A picture is worth a thousand words... but I can't draw. So, sort of as the next best thing, here's a description of the big, glossy print my imagination conjures up for my fantasy calendar.

Setting: a snowy field, a deep black sky set with diamond points of light. In the far background are the ruins of a Roman temple. At its center is the statue of a double faced god, a staff in one hand and a key in the other.

Nicholas and Lacroix stand in the snow, nude, in a tight embrace, a three quarter profile of Lacroix's front and Nicholas's back. Nicholas's near thigh is pressed between Lacroix's, his hand on the other's hip, fingers pressing into his flesh. His other arm is around Lacroix's back. The muscles of his back and arms are bunched, knotted. Lacroix's near hand is gripping Nicholas's buttock, the fingers of the other hand clenched tight in the dark gold hair on the back of his head. Lacroix's face is upturned to the sky, eyes closed, lips parted in an expression of ecstasy. Nicholas's head is bent, his open mouth pressed against the pale flesh of Lacroix's exposed throat. A dark fluid has left a streaming trail down the visible portion of Lacroix's belly, hip and thigh, perhaps from a wound in his chest, now concealed by Nicholas's arm. Spatters of the dark fluid stain the churned snow at their feet.

Setting: A room, its walls made of blocks of gray stone, covered with tapestries of hunting scenes. At the center is a large canopied bed, the covers of heavy black silk. On either side of the bed are small tables on which are set large vases, filled with long stemmed red roses. The room is windowless, lit by scores of candles set in tall iron candelabra placed in the corners.

Nicholas lies sprawled on the bed, his skin glowing in the candle light, a sharp contrast to the dark covers on which he rests. He arms are flung over his head, his legs spread, one knee drawn up slightly. His phallus is tumescent, lolling onto his hip as it swells. His belly, chest and thighs bear many pink welts, beads of bright blood welling up along the stripes.

Lacroix stands at the side of the bed, his far leg bent, the knee resting on the edge. He is also partially erect, his penis lengthened and lifted somewhat, following the angle of his thigh. His near hand holds the end of a long stemmed, thorny rose, its bloom in tatters where it rests on Nicholas's thigh. A scattering of its deep red petals dot the bed and the floor around it. He holds his far hand over Nicholas's chest, fingers spread, the palm and fingers deeply torn, apparently from having dragged the rose's stem through his grip. Huge drops of blood, brighter red than the petals, are rolling down his pinkie finger to land on Nicholas's breast and belly, mingling with the blood oozing from the cuts of the rose's lash. Lacroix is watching the blood flow along and off his finger, his expression one of concentration. Nicholas also is staring at that hand, though his eyes are slitted, glittering under their lids, his lips slightly parted.

Setting: A grassy meadow. White petaled wild flowers reflect back the light of the full moon. A dirt road cuts across the meadow some 50 feet away. A dark horse, saddled and bridled, can be seen grazing on this side of the road.

Lacroix's cloak has been spread upon the grassy ground. Next to it lay two crumbled heaps of dark fabric, discarded doublets, sleeves flung wide. Nicholas is lying on the cloak upon his back, legs spread enough to accommodate Lacroix between them. Lacroix reclines there, propped on his far elbow over Nicholas's thigh. They are both dressed in black leggings and full white shirts. Nicholas's shirt front has been unlaced and drawn wide, baring the near side of his chest. The nipple stands erect on the firm pectoral muscle, a pale pink bud. His near hand is twisted in the fabric of Lacroix's sleeve at the elbow, pulling the collar down, revealing the hard, round shoulder. The fingers of Lacroix's near hand hold the just loosed silken cords to the top near corner of Nicholas's codpiece, which sports a mounded bulge, impressive without benefit of padding. Nicholas is looking back over the top of his head, chin lifted high, his mouth opened in a laugh. His far hand fends off the nose of a grey horse, come to snuffle his hair, curious about what game his master is playing. Lacroix's head is lifted as well, expression fiercely intent, eyes fixed on the straining arc of Nicholas's throat.

Setting: A sitting room, furnished with the anonymous elegance of an expensive hotel room. Heavy drapes are pulled over the large window in the far wall, the furnishings sleekly modern in pale wood, cream and blues.

Lacroix stands facing directly forward, wearing a dark red robe trimmed in black. In one hand he holds a glass of dark red liquid. The other hand is in his pocket. Nick stands in three quarters profile, nude, at and slightly behind Lacroix's right shoulder. Nick's near hand is on Lacroix's shoulder, clenched in the silk of his robe, pulling the collar away from his neck. His other hand is centered over the top of Lacroix's head, holding a wine glass from which one drop of viscous red liquid hangs from the rim. The rest of the contents of what was once a full glass have been upended over Lacroix's head. Lacroix's widened eyes, the pale blue startling in the glistening red mask of his frozen features, are fixed forward. Blood is dripping off his chin, trickling down his neck, trailing in wet crimson stripes over his collar bone and the top of his chest, revealed as Nick's hand pulls on his robe. Nick is leaning forward, starting to come up on his toes, the muscles of his legs and buttocks bunching with his movement. His eyes sparkle with mischief. A wide grin curves his mouth, which is opening, his tongue tip just visible, his gaze fixed on the blood streaming behind Lacroix's ear, down the side of his neck.

