#pink lady cocktail

[p-rtyboy]

Flag id: Two flags with the same format of 5 horizontal, even stripes, with a cocktail glass shape on the left. The Pink Lady Cocktail flag is colored, from top to bottom; dark raspberry, salmon pink, pale rose, and white. The cocktail glass has dark raspberry line art, with a thinner salmon pink and dark raspberry outline. The drink is colored salmon pink with a thin white line on the top.

The Black Window Cocktail flag is colored, from top to bottom; Black, carmine red, jasper red, light coral, and black. The cocktail glass has black line art with a thinner jasper red and black outlines. The drink is split between jasper red on top and very dark purple on the bottom. /end ids

Pink Lady [Cocktail]

Pt: Pink Lady [Cocktail] /end pt

Any queer person who presents their gender through the colors pink and white

Black Widow [Cocktail]

Pt: Black Widow [Cocktail] /end pt

Any queer person who presents their gender through the colors red and black

Coined on October 23rd, 2024

Colors based on the drinks, part of the Beverage Presentation System [link] by @satyrradio and Punch Bowl [link] by @blood-moon-night-coining

Tagging @radiomogai @obscurian and @presentationflag-archive

[askwhatsforlunch]

Pink Lady

If you know me, you know I like a good cocktail, and I'm always keen to both discover classics and mix my own creations! Today's tipple, the Pink Lady, born during the Prohibition era and very popular in the Thirties, probably tastes better nowadays as the spirits are not bootleg (and the Grenadine is homemade!) Don't be fooled by the delicate pink hue and the delightful cloud-like foam topping it, this Lady packs a punch; just how I like them! Happy Friday!

Ingredients (serves 1):

45 millilitres/1 1/2 ounce (3 tablespoons) London Dry Gin

15 millilitres/1/2 ounce (1 tablespoon) applejack

a small, ripe lemon

7.5 millilitres/1/4 ounce (1/2 tablespoon) Grenadine 

1 egg white

8 to 10 ice cubes

Pour London Dry Gin and applejack in a shaker.

Thoroughly squeeze the juice of the lemon, and pour one and a half tablespoon of the lemon juice into the shaker.

Add Grenadine and the egg white, close the shaker tightly, and dry shake (without the ice) energetically.

Add the ice cubes to the shaker, close tightly, and shake vigorously once more, until well-chilled.

Strain into a chilled coupe glass.

Enjoy Pink Lady immediately! Cheers!

[retropopcult]

vintage cocktails from a 1946 Esquire magazine article, "This Is the Way to Make Your Favorite Drinks"

[gender-mailman]

Pink lady goat!

Pink Lady Cocktail [link] folks who feel connected to goats in some way; such as being otherkin / therian, an alter, or if you just really like goats

Coined by me. Requested by no one

[j-fashion-wearer-otd]

Today’s J-fashion wearer is Pink Lady from Cocktail Prince! He wears sweet (and occasionally casual) girly!

[satoumafuyuss]

Outfit swap~ Another one from the art challenge!

I miss kakupuri tails. I miss it a lot.

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

do you ever just hear something and youre like we live very different lies?

because i just heard of someone spending 10k on a birthday party and im so damn confused. like where exactly does that money go?

i come from the wotsits in a bowl, £2 crazy straws and handmade decorations side of birthday parties. i wouldnt know how to spend 1k on a birthday party, how are you spending 10??????

[kakupuri]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PINK LADY realest guy

[faerociousbeast]

also aoi wears a jersey she likes wearing it all the time and pink lady gets SO offended about this

[mayandco01]

Pink Lady

Perfect for any occasion, the Pink Lady is a wonderful cocktail that blends flavour and elegance. Grenadine syrup's vivid sweetness makes this cocktail visually appealing as well as delicious. Visit mayandco.in for high-quality ingredients like grenadine syrup, lemon juice where taste and quality meet. This traditional cocktail can help you up your game.

[definetorule-blog]

Bourgeoisie alone time

[p-rtyboy]

Flag id: Two flags with the same format of 5 horizontal, even stripes, with the cups on the left. The Strawberry Milkshake flag is colored, from top to bottom; dark raspberry, salmon pink, pale rose, and white. The milkshake glass has dark raspberry line art, with a white outline outline.

