#Greg Hirsch

[notbxnny]

tom, ignoring his gorgeous wife who is trying to fuck him: yknow gregs really been stepping up recently, it would seem my dutiful mentorship is once again proving infallible

greg, rolling a blunt while on the phone to his mom: uh, so yeah, toms gotten better at saying please since i started giving him his coffee straight away when he says it instead of leaving it on my desk for a little while

[killerkendallroy]

CHAPTER ONE

INTO THE VIPER NEST

NEW MONEY: A ROMAN ROY X READER SERIES

MASTERLIST WORD COUNT: 4.6k

“You can’t just say ‘it’ll be better next quarter’ and wait for the money to magically come. That’s like telling a dying kid their tumour stopped growing. Yeah, it sounds good on the surface but it doesn’t mean they’re not still riddled with cancer.”

Warnings: Succession canon themes including but not limited to: Mentions of swearing, sexual jokes and connotations, corporate jargon, etc. Mentions of cancer, a bunch of Florida slander

The lead up to your first day was as luxurious as it was nerve wracking. You’d booked yourself a myriad of different treatments and appointments to prepare; a hair appointment to touch up your roots, a mani-pedi, several different facials you didn’t quite understand but was convinced your skin needed and a massage to try and work out the kinks and knots throughout your spine. God, that was what you needed. You had so much tension and stress held in your shoulders even the masseuse commented how surprised she was that someone your age was so tight.

After you closed your eyes, you were out like a light for the remainder of the two hour massage. You didn’t mean to fall asleep but it was that deep, soulful kind of rest that came when someone else was literally handling your relaxation for you. At the end of your session, the massage therapist shifted the aromatherapy in the room to a blend of peppermint and rosemary essential oils to ‘invigorate you’ compared to the previous lavender and chamomile, before gently nudging you awake. Momentarily disoriented and slightly embarrassed that you’d nodded off in the first place, you lifted your head and apologised to her, but she simply gave you a kind little smile like she’d seen this happen time and time again. Which she had.

“Your body really needed it,” she said quietly, smiling like a permanently zenned-out monk. Without a single stress in the world it looked like. Or a single wrinkle.

You’d chosen to move to New York and stay in an Airbnb until you found the right place to live. You didn’t want to rush into finding the space you’d someday call home. You’d donated the majority of your furniture rather than take it with you, give or take a few sentimental items. It was mostly from IKEA and Target; cheap flat-pack furniture styled nicely in your little condo. It would have been more of a hassle to hire interstate removalists to put it all into storage than to just donate it and buy new pieces once you settled in.

One week to pack everything up, two weeks to be a tourist in your new city, and one week to mentally prepare.

Now, you laid in the bed of your Airbnb, still half asleep but rolling over to turn off your alarm as you woke up in the morning. Today was the day you’d decided to make a shopping spree day, specifically for buying clothes for work. You’d stalked a tonne of your future colleagues on LinkedIn to see what type of performative bullshit they all wore, sussing out their outfits as you scrolled. You were lower middle management back in Florida, leading a team of 5 junior staffers and rocked up to work in jeans. Which was an impressive feat in itself give you were only in your late twenties but something told you shopping at H&M and Zara wouldn’t quite cut it anymore.

New York was one of the fashion capitals of the world, not to mention you were now upper middle management in one of the biggest media companies in the world. You were overseeing a team of 20, things were different. Your image mattered a lot more whether you wanted it to or not. You were ‘important’ now. To some people. Not most, but some.

Opening Google on your phone, you typed ‘where do rich people buy clothes in NYC’ and mentally sighed at yourself for searching something so blatantly dumb in the first place. But hey, it provided you with the results you were looking for so maybe it wasn’t so dumb after all. Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue, and the long list of luxury designer stores on Madison Ave… Perfect. You figured you’d start with Saks; recognisable, convenient, and it was a department store that housed dozens of brands under one roof. Easy.

