#coolgrl111

a/n: like i promised, here’s a little something for hamzah!!! hopefully the slushies will take me in with open arms… and challengers babies, don’t worry i’m still here, just multitasking 😈

part 1

part 2

patrick zweig sparks romance rumors after stepping out with mystery woman !

patrick zweig, the 31-year-old tennis pro known as much for his off-court antics as his on-court talent, has once again found himself in the spotlight — this time for being spotted with a much younger companion.

the athlete was photographed leaving a trendy cocktail bar late saturday night with a woman who, according to onlookers, appeared to be “barely out of college.” the pair were seen holding hands and sharing drinks before slipping into a private car.

zweig, whose career has been overshadowed by a string of controversies including a mid-match meltdown at the australian open earlier this year, has developed a reputation for his flashy lifestyle and headline-grabbing relationships. critics online were quick to slam the photos, with one fan tweeting, “patrick zweig dating another girl half his age… classic.”

neither zweig nor his management have issued a statement, but the tennis star has previously brushed off criticism of his personal life. “i play hard, i party hard,” he told sport weekly in a 2023 interview.

whether this latest relationship will last longer than his last season on tour remains to be seen, but one thing is certain: patrick zweig continues to keep both the sports pages and the gossip columns busy.

———

“well, great.”

patrick’s voice cracked sharp in the quiet, like he was spitting out a splinter. he shoved his phone face-down on the dresser, but the headlines still flickered in his head, relentless.

patrick zweig, 31, spotted with younger woman after late-night outing.

they made sure to really emphasise the word “younger.” like it was scandalous, like it was a crime.

you. they were talking about you.

he could see the pictures even without looking—grainy shots of you beside him, half-hidden under the neon haze of some downtown bar sign. you laughing at something he’d muttered against your ear. your hand brushing his. the car door closing behind you. the kind of photos that told a story even when there wasn’t one to tell.

his chest tightened. you hadn’t signed up for this.

you were still in college. you had exams, half-written papers, roommates who left their shoes in the hallway. you lived in a world where a bad day meant a professor calling on you when you hadn’t done the reading. not this. not paparazzi lurking in alleys. not strangers on twitter or tumblr, stitching together their own versions of who you were and what you meant to him.

patrick dragged both hands through his hair, pressing his palms against his temples. he knew his reputation. god, he knew it better than anyone. the sports press had been sharpening their knives on him for years—hothead, womanizer, reckless, arrogant. every tabloid headline had been another stone stacked onto the monument of his mistakes. he was the guy who smashed a racket in front of a stadium of kids. the guy who’d been photographed stumbling out of vegas clubs like he owned the strip. the guy who let talent rot under the weight of his own self-destruction.

and now? now he was the sleazy thirty-one-year-old tennis player with the college girl on his arm.

he hated it. not because it hurt him—he’d made his peace with being the villain of the sports world years ago—but because it might hurt you. because maybe you’d see those words and believe them. maybe you’d look at him differently now, remember every whispered warning, every google search that pulled up his face next to some scandal, and think: god, what have i gotten myself into?

the truth he couldn’t tell anyone—not the press, not even most of his friends—was that you had shifted something in him. for years, he’d chased distraction: fast cars, faster nights, girls who knew his name before he said hello. but you… you didn’t care about the circus. you rolled your eyes when he tried to impress you, laughed when he joked about his old meltdowns, asked him questions that had nothing to do with the game.

you made him remember he was a person, not a headline.

and he loved you for it.

there. the word he wouldn’t say out loud, not yet, because it felt too raw, too dangerous to admit even to himself. but it sat heavy in his chest every time you texted him about something stupid and ordinary, every time you curled up next to him on his couch and stole the blanket like it belonged to you.

and now the world was circling. ready to strip you down, reduce you to “mystery girl” and hashtags and side-eye about the age gap.

he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor until it blurred. he wanted to call you, to get ahead of it, to explain. to say, don’t listen to them. don’t run. stay with me. i’m not who they say i am. not anymore. but his throat tightened just imagining it, the risk of hearing silence on the other end.

because if you pulled away, if you decided the weight of his history was too much, he wasn’t sure what he’d have left.

patrick zweig—the man the world thought it already knew—was terrified. not of another headline, not of another scandal. but of losing the only good thing he’d managed to hold onto when the noise had finally started to quiet.

you.

