a/n: i caved and decided to make a master-fic for all the random prompts and drabbles from tumblr that haven't yet jumped over here. also, i use the word 'all' loosely here because there's. there's a lot.

from profilerchick: I don't know if you're taking prompts: but I was decorating a tree with my mom outside just now and listening to Dean Martin's It's Cold Outside and I couldn't get the image of Hook trying to keep Emma in because a storm had hit Storybrooke or NYork and I just.. I need it. Please?

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—wish i knew how to break this spell

Wow, she shouldn't have had that last glass of rum: not only had it pushed her firmly onto the "shitfaced" side of the drunk scale, but staying to drink it had given the threatening blizzard time to dig its heels in and strongly suggest that she would be staying on the Jolly Roger tonight.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been, since Henry was staying with Regina and her parents were… otherwise occupied and probably wouldn't notice that she wasn't home (and god, but she felt like a teenager thinking of it like that — she really, really, really needed to get her own place, jeez), but at the same time…

Waiting out a blizzard on Hook's ship in Hook's cabin with Hook while both of them had been drinking hit upon something in her brain that screamed terrible idea.

"It's snowing like mad out there, love," he was saying, and she blinked heavily, still trying to stand and tugging her jacket around her shoulders.

"I's not much warmer in here," she countered belligerently because it wasn't because of course a bloody pirate ship wouldn't have central heating, Christ, this wouldn't be a problem if she had her own place where she and Hook could drink themselves stupid in peace and warmth and solitude.

"Well, my dear, there are ways of counteracting that particular… conundrum," he replied, smirking, and she rolled her eyes, somewhat unconvincingly.

"Yeah, I'm getting you a space heater," she grumbled, still making for the door because terrible idea, but he stood up and caught her, all amusement falling away.

"I'm serious, Emma, it's a long way back to your apartment."

"I can drive," she slurred, and he blinked.

"No. No, you can't," he said bluntly. "You can hardly walk. I'll not let you leave in this state."

"You," she snapped with damp force, trying to bat his hand off her arm and poking him in the chest, "don't tell me what to do."

He growled. "Bloody hell, woman, you'll get yourself killed going out there now."

"So, what, I'm s'posed to jus' stay here?"

"In a word?" he answered sharply. "Yes."

"It's freezing in here," she whined, teeth chattering and hands, almost of their own accord, working their way into his shirt to leach off of his body heat (it was his own damn fault, she rationalized, for wearing such a low-cut shirt while having a chest); he flinched at the cold but didn't push her away.

He just gave her a look, like he didn't want to come out and say it, but the solution was still really really obvious.

It wasn't that she was, strictly speaking, opposed to spending the night with him, or even with the risk of other things happening; it was just that she was drunk and didn't trust her drunk self and really didn't like the thought of doing the walk of shame from a goddamn pirate ship in the morning.

There was also that bizarre fear that was always lurking when she was around Hook, that each moment she spent around him, he wormed his way a little deeper under her skin (and much deeper, and much faster, when they were alone like this), that he had already made his way through her chest and into her heart and that wasn't safe, even now.

But more than both of them — at this drunken moment, anyway — was the belligerent desire to make him fight for it.

She couldn't help it. It was just such a novel concept, someone jumping when she said jump and actively courting her like an old-school gentleman.

(Someone thinking she was worth fighting for.)

"Jesus, Hook, I can — " she huffed, trying to peel herself away from him but failing, staggering as the rum reasserted itself and semi-falling right back into his arms.

"You can what now?" he countered softly, and she shot him a weak glare.

"Take care of myself," she grumbled, but they both knew it was bullshit.

"Right," he said brightly, stepping back and leaving her swaying. "If you can walk to the door unassisted, I'll say no more."

She scoffed, with more confidence than she felt… confidence that turned out to, embarrassingly, be completely unfounded, as she made it about two steps before stumbling against the table; the only reason she didn't hit the floor was because he caught her by the elbow and pulled her closer again.

"As I said," he murmured, altogether too close and too warm, "you'll only get yourself killed going out there like this, my love.Stay. I promise," he added, breath hot against her ear and smirk audible in his tone, "I'll keep the wandering hands to a minimum."

She blinked and tried to figure what sounded off about his words, settling finally on the plural "hands."

"Fine," she replied petulantly, staggering around to face him again."Fine."

The smile he gave her was amused and fond and captivating made him look strikingly young and she glared at him for it because he was Captain Hook, and Captain Hook shouldn't ever look so goddamn adorable.

"Asshole," she muttered (for reasons that had nothing to do with his insistence that she stay), scowling in a way that only made him laugh.

"Call me what you like, my dear," he said, as he guided her to the bed. "You'll thank me in the morning."

.

"Why the hell did you let me have that last drink?" she whined, turning away from the downright cruel sunlight streaming through the windows and burying her face into his chest.

"All part of my evil plan," he replied in a sleepy deadpan. "Have you falling into my arms at last."

"I hate you."

"You're welcome."

She sighed; it was too damn cold, she told herself, and too damn warm here under the covers and in his arms (and she was too damn hungover, anyway), to justify leaving in protest.

His arm tightened around her and his hand found itself rising up to tangle in her hair, causing a contented purr to traitorously leave her throat; he snickered deep in his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

He was going too far, she thought determinedly. With the cuddling and the kissing and the cuddling and the concern and the cuddling and the making her feel safe and content and warm and the cuddling and dammit.

"This is all your fault," she murmured sleepily.

"Of course it is, dear." She felt him smiling. "My deepest apologies for summoning the blizzard, it was ungentlemanly of me."

She scowled uselessly, trying very hard not to be amused, and kicked him in the shin. "It's too early for your sarcasm, jackass."

"And a good morning to you too."

"Why do I like you?" she growled, and his fingers caressed the back of her head in a way that made her purr involuntarily again and shift closer.

"Emma Swan, admitting that she enjoys my company?" he said, falsely-aghast. "You're suffering from quite the hangover, aren't you, love?"

She groaned and burrowed further into him.

"And," he added softly, words dimly filtering in through the haze of sleep reclaiming her, "you like me because I care for you when you refuse to care for yourself."

"Stop that," she mumbled. It was a moment before he responded, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Never."