French Perfume

by Shadowcatxx

AU. 1920. Francis Bonnefoi was a shipwrecked smuggler; Matt Kirkland was a teenager yearning for more than Newfoundland. When Matt pulled Francis from the water he wasn't expecting to fall in love with the suave Frenchman. And Francis—he would do anything to steal Matt away. But first he would have to deal with Matt's overprotective family.

1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND "French Perfume" – Great Big Sea

FRENCH PERFUME

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names and relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

For those of you who would prefer to read French Perfume in Chinese, please visit the link on my homepage.

Thank-you to the lovely and talented translator: Mapleholic :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

CANADA — Mathew Kirkland

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

AMERICA — Alfred Kirkland

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PROLOGUE

A single-mast schooner cut speedily through the black water, moonlight bouncing off the surface. She was riding low in the water, filled with contraband: perfume, smokes, and rum. The bold, young smuggler stood ready at the helm, alert; bright blue eyes searching the dark shoreline for signs of danger. He had ridden the waves from Fortune to St. Pierre, and hoped that the fog was thick enough tonight to make another run before daybreak. But as he neared Mortier Bay, he saw a glint of light. The Mountie boats were waiting for him. Bright floodlights flared-up like the light of day and the boats gave chase. "Merde!" the smuggler cursed, clenching the helm. Foolishly, reckless with greed, he had sailed right into an ambush. He heard the Mounties shouting at him, warning him to heave to as the boats closed in. If they caught him, he would undoubtedly hang—no judge, no trial, just a quick drop and a sudden stop. Just like the rest of his crew had. Not me, he decided. He opened up the engines and he ran for Spanish Room.

The Mounties chased him, engines cutting loudly through the water. A sired sounded.

I'm not going back, the smuggler thought, determined. I won't die by their hands. As his schooner raced, he threw his head back, face set in a mad grin, and he laughed. The shoreline was getting closer—closer. Cold moonlight bathed the rocks. The seagulls on the coast started lifting, sensing danger and crying out like an angry banshee choir. A final warning sounded from the Mounties: You're going too fast, you'll never clear the rocks! But the smuggler had no intention of avoiding the rocks. The Captain goes down with his ship.

CRASH!

He hit the rocks at fifty clicks and the sky lit up with fire.