Materials like honey or glycerin coat the throat lining. They protect it from further irritation when swallowing or coughing. Antibiotics - Lozenges containing tetracycline are occasionally prescribed for bacterial throat infections. They treat specific infections. How do Throat Lozenges Work?

When a throat lozenge dissolves in the mouth, its active ingredients are released. They coat and numb the throat, reducing discomfort. Specific ingredients may also reduce swelling or treat infections : - Anesthetics temporarily numb painful areas, blocking throat pain signals. - Anti-inflammatory agents decrease swelling in irritated throat tissues. This lessens pain. - Demulcents form a protective film over inflamed areas, shielding them from further irritation. - Antibiotics kill or limit bacterial growth if a strep throat is present. This resolves the underlying cause. The slow dissolving nature also allows the throat to be continuously coated for 30-60 minutes, enhancing relief during that period. Using Cough drop Effectively

For best results, cough drop should be used as per product instructions. Some general tips on their effective use include: - Allow the lozenge to dissolve slowly in the mouth, rather than chewing or swallowing it whole. This ensures maximum coating of the throat. - Suck on the lozenge for at least 15-20 minutes for the ingredients to take maximum effect before swallowing any remnants. - Use lozenges at the first signs of a sore throat, rather than waiting for severe pain. Early action provides prompt symptom relief. - Lozenges work best for recently developed throat irritations. See a doctor for persistent or worsening pain. - Drink plenty of fluids while using lozenges to keep the throat moist. Water is recommended over acidic juices. - Lozenges containing local anesthetics provide temporary pain relief. Seek medical help if symptoms persist beyond a few days. Popular Throat Lozenge Brands

Some globally recognized throat lozenge brands offering effective temporary relief include: - Halls: Known for its menthol and eucalyptus flavors, it soothes and fights germs. - Strepsils: Contains phenol as an active ingredient. It aims to relieve pain from streptococcal sore throats. - Thayers: A honey-based lozenge brand formulated to moisturize and protect the throat naturally. - Chloraseptic: Branded lozenges utilizing benzocaine as an oral anesthetic to numb throat pain. - Cough Drops: A variety of flavored cough drop and drops by Ricola and Fishermans Friend. - Biotene: Specialized lozenges and mouthwashes for dry mouth relief alongside sore throat symptoms. In Summary, cough drop are widely available over-the-counter at pharmacies. They offer a convenient, drug-free way to temporarily relieve common throat afflictions. Using them properly under medical guidance helps maximize symptom comfort.

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[healthfultips]

How to stop cough in second...

While it's impossible to stop a cough instantly, there are several methods to quickly alleviate or reduce the urge to cough. Here are some effective techniques:

Quick Relief Techniques

1.Drink Water:

Sipping water can help moisten a dry throat and provide immediate relief from coughing.

2.Honey:

Take a spoonful of honey. Honey can soothe an irritated throat and has natural anti-inflammatory properties.

3.Cough Drops or Lozenges:

Sucking on a cough drop or lozenge can lubricate the throat and reduce coughing.

4.Gargle with Salt Water:

Mix a teaspoon of salt in warm water and gargle. This can help reduce throat irritation and inflammation.

5.Inhale Steam:

Inhale steam from a bowl of hot water or take a hot shower. The moisture can help soothe a dry or irritated throat.

6.Use a Humidifier:

If you're in a dry environment, a humidifier can add moisture to the air, which can help reduce coughing.

7.Herbal Teas:

Drink herbal teas such as peppermint, ginger, or chamomile. These can have soothing effects on the throat.

8.Elevate Your Head:

If lying down, prop yourself up with pillows. This can help reduce coughing by preventing mucus from pooling in the throat.

Preventive Measures

Avoid Irritants: Stay away from smoke, strong perfumes, and other irritants that can trigger coughing.

Stay Hydrated: Drink plenty of fluids to keep your throat moist.

Rest Your Voice: Try to avoid talking too much if your throat is irritated.

Warm Compress: Apply a warm compress to your throat to reduce soreness and irritation.

When to See a Doctor

If your cough persists for more than a few days, is accompanied by other symptoms (such as fever, shortness of breath, or chest pain), or if you are coughing up blood, you should seek medical attention as it may indicate a more serious condition.

These methods can help manage and reduce coughing, but if your cough is chronic or severe, it's essential to consult with a healthcare professional for a proper diagnosis and treatment plan.

"Love deeply, live fully."

[khantheghostt]

Teas and Their Physical Benefits

I have a lot of random knowledge about tea, so I decided to share some, I may make one for Mentel benefits.