You walked through New York City with your head slightly tilted up, not quite enough to gawk but definitely enough to stick out amongst the locals. Someone who doesn’t really belong here. Not yet. Maybe not ever but fuck, it was just so big. The buildings stretched impossibly high, their glass facades reflecting the sky in fractured blues and silvers. A pigeon nearly clips your shoulder, and a yellow cab honks at another car that runs a red light which makes you flinch and step back from the kerb, yet no one else moves a muscle. They move through the city streets with practised ease.

The closer you got to Fifth Avenue, the more curated everything feels. You passed a woman walking a dog in a knit sweater and she didn’t even glance at you when you smiled politely. Neither did the doorman outside a residential building whose awning was embroidered like royalty. Nor did the food delivery guy riding past on a bicycle. You tried not to take it personally that they didn’t smile back; New Yorkers were just like this.

Inside the 10 storey store, you didn’t bother looking at any of the prices on the various items (if they even had prices displayed) which sounded like fucking lunacy, but you told yourself that today it didn’t matter. Waystar gave you more than enough to have the kind of spending spree you’d only ever seen in movies, yet still have the confidence that you could afford the total at the end. The lump sum of money wouldn’t last forever if you kept this type of frivolity up permanently, but kicking off this new era of life with a fancy new wardrobe couldn’t hurt.

And fuck, you looked good on your first day.

Waystar Royco in its most simple and basic essence was a fucking behemoth of an empire, and with majority of their business divisions based out of New York, the Manhattan office was a sight to behold. How could it not, with its 60 storeys of corporate slaves and money hungry psychopaths?

Your new Prada heels clicked against the polished floor of the lobby as you approach the marble reception desk and you politely stood in front of one of the receptionists. Waiting. Longer than expected. Just…waiting.

“Name?” she asks, barely looking up at you. You answer and she types a few times without so much as an acknowledgement, then you wait again. And she types some more. And you keep waiting. Finally, she nods and looks up at you for the first time. “You can head up to level 48, someone will meet you there.”

Cold. Direct. Blunt.

How very New York of her.

The numbers on the elevator panel blink as you move higher and higher, your ears popping faintly. You’re not sure if it’s the altitude or the nerves but finally you reach the 48th floor. The doors slide open with a quiet hiss, revealing the Parks and Cruises division floor but before you can even look, you’re startled by a loud voice.

“It’s you!” Greg exclaims loudly. Excited and shocked yes, but far too loud for 9 in the morning.

“Greg?!” The name slips out of your mouth before you can curb your surprise, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Hey!” He says shaking in his head in disbelief and debating in his head whether or not a hug was unprofessional. He’d leaned forward slightly like he was about to, then decided against it at the last second.

“You…work here?” You questioned, not sure if you were shocked at the fact he was here in New York or whether he was still employed by Waystar at all. The last time you’d seen him he was in a dog costume being escorted away by security. You were certain he would’ve been fired after that.

“Yeah, I’m in New York now, yeah,” he chuckles, ushering you with his hand to follow him down the hall. “Y’know it’s so weird, Tom told me to meet you here after reception messaged him and I was like, ‘oh I wonder how many people in cruises have the same name as the chick from management training’ as in like, the same name as you, but here you are. How are you? Oh my god, this is so crazy… You’re like, a proper manager now.”

He keeps talking as you walk, a stream of words filling the silence like a soundtrack you didn’t ask for. You look around at everyone clicking and typing away at their monitors, a quiet hum of corporate droning that doesn’t match the energy bubbling out of him. Somehow, it’s comforting. It lets you think that this place doesn’t consume every part of a person and make them miserable. Not completely.

“Wait, you work for Tom? The guy who just replaced Bill?” You ask, given Tom was going to be your new manager too. Surely Greg wasn’t a manager too, right?

Greg spins around to walk backward for a moment, grinning down at you like he’s introducing you to a theme park ride. “Tom? Yeah, he’s my boss. I don’t really have a title yet per se, but I report to him so… Oh! Wait until you see your office. It’s got a sweet view.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I have my own office?”