hi everyone!! slowly gonna try get back on my tumblr shit, thank you for your patience 😭

here is toxic!patrick except reader kinda has a backbone this time. very proud

side note the “come suck my dick” is making me laugh so hard idk what came over me

i’m so sorry for being so mia!!!!! i am failing you guys 💔💔 pls don’t hate me

here is throuple x reader texts to celebrate

a/n: GUYSSSS!!!! i have been thinking about this for so long and finally had the lovely encouragement of my dear mutuals. thank you so much @blastzachilles @jesuistrestriste @222col @cherrygirlfriend @tashism @voidsuites @diyasgarden @cha11engers ily ily

—

the sun was kind that morning.

warm, radiant.

it spilled across the cracked pavement outside their house, catching on the droplets of water art sprayed in long indents across the driveway. the hose hissed in his hand, steady, controlled. he liked mornings. they were simple.

art had only just retired.

a quiet press release. a photo of him holding up a racket, smiling that slanted grin. no tour, no speeches, no farewell match. he didn’t want that. he didn’t want to become someone people said goodbye to.

he didn’t miss the game. not exactly. he missed the rhythm.

the way everything had a place—routine.

out here, everything was softer, unscored.

but he had tashi. he had patrick. he had mornings like this one—sunlight filtering through the bushes, cicadas buzzing like an old television left static in the next room.

across the street, someone was mowing their lawn. two blocks over, a child’s laughter rang out and broke open the stillness. somewhere, a dog barked.

and inside, tashi was asleep on patrick’s chest.

they’d fallen like that after breakfast, curled on the sunken couch, limbs tangled. the tv hummed low in front of them—an old tennis match, just background noise. tashi’s hair was damp from the shower, her cheek pressed against patrick’s heartbeat. his arm was slung around her waist, fingers trailing along the curve of her spine.

he wasn’t watching the match. he was watching her. eyes half-lidded, breath soft, like the whole world had finally gone quiet just for them.

they were happy. art was happy.

lily was upstate with tashi’s mother—one weekend, that was the plan. time to breathe. time to let the dust settle after everything. after the match, after the headlines, after the choice.

they had chosen each other.

the three of them in this too-small house with mismatched mugs and an overgrown backyard and a fridge full of groceries they bought together. patrick had moved in two weeks ago. no more hotels. no more rivalry, or radio silence. he woke up to their voices now. he knew where they kept the sugar. he belonged. they all did.

art shut the hose off. the driveway gleamed. the sun was higher now, warm on his shoulders. he looked up, squinting. there was a sound—a low thump, dull and heavy, like a car backfiring—but then it came again. and again. louder. closer.

his first thought wasn’t danger.

until he heard the screaming.

tashi sat up like a knife. patrick’s hand went to her shoulder.

“what was that?” she asked. the words sounded foreign in her mouth. too sharp.

art was standing in the yard, frozen. water pooled at his feet. across the street, a man ran past, shirt torn, blood streaked down his jaw. not stumbling. sprinting. there was a woman behind him, bare feet pounding the pavement, mouth open, shrieking. she didn’t stop—art didn’t move. he just watched as she caught the man and brought him down like a wave crashing on rock.

he took a step back.

the second that woman hit the man, the second he saw the blood and the way her body moved—like her bones didn’t fit right—he dropped the hose and ran.

his feet slapped wet against the concrete, heart punching against his ribs.

the front door swung open under his hands and he was shouting before he even saw them.

“tashi? patrick?”

tashi stood in the living room, already upright, eyes locked on the window.

patrick was behind her, halfway to the door.

“i heard screaming,” art said, breath sharp. “someone’s—someone’s attacking people outside. i think—i don’t know. i think something’s happening.”

inside, patrick was locking the front door. “don’t panic,” he said, voice flat, like he was convincing himself. “we’re okay. it’s probably—just some freak accident. someone on drugs.”

“that wasn’t normal,” tashi said. she was already in motion. shoes on. bag in hand. “that was wrong.”

they tried calling lily. her grandmother. the neighbour who drove them to the airport that one time. no signal. no answer.

“shit. shit, shit, shit!”

tashi tried her mother again. one ring. two.

then silence.

she stared at the screen, thumb hovering, as if willing the signal back would make it so. patrick stood behind her, pacing. art leaned on the edge of the kitchen sink, watching the window, blinking too fast.

“nothing?” patrick asked.

tashi didn’t answer. didn’t need to.

