Greg Hirsch Blurb in the Hamptons
- speaking of how i manifested my bf i wrote this little fluff three years ago and just thought i would share. i don’t write a lot honestly so meh!-
You’ve been an assistant to Kendall Roy for a little over two months now. Everything about his life and his family disgusted you, but it paid so well that you couldn’t refuse. Spending so much time with the Roys has taught you a few things. How to work your angle and get what you want.
“Y/N, can you get a handle on this fucking, uh, cesspool that I’m seeing on my timeline? I mean, I can take a joke, but none of it’s even funny,” Kendall remarks, looking down at his phone while you accompany him in the back of the SUV.
“I’ll see what I can do,” you breathe out, nodding.
“Yeah, sure, uh-huh.” He says it mindlessly, smirking while typing on his phone. Probably sexting some poor girl.
This was going to be a long fucking ride. You and Kendall never could see eye to eye on a lot. Mostly, you fetch him his fix—whether it be pussy or drugs. But for some reason, he’s forcing you to attend a family event that’s so clearly a PR stunt. You didn’t mind at the end of the day because it was in the Hamptons, and everyone fucking loves the Hamptons.
You were just hoping you could be buzzed through the entire event and not have to speak to anyone.
You were about 15 minutes away, and it was approaching dusk. You gave up on sleeping and watched the trees whisk by. You noticed how green everything was compared to the city, and how much you missed looking out at the sky and not seeing tall skyscrapers.
Lost in that haze, the driver turns his head. “We’re here.”
Kendall has his headphones on and doesn’t fucking hear it, so of course, you have to tap his shoulder.
“Kendall, we’re here.”
“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
It seems Kendall didn’t want to be here any more than you did.
You both step out of the vehicle onto the gravel. You follow Kendall closely.
You end up sitting across from Greg Hirsch. You hadn’t talked to him much in your time working for Kendall. He’s always been the one to approach you with some awkward phrase. It’s his way of saying hi, obviously, and it didn’t really bother you. You could tell how worked up he would get trying to be clever, though.
It was cute.
You two are sitting at the end of the table. To your left are Willa and Connor. Willa sits next to Greg, and Connor sits next to you.
You’re checking something on your phone when you feel eyes on you.
It’s Greg.
He’s staring at you, mouth slightly open, trying to wrack his brain around for what remark to make.
You chuckle, turning off your phone and placing it face down on the table.
“Hi, Greg. What’s up?” You take a sip from your wine.
“Heh—nothing much. I, uh—I just wanted to ask, like—not to be rude or anything of that kind of… nature—but why are you—have you been summoned here?”
He’s fidgeting, adjusting, trying to make sure he words everything perfectly.
Classic fucking Greg.
Each little attempt he makes at rewording makes you smile and lean in more, nodding your head along to show you’re listening.
His reaction to your attention only makes him worse.
You love putting this kind of pressure on him whenever he speaks to you. Not to make fun of him—just to encourage him. Plus, it’s fun to see him get flustered over your unrelenting eye contact.
You lean in, lowering your voice.
“Kendall made me come with him because he needs me to spy on someone within the family.”
You smirk, biting your lip slightly as you watch Greg’s brain do a full flip.
“Shhh,” you add, bringing a finger to your lips.
It takes him a couple seconds to realize you’re joking. He’s never interacted with you like this before.
He starts laughing—louder than you expected.
You can’t help but notice how not very funny your joke was, but for some reason, it absolutely killed Greg.
“Oh, well—I really hope to God I’m safe. I mean, I don’t believe in God, but—hah, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck while scooching closer to the table.
You notice how far forward he lurches—he almost knocks the table off balance, which immediately makes everyone’s heads turn toward the two of you, then quickly back to whatever they were talking about. Or shitting on.
“I can’t disclose any information right now on who the target is. You understand.” You look up at him through your wine glass as you take a sip.
He chuckles. “Of course! Of course. Duty calls.” He salutes you.
That makes you laugh.
It seems he’s finally relaxed—realizing he doesn’t have to try so hard right now. When he speaks now, he isn’t adjusting himself, isn’t trying to look away or escape.
Maybe it’s the wine, but you feel at ease too.
Your laughter becomes shared. And in that brief moment—just looking at each other and chuckling—you both start to notice the warmth in your cheeks.
Before either of you can say anything else, the waiters place down the main course, which is somehow the same size as the appetizer.
You thank them quickly, readjusting the napkin on your lap. When you glance down, you catch a glimpse of Greg’s legs under the table. It’s quick—but you notice how close his brown leather shoes are to your black flats.
You curse how long he is as you look back up.
“What’s your favorite food, Greg?” you ask.
You don’t need to say his name—but you like how his eyebrows lift every time you do.
“Uhhhh…” He looks up at the ceiling like the answer’s written there. “I’m p-personally a big fan of California Pizza Kitchen, b-but I haven’t had it in such a long time.”
“Oh yeah? I fuck with some CPK. What do you usually get?”
He starts explaining his favorite pizza while picking at his food. You listen to every detail—how he orders it, how it used to be his go-to spot after smoking with friends.
As the conversation flows, you start to notice how warm your core feels.
You try to ignore it—adjusting in your seat, pulling your skirt down, squeezing your legs together.
You notice how good Greg actually looks.
He’s just in a plain white button-up, but it’s doing things to you.
He notices too—the way your eyes linger, the way your lips press together just slightly.
You ask him to tell you more about his friends from back home. He lights up, launching into stories about them. You lean forward, resting your chest against your forearms on the table.
And in doing so—
Your foot bumps his.
Light.
Accidental.
He notices. Keeps talking.
That’s when the idea hits you.
You cross your legs, right over left. Slowly, you point your foot toward where you think his leg is.
You find him.
Once you make contact, you drag your foot lightly along the inside of his knee.
Greg tenses immediately.
He stops talking.
Looks at you.
You don’t look back right away. You let it sit.
Then you extend your leg just a little further—barely brushing the inside of his thigh.
His mouth falls slightly open.
You can see his chest rise and fall.
You glance around the table, biting your lip, checking if anyone’s paying attention.
No one is.
“Did you save room for dessert, Greg?” you ask, teasing.
He’s completely gone.
“U-uhuh.”
You keep your leg extended, shifting your ankle under his thigh—just enough to keep him right there. On edge.
Right where you want him.
A sharp clink cuts through the table.
Logan Roy taps his glass.
Roman Roy can be heard muttering, “Oh, goody.”
You pull your foot away immediately.
Greg inhales sharply, trying to focus as he discreetly undoes the top button of his shirt.
Logan begins speaking about the events for tomorrow.
“We’re going to play a goddamn game of croquet.”
“Can I be the Queen of Hearts, daddy dearest?” Tom snorts, grinning at the table.
You’ve always thought Tom was sweet—but insane. Like normal, but something loose is just knocking around in his skull.
“I don’t want you little shits going easy on me. Whoever wins—”
“Gets CEO,” Kendall interrupts.
A few people chuckle.
Kendall doesn’t.
“In your fucking dreams, pony boy,” Logan snaps back. “Winner gets a new branch of the company.”
Everyone looks around the table.
Connor looks almost too excited.
Roman leans back, making a crude gesture toward Shiv, who grimaces and leans into Tom, whispering.
You glance at Greg.
His face is lit up—shock, excitement, possibility.
“This could be good,” he says, smiling.
“Yeah, for you maybe,” you mutter. “I’m just the assistant to a sad boy asshole.
He laughs.