“It’s not as big as some of the other ones but it’s got a couch in there so…that’s pretty cool.”

For a moment, it doesn’t matter that this role came wrapped in NDAs and dotted lines, that this office came with so many strings it was impossible to detach from them. All you can picture is stepping inside, setting down your bag, and knowing the space is yours. Yours to work, to think, to breathe.

Greg stops in front of a glass door halfway down the hall, gesturing proudly like a realtor showing off a penthouse. He points to the blank name plaque mounted next to it, glossy and untouched.

“They’ll order you a proper name plate, don’t worry,” he says, like that’s the final seal of legitimacy. Then, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, he pushes the door open. “Home sweet home.”

The desk sits adjacent to the window, sleek and immaculate. Empty shelves line one wall, still bare and a small charcoal couch hugs the opposite side. A little stiff-looking, like no one’s properly sat on it a bunch of times and made a butt print.

You walk straight to the floor‑to‑ceiling window, fingertips brushing the glass as if to prove it’s real. You’ve never seen New York from this high before, especially since you’d flown in at night so seeing it now felt surreal. Like a tiny fake Lego city.

“Holy shit…” The words slip out under your breath before you can stop them.

Behind you, Greg lets out a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he says, leaning a long arm against the doorframe. “That was, uh… pretty much my reaction too. You kinda forget you’re up this high until you, like, go past a window. Then it’s like, oh wow, this is huge.”

He closes the office door behind him but he doesn’t move too much closer, doesn’t crowd the moment. He just lets it hang there and gives you space to soak it all in. Somehow that makes it feel more significant, the silence of it all. You stand there for a moment longer, gazing down at the city you’ve moved to that’s promised so much yet taken so much in return.

Your gaze drifts back to Greg and for a moment it’s like your words get caught in your throat. “This is… fuck,” you exhale. “I can’t even string a sentence together right now I’m so shocked.”

The sound of your voice feels smaller in the space, like it doesn’t quite fill it yet. Greg gives a shy shrug, sitting on the couch like he’s trying to make the moment feel more relaxed. Through the glass walls, you spot a couple of heads lifting from screens across the floor. They’re quick glances, calculated and sharp, disappearing as soon as you acknowledge them. But the message is still strong. They’re watching you not only because you’re new, but because you’re young, a female, and a manager.

“It’s kind of overwhelming… But you’ll get used to it soon-” he starts to say before he’s cut off by Tom pushing open the door and tapping his knuckles against the glass.

“Knock knock,” he says out loud, punctuating it with a hollow laugh like even he knows how forced it sounds. His grin is wide, corporate, performative. The kind of grin that had been practiced in boardrooms and polished during cocktail hours.

“Greg…” Tom’s voice drips with mock scolding, staring him down. “You’re not scaring away our new friend already, are you?”

You straighten instinctively and shake his hand with a polite smile that you hope hides the flicker of nerves under your skin. “If it isn’t the man, the myth, the legend… You must be Tom Wambsgans.”

“And you, must be my shiny new hot shot from Florida.” He grins, taking a relaxed seat on the arm of the couch next to Greg. Somehow making the 6 foot 7 man seem small in the leather cushions. “How was it, down in our most penis shaped state?”

“I mean… It’s sweaty, humid, reeks of cheap sex and piss…” you joke, trying to keep the conversation light after being thrown off by your new boss talking about penises in your first introduction. “Guess it is America’s dick.”

“Born and bred Southerner?” Tom asks with a subtle grimace, hoping and praying you weren’t. Nothing against people from the South, he just…didn’t like them at all.

“God no, I grew up in DC. I only moved down to Orlando a few years back for work.”

“Good, good. Well, I’ve gotta run to a meeting but I just wanted to pop in and say hello. And I’ll see you at the quarterly review this afternoon,” he says to you before turning towards Greg and nudging his head towards the door for him to follow. Which Greg does, like his ever loyal puppy.

Tom strides down the hall towards his office, Greg trailing half a step behind. The nice midwesterner energy Tom had in your office; the easy grin, the overfamiliar jokes, the whole ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ vibe he had going on, melts the second they’re both out of earshot.

