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Based on the prompt, "Please feed the degenerate I am with some Sloan content. Whatever you want."

Dr. Sloan POV

The Danton winters are unforgiving. Brutal. The kind of cold that bites right through the skin, sinks its teeth into the bones. You were born in the South, moved to the Northeast - but even that couldn't prepare you, the days with their sliver of sun, the early nights with their hollowed-out silence. 

Spring is always a welcome relief. Summer - practically euphoric. 

It is the first Saturday of June, the opening of the Danton farmer's market, and you slip into your favorite sundress - the weather in the seventies today, practically sweltering compared to the past few months. You're just zipping up the back when you feel hands brush against your waist, pull you tight against MC.

"You're up early," you say, leaning back into their touch, your head resting on their shoulder. 

"Habits," they say, lightly nipping the skin of your neck and you laugh, reach behind you to curl your fingers in their hair. "And I couldn't possibly miss this."

"The farmer's market?" you say, a smile playing on your lips. 

"Of course." Their lips press against your pulse point, trail down to your shoulder. They catch the strap of your dress in their teeth, and you shiver - heat coiling tight in your belly. "You know how I love breakfast."

"Liar. You never eat breakfast."

"Only when you're cooking." You can imagine the grin on their face, and you turn, press them against the wall of your closet. Their mouth falls open in a small gasp, and you lean in, your mouth only a centimeter away from theirs. 

"Don't flatter a lady," you say. "It's unbecoming."

"You're a lady now?" they say, before hissing when you bite at their throat. "Ow."

"You're awfully bratty today." You catch their chin in your hand, slip your thumb easily past their lips. "Maybe you don't deserve breakfast."

"And you're a cruel mistress," they murmur. 

You smile, pressing your leg between their thighs. "I'm always nice to you."

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