prosciuttoswife - Tumblr blog

[prosciuttoswife]

CHARITHRA CHANDRAN in HOW TO DATE BILLY WALSH

[prosciuttoswife]

HOW TO DATE BILLY WALSH (2024) dir. Alex Pillai ››› Charithra Chandran as Amelia Brown ››› Sebastian Croft as Archie Arnold

[prosciuttoswife]

CHARITHRA CHANDRAN in HOW TO DATE BILLY WALSH

[prosciuttoswife]

CHARITHRA CHANDRAN AS AMELIA BROWN | HOW TO DATE BILLY WALSH (2024)

[prosciuttoswife]

All of you, you’re all your own stars… I’m a binary star. A star system consisting of two stars orbiting a common centre. The B star, me, it shines less bright, but its counterpart, the primary star, it burns much brighter. Much hotter. And I almost destroyed my counterpart. My star. Never again will I lose sight of its brilliance. Never again will I be so stupid or so selfish, or so scared. HOW TO DATE BILLY WALSH (2024) dir. Alex Pillai ››› Charithra Chandran as Amelia Brown ››› Sebastian Croft as Archie Arnold

[prosciuttoswife]

💗🌷🌼 ✨This is the you are amazing award. Send it to ten bloggers you think are wonderful or just take a moment to bask in your own awesomeness! ✨ 🌼🌷💗

Thank you so much Doni!! 🥰🥰🩷🩷🩷RIGHT BACK AT YOU 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🌟🌟🌟

[prosciuttoswife]

[prosciuttoswife]

"If you muck me about, Dexter.."

"I won't."

"No, I mean it. If you lead me on, or let me down, or go behind my back, I will murder you. I swear to God, I will eat your heart."

ONE DAY (1.12)

[prosciuttoswife]

emma and dexter + kisses

ONE DAY (2024)

[prosciuttoswife]

One Day (2024)

[prosciuttoswife]

[prosciuttoswife]

Pink heart shaped homeware

source

[prosciuttoswife]

An Education in Humanity

A/N: I had this idea while in the shower and since I'd not written profoca in a while it seemed like something new to explore. It is probably their least physically affectionate story. The Egypt stuff I can’t explain just imagine they’re going on vacation. And Idk if they had credit cards back in 2001.

Pairing: Prosciutto x Focaccia Genre: Fluff, Angst (?) Content warnings: implied racial discrimination Summary: Two assassins run into a difficulty when grocery shopping

Grocery shopping is an entirely ordinary affair for people who are entangled within the sordid shadows of the world. Through the maze of aisles carrying produce, bottles, cans, and boxes, it’s easy to keep oneself hidden. But that is not at all necessary for the kind of work Focaccia and her husband have been up to lately. Holding a bag of flour in her hands, she fumbles with translating simple Italian adjectives in her mind. Frowning at the fine print, she turns to Prosciutto. 

“What does this say?” she points a manicured finger to an unfamiliar Italian word. Even grocery shopping in the years that has immersed her into the language has not schooled her vocabulary. 

The man gives a nonchalant glance to the sack, his head turned downwards with boredom playing on his face. Unlike his usual disposition for a well tailored suit he opted for a thermal coat and layers of cotton underneath. Neapolitan winters may not summon snow, even at night, but the chill is enough to warrant warm outerwear. Not to mention the air-conditioned interiors of most grocery shops.

“Something about heart health,” Prosciutto says the words as though they are of no consequence. Focaccia glances once more at the price, thinking of how much flour they have left. 

“Just take it,” her husband commands, already turning to disappear into the next alleyway of items. 

Huffing, Focaccia places the little bag into their cart. At least it is good for her indecisiveness. If Prosciutto deems something good enough then it must be, right?

Following close behind, she pushes the cart aimlessly looking at what he picks up and snatching a couple snacks on the way. Other shoppers stay out of their path most of the time but Focaccia catches the eye of a lady and smiles. The pitiable woman’s oculars shift from the towering, uncouth figure behind her before easing into reciprocating her expression and moving on. Despite the quickness with which she made herself scarce, Focaccia spotted her trepidation towards Prosciutto, commiserating her.  

Fluttering about from one area to the next, they work slowly into fulfilling the list of standard monthly items. Illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights and accompanied by soft but boring music, Focaccia feels a sense of peace for their mostly idyllic life they have been able to lead. If she tries hard enough, she could pretend their lives are almost normal. 

Once the necessary items are procured, the pair wait patiently in line behind a few other groups of people. Mothers, daughters, uncles, and grandparents, go about their daily lives. She’s no stranger to hushed murmurs of the spoken language but Focaccia sometimes wishes she knew exactly what they were saying. 

Eyeing the cashier she notices a dark haired man working behind the counter rather enthusiastically and unusually fast. He’s talkative from the way animated expressions and loud voice that emanates from him. Or perhaps that is customary for Italians. 

“Can you pay?” She pleads to Prosciutto, the man looking the other way, makes a non-committal noise of agreement. Having been bad at math most of her life, Focaccia hates counting her money by the cashier and holding the line. It’s humiliating, especially with people more than happy to point out how slow she is. 

