#scare actor

You can't exactly say you're looking forward to tonight.

Sure, you love Halloween, love everything to do with the fall - pumpkins, the color of the leaves, even the rain - but being scared by a bunch of strangers for several hours straight isn't exactly your idea of a good night.

You've only agreed because your best friends from the Academy are going, and they've promised you that you'll have a great time.

That, and apparently there's a really cute guy there who's dressed either as a skeleton or a clown in a three piece suit, and they think you'll really enjoy seeing that.

And, well, you can't lie that it's making the whole thing just a bit more bearable.

You're on your way to the glass doors between the BAU and the elevator when you catch your colleague at his desk, skimming over some paperwork, his battered satchel still down by the side of his chair, which is incredibly strange because his love for Halloween and all things spooky is legendary.

“Spencer?”

“Hmm?” He doesn't look up from his paperwork, but you know he's listening.

“Cmon, it's October 31st. Your favorite day of the year.”

“Yes?”

“We haven't got a case.”

“We don't, you're right.”

“And you're not rushing out the door to hand some candy to trick-or-treaters, or watching some phantasmagoria thing on at the movies?”

He smirks, and you feel like you're missing some kind of joke. “Nope - just me and the fish tonight.”

You snort. “Sure, whatever, Doc - keep your secrets. Have a good night.”

He looks up and smiles at you, slyly, his hazel eyes almost sparkling. “I shall, Agent, I shall.”

As you leave, you ignore the strange butterly-like fluttering in your stomach.

***

It takes you ages to get dressed that night - you always dress up for Halloween, even if you're just staying home to pass out candy to miniature Avengers and Disney princesses - but when you look in the mirror you're very pleased with your reflection.

You look almost nothing like yourself, right down to the crazy-colored wig, and the makeup that makes you look exactly like the vampire you're trying to be. You'd bother with fangs if you were going somewhere else, but it's gonna be dark at the theme park, so there's not much point.

Besides, you'd much rather be comfortable - it's why you're wearing your Converses under the dress you're wearing.

Oh, the dress.

The dress itself is spectacular, clinging to you in just the perfect way to show off your figure, flaring out slightly from your hips and making you look like a cross between Morticia Addams and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Sexy and spooky, just perfect for Halloween.

With one final look in the mirror, you smile, and make your way out the door.

***

It starts off okay, at least. People jump out at you, and you scream, but no one touches you - which, to be fair, you should've expected - and you find yourself laughing at yourself after each time you get frightened half to death.

If these people had cameras set up, you'd buy the pictures they've taken for sure.

You're approaching the next part of the trail when your friend leans over your shoulder. “This is where the hot skeleton-clown guy is. Keep your eye out, you'll love him.”

You elbow her in the ribs, and she laughs. “Yeah, yeah, come on.”

You listen to her anyway, and you find yourself looking around for a skeleton (you really hope it's a skeleton, anyway, because the last thing you need is to be attracted to goddamn clowns), but somehow someone still creeps up behind you.

They scream right next to your ear, and that makes you scream, and when you whirl around it's a guy with skeleton face paint on… and in an all-black, three piece suit.

Christ, he's got a pumpkin-colored pocket square.

And a black tie.

And apparently, you've got a skeleton kink, because the whole deal is doing it for you.

Your friend was right, and you can see her laughing as one of the other guys catches her, too.

And since you're not at work, you let your accent out fully.

“The fuck, dude?”

That makes him bark out a shocked laugh, and he practically doubles over. When he speaks, his voice is deep, but also weirdly familiar. There's a strong Las Vegan twang to it, too. “You're at a scare park, ma'am. What did you expect?”

With that he bows, raising an eyebrow and blowing a kiss before practically running off to find another victim, leaving you with your heart racing.

You tell yourself it's only because of the adrenaline, but you know it's not the truth.

***

The rest of the walk around the park, you can't get your mind off of him, can't stop thinking about the well-fitted suit that he's clearly got for his day job. The chain in the pocket that you think was attached to a watch. The adorable pumpkin-colored pocket square that would look ridiculous on anyone else - the only exception being your Halloween-obsessed coworker - but somehow made him look charming.

The dark, curly hair that seemed to cradle his head like a halo, the ends of which almost glowed in the dim light.

