Vietnam War! America Hetalia

It's abnormally quiet in the jungle today, only occasionally ashes rustle settling on a torn VC uniform, on your tangled, dark, coarse hair. All you need is to lay low to deliver a precise blow. A loud crackling nearby distracts you for just a second, and you cruelly pay for the loss of vigilance: someone, quietly sneaking up from behind, grabs your hand tightly, and hot as a predatory beast, breath scorches your ear. Quiet laughter cuts the ear, and the skin involuntarily gets goosebumps from the cold, despite the hot air. Or maybe it's because of the ice of his tanned fingers, which are still too pale compared to your dark skin? America jerks you around and imperiously places his callused palm on your waist. When you look into his eyes, you start in fright: such wild, frenzied madness is reflected for a moment in the dilated pupils, at the bottom of that bright blue eyes shining in the night behind the glasses. From the American to the watery eyes it reeks of aviation fuel, tart male sweat and something belonging only to him. His youthful features are crossed by a victorious grin and an almost playful expression, and despite your attempts to escape, he kisses you savoringly to the point of blood, intoxicated by your impotence and protests. America knocks you to the ash-covered ground with one sharp movement. With a heavy military boot, he easily kicks off the rifle that you were clutching in your hands before, and leaning on one knee leans towards you, solemnly pronouncing. "Gotcha, Vietnam."