“we have to go,” art said, voice flat. “we need to get to her. get our girl.”

tashi grabbed the bag they kept by the front door—just in case. extra clothes. passports. protein bars. it had always felt a bit paranoid. now it felt like a lifeline.

they moved fast. not speaking much. they were too damn scared. patrick loaded the car. tashi checked every lock. art lingered on the front steps a second too long, looking at the street. it was quiet now. too quiet. the calm before before the storm.

then they were in the car.

the car rocked forward inch by inch, boxed in by horns and sirens, people screaming out of open windows. art’s hands were tight on the wheel, jaw set. patrick kept glancing out the back, watching the way the skyline smoked.

tashi’s phone sat in her lap like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“try again,” art said. his voice was low. hoarse.

she did.

the line clicked.

and this time—

it rang.

tashi sat up straighter. eyes wide.

patrick leaned in.

one ring.

two.

three.

“—tashi?”

her mother’s voice. sharp with panic. full of motion.

“mama! it’s me—where are you? are you okay?”

static. the sound of something crashing. voices yelling in the background.

“i’m—i can’t—i don’t know what’s happening—your father went out and—lily’s here, she’s here, but—”

“let me talk to her,” tashi piped up, already crying.

then— a shift in the sound. the phone jostling.

a smaller voice, high and soft, piped through the speaker

“mama?”

tashi covered her mouth with her hand. patrick closed his eyes in relief. art swallowed hard, staring at the road but not seeing it.

“oh, baby,” tashi breathed. “baby, we’re coming, okay? stay with grandma, we’re coming, we’re—”

“i drew you something,” lily spoke up innocently. “for when you get here. i put sparkles on it.”

tashi choked out a laugh, like a sob wearing a mask.

“i love you so much,” she said. “so much, lily. we’re gonna be there soon.”

“okay,” lily said. her voice a whisper now. “i miss you.”

art bit his lip so hard it split.

then—

a crash. a scream.

the sound of the phone dropping.

then static.

nothing but static.

unbeknownst to them, that would be the last time they’d hear their sweet baby’s voice.

tashi called again and again. no answer. just the same broken noise.

they were certain she was okay. right?

“i’m sure it’s—“

“forget it patrick, let’s just get to her. okay?”

patrick nods at her instruction, complying. he didn’t want to push anyone, not right now. one thing he knew for certain is that tashi and art do not play about their daughter.

the roads were already swollen—people pouring out from side streets, families with bags, kids crying, the sound of sirens somewhere far and constant.

“jesus,” patrick murmured, watching out the window. “people are everywhere.”

“they wouldn’t shut down the city unless it was bad,” art spoke up, eyes on the road.

tashi turned on the radio. static.

then, a voice, shaky and high-speed—

“—advising residents to stay inside. repeat, do not try to leave by vehicle—roads are obstructed, we are getting reports of violent assaults throughout all districts—”

a new voice interrupted. sobbing. a man.

“—my wife—my wife is—oh god, she bit me—she bit me—”

tashi switched it off.

“i’m really fucking worried about lily— and my mom.”

“me too, tash. but we’ll get them, and then figure out what the fuck is happening right now.”

they were moving at a crawl now. cars jammed in every direction. people cutting through lawns. some running. some limping.

and then—a crash. two cars up ahead. a van plowed through a sedan. the sound of metal folding in on itself.

“fuck!” art cursed loudly.

patrick flinched. tashi’s hand shot out to brace herself against the dash.

“go around,” she said.

“there’s no room,” art muttered, checking the mirrors.

then they saw it.

a figure in the street—multiple. one of them dragged a man from the wreckage, mouth already at his throat, teeth gnashing.

patrick’s voice cracked. “oh fuck.”

art threw the car into reverse, tires squealing, people yelling behind them.

more infected spilled out from a side alley—fast, twitching, wild.

“where do we go?” tashi snapped.

“i don’t know!” art yelled, sweat pouring down his back. “everyone— get out.”

they flung the doors open and spilled into the street.

heat slammed into them, thick and humid and laced with smoke. the air was full of noise—sirens, screams, the distant thud of helicopters, the grind of metal against metal. people were everywhere, running in every direction, some bleeding, some dragging others, some not looking human at all.

patrick grabbed tashi’s hand. art pushed forward, arm out, clearing space. they didn’t know where they were going—only away.

they barely made it ten feet before the first one turned the corner.

a man—what used to be a man—sprinting full force, mouth wide open, skin pale and torn around the cheeks, eyes blown wide and milky. his jaw hung crooked, like it had been unhinged on impact. something in his throat made a sound like boiling.

he tackled another man to the pavement, biting deep into his neck. there was no hesitation. no reason. only hunger.

tashi stopped moving. just for a second.

then art grabbed her arm. “don’t look. go!”

they kept running.

another infected lunged from between two cars. a woman this time, barefoot and twitching. one foot bent the wrong way, bones visible through a tear in her ankle. her fingers were blackened at the tips, like frostbite.

she reached for tashi—howling.

tashi dodged, barely. stumbled.

then something else tackled her.

a man, snarling, breath wet and wrong. he slammed her into the pavement, teeth gnashing near her face. his eyes were leaking. his gums were peeling back from raw, red teeth. the stench of rot and blood hit her like a punch.

she screamed.

patrick was there in seconds. he threw himself at the attacker, ripped him off her with a guttural sound—half fury, half fear. they hit the ground hard. patrick didn’t stop. his fists connected again and again with the man’s skull until the thing stopped moving.

his knuckles came away slick with blood.