The Raspberry Tea flag is colored, from top to bottom; Black, carmine red, jasper red, light coral, and black. The tea cup has black line art with a light coral outline. /end ids

Strawberry Milkshake [left]

Pt: Strawberry Milkshake [left] /end pt

Any queer person who presents their gender through the colors pink and white. Non-alcoholic version of Pink Lady [link]

Raspberry Tea [right]

Pt: Raspberry Tea [right] /end pt

Any queer person who presents their gender through the colors red and black. Non-alcoholic version of Black Widow [link]

Coined on December 1st, 2024

Colors from the original flags

Tagging @radiomogai @obscurian and @presentationflag-archive

[informations-pratiques]

Recette Pink Lady

Réalisez votre propre Pink Lady, en utilisant cette recette de cocktail simple et facile à préparer.

© Image de Racool_studio sur Freepik

[haunt-the-ikea]

I love a pink lady cocktail and have been experimenting with derivatives but they’re tricky little beasts. “Oh I am but a cute frothy little drink in a little coupe glass” but it’s straight up two ounces of gin + additional alcohol + raw egg + a crafty disguise of sugar and citrus.

[gender-mailman]

Pink lady kitty!

Pink Lady Cocktail [link] folks who feel connected to cats in some way; such as being otherkin / therian, an alter, or if you just really like cats

Coined by me. Requested by no one

[comatosebunny09]

defense(less) zone | sylus

— summary: it wasn’t until your friend returned with a third glass that he noticed something was…off. the woman���tara, he believes her name was—pat him on the shoulder as she strode past. “have a good night, mr. skye,” she drawled, leaving sylus to ponder what the hell that meant. — cw: aphrodisiacs, written with female reader in mind, awkward boners, stupid humor, alcohol consumption, accidental intentional drugging, profanity, sylus in-heat, sexual content, mdni — notes: here's half of what you asked for. once i finish up with my other wips, i'll revisit this one. thank you so much for reading! — tags: @leighsartworks216 @world-of-hearts @queenofstresss @cheshireworld @beewilko

Sylus knew better.

He knew after the third time you warned him not to touch the grog that it was imperative he listen.

Sure, he teased you about it. “I assure you, sweetheart. I know how to hold my liquor.”

The sharp look in your eye held a warning. “That’s not the problem.”

He chuckled with his hands thrown up in mock surrender. You were being a killjoy, sure. But he heeded you, avoiding the table that held the concoction of spirits like the plague.

Until…

Well, your friends—they were so lovely. Equally as insistent, shoving drinks and hors d'oeuvres into his hands while you were off socializing.

It was your fault for leaving him alone. You were the talk of the ball since you’d stepped foot in the venue with Mister Tall, Dark, and Devastating. Naturally, when you left his side, your friends swept in, buzzing about like hoverflies.

They bombarded him with questions, swooned over him, complimented him. He was used to the limelight. This level of attention. But it hit differently when people weren’t kissing his ass because he was a kingpin.

He found his defenses melting into the floor the more they talked to him, and it was easy for Sylus to understand why you acquainted yourself with them. They were lively. Disarming. Dangerous.

One of your lady friends sidled up to him with a glass of something ominous. Light pink in color, and it swirled and glittered like a nebula. Its acrid scent should’ve been enough of a ward. But he didn’t want to be rude. And he wasn’t a bitch, so he drank it, ignoring its harsh edge. He needed to blend in. Show you he could drink like a sailor and still carry you home by the night’s end.

And…maybe he was being a little impressionable.

It wasn’t until your friend returned with a third glass that he noticed something was…off.

“Thank you,” Sylus said, the glass poised at his lips.

Your friend watched with mischief painting her features. That didn’t bode well. Sylus threw back the last drink, placing his glass on a waiter’s tray passing by.

The pair stood in uncomfortable silence—Sylus smiling warily with a hand stuffed in his pocket and the young lady refusing to look away as a Chesire grin split her face in twain.

The woman—Tara, he believes her name was—pat him on the shoulder as she strode past. “Have a good night, Mr. Skye,” she drawled, leaving Sylus to ponder what the hell that meant.

The rest of your coworkers followed suit, slowly trickling away to the dancefloor. As Sylus said his goodbyes to the last of them, the room started to teeter, and his chest grew heavy as if weighed down by lead.

