Well hello hello artist sorry for bothering you BUUUUUT DO you sometimes take art requests are they are still alive and still open???
hiiii to answer your question …. yes and no!!
i’m open to suggestions but i’m not super active on tumblr and i will typically not do requests i don’t feel like doing . (like OC’s, a fandom im not in or a pairing i don’t ship or anything nsfw) but if im particularly interested in a request or if im having a good day then ill do one
so Basically requests are open and i appreciate every one ! but i do apologize for being too unmotivated for a lot of them in a timely manner❤️
Everytime i see people criticize mario sunshine, it makes me giggle because i have this head canon that Mario was LIVID after that vacation, like he did not enjoy it anymore than the player did lmfaoo..
i ccouldnt stop thinking about when playing tomodachi life a few years ago and jesse was a backup dancer in the concert hall and they put her in this dress
Mario’s the kind of guy who will get the shit beat out of him by Bowser and stand up again like nothing happened but when he stubs his toe at home he acts like he’s been shot
he never wanted her to blame herself for all the times he’s gotten hurt since he moved to the mushroom kingdom but he’s got a few too many claw marks from a certain turtle for her NOT to feel a little guilty
That much was obvious just from the reactions of her guests. The moment she lifted the cake lid, the brothers at her table oohed and aahed in wonder of the decadent dessert she presented them. A heady mix of buttercream and coconut filled the gazebo, and immediately they murmured amongst themselves in excitement, calloused hands gripping delicate pewter forks in anticipation.
She’d spared no expense. Fresh eggs, buttermilk, and hand-churned butter from the family farm just outside of Toad Town; rich sunflower seed oil, supplied by her very own sunflowers and pressed in the royal kitchens; pecans imported from the Wooded Kingdom, whole coconuts imported from Isle Delfino. To say nothing of the icing, lovingly mixed with homemade extracts of vanilla and almond — and to say nothing of the imported vanilla beans and bitter apricot pits that made her extracts possible — would simply be a crime.
The end result: an Italian cream cake that made authentic Italian men water at the mouth. Peach, not normally one to brag on herself, couldn’t help but hold her head a little higher than usual.
Her knife sank effortlessly into the cake. Each brother was given a generous slice, each slice the perfect balance of nutty and sweet, smooth and moist. Luigi took his time, savoring each forkful with a contented hum, indulging all five senses in this specially-prepared feast. Mario wasn’t so keen on dissecting the finer details of her work. By the time the younger twin was on his fourth or fifth bite, the elder was already going back in for seconds, his mustache coated in crumbs and the corners of his mouth smudged with cream cheese.
Between the two of them, the cake would be gone before the hour was up. The mere sight of their enjoyment made Peach giggle in delight.
“And this is your first time making this?” Mario confirmed, moments before tucking into Slice #2. “I ne’er wuda geshed!”
“Don’talk wiffur mouf full,” Luigi chastised through a mouthful of his own.
Oh, yes, Peach truly had outdone herself.
“I’m honored,” she said as she sank into the third chair at the table. “Receiving such high praise from you two is always a delight, but such praise for an Italian recipe? I might ride this high forever!”
The scrape of silverware against porcelain went quiet. It only lasted for a moment, and anyone else might have presumed it was a normal lull in conversation, but Peach knew her boys too well. She was immediately suspicious of the glance they shared, the unspoken knowledge they silently agreed would remain unspoken. Something was wrong.
“What?” she asked them. “What is it?”
They shared that look again, now tinged with guilt, their lips wavering beneath their whiskers.
“Well,” Luigi started, “you see, Italian cream cake—”
“Ehi, no, no!” Mario waved his icing-coated fork at his brother, then at Peach. “It’s delicious! That’s all that matters, yeah?”
Well now Peach had to know. It wasn’t like Mario of all people to keep secrets from her. And, with a bit of insistence, he finally relented.
“You see…” He paused to finish off his second slice, buying his time before breaking the news. “Italian cream cake isn’t actually Italian, Princess.”
Peach blinked.
“But—” She glanced between the cake, already half-gone, and each brother, heat rising into her cheeks. “But it’s called—”
“Yeah, no,” Luigi said, “it’s only Italian in name. The recipe? American.”
“Texas specifically, yeah?” Mario suggested.
“Someplace down South, yeah.”
Peach, not normally one to put herself down, felt like the biggest idiot in the Eight Realms.
She’d seen Italian and just assumed… and she’d been so proud of herself, so self-congratulatory, when she hadn’t even bothered researching… and they’d been so happy to play along, even though…
“Hey, no, none’a the moping thing, Princess!” It was Luigi who pulled her out of her ruminations. “It’s still delicious!”
“But it’s not even Italian!” Peach’s voice pitched in embarrassment, and it took every ounce of composure she contained to not bury her face into her hands and slump deeply into her seat.
“Princess.” Mario was already halfway through a third slice. “It’s a whole cake made by our bestest friend. You think we care whether it’s Italian or not?”
“All I care about is this icing,” Luigi agreed. “You gotta tell us how you do it, Princess!”
“Tell us all your secrets!”
“Or at least give us this recipe.”
“After all… eh, Weegee, come si dice, ah…” Mario snapped his fingers, humming tunelessly. “La, la condivisione del—”
“‘Sharing is caring’?”
“Yes! Sharing is caring, Princess!”
“And you care about us, yeah? So c’mon, share, share!”
Peach wasn’t sure if their rapid-fire exchange was intentional, a ploy to distract and cheer her up, or simply one of their many brotherly quirks. She didn’t suppose it mattered at the end of the day. Between the exchange and the enthusiastic sparkle in their eyes, she was successfully cheered.
Besides, any cake made by Italians would inherently become Italian itself, wouldn’t it? An Italian Italian cream cake. Doppio Italiano, she could already imagine them saying. And just like that, her recipe would truly become authentic.
Peach couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Funny how these things worked out.
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
