Leati Anoa'i

Amour des Marais (Swamp Love)
Chère: dear
D'accord: okay
Bèbè: baby
Mon Amour: my love
Oui: yes
Bon: good

The moon shined almost brighter than the sun on nights like these. Insects of every species sang their songs of the Bayou; falling in tune with somber alligator roars. From the roars, I could distinguish between the baby gators and their mamas and daddies. I can even hear when the bullfrogs are mating, and read the stars to detect the weather. Being married to my Cajun King has taught me all of that and more. We lived happily in a beautiful shotgun home that he built, and used in place of ring to propose to me. He was never an ordinary man, and I loved him like crazy.

I washed my flour covered hands after putting a pan of biscuit dough in the oven. Shrimp ètoufèe and fried catfish were on the menu for dinner. I stirred away in my pot, as heavy steel-toe boots tracked the porch.

“Where ya at, mon chère?”

“In the kitchen, ma bèbè.” I tapped the spoon on the pot’s rim.

Those hefty footsteps entered the kitchen, and there stood my king. After a day of building a house with his brothers and a night of hunting, he wore a thin layer of dirt over his black tee and carpenter jeans.

“Smells good in here,” he set his tool bag and cooler on the wooden table.

His stride was smooth as butter, making his way towards me. My apron covered waist was seized by his muscular arms, and he covered my neck in kisses. The smell of faded cologne and swamp water dangled in my nostrils. I just loved when he smelled like the Bayou. I turned in his grip and kissed him, while mumbling sweet words in French. He replied with even sweeter French that melted me into him.

“Keep on talkin’ my language like dat, chère.” His big hands squeezed my ass. “I’m gon’ spread you on top of my rice instead of dat ètoufèe, hea?”

I stared into his cocoa eyes and bit my bottom lip. “I wouldn’t mind that at all. But I want my baby to eat well after his long day.”

His thumb glided across my lips, as his tongue followed with a slow lick over my mouth. A low growl radiated from his throat. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Ain’t I always?” I grin, “The grease is almost heated. You got the fish?”

He nodded towards the table. “Skinned, cut, and cleaned just for my Queen.”

“Good,” I gave him a peck, “Bring it on over.”

He sits the cooler beside the stove. “Imma take me a shower, chère.” He pecks my cheek.


I start to batter and fry the fish, while he walked to the bathroom. A few minutes later, and I was setting the table. My biscuits were a buttery golden; softer than pillows. Our swamp provided thick, healthy catfish that were fried crispy. The pot of shrimp ètoufèe simmered in the castor iron pot, that’s been in my family for five generations. I pulled a pitcher of sweet tea out of the fridge and filled up two tall glasses.

My hips were strongly seized and I gasped softly. I smelled cologne scented body wash; followed by a welcoming naked body pressed against me.

“My dahlin’, you came right on time.” I twist my head up to him and peck his jaw.

“I’m always right on time, especially with my table set like this.” He reveals my neck, and drops a couple of pecks.

I smile and reach for his plate to start fixing. He grabs my wrist; taking the plate from my hand.

“Ma chère cooks; I serve.” He gives me a look like I should’ve already known this rule. “You been on your feet all evenin’; sit.”

I did as I was told and he fixed our plates. Without wasting any time, he dove into his hefty plate. His satisfying growls radiated through my belly. I loved his way of telling me he loved my cooking. His sculpted jaws moved in rhythm as he chewed each mouthful in a savory manner.

I continued to eat with him in a comfortable silence, until we were both too full to eat any more. He leaned back in his chair after finishing his tall drink. I followed his cue and sighed happily over another successful, cooked dinner. He grabbed my left foot; kissing the top of it until he got to my knee. Then he trailed backwards from my knee to foot with more kisses.

“Mon amour,” he closed his eyes, while rubbing my foot.

“Oui?” I smiled.

“I won’t eva’ let anotha’ man take you away from me, hea’? He’d half to kill me dead, chère. And even then, my spirit won’t let him.”

His ways of complimenting me, especially my cooking, were by far out of this world, and I blushed until my cheeks literally burned.

“Bon, because I don’t eva’ want anyone else.”

He opens his eyes, and gets out of his chair. “Come now, my job to serve isn’t over yet.” I grabbed his outstretched hand. “Let’s get ‘chu out ‘dem clothes, so I can show up 'dat bullfrog out 'dea.”

I giggle, “Show him who’s the real King of the Bayou, huh?” I jumped and locked my legs around him.

His rumbling growl echoed; loud and arousing. “Oui, mon chère.”

Roman Reigns confession

Roman works 4-5 matches a week, missed his one year wedding anniversary with Galina, missed JoJo’s birthday and numerous holidays, continued working even though he knew he was injured until he was forced to have emergency surgery to save his life, and while he was out got help for his acting skills but yet, according to haters, he has no passion for the business and gets things handed to him because he’s part of the Anoa’i family


wwe meme | favorite friendships (3/∞)

Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns

“There are a lot of people in this world that suck and you can tell and sniff those people out if you’re real, if you’re a real dude, a real straight up dude. Those kind of guys can sniff each other out and Roman’s a real straight up dude. What you see is what you get. What he thinks is what you’re going to hear. What he says he’s going to do he does. That’s the kind of people you want to be around, that’s the only kind of people I can associate with, and there aren’t many of them.”