Forget A Clipboard— This Man Could Slam ME On A Table - Blog Posts

Maybe do a scene where he actually slams a clipboard on the table 😂

I saw your post...and I thought...

"Why not make that scene..."

Honestly he's so fine I definitely would be folding like a lawn chair ...💀💀💀

Tether

AD Janson x Reader

Bit of Angst, tension (lots of power play)

Not exactly proofread

Summary: She’s composed, controlled, impossible to crack… until Janson steps in, asking questions no one else dares to ask, and watching far too closely when she answers.

Story under the cut

The room is freezing.

But you never shiver.

Because shivering gets noted. And nothing in WCKD goes unrecorded.

You sit like you always do. Neutral, composed, spine aligned with the back of the steel chair. You fold your hands just loosely enough to look relaxed, but never so tight you look scared.

You’re not scared.

You’re watching.

That’s the key to survival here—watch more than you speak.

Play helpful. Play small. Play invisible.

It’s why you didn’t flinch when the guards dragged in Thomas last night. Or when Minho screamed his throat raw. Or at least, tried not to.

You watched the cameras. You watched the mirrors. You watched him.

Because Janson doesn’t operate like the others.

He doesn’t threaten.

He studies.

Ironic. The least likely to hurt her was the biggest threat of all.

When the door opens today, you know it’s him before he steps in. The air shifts. Thicker. Heavier. Like he brings the storm in with him.

He closes the door. Doesn’t bother to announce himself. You don’t look at him until he sits down across from you.

“I’ve read your file,” he says, calm as ever. “But files lie.”

You tilt your head—just a little. Feign interest.

“So I prefer asking the subject directly.”

Your lips press into a polite line.

Good. Keep the act warm. Cooperative. Non-threatening.

He opens a folder. But he doesn’t look at it.

“What did you whisper to Newt before the lights went out two nights ago?”

You blink slowly. “I told him I was cold.”

“You weren’t.”

A beat.

“You never show discomfort. Not even when they turned the vents up to freezing.”

You offer a ghost of a shrug. “Maybe I was trying to comfort him.”

“You don’t comfort people. You observe them.”

His voice is soft. Accusing.

Too accurate.

You breathe through your nose.

“What’s your point?”

He watches you for a moment. Silent. Like he’s peeling back skin.

“You play quiet. Play cooperative. But you never give.”

You open your mouth to speak—

—but he slams the clipboard down like a gavel, fast and loud.

SLAM.

You jerk slightly, then lean back just enough. Your thighs press against the edge of the chair. You shift. It’s subtle, practiced. But your lip catches between your teeth for half a second. Just one.

And it’s one second too long.

His eyes catch it. And stay there.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak yet.

Just watches you bite your lip and recover.

“Interesting,” he says finally.

You shake your head. “Reflex.”

His brow lifts. “That wasn’t fear.”

His tone is lower now. Controlled. Curious.

“That was something else.”

You meet his eyes again, voice cool. “You’re imagining things.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

He leans in.

You feel it in your chest. The weight of his gaze. The way the air closes in like it’s watching, too.

“Tell me something, then,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “If you’re not afraid of me… if you’re so calm, so unbothered… why are your pupils dilated?”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m in a cold room. Low light.”

“Wrong,” he murmurs. “That light hasn’t changed in sixty hours.”

Silence. Thick. Loaded.

He tilts his head slowly, examining you like you’re some rare, caged creature on the verge of revealing its real shape.

“You’re trying to stay in control,” he says. “And it’s beautiful to watch you fail.”

Your nails dig into your thigh under the table, but your face? Still smooth. Still even.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, voice quieter now.

He breathes out through his nose. Almost a laugh. But it isn’t kind.

“I want you to stop pretending.”

Another pause.

“Because the moment you do…we’re going to get somewhere real.”

He stands. But not to leave. Not yet.

He leans both hands on the table. Closer now. Close enough that if you wanted to, you could flinch. Or slap him. Or maybe—

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So instead, you say the only thing you can.

“I’m not pretending.”

His eyes darken. Something shifts in them. Some quiet little thrill.

Because you’re lying.

And you both know it.

He leans down, voice curling against your ear like smoke.

“Then why does your heartbeat sound like a fucking metronome?”

And then—

He walks out.

Leaves the door wide open.

But you don’t move.

You don’t chase.

You just sit there.

Heart hammering.

Pulse ringing.

Still pretending.

Still calculating.

But this time…

not so sure you’re winning.