Sylus massaged his temple, trying to blink away the sudden bleariness. There was no way in hell he was drunk. Not this early in the evening, and not after a handful of watered-down cocktails.

He scanned the room. Caught your eye amongst the sea of revelers. You raised your champagne flute to him in greeting, a quiet smile rounding your lips. This ball was important to you—an opportunity to create a lasting impression on your new superiors. Sylus would kick himself if he spoiled it. So, he nodded.

But he learned to regret that simple gesture soon enough.

He stumbled forward a step or two, and the marbled floors below swam. What the fu—

Shaking his head, Sylus’ eyes flit to you to see your brows pinching with concern. You looked like you wanted to tear through the crowd to get to him. He smiled to lay your worries to rest, mouthing, ‘I’m alright.’

Seemingly satisfied, you spared him another apprehensive look before returning your attention to the woman before you who’d ensnared you in conversation.

Sylus wasn’t exactly sure what was amiss with his body. Just knew he was growing hot beneath the fibers of his tux, and the hairs at his nape were pasted to his skin by sweat.

He wended through the crowd, taking long strides towards the restroom. Maybe a splash of cold water would draw him back to sobriety.

On his journey, he caught sight of the punchbowl you’d steered him away from all night.

He swallowed past a lump of barbs in his throat, quickening his pace as a familiar swirl of pale pink gleamed condescendingly at him from within.

—

Thankfully, the bathroom was empty.

He inspected himself in the mirror, his large hands on either side of the sink bowl to keep him upright.

He’d broken out with a fine sheen of sweat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Why the fuck was it so hot? And why was his chest burning like that, the sensation slowly puddling in his stomach?

Sylus turned on the faucet. Cupped his palms beneath its languid spray, splashing water onto his face. He slapped his cheeks, willing himself to get his shit together. Despite his efforts, the lights of the men’s room continued to spin and blur, and he struggled to keep himself afloat.

He winced at his reflection. Took a deep breath, mouth hanging open when he exhaled. He looked flushed. Unkempt. The veins of his neck visibly throbbed, and he felt the beginnings of a headache seeping in. Could he really not hold his liquor?

“Hey, man!” called a boisterous voice from behind. It was followed by a clap on Sylus’ shoulder, and had he been anyone but himself, he would’ve barreled into the wall. A growl roiled in his chest, and he cut his eyes at the intruder.

The guy in question—one of your coworkers whom Sylus spoke with earlier—draped an arm about his shoulders, studying both their visages with a drunken cant to his lips.

“Great party, huh?”

Sylus could only grunt, his throat slowly constricting, and his wits scattered about.

“You alright, man?” he queried. “Not lookin’ so hot there.” He studied Sylus’ side profile a moment longer before a knowing foxlike grin crept over his lips. “Aw, dude! You get a hold of the grog, too?”

Sylus felt the color drain from his face.

“Yeah, man. That shit’s lethal. Don’t know what they put in it this time, but I’m harder than a rock!” The room erupted with his raucous laughter directly into Sylus’ ear. He proceeded to palm himself, playfully wiggling his hips.

Sylus wondered how long you’d give him the silent treatment if he committed murder tonight.

“Take care, man,” the obnoxious asshole bellowed, patting Sylus a little too roughly between his shoulder blades. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Sylus tracked his movements to the door until it swung closed behind him, blotting out the swell of noise beyond. He bowed forward, his forehead colliding with the glacial surface of the mirror—a welcomed contrast to his inflamed skin.

“Fuck,” he rasped, hanging on by a thread.

They spiked the grog. They spiked the fucking grog. He’d had three glasses of it, and whatever was in there disrupted his senses and made his pants grow unbearably tight. That would explain why everyone was so nauseatingly happy.

Your visage flashed in his mind. Made his body pulse, and he crumbled with grit teeth.

He knew you’d be up his ass when you found out.

In his defense, you left him to the wolves. To those jackals you called friends.

—

He finds you in no time. Sniffs you out like a bloodhound after he gave himself a lengthy pep talk in the bathroom.

“Sweetie,” Sylus calls from behind. Eases a hand down the curve of your spine. You shiver. Damn your dress for having such a devastating plunge. For boasting your pretty skin like that.

