seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Italy
seen from Australia
seen from Australia
seen from Belarus
seen from Armenia
seen from Italy
seen from Netherlands
seen from Lithuania
seen from Serbia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Lithuania
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
P1. SLOW BURN
The bullpen of the 21st District was humming with its usual low-frequency grit—the sound of clicking keyboards, the hum of the coffee machine, and the distant ringing of a desk phone that nobody seemed inclined to answer.
You felt his presence before you heard it. It was a shift in the air, a certain gravity that followed Hank Voight wherever he went.
The First Shift
You had been in Intelligence for six months. Long enough to know the rules, but not long enough to stop your heart from doing a double-tap against your ribs when he leaned over your desk.
"You're still here," he noted. His voice was that familiar gravel-drag, low and sandpaper-dry.
"Just finishing the background on the Lamont cell," you said, not looking up yet. You knew if you did, you’d lose your place in the files—and your composure. "I didn't want to leave it for the morning."
Voight didn't move. He stood close enough that you could smell the faint, sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the Chicago cold clinging to his leather jacket. He placed a hand on the back of your chair. It wasn't a hug; it wasn't even a touch, really. Just a claim of space.
"Go home," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. "The monsters will still be there tomorrow. Get some air."
The Unspoken Language
Weeks turned into months. The "burn" wasn't a fire; it was a slow, steady heat. It was in the way he started bringing you coffee—black, no sugar, exactly how you liked it—without asking. It was the way his eyes would find yours across a crowded crime scene, a silent check-in that passed between you like a physical wire.
One rainy Tuesday, the team was celebrating a closed case at Molly’s. The bar was loud, filled with the boisterous laughter of Ruzek and Atwater. You were tucked into a corner booth, nursing a drink, when Voight slid in across from you.
He looked tired. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper in the amber light of the bar.
"You did good today," he said quietly.
"I had a good lead," you deflected, tracing the condensation on your glass.
"No." He reached across the table. For a second, his fingers brushed your wrist—just a graze, but it felt like a jolt of electricity. "You stayed calm. You kept your head when everything else was going sideways. I noticed."
You looked up then, meeting that piercing, steady gaze. For the first time, the wall he kept between himself and the world felt thin. Transparent.
"I learned from the best, Hank."
The use of his first name hung in the air between you. It was a bridge crossed. He didn't pull away; instead, his thumb traced the pulse point on your wrist for one beat, then two, before he slowly withdrew his hand.
The Threshold
An hour later, you were walking to your car in the drizzling rain. The street was quiet, the city muffled by the fog.
"Wait."
You turned to see Voight standing by the exit of the bar. He walked toward you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He stopped just inches away, shielding you from the wind with his frame.
"Be careful driving," he said. His voice was lower now, a private frequency meant only for you. "The roads are slick."
"I will," you whispered.
Neither of you moved. The silence wasn't awkward; it was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet. He reached out, his hand hovering near your face before he finally tucked a stray, damp lock of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your cheek, lingering for a second too long to be accidental.
"See you at the District," he murmured.
"See you, Hank."
He watched you get into the car. He didn't leave until your taillights faded into the gray Chicago mist. It wasn't a confession, and it wasn't a beginning—not yet. But as you drove away, the heat of his touch stayed on your skin, a slow-growing ember that neither of you was in any hurry to put out.
Cate Dunlap | Future Plans
no warnings
Future Plans Bot
The warm hum of the television filled the room like a familiar lullaby. The late-night talk show host’s voice drifted in and out, background noise to the small world Cate Dunlap and her boyfriend had created on the couch.
Andreina for Voight ⋆｡𖦹°.🐚⋆❀˖°
Fear turns into confession (2/4)
Info: Y/n joins intelligence on a case, leaving Jay distracted from his job.
Requested by @maybankangel
Series masterlist
Two weeks had passed since y/n had returned from the army. Jay and her had become close, spending many evenings hanging out, with Mouse joining them sometimes. Erin still felt bitter about y/n and her bitterness had only grown with how much time her boyfriend was spending with the returned soldier. It didn't help that everyone in intelligence had grown to like her, leading to her often hanging out in the district. It wasn't unusual for y/n to turn up with lunch for the team, but Erin refused to like the girl. And y/n didn't seem that bothered by Erin's noticeable attitude towards her, instead opting to be the bigger person, opting to treat the woman her friend loved as a friend. The two didn't seem to be making any progress of becoming friends, but y/n accepted that, choosing to get along with Erin for the sake of Jay, and she hoped Erin felt the same way.
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Voight
Vanilla for Voight
vanillamace x voight