Moving to stand out of view behind her husband, she lets the cart stay by his waist as the line moves along. Prosciutto is much less awkward than herself, usually making conversation if someone speaks first. Focaccia always finds herself stumbling with her broken Italian before they start speaking in English out of pity or some such thing. 

Only when it’s their turn does she walk to the other end of the counter, attending to the groceries being bagged. There is the usual sound of the cashier’s voice greeting Prosciutto but the man says something unfamiliar that she assumes to be for conversation. At Prosciutto’s silence she looks up to see his utter shock, eyes widening for a fraction of a second and lips apart. It’s a rare sight and Focaccia barely has a moment to understand before his face contorts to an extreme grimace. But what follows is most certainly never something she would expect, especially in such a public setting. 

Hauling himself over the counter with his tall frame, Prosciutto doesn’t have to reach far before taking the poor cashier by the neck for a swift punch to the horror of those in line. The commotion escalates fast and Focaccia fears what would happen if she lets it get worse. 

“Stop! Stop!” Yelling, she pulls him back by the waist, hoping the damage isn’t too bad. It’s strange, he’s never acted this way before. Whatever was said to him must have struck a nerve. “What’s going on?!” She demands from him, now noticing the poor disheveled worker and the look of pure hatred in Prosciutto’s eyes. He does not even show this much emotion when he’s killing a target. 

Instead of answering her questions, Prosciutto spits Italian curses at his opponent before being pulled outside by his wife. She carries the two grocery bags, worried about whether they’d be banned from coming back. “What happened?! What did he say?” She would be worried about whether he paid for their groceries or not but her priorities were just reshuffled. 

“Let’s not talk about these things here,” he replies, taking both of the bags from her before a protective arm on her lower back ushers her to their car. It’s clear Prosciutto is still angry and agitated from his encounter. The usual scowl on his face is much deeper than she’s used to, and the knuckles on the steering wheel are white from his grip. She’s only so thankful that his frustration does not manifest itself in his driving lest they run a red light. 

Dinner is quiet, something quickly put together with some of the groceries they bought earlier. And Focaccia is too nervous to ask what weighs on Prosciutto’s mind. His eyes soften when they meet hers, his blues a particularly mysterious shade and her browns twinkling with silent questions but he seems unable to meet them for long. 

After their meal, Prosciutto settles into bed, watching her comb her hair with an air of disdain still hanging around him. Sitting beside him, she puts an arm around his back, feeling the muscles relax. “What did he say, Prosciutto,” she asks. 

“...It doesn’t matter,” comes his moody but defeated reply, clearly irritated from being reminded of the conversation. 

“Please,” Focaccia says. “I have to know.” 

Sighing, Prosciutto’s body seems to deflate, letting go of all the anger repressed inside his body all evening. “He said…something derogatory.” Prosciutto opts not to translate the vile words.

“About you?” Focaccia says in confusion. 

“I wouldn’t have cared so much if it were about me.” 

Staring at him with silent understanding, Focaccia moves closer. “You didn’t have to, you know.” 

This seems to anger him further. “And let him say whatever he wants about my wife?” 

“I mean you don’t have to protect me,” she says with a smile. “I didn’t survive this long here on my own for nothing. Or in the west for that matter. I may not speak the language, but I can tell. It’s in their eyes.”

She finds something very rare within his eyes, a speck of melancholy as if understanding only a miniscule amount of her experiences for the first time. And it renders him somewhat speechless. 

“Tell me,” she says. “Did you attack him just for me or would you have done that if he said that about someone else?” 

At her question he thinks before answering. “Anyone else and he would have earned a glare and a dismissal. I admit,” he says with the voice of a man who is entirely not sorry for his actions, “the punch was personal.” 

Smiling fondly, she hugs him close. 

“Don’t stop me if it happens again,” he murmurs. Again… because it is something she will simply have to live with. 

A thought occurs to her. “Maybe it is you who will have to experience it when we are in Egypt,” she says. “Don’t worry, I will protect you then.” 

The words have their intended effect and Prosciutto chuckles somewhat forlornly. 

“Or,” he suggests. “We could find the CEO of the grocery store and blackmail him for money,” the mischievous smirk in his mouth beckons. 

Focaccia lets go, looking at him with some excitement and disbelief before cackling with laughter. “I like that.”

Bonus A/N: The reason why I was hesitant about posting this is because of the subject matter being sensitive and all its implications. I have not thought of every possibility or the best interpretation for it. But most importantly I wanted to emphasize Prosciutto not being some white savior trope and Focaccia knowing how to deal with them in her own way. it's just great to see Pros jumping someone for disrespecting his wife. It's not written here but it's possible he went back and stalked that dude to kill him or worse LOL

[prosciuttoswife]

self shipping is amazing because i can have a terrible day, come home, get in bed and think about my f/o for a bit and my stress is suddenly lifted and i feel so much better. my imagination is healing my brain and that's beautiful.

if you're a self shipper you're awesome, and your f/o loves you

[prosciuttoswife]

pink thorn heart rings

[prosciuttoswife]

i don’t like certain ships with my f/os not because they’re problematic or anything but because i am a hater and they’re supposed to be with ME. hope that helps <3

[prosciuttoswife]

There is no wrong way to selfship <3