PHYSICAL BENIFICIAL TEAS

(TL;DR Peppermint and ginger teas are your best friends)

Sore Throat? Try:

Chamomile Tea (anti-inflammatory properties)

Ginger Tea  (anti-inflammatory and antibacterial)

Peppermint Tea ( anti-inflammatory) 

Green Tea ( has antioxidants and  anti-inflammatory)

Honey and Lemon Tea (antimicrobial and softens mucus)

Sage Tea ( anti-inflammatory)

Cinnamon Tea ( antimicrobial and helps with pain)

Turmeric Tea (anti-inflammatory and  antioxidant)

Joint Pain? Try:

Turmeric Tea ( anti-inflammatory)

Ginger Tea ( anti-inflammatory)

Green Tea ( anti-inflammatory and helps overall joint health)

Nettle Tea ( anti-inflammatory) WARNING: plant is spikey!

White Willow Bark Tea (natural pain-relieving) 

Boswellia Tea (anti-inflammatory and pain relief)

Yarrow Tea ( anti-inflammatory)

trouble falling asleep? Try:

Chamomile Tea (calming properties)

Valerian Root Tea (sedative effects) very affective but strong in taste

Lavender Tea ( calming properties)

Lemon Balm Tea (calming properties and  mild sedative effects)

Passionflower Tea ( calming properties and stress-reducer)

Magnolia Bark Tea (calming properties)

Trouble Staying Awake? Try:

Black Tea (contains caffeine)

Green Tea ( contains smaller amount of caffeine and antioxidants)

Yerba Mate ( contains caffeine and  theophylline)

Matcha Tea ( contains caffeine and antioxidants)

Ginger Tea ( stimulates circulation)

Have a fever? Try:

Peppermint Tea ( cooling effect)

Chamomile Tea ( calming properties)

Elderflower Tea (boosts immune-system and  anti-inflammatory)

 Ginger Tea ( supports digestion and helps with nausea) 

Lemon Balm Tea (boosts immune-system)

[tipshealth76]

Effective Home Remedies for Cough: Natural Ways to Find Soothing Relief

Coughing is a reflex action that helps clear irritants and mucus from the airways. However, persistent coughing can become a nuisance and disrupt your daily life. While over-the-counter cough medications are readily available, many individuals prefer seeking relief through home remedies.

[tea-love]

Significant benefits associated with Ginger Tea

Unveiling the Significance of Ginger Tea: A Natural Elixir for Health and Well-being

In the realm of natural remedies, ginger tea has emerged as a remarkable elixir, celebrated for its numerous health benefits and invigorating flavor. For centuries, ginger has been treasured for its medicinal properties, and when steeped in hot water, it creates a soothing and aromatic beverage known as ginger tea. Let us delve into the significance of ginger tea and explore the myriad ways it can positively impact our health and well-being.

Digestive Health and Comfort: One of the most renowned benefits of ginger tea lies in its ability to promote healthy digestion. Ginger possesses natural compounds that can stimulate the digestive system, alleviate indigestion, and reduce bloating. By sipping on a warm cup of ginger tea after a meal, individuals often experience relief from discomfort and a sense of calm in their digestive tract.

Potent Anti-inflammatory Effects: Ginger contains powerful anti-inflammatory compounds called gingerols. These bioactive substances lend ginger tea its ability to combat inflammation in the body, potentially providing relief from conditions such as arthritis, muscle soreness, and joint stiffness. Regular consumption of ginger tea may contribute to improved mobility and reduced inflammation-related pain.

Immune-Boosting Properties: Ginger is hailed for its immune-boosting effects, making ginger tea a valuable addition to one's wellness routine. The tea's antimicrobial properties, coupled with its rich antioxidant content, can help strengthen the body's defense mechanisms. By nurturing a robust immune system, ginger tea may aid in warding off common illnesses and maintaining overall well-being.

Alleviating Nausea and Motion Sickness: For centuries, ginger has been used to alleviate nausea and soothe motion sickness. Ginger tea can be a comforting remedy for individuals experiencing queasiness, morning sickness during pregnancy, or postoperative nausea. Sipping on ginger tea can settle the stomach and provide a gentle, natural relief from feelings of nausea and discomfort.

Antioxidant Powerhouse: Ginger tea boasts an abundance of antioxidants that help combat the damaging effects of free radicals in the body. These antioxidants play a crucial role in reducing oxidative stress and may contribute to long-term health benefits. By incorporating ginger tea into your routine, you can harness its potential to promote cellular health and overall vitality.

Respiratory and Sinus Support: The warming properties of ginger tea can provide relief from respiratory ailments such as coughs, congestion, and sore throat. The tea's natural expectorant qualities may help to expel mucus, alleviate congestion, and soothe irritation in the respiratory system. Ginger tea serves as a comforting companion during seasonal allergies or common colds, promoting easier breathing and overall respiratory well-being.