You’re so soft here, he thinks, dragging the backs of his fingers up and down the ripples of your vertebrae. The scent you carry is lethal. Floral and sweet. His eyes nearly pitch into the back of his skull when he gets a whiff, toes scrunching in his dress shoes.

You peer at him over your shoulder, a soft smile to your lips. Toy with your necklace. Very demure, very docile.

“There you are,” you purr with that thousand-watt smile, your voice honey-smooth. He feels it pooling in his lower belly. Bites his lip against a pathetic sound threatening to make itself known.

Over your shoulder, he gives your company a curt, dismissive smile. Perches a hand on your hip, drawing you back towards him to spin you around. He then leads you to a spot devoid of people, away from the strobing lights. His palms clasp around your arms, thumbs cruising over supple skin.

“What’s up?” you whisper, pressing a concerned hand between his pectorals. His Achilles Heel. His heart beats a war cadence against you. He might just take you here if you’ll let him. Split you nice and open.

Alarm meddles with your features at his silence. At the violent tremor of his heart. Your brows furrow, and your lips quiver. “What’s wrong, Sy?”

God, you’re beautiful, even when you look all concerned. He traces a languid triangle between your bowed lashes and lips. Wants to kiss you so fucking bad. Smudge that pretty lipstick down your chin. Slide his hand between your thighs and make you sigh his name in front of all these people.

His dick throbs.

Fuck. Focus. Stay focused.

“Sweetie,” he tries again, swallowing thickly. His eyes are at half-mast. He’s trying his best not to sway—not to look like a bumbling idiot, but whatever’s in his system has him seeing double.

You jet into mom mode. Gently grab his wrists, the feel of your digits branding his skin, wrenching a needy sound from his throat. “Sylus, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

He debates on telling you the truth. Turns it over like a record in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. Feels silly, like a child admitting to rifling through the cookie jar.

A wave of vertigo hurtles into him, reminding him of his plight. He teeters forward, catching himself at the last minute. Angles closer, his breath stirring your baby hairs.

“I…might’ve indulged a little.”

“Huh?” you ask, rubbing up and down his arms. You smooth his hair away from his forehead, behind his ears. Gather his cheeks into your palms, and he burns like an inferno. “The hell does that even mean?”

He tries his best to roll his eyes. For someone so gorgeous, you can be incredibly daft.

“The grog, sweetie.”

“The grog…” There’s a faraway look in your eyes.

He watches the gears turn in your head before realization descends on your shoulders. Whatever concern you held for him sloughs off, replaced by mortification. The world eases by in a Gaussian blur, every sound a muddled mess to his ears.

Suddenly, you’re shoving at him. Pelting his chest with half-hearted jabs, and he stumbles back. Bad idea. He catches your hands, holding on tight to keep himself afloat.

“You drank—you drank the fu—”

Glancing around, you haul him towards an alcove. Push him up against the wall none-too-gently, forcing a grunt from his lungs.

“You drank the fucking grog?”

Uh-oh. You’re whisper-yelling. He’s in for it now.

“Yep.”

“After I told you, like, thirty times not to?!”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck, man!”

He’s swaying again. Plasters on a silly grin. It’s comical, watching you quietly panic.

“To be fair, your friend fed it to me.” He motions to something off to the side with a tilt of his head.

You pick up on his cue. Tara’s not too far off, waggling her fingers in a way that bleeds mischief.

“Unbelievable!” you sigh, scrubbing a frustrated hand down your face. “I can’t leave you by yourself for two seconds.”

You’re clearly upset. He doesn’t mind catching strays. Couldn’t dodge them even if he tried. So, instead, he takes hold of your hands to calm them. Tugs you closer, eyes a bleary shade of burgundy. 

“What’s done is done, sweetheart. How we next choose to handle this is what matters now.”

You give him a look. A once-over, painting a sharp line down the slope of his body. It is then that you catch sight of him—hot and turgid against the stitching of his trousers. A knit forms between your brows. You look like you want to scream-slash-cry.

“That bad?” you ask. Your disappointment from before abates, replaced by something of concern. He chuckles, and it’s an effort on its own. 

Sluggishly, he directs your hand to the cusp of him. Groans something filthy and bitten-off, eyes screwing shut. He bows into you, a bead of sweat trailing down the ridge of his Adam’s apple. 

“That bad.”