******AUTHOR'S NOTE: Watched Inglourious Basterds the other day and was once again overcome by the desire to close my eyes and replay all Wicki scenes over and over again just to listen to his voice. Then thought, 'Hey! Let's go read some Wicki smut' only to find that there wasn't much, so I just figured I'd write some. Once again, simply a smutty story with an OFC/Wicki pairing. Enjoy…or not. Review…or not. Thanks!******

Last night in the town and the Basterds were taking advantage. Their next assignment was a

good piece from where they were sitting. In the grand scheme of things it really wasn't that long of a walk, but Tranquilite had gotten comfortable, and leaving it meant sleeping two to a blanket to keep from freezing. Cold forests and colder food. Never being completely dry or rested, with nothing but the smell of unwashed men to lull you into a restless sleep at night.

Not that it was all bad, Wilhelm Wicki thought to himself, grinning into his mug, out of town meant back on the hunt, ambushing Nazis, and that pleasure was well worth any discomfort. Looking around, he could see the rest of his squad's anxiousness at the prospect of some real violence. The slight stiffening of their postures, the rough handling of anyone near them. Most had paired off and disappeared with one of the many whores in the tiny town. Donny was in a dark, smoky corner with one, her leg hooked over his hip, a frantic, barely subdued violence to his movements. The Lieutenant was sitting at another table, drink on the table, harlot in his lap, whetstone in one hand and his buck-knife in the other. Stiglitz sat in another corner, cigarette burning, throwing down shots of whiskey and watching the room with cold, blue eyes, taking everything in.

Wicki finished his mug and thumped it down, drawing the attention of the whore who dispensed the alcohol. Having been told to keep it coming, she rose quickly and drew another draught, bringing it to Wicki and taking away his empty. He slapped her on the ass almost absent-mindedly as she walked away. He wasn't normally so forward with women, but it was almost rude not to do that to a whore. You may hurt her feelings, he thought to himself, leaning back in his chair until the back touched the wall behind him.

Across the room, Stiglitz flashed him a rare smile, the one that screamed bloodshed and madness, and tilted his head towards the front door. Wicki followed his gaze and stared at the closed door. He was about to look back at Stiglitz to see what he was on about, when the door opened and Carolina walked in.

Wicki leaned forward bringing all four chair legs to the ground with a crash and motioned for the barmaid to bring a shot of whiskey. Carolina sashayed over to him, lifted her skirt and sat down, straddling his lap. She locked her lips onto his so insistently that Wicki was barely aware of anything but the warm, springy quality of her body that betrayed her lack of undergarments. Somewhere his mind registered the arrival of her drink and raucous cheers from Donny. He fastened his hands onto her hips to thoroughly enjoy their slow, sinuous movement against his own. Driven to distraction by her body, he had neglected his duty to her lips and she sighed against his mouth to draw his attention back. Focused now, he met her lips with the urgency that she needed and soon sated, she slowly withdrew.

Pulling back, she afforded him a closer look at her. Her crow's feather hair was unbound and falling far enough past her shoulders that as she moved it lightly brushed Wicki's hands, still on her hips. Her copper colored skin shone in the dim light of the tavern. Her amber eyes were nearly hidden by her thickly lashed eyelids half-closed with desire. Her full lips, swollen from kissing, parted as she panted, wanting his mouth on hers again. Her blouse was red and off one shoulder, a multi-colored scarf tied haphazardly around her full waist, and her black ankle-length skirt was pooled on Wicki's lap.

Leaning back in his chair, he eyed her appraisingly. She grinned, twisting slightly as his eyes traveled over her. Slowly his eyes trailed back up her body, meeting her anxious ones. She raised her eyebrows at him, expectantly. He smiled slightly, keeping her waiting, reached behind her, taking his mug and her own shot. "Come on," she pouted, prettily, taking her drink from his hand. He took a deliberately slow pull on his mug. "Sprechen," she insisted, thrusting her hips against his a little more aggressively.

He raised his own mug slightly at her, "Guten abend, meine liebe."

She sighed contentedly, clasping her free hand to her naked skin just above the swell of her breast. Leaning forward to put his mug down on the table behind her, he put his mouth close to her ear and continued whispering to her in German about how much he wanted to haul down her blouse and bury his face in her breasts. Lick his way down her body, slide two fingers into her and then proceed to fuck her so solidly that she wouldn't be able to remember her own name.

She had no idea what he was saying, but his voice was like honey poured into her ears. She had never thought the Kraut's language particularly pretty, even before the occupation, but there was just something about this Jew's deep, rich voice that was incredibly erotic. As he continued, her breathing became heavier and her hips moved against his, and he could feel the moist heat of her through his pants.

As he started to move away, she took a sip of her drink and captured his chin between her thumb and forefinger. Pulling him to her, she kissed him solidly again. Her mouth was soft, but insistent on his tasting of whiskey and her own sweetness. He returned the kiss with fervor, sliding one hand up her back to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer to him. His other hand, traced the lines of strong muscles up her calf to her thigh.

Now, Wilhelm Wicki had been raised in a cultured home. One that abhorred violence, sin and vice. Of course all of that had been a lifetime ago. Before the hatred and evil of the Third Reich had destroyed all he held dear. Even his current life as a Jewish avenging angel had roots in a deeply held system of beliefs that provided for the punishment of wickedness.

And, frankly, he loved it. The hot spray against his hand as an artery was severed. A Nazi's body limp against his own as its life drained away. The shameful sense of triumph and joy as a scalp came free in his hand. He had accepted the necessity of violence in the world as it was. Even so, Wicki took great pains to keep the other sins in his life at a respectable level.

That being said, he had justified his "relationship" with Carolina by reasoning that since he hadn't been the aggressor or pursuer it really wasn't his doing. He was merely being accommodating. He had, in fact, been accommodating her left, right, and center every chance he got for the last month.