That deep laugh, and the cheeky bow before he ran away, clearly favoring his right leg, just the slightest amount.

(No, you're not at work, but some parts of being a profiler you can't switch off. The reason you're good at this job is because it's part of you, always has been, and it would be pointless to try and ignore it.)

All of that, and your obvious distractedness, means that you get scared way more than your friends, and that you almost walk into a bush or two while they take the piss out of you until you finally have enough and duck into one of the bathrooms, taking a break from the chill in the air and the constant noise.

When you step back out, turning the corner to go find your friends, the night winding down and the crowd slowly ebbing out, you see him again.

He's leaning against a wooden shack, still in his suit and his makeup, of course, but when he looks up, his gaze somehow immediately finds you.

He smiles, and walks in the exact opposite direction to everyone else, back into the park.

You text your friends (sorry guys, going home - exhausted!) and make your way after him.

You lose track of him after a while, not sure why exactly you're following him - you've never hooked up with a stranger, and you're not even sure if that's what he's after, either, because after all, your whole interaction lasted like thirty seconds max - and you’re starting to think about turning back and heading home instead when you catch a brief glimpse of dark curls again, poking out above the crowd.

You head in that direction, the number of people starting to thin out, making him a lot easier to find.

And when you're in the trees, suddenly, you can't see anyone.

Then, a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you behind a tree, and you're pressed up against Skeleton Man's very comfortable, well-dressed chest.

You're about to speak, to say something, anything, but he presses a finger against your lips. “Shh.”

A group of people - teenagers, to be exact, giggling and messing about - wander past, and when they're gone, you end up laughing into his chest. You can hear the rumble in his chest betraying him, too.

And then you remember your makeup.

“Oh, shit, I'm sorry, I've got makeup all over your-”

“Don't worry about it,” he drawls again, his voice still deep in a way that doesn't sound totally natural. “It needs a dry-clean anyway.” A hand grabs your waist, and another moves from your mouth to your chin, tilting your head upwards. “I think, tonight, maybe we pretend we're someone different. After all, since the veil between the living and the dead is thinner, maybe we are.”

He presses his lips to yours, warm and just a little chapped from several nights out in the cold air, and you instinctively lean into him, one hand sliding into those gorgeous curls of his and the other grabbing his neck, making sure he can't pull back.

He's already covered in face paint and makeup, and so are you - you're sure you're smearing fake blood over him, and that his beautifully neat painted teeth are ruined, but you don't really care as you breathe in something musky and familiar under the clay overtones.

Skeleton Man almost smells like-

Wait.

When you pull back, light hits him in the face from one of the rides, and familiar hazel eyes are looking at you, hazy with desire.

“Spencer?”

He freezes, hands still holding you tight and warming you through the thin fabric of your dress, and he finally, really looks at you. “Wait- it's you.”

“Yeah, Spencer, it's me.”

“God I am so sorry, I didn't think- I shouldn't have-”

You laugh, and he looks at you, confused. “So this is what you had planned tonight then? Can't say I'm surprised.”

He smirks again. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Seems like just the kind of thing you'd get up to.” You pull on his hair, just to test his response, and you swear to God his eyes roll back in his head a little bit, and your stomach flips. “You know, we can still pretend to be two different people. No need to change whatever plans you had in mind…” You toy with his lapel, a little afraid to see what his reaction is.

You've been flirting for weeks, months even, and he's definitely reacted in a way that suggested he's interested, each time. His breath sped up, his cheeks got pinker, and his eyes got darker.

Unless you've misread his-

That line of thought is swiftly cut off when his mouth descends on yours, and you're quite thoroughly sandwiched between him at your front and the tree behind you, and it's like he's trying to eat you alive.

Quite frankly, you might let him.

His hands drift down your back, one taking hold of your waist and the other cupping your ass, thumbs rubbing circles that both make you desperate for more and calm down your jangling nerves. You buck up against him, finding him hard in those tight black slacks of his, and he groans into your mouth, hand sliding from your waist and cupping your breast, a thumb brushing against your already hard nipple. You gasp, and he chuckles darkly.

“Good to know you're so responsive,” he murmurs against your lips, rocking up against you again, making you moan