Stress Relief and Relaxation: Ginger tea not only nurtures the body but also calms the mind. The soothing and comforting properties of ginger tea can have a positive impact on stress levels and anxiety. Sipping on a warm cup of ginger tea can induce relaxation, promote a sense of tranquility, and provide a brief respite from the demands of a busy day.

Ginger tea, with its remarkable array of health benefits, offers a natural and holistic approach to enhancing well-being. From supporting digestion and reducing inflammation to bolstering the immune system and promoting relaxation, ginger tea is truly a gift from nature. Incorporating this warm and invigorating beverage into your daily routine can provide a soothing ritual while offering a multitude of health advantages. Taste Ginger tea by Ceylon Valley Tea

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

fantasy including disability and mobility aids and other solutions for disabled characters is always a topic i welcome on this blog. I have several disabled characters myself. I've probably talked about this before, but I'll do it again anyway. here's some solutions I've written for disabled characters:

mobility aids. I just stick with normal ones. forearm crutches, canes, wheelchairs, leg and back braces, prosthetic feet/legs. made of materials accessible to their local areas. occasional use of magic to help more complicated prosthetics function. nothing terribly difficult about this. wheels already exist in most historical settings, so there's nothing wrong with saying that wheelchairs exist in a fantasy. if they have carts, they can have wheeled mobility aids. if straight poles exist, they can have crutches and canes. prosthetics are older than you might think, and not even just the peg leg type. you don't even need magic for that, just skilled craftspeople.

relief for chronic pain. I write these characters using special salves/ointments to help reduce pain. the exact materials you might write in for pain relieving medications depends on your worldbuilding, but I've gone with a diluted mixture of goblin mucus and pixie honey, two things that contain unusual toxins. taken without dilution, they could be dangerous, but skilled medical professionals know how to mix it right with the correct dilution so it's safe to use with a prescribed dosage.

general medical treatments. not only does my worldbuilding have regular ol tried and tested physical medicine and surgery and all, but they also have a form of magic healing. it requires the skills of practiced medical singers, who use their voices to direct magical energy through the patient's soul and body. they are limited by what the body can actually do though. they can't do anything that is too far outside of the natural bodily functions. they can accelerate healing a bit, reduce pain responses, and stabilize vitals. medical singing is a skill that can be learned by cultural tradition or through schooling. pretty much every medical center or small town doctor will have at least one singer, though medical centers prefer to have a full chorus of at least three for every major operation, since the magic only works so long as the singing continues. no changes made are reversed when the singing ends, but it really is a temporary thing. you can sing to help a cut heal, but it's not going to heal itself again later if it gets reopened, you know? in the case of amputation, perhaps a very skilled chorus alongside very skilled surgeons could reattach a severed body part, provided they were able to treat it in time. same as in real life. but don't count on it. they can stabilize someone long enough to prevent death if they're quick, and this has saved a lot of lives, but they can't overcome a truly fatal injury or bring anyone back from the dead. can't make a blind or deaf person stop being that way. even if it happened because of an injury, there's really a limit to how much they can heal someone.

Whgskl. Okay.

PSA to all you fantasy writers because I have just had a truly frustrating twenty minutes talking to someone about this: it’s okay to put mobility aids in your novel and have them just be ordinary.

Like. Super okay.

I don’t give a shit if it’s high fantasy, low fantasy or somewhere between the lovechild of Tolkein meets My Immortal. It’s okay to use mobility devices in your narrative. It’s okay to use the word “wheelchair”. You don’t have to remake the fucking wheel. It’s already been done for you.

And no, it doesn’t detract from the “realism” of your fictional universe in which you get to set the standard for realism. Please don’t try to use that as a reason for not using these things.

There is no reason to lock the disabled people in your narrative into towers because “that’s the way it was”, least of all in your novel about dragons and mermaids and other made up creatures. There is no historical realism here. You are in charge. You get to decide what that means.

Also:

“Depiction of Chinese philosopher Confucius in a wheelchair, dating to ca. 1680. The artist may have been thinking of methods of transport common in his own day.”

“The earliest records of wheeled furniture are an inscription found on a stone slate in China and a child’s bed depicted in a frieze on a Greek vase, both dating between the 6th and 5th century BCE.[2][3][4][5]The first records of wheeled seats being used for transporting disabled people date to three centuries later in China; the Chinese used early wheelbarrows to move people as well as heavy objects. A distinction between the two functions was not made for another several hundred years, around 525 CE, when images of wheeled chairs made specifically to carry people begin to occur in Chinese art.[5]”

“In 1655, Stephan Farffler, a 22 year old paraplegic watchmaker, built the world’s first self-propelling chair on a three-wheel chassis using a system of cranks and cogwheels.[6][3] However, the device had an appearance of a hand bike more than a wheelchair since the design included hand cranks mounted at the front wheel.[2]

The invalid carriage or Bath chair brought the technology into more common use from around 1760.[7]

