bootleg —

“Not to your taste, love?” he smirks through rum-stained breath, a sinful sweetness to match the salt on the ocean’s nightly breeze; she digs her heels into the sand and glares, but says nothing, and Korra—with eyes made of sea, heart made of stone, soul made of fire—tilts her head back and takes another mighty swig from the filthy bottle, simply out of spite.