“So,” Tom says, his voice dropping just enough to make Greg lean in to hear. “What do you think? Is she a good egg?”

Greg blinks, caught off guard by how fast Tom had flipped the switch. He still wasn’t used to it yet. “Uh, good egg? I mean, yeah? She seems nice. Normal. Like, super normal. I actually met her at management training a few months back...”

Tom barks out a laugh, already settling behind his desk, fingers flying across his keyboard to look you up online. “You? Greg? Went to corporate daycare?” He lets out another laugh, shaking his head like the very thought of Greg enrolling in management training was absolutely absurd. “Bet Grandpa Ewan helped you get into that one, huh?”

Greg stayed silent, which only answered Tom’s question and confirmed his suspicion.

Meanwhile Kendall Roy, the epitome of psychopathic corporate slaves, stood in his father’s glass office staring at the skyline of the city. Desperate his whole life to take over Logan’s empire and grow the Roy family legacy to an even larger scale, Kendall had worked tirelessly for years on end to try and get his father’s approval. He told himself he wouldn't rest until he became CEO but even then he wouldn't stop until he was dead.

He'd work from the moment he woke up to the rare moment he fell asleep, majority of his nights fuelled by cocaine and adrenaline. At one stage his estranged wife Rava had given him an ultimatum: check into a rehabilitation facility or lose visitation rights of his two children Sophie and Iverson. Reluctantly, he went to rehab. Not for Rava, not for his Dad, not even for his children which he said was his main reason. No, no, he went to rehab to clear his name as a 'coke head' for the sake of his career.

It wasn't until his father Logan had encountered a recent stint in an Intensive Care Unit that Kendall received the news that he was not stepping up as the new CEO of Waystar. It killed him inside, knowing how power hungry his other siblings were and that his lifes greatest competition was not yet over.

Now, he was co-COO with his little brother Roman.

Major bummer.

“Yo Rome, I need you to drop in on the parks meeting for me.”

“And what, make sure Wambsgans isn’t fucking drowning?” Roman says without looking up from his phone. “His big ass hockey town shoulders practically make him a walking buoy.”

“Sure, whatever, but the division is down on last quarter and I need you to sus it out for me.”

“Why do I have to do it? You know operations better than me, you’ve been doing it for however many fucking years.”

“Cos we’re co-COO’s now and that means we fucking, uh, share now. Fifty-fifty, dude. And I have to go meet Lawrence from Vaulter.”

Roman groans and stands up from the couch, shoving his phone in his pocket reluctantly. “Fine, I’ll go…” he whines. “When is it?”

“Check your cal.”

Roman squints at his brother, “Or you could just tell me what time the meeting is?”

“It’s at 11:30. Check your fucking calendar.”

“Was that so hard?“ Roman scoffs. “Could’ve just told me the time when I asked but noooo… Robo-Ken over here is only programmed to say shit like ‘check your cal’ and ‘optics’ and fucking, ‘synergy’ instead of talking like a normal fucking human.”

Downstairs, the bottom of your heels scuffed ever so gently against the carpet as you walked down one of the never ending corridors, scanning each room number for the right room number.

"Thirty one fourteen, thirty one fourteen..." you mumbled under your breath, repeating the specific identifier over and over again to not forget it.

You were still breaking in the pair of heels you’d bought on the weekend and they pinched at your toes with every step. There’s something weirdly poetic about it, you thought. The way they felt wrong on your feet, the same way this whole new life feels like a costume you haven’t broken in yet. The discomfort isn’t enough to stop you, but it’s there as a reminder that luxury doesn’t always mean ease. The money sitting in your account, the new apartment and the fresh wardrobe filled with tailored clothes… It all fit, technically, but not without a little ache underneath the surface.

Eventually you found Room 3114 and waited outside quietly for the current group to finish up inside. Two men who you assumed were also fellow managers within the Parks and Cruises division, approached the same room, giving you a polite smile before continuing their conversation in a hushed tone.

