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Summary
Salt-soaked cotton and skin and heat. Faith needs this. Needs to be absolved the best way she knows how. The beginnings of soreness pulse in her knees against the pressure of the rainswept, rough asphalt, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the supplicant and her deity, whose back presses into a brick wall, hands twisting through the dark waves of Faith’s hair possessively.
It's kinda funny, all things considered– what kind of a name is Buffy for a goddess? – but there Faith kneels, worshipping at the altar of a superhuman valley girl, California sunshine even in spite of the cold Atlantic wind rolling over them off the Chesapeake Bay.
__________Or: Faith has a bunch of weird, raised Catholic baggage and she brings it along when she goes down on Buffy in an alleyway.