In 1887, wheelchairs (“rolling chairs”) were introduced to Atlantic City so invalid tourists could rent them to enjoy the Boardwalk. Soon, many healthy tourists also rented the decorated “rolling chairs” and servants to push them as a show of decadence and treatment they could never experience at home.[8]

In 1933 Harry C. Jennings, Sr. and his disabled friend Herbert Everest, both mechanical engineers, invented the first lightweight, steel, folding, portable wheelchair.[9] Everest had previously broken his back in a mining accident. Everest and Jennings saw the business potential of the invention and went on to become the first mass-market manufacturers of wheelchairs. Their “X-brace” design is still in common use, albeit with updated materials and other improvements. The X-brace idea came to Harry from the men’s folding “camp chairs / stools”, rotated 90 degrees, that Harry and Herbert used in the outdoors and at the mines.[citation needed]

“But Joy, how do I describe this contraption in a fantasy setting that wont make it seem out of place?”

“It was a chair on wheels, which Prince FancyPants McElferson propelled forwards using his arms to direct the motion of the chair.”

“It was a chair on wheels, which Prince EvenFancierPants McElferson used to get about, pushed along by one of his companions or one of his many attending servants.”

“But it’s a high realm magical fantas—”

“It was a floating chair, the hum of magical energy keeping it off the ground casting a faint glow against the cobblestones as {CHARACTER} guided it round with expert ease, gliding back and forth.”

“But it’s a stempunk nov—”

“Unlike other wheelchairs he’d seen before, this one appeared to be self propelling, powered by the gasket of steam at the back, and directed by the use of a rudder like toggle in the front.”

Give. Disabled. Characters. In. Fantasy. Novels. Mobility. Aids.

If you can spend 60 pages telling me the history of your world in innate detail down to the formation of how magical rocks were formed, you can god damn write three lines in passing about a wheelchair.

Signed, your editor who doesn’t have time for this ableist fantasy realm shit.

[reality-detective]

“Battling COVID symptoms? Try this powerful herbal tea to support your recovery and boost immunity naturally!”

“If Looking for a natural way to support your body during COVID recovery? 🌿 This powerful blend of hibiscus, ginger, mullein, and clove offers a range of healing benefits:

🍃 Hibiscus: Rich in Vitamin C and antioxidants, hibiscus helps strengthen your immune system and fight off inflammation.

🍃 Ginger: A natural anti-inflammatory and antiviral, ginger soothes the throat, eases congestion, and promotes respiratory health.

🍃 Mullein: Known for its lung-cleansing properties, mullein supports healthy breathing and clears mucus from the lungs, making it perfect for respiratory relief.

🍃 Clove: Packed with antimicrobial properties, clove helps fight infections and relieves sore throats, while also boosting overall immunity.

Together, this tea blend provides a soothing remedy for respiratory symptoms, cough, and overall immune support. 🌱 Sip your way to better health! 🤔

[mypurmist]

Why Does Steam Help Clear Congestion?

Nasal congestion, sinusitis, and hypersensitive reactions can disrupt your day by day life, leaving you tired and annoyed. Fortunately, MyPurmist, an advanced steam inhaler and air purifier, offers a quick and natural option to ease congestion, dryness, and respiratory discomfort.

Steam inhalation is a proven method to loosen mucus, hydrate nasal passages, and provide on the spot comfort from sinus stress. Unlike traditional steam methods, MyPurmist makes use of ultra-natural steam era combined with HEPA filtration to supply a centered and smooth healing mist immediately for your airways.

Why Choose MyPurmist?

Instant Relief: Direct steam therapy for quick congestion remedy.

HEPA Filtration: Pure mist unfastened from allergens and pollutants.

Temperature Control: Adjustable settings for personalized comfort.

Portable Options: Choose between MyPurmist Free (cordless and tour-pleasant) and MyPurmist 2 (plug-in for home use).

Travel-Friendly: FAA-accredited, ideal for plane travel.

How Does MyPurmist Work?

When you inhale heat, natural steam, it works by way of:

Loosening mucus for smooth drainage.

Hydrating nasal passages to lessen dryness.

Boosting ciliary function to clean mucus efficiently.

Relaxing infected tissues for advanced breathing.

Whether you're fighting sinus congestion, allergies, or the not unusual cold, MyPurmist guarantees a hassle-loose experience. It's best for busy folks that want on the spot remedy with out the mess of conventional steam inhalation methods.

Investing in MyPurmist way making an investment on your respiration health. Say good-bye to nasal congestion, throat inflammation, and disrupted sleep. Experience pure, warm steam therapy whenever, everywhere.

👉 Explore MyPurmist nowadays and breathe simpler with every use!

Read More: https://mypurmist.com.au/blog/post/why-does-steam-help-clear-congestion

[biotech-gnova]

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