The Winter Omens Big Bang (@gowinterbang) starts posting this month! Come enjoy winter-themed stories and art created by a slew of fantastic author-artist teams! Ratings are from G to E.

@crowleysgoat and I have teamed up and we have had a delightfully unhinged time coming up with our creation!

First, a little art teaser:

Hmm, what could be happening here? Are those Christmas lights? And just what the everloving hell is Crowley wearing?

And now here's a fic excerpt that should answer approximately zero of the above questions. From the accompanying story Nude on Ice:

Blasted angel. Where was he? Crowley dug out the note he'd found in the empty bookshop that morning, left as a bookmark in a copy of Smilla's Sense of Snow. Which itself had been left underneath Crowley’s pillow. He should’ve known to take the snow part literally. My darling Crowley— It occurred to me the other morning as I watched you sleep, that I’ve been shockingly remiss in upholding my side of a bargain long overdue. Your "patience" in this matter has been most commendable, indeed, most undemonic.  (Rude, thought Crowley, even as his thumb caressed the soft edge of the paper. And why was patience in quotes? Ridiculous, ridiculous angel.) So consider this an invitation to finally make good on our Wager, the accounting for which you have long been denied. Come find me in the icy wilds of the New World. (Your ticket for the first leg is awaiting you at travellers check-in at Heathrow.) Warmly,  Your loving angel Wager. Crowley traced that word, and ran his needy, wishful fingers over the confident strokes of the final three as well. Then he folded up the rich paper and repocketed it.  The problem was, he and Aziraphale tended to wager about anything if they'd had enough to drink—and he wasn't sure which one this referred to. They'd left all sorts of miracles and temptations up to the throw of a coin, or the toss of dice. There had been that time Aziraphale had accused him of leaving too much of the crow about Job's goats, post-transmogrification, and he'd had to miracle and demiracle several sets of kids from nightingales just to keep his cred. There had been the Lenten Fast—though they'd cut that one down to Holy Week, because, Crowley had learned, Aziraphale without food, wine, or tea was hangrier than the hangriest two-year-old human. There had been the Night of Unending Sushi. The Evening of How Many Cups of Fresh Mocha Cocoa Can Aziraphale Enjoy Before Crowley Loses His Mind Drops To His Knees And Worships Appropriately At The Altar Of Angelic Vocal Pleasure.  That in particular had actually been a lot of fun. The point! Was!  Crowley wasn't sure.

Some other delicious hype posts from participants can be found here:

Thinkinginscripts and maon25

bohoteacher and maon25

NaturallyTeal and dragonfire42

@di-42 and @hogs-and-ham