“you ok?” he gasped, pulling tashi to her feet. “run.”

she nodded, dazed, scraped. didn’t even feel the blood on her temple.

art was ahead, fending off another one—this one slower, limping, foaming at the mouth. it reached for him and art swung the crowbar he’d picked up from somewhere.

a wet crack. the body dropped. art was breathing like a runner past the finish line, adrenaline buzzing like static in his ears.

“stay behind me,” he said, voice low, steady.

he didn’t look scared. but his hands were shaking.

they ran again.

a fire burst out of a building just ahead. a man jumped from a window, landed wrong. a woman screamed. a police car smashed into a mailbox and flipped, wheels still spinning.

tashi turned to look at patrick.

his eyes were glassy. blood smeared his shirt. not his.

“you okay?” she asked.

“no. not even fucking close.” he said. “but i’m not dead. you’re not dead.”

“yet,” art muttered. “so, let’s keep it that way.”

they didn’t stop running.

not even when the ground shook. not even when another wave of infected screamed in the distance, closing in.

because stopping meant death.

—

time didn’t pass the same anymore. it didn’t tick or chime or unfold. it just dragged. like a torn bag behind a car.

they’d found a place.

not safe, not really. but empty. forgotten.

a rusting factory on the edge of some highway, windows shattered long before the world had ended. the walls were lined with old machines—hulking, silent things covered in dust and vines.

the air smelled like oil and iron and wet concrete. patrick had made a joke about “living like kings.” no one laughed.

they slept in a corner behind stacked crates, wrapped in coats they didn’t own. someone else’s blankets. someone else’s shoes. everything was borrowed now. nothing belonged.

patrick sat with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on a single crack running down the ceiling. he didn’t speak much. the quiet spoke more.

tashi curled beside him, knees drawn up, face pressed into the sleeve of her jacket.

art stood by the window, the one with the least glass, staring out at the dead lot below. he was thinner. paler. his hands stayed clenched even when he was asleep.

every noise outside made his head snap up.

art looked down at his wrist where a friendship bracelet sat tied there. a tiny thing—pink and green thread, uneven knots, a plastic bead shaped like a heart sitting crooked in the middle. lily had made it the day before she left for her grandma’s, tongue between her teeth, little fingers working hard.

“so you don’t forget me,” she’d said, climbing into his lap. “just in case.”

he laughed. kissed her forehead. “i couldn’t forget you if i tried.”

“you could,” she said, dead serious. “if you hit your head or something. so just wear it ‘til i come back.”

he promised he would.

and he kept that promise—through the screams, the fire, the flight, the blood. it stayed on his wrist, just above the cracked face of the watch he never used anymore.

sometimes at night, he pressed it to his lips. he didn’t even know he was doing it.

patrick noticed, but didn’t say anything.

tashi saw it once when he was washing his hands in an old sink, the water brown and stinking. she stared at it like it might speak.

they hadn’t said her name out loud in days. it hurt too much. their darling, darling girl.

but the bracelet said it for them.

every frayed thread. every faded knot. every bead still warm from his skin. it was a reminder of all she was, everything perfect in the world.

lily was only seven.

freshly seven. her birthday had been three weeks before the outbreak. she had a cake with strawberries on it. she asked for socks that matched and a toy sloth. tashi made her pancakes shaped like hearts, that art playfully stole a bite of. he could, he was retired. he read her to sleep that night—his voice soft and loving.

none of them said it out loud, but they knew.

they knew what a child looked like alone in this world.

they knew the odds.

still, sometimes, tashi whispered into the dark,

“maybe they got out. maybe they’re somewhere safe.”

and patrick would nod, because what else could he do?

art wiuld sit with his jaw tight, fists curled, breathing too slow.

“yeah. maybe they got out.”

outside, the wind whistled through broken beams.

inside, the silence was heavy with heartbreak.

they didn’t talk about tennis. or who they used to be. what they used to have— and what more they could have had.