(April Fools', Lacroix!)

Setting: a smallish room, sparsely furnished with a wardrobe, a small table for a basin and ewer, which also holds a lit oil lamp, and a large bed with brass head and foot boards. Two wide brimmed hats, one black and the other grimy grey are hung on the posts on the headboard.

Lacroix is kneeling at the head of the bed, facing the foot, leaning back slightly. Kneeling as well, Nicholas presses his front hard against Lacroix's. The bedding around them is twisted and bunched, already liberally spattered with bright red patches and smears. Lacroix reaches back, bracing himself on rigid, outstretched arms, hands gripping the top brass railing of the headboard behind him. Blood, darkening as it dries, has left tracks from Lacroix's throat over his collarbone and the top of his bunched pectoral muscle. Smudged shadows outline the muscles of Nicholas's back, buttocks and thighs as he twists, his torso and neck a taut arc as he bends to place his mouth on Lacroix's near nipple. Blood, now dry, has trickled over his shoulder and down his back in deep red stripes. Hollows form in the sides of his buttocks as he shoves his groin against Lacroix's hip. Nicholas's far arm is wrapped around Lacroix's back, while the other hand reaches down to grip his flank, fingers pressing deeply into Lacroix's flesh. Lacroix looks down into Nicholas's face, lips parted and pulled back slightly to reveal the points of his fangs. His eyes, hooded by half closed lids, gleam pale gold. The side of his buttock and the long, corded length of his thigh are streaked with blood, trails of it running down to his knee. Nicholas, otherwise nude, still has on his well-worn, brown leather cowboy boots, the lamp light glinting off the rowels of the spurs fixed to the heels.

Setting: an open courtyard, the walls and paving stones of a light grey stone.

Nicholas stands in profile with his back to the wall, Lacroix just before him, their faces and chests just inches apart. Nicholas's far arm is curled over his head, pinned there against the wall by Lacroix's grip on his wrist. Nicholas's fingers are wrapped tightly around the hilt of a straight, double edged sword, the rippling water pattern in the blue steel marking it as Damascus work. Lacroix's near fist, pressed hard into Nicholas's near shoulder, curls around the hilt of a matching blade, turned so the edge of the sword runs across the top of Nicholas's chest, just along the base of his bare throat. They are both in loose, full sleeved white shirts, the laces undone, and Nicholas's hair is tousled with violent activity. They stare into one another's eyes, ice blue to twilight. Lacroix's mouth curves up ever so slightly at the corner, while Nicholas's lips are parted, as though he's taking a deep breath. His near hand is lifted toward the other's face, the fingers curving slightly, hovering just over Lacroix's cheek. His forefinger is just about to touch the large drop of blood, bright red against the white skin, that has welled from Lacroix's slashed cheekbone.

Setting: the roof of a Toronto apartment building, a huge honey tinted full moon half way to its zenith.

Lacroix and Nicholas are in profile, Nick sitting, close to the edge of the roof, his knees drawn up, his far arm resting across the tops of his knees. Lacroix stands just behind him. Both men are shirtless, their pale skin glowing in the moonlight. The smudge of moonshadow delineates the curve and bunch of the muscles in their shoulders, arms and chests. Nick has on black jeans and is bare foot. Lacroix is in black leather pants with boots. Nicholas looks down at the city streets below them, eyes dark, expression quiet, abstracted. Lacroix looks up into the night sky, pale eyes glittering, a half smile on his lips. The fingertips of his far hand rest on the top of Nick's head. Nick's back rests lightly against Lacroix's legs, and he has reached around with his near arm to set his hand on Lacroix's boot.

Setting: the black clouds of a summer night's thunderstorm, the edges of the roiling billows limned with electric white.

Lacroix, upright, grips Nick's hips, pulling Nick's pelvis tight against his own. Nick's thighs are clamped around Lacroix's waist, ankles locked behind him. Lacroix's legs stretch out beneath them, taut, as though at the top of a great leap. Nick's far hand rests on Lacroix's far shoulder, while the fingers of his near hand curl around the back of Lacroix's neck. Nick's back is arched, his face uplifted to the storm's downpour. Eyes closed, his expression is one of soaring exaltation. Lacroix, lips slightly parted and curved in a small smile, gazes intently at Nick's face, his wide, pale eyes gleaming in a sudden lightening flash. Their skin, slick with streaming rain, glistens in the burst of stark blue-white light. Deep black shadows fill the hollows of the bunched muscles in their arms and chests, of Nick's buttocks, thighs and calves, and the corded length of Lacroix's legs. Lacroix's hair, still erect, is clumped into spikes, while Nick's, water darkened, is pressed back by the wind of their rising flight.

Setting: a room, a large bed at its center, warmly lit by the Roman style oil lamps hanging from fine chains from the ceiling. The white plaster walls have been painted with murals in natural colors; a bucolic scene of sporting satyrs and nymphs, and other Classical figures. A young Bacchus, intimately engaged with a dark haired goddess, is unusually fair with dark golden curls, deep blue eyes and a roguish, slanting grin. The chthonic deity, Hades, looks on, his fair hair cut in a severe, militant style, his icy gaze both watchful and amused. Beside the bed is a small, round, three legged table set with a cut crystal decanter half-full of dark red liquid and a matching goblet.

Lacroix lies sprawled diagonally across the bed, nude, in a tangle of red spattered sheets. His near hand rests on his lean belly, the other is tossed back over his head. His far leg is drawn up slightly, his long phallus lolling on the heavy sac between his parted thighs. His face is turned to the side, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. Deep crimson streaks the pale skin of his throat, chest and thighs.

Beside the bed, Nicholas stands facing forward, loose jointed and hip-shot, resting his weight on the leg nearer the bed, the other knee slightly bent. The hand away from the bed rests just under his navel, above the dark gold curls of his pubic hair. Perhaps it was caught in a languid downward stroke over his belly. Below this hand, his phallus hangs long and slack before the pendulous sac of his testicles. His other hand holds a crystal goblet by its bowl, the arm angled across his chest as he lowers it. The glass is empty but pink tinted. It seems he has just finished draining it, as there is a red smudge at the corner of his mouth and a stripe on the back his wrist where he has drawn it across his lips. The smooth alabaster of his skin glows warmly in the lamp light, marred only slightly by the small, healing wounds scattered over his torso and thighs. He looks down at Lacroix's slack form, his face in three-quarters profile. His eyes are heavy lidded with fatigue but his slanting smile has a distinctly smug, satiated quality.

(Vesuvius erupted on August 24th, 79. Happy "Birth"-day, Lucius.)

Setting: the grassy verge on the side of a dirt road, somewhere in the Canadian countryside. The clear black sky is sprinkled with sharp points of white light. In the background, the dark bulk of trees line the horizon. Just along the road, though, is a broad, rolling meadow.

Nick's Norton has been pulled to the side of the road. Lacroix sits on the back seat, straddling it, his boots firmly placed on the ground. His long legs are braced, the bunching of his thigh muscles clear even through the supple black leather of his pants as he holds the motorcycle upright. He wears a heavy black leather jacket, opened, the bottom of which has been pushed back over his hips. The clear, pale skin over the lean stomach and the taut curve of the chest muscles contrasts with the dark hide around it.

Nick is on the front of the bike, having turned around in the seat. He leans back, supporting himself on outstretched arms, hands wrapped tightly around the handles of the steering bar. The muscles of his arms, bare from the shoulder, are molded into hard, round knots. His legs, in tight black denim, are wrapped loosely around Lacroix's hips, knees sprawled wide. The heels of his boots are braced on the back edge of the seat. He's wearing a black leather vest, but this has fallen completely away from his belly and chest as he leans back. The hollows along his collarbone and under his sternum are shadowed, deepened by the flex of his chest. The hard ridges along the center of his belly are hazed with a light golden fuzz which thickens a bit around his navel. The line continues down to the dark gold pubic hair, evident because the top two buttons of his fly have been undone, the fabric folded back.

Lacroix's near hand grips the top of Nick's calf laid along his hip. He has reached out with his far hand, resting it on Nick's upper thigh, his thumb tip nestled in the crease of black denim between the thigh and the rounded bulge of Nick's groin. They look into each others' eyes, dusk blue to clear ice, Nick's grin slanting and roguish, while Lacroix smiles with lifted brows and slightly parted lips.

A little snack for those of us who feel really gypped that we don't get to watch Lacroix bring Nicholas over...

Setting: the room (crypt/catacombs ?) where Lacroix and Nicholas met in 1228. The corners of the dark gray stone walled room are heavily shadowed. The warm luminescence from the leaping flames of the candles in their tall, many armed holders is centered in the middle of the room. This is dominated by a tall bed/bier (?), covered with rumpled creamy linen bedding.

Janette stands to the right of bed, her long dark hair bound in a knot at the nape of her neck, the pale skin of her shoulders and face glowing warmly in the light from the candles. She is in profile, her attention riveted to what is occurring on the bed, her near hand clutching the flowing fabric of her skirt, the far one in a fist over her heart. Her eyes have widened in an expression of fascination and concern.

Lacroix sits at the head of the bed, facing the foot, his left leg hanging over the side, foot braced against the floor. Nicholas sits as well, pulled up to lean back against Lacroix's chest. Nicholas's head, on Lacroix's right shoulder, would be lolling to the side if not for Lacroix's right hand resting on top of it. Lacroix's long fingers tangle in the dark gold locks glinting in the candlelight. His other arm, the silk of his sleeve gleaming like black oil, circles Nicholas's chest, the palm of his hand pressing over his protégé's heart. Nicholas's hand, fingers curled limply, rests upon Lacroix's hand on his chest. The elbow of Nicholas's right arm rests on the knee of the leg Lacroix has bent and tucked between them. Nicholas's hand dangles limply from the wrist. His legs, covered by the light fabric of his white nightshirt, are stretched out before them, tangled in the linen of the bedding.

Nicholas's head is turned slightly away from Lacroix to expose the strong column of his throat. Two tiny, precise, dark red punctures have opened Nicholas's jugular, though blood no longer wells forth. Nicholas's eyes are closed, expression melting into the slackness of near death. Traces of a passion, though -- of agony? of ecstasy? -- remain, hinted at by the slight lift to his brows, by lips open and drawn back to expose the glint of teeth.

Lacroix's right cheek rests against the side of Nicholas's head, his face turned upward slightly. His eyes, pale burning gold, are wide. His long fangs gleam between his parted, bloody lips, as intoxicated rapture lights his features from within.

Setting: the living room of Nick's loft in Toronto. A fire flickers in the fireplace, a thick oriental carpet in dark reds and black spread before it. The only light in the room comes from this fire, ruddy and warm.

Lacroix sprawls upon the carpet, his upper back and near shoulder resting on the glossy black and white squares of a cut stone chess board. On the rug around his head and shoulder are scattered the chess men, carved of ivory and ebony. Nick lies completely upon him, chest to chest, the pale skin of the younger vampire's back and shoulders warmed with amber firelight. The muscular column of Lacroix's throat and the curve of his collarbone are exposed as Nicholas's weight twists the dark red silk of his robe to one side. Lacroix's near arm is bent at the elbow, as he reaches up to clasp Nicholas's upper arm. The sleeve of his robe falls back, the strength of his grip evident in the cording of Lacroix's forearm. His fingertips are pressed deeply into the bunched muscles of Nicholas's biceps. Nick's far arm curls over Lacroix, his fist closed on the bristling hair on the top of his maker's head. The long, white fingers of Lacroix's far hand are tangled in the dark gold hair on the back of Nick's head. Nicholas has caught Lacroix's lips with his own. Eyes closed, brows lifted, Nick focuses with rapt concentration on his open mouthed kiss. The elder vampire's eyes are open a bare slit, an icy glitter discernible beneath his lashes as his gaze fixes upon the face of the man above him. Nick's near hand is closed, braced on his knuckles on the rug beside them. Captured in his grip, the head and crown of the black king pokes from the top of his clenched fist.

Setting: Nick's loft, in front of the fireplace. A fire is burning on the grate and the mantelpiece is draped with full, heavy boughs of blue spruce. A long knitted red and green striped stocking hangs from one side of the mantel. It bulges with *stuff* and from the top pokes a spray of honey sticks, dark pink in color.

Lacroix stands before the fireplace, the dark red gloss of his silk robe catching ruddy highlights from the fire. The robe is only loosely belted, the long, dark V of the fabric framing the center of his chest, with the inner curve of the hard pectoral muscles. Warm light touches the strong column of his throat, shadowing the hollow at its base and the shallow arc of the collarbone. One hand, holding a stocking which matches the one still hanging on the mantle, has dropped part way to his waist. The other arm is bent at the elbow, that hand lifted to about shoulder height. In his fist, he holds upright a two foot long switch. The dark, polished wood gleams in the firelight. He gazes upon it, ice blue eyes slightly widened and brows raised, his expression mildly bemused.

Nick stands behind him and to one side. The golden light warms his pale, naked skin and glints off the unruly dark blond hair escaping from under the bright red, white fur trimmed Santa hat. The pouch of a red leather g-string strains to contain the rounded bulge at his groin. He stoops over, standing on one leg, that thigh flexing as he maintains his balance. His shoulder and arm muscles bunch as he shoves his lifted foot into the high black leather boot he grips with both hands. The other foot and calf are already shod with its mate. His gaze is fixed on Lacroix, a glint in his dark blue eyes, his mouth slanted in a wide, wicked grin.

(We all know the story, don't we, about how St. Nicholas leaves switches in all the bad boys' stockings..?)