"You reckon that had anything to do with him getting the new title? Man, if only there was another Roy daughter to fuck, then I would get a promotion too," The first man scoffed, provoking an eye roll from the second before you hear Tom from the other end of the hall.

You weren’t the only one to get a sporadic, out of the blue promotion it seemed. Great timing on Waystar’s part to be fair, putting you on a leave of absence until the start of the new quarter when Bill Lockhart’s retirement would create the need for a structural reset. They brought in a replacement for him, created several new roles including yours, and made a bunch of existing roles redundant. It was looking like a fresh start for Parks and Cruises.

Tom walked with purpose, a hint of cockiness in his step and an overarching sense of power in his stride. He knew that he worked hard for his new position in the company, with or without the help of his fiancée. "Shaking the tree folks, shaking the tree," Tom called out as he approached the room, swinging the door open and smiling at the previous meeting holders until they got the hint and left.

The rest of your colleagues took their seats along both sides of the long table, opening their laptops and notebooks in anticipation for Tom to begin presenting. It was a brief moment of quick introductions before Tom jumped straight into action, outlining the company's position on where they wanted the Parks and Cruise division to grow. It was a spiel all too familiar to them, a new manager telling their team how excited they were for innovation, change and growth, all for them to end up becoming empty, unfulfilled promises.

The presentation he had prepared was a high level plan to how the Parks division was to increase revenue; a very straightforward meeting to most in the room. Enthusiastic about working capital as one could be, his presentation was halted about a half hour in, when the door slid open from Roman.

"Hey, just- Pretend I'm not here," he said, moving to an empty chair that he was now rolling to the back corner of the room.

"Roman, hey! I didn't think you'd were attending… Normally Kendall joins us but uh, we’re just running through last quarter to realign on our plan moving forward. Thanks for joining us buddy. Take a seat, get comfy," Tom grinned, his smile wide like a nervous Cheshire Cat as he continued.

You suddenly grew self-conscious that the Roman Roy had joined the meeting. You’d never seen any of the Roy's in the flesh let alone shared a room with one. All of the men in the room seemed to shift in their demeanours, their backs straightening and their focus sharpening. You’d only heard stories about Roman but the majority of them weren't particularly positive testaments to his character.

You remembered during your college days the majority of the boys in your economics classes had an unhealthy infatuation with Kendall and Roman Roy. They viewed them as the epitome of success; their idols, their inspiration. They wanted to become them. On one hand, they were the sons of a billionaire media mogul who brought fresh and innovative ideas to a traditionally old-school industry. On the other hand however, they didn’t seem shy away from the drug fuelled partying and Playboy-esque gallivanting — they were truly a finance bro's wet dream brought to life.

"Wait, go back to that other slide. Yeah, that one. Can I- I’m just gonna stand real quick," Roman interrupted, getting up from his chair and moving to the front of the room where Tom was presenting on the screen. His 'can I?' was rhetorical, since he would have taken over the meeting regardless of Tom's answer.

He stood next to the screen with his arms folded across his chest, inspecting the data in front of him. He was equally as threatening as he was captivating. Every man in the room stared in both fear and admiration. The only other woman in the room looked bored to her core. But she was like, in her sixties so you kind of expected her to be bored. You would be too if you’d dealt with this corporate bullshit for that many years.

"This number, with the minus in front of it? This isn't good. This makes me feel like we’re getting fucked in the ass," he pointed, tapping one of the dozens of numbers on the screen.

"Ah yes, brilliant call out. I'm uh, I'm actually going to let someone else on the team take this one, just to see who’s been paying attention. Who’s across Tokyo?" Tom laughed, knowing full well he was caught off guard by the negative figure just as much as Roman was. It was a new role to him too but he didn't have the courage to admit he didn't know everything.

The room fell silent as the group of grown men pulled faces to look like they were deep in thought or trying to recollect a memory that didn't exist. Some even went as far to flick through their notebooks or squint at their laptop screens for semblance that they were ‘organised’.

“How much is this expansion thing costing us? And how much are we gonna make from it? Someone, anyone...” Roman asked the room.

“We anticipate that revenue figure will increase next quarter looking at our current trend line,” one of the other managers says.

Way to state the fucking obvious, you thought.

“How though? You can’t just say ‘it’ll be better next quarter’ and wait for the money to magically come. That’s like telling a dying kid that their tumour stopped growing. Yeah, it sounds good on the surface but it doesn’t mean they’re not still riddled with cancer.” Roman scoffs.

You stifle your laugh to be professional but a small, single sound sneaks out. Nobody really notices, but Roman does. Tom does. As they both look at you, you quickly look down at your notebook and flick through the quick high-level notes you’d written earlier that morning. Fucking lucky, of all the things you thought to write down in preparation for this meeting, BrightStar Tokyo’s expansion was the main one. You’d worked on the expansion for the past two years so you were pretty familiar with it, but not the exact financial figures until now.

You breathe in slightly before speaking, “We’ve budgeted for 320 billion yen so far.”

“In USD that’s like, what? 2 bil?” Roman mutters to himself.

You answer, “2.2 billion.”

"Fucking hell…” Roman trails. He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to put his finger on whether you were a new face or if he’d met you before and simply just forgotten.

"Oh! Roman, everybody, this is our new Strategy and Planning Manager. It’s her first day today, so go easy on her," Tom laughs.

Your fellow managers give polite smiles and mutter their hello’s before looking back at Roman in front of the screen. Roman was far too important to learn the names of each and every 'civilian' he interacted with but something about you intrigued him. He used the word civilian like he was some sort of fucking superhero, placing an extreme point of difference between himself and those outside the elite. He couldn’t name a single other fucker in the room apart from Tom and Greg, and even then he’d called his cousin Craig for several weeks.

Roman’s first thought was ‘must be bring your daughter to work day’ given you were so young but surprisingly, he bit his tongue.

He looks around at the rest of the room. “First day and she can answer a simple question…” he says before looking at Tom with a semi-impressed eyebrow raise. “Where’d you find her?”

“Florida.”

Roman screws his face up in disgust and flicks his head towards you, “You’re from the South? Ew.”

“Definitely not,” you say, almost too fast to have thought about your answer. “I moved to join Waystar 6 years ago.”

He nods, acknowledging your tenure with the company rather than assuming you were fresh meat looking at all of this with the eyes of a kindergartener. “Okay Florida, what do you think… Are we fucked or is it a mild penetration?”

“Just the tip, we’re good.” You smile, glancing at Tom who looked relieved that Roman wouldn’t be telling Logan how fucked the division was. You give him a slight nod as if to say ‘I’ve got your back’ with the hopes he’d have yours in future. Fingers crossed.

“Super vanilla.”

Taglist: @gxilds @zenbyo @sweetnettlessting @lilacbe @aullyjay @violet1661

COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST xoxo

[domithanasia]

[godlessondheimite]

[tvandfilm]

You could be heading away from the endless middle and towards the bottom of the top. Do you want a deal with the devil?

SUCCESSION (2018–2023) S03E09: All The Bells Say

[deadgirlwalked]

I love that a consistent thing about Greg is that he doesn't keep a fucking secret secret. You tell him something, he will tell it to someone else, either by accident or deliberately.

[dailyflicks]

SUCCESSION 1.02 — Sh*t Show at the F*ck Factory (2018)

[microplaid]

[lesbianbeatles]

[mullomohiam]

[lythefairystan]

succession au where jenny nicholson releases a 4 hour deep dive on all the problems with brightstar adventure park, which domino effects into the complete and total destruction of the roy family empire

[roy-co]

a collection.

[moxxpoxx]

[successionsideblog]

guess who fucking died

[soup-future]

uniform of guys who were put in an evil office

[ellamorgan333]

mfs be like “my gay dad left me” then this is their best friend💀 yeah we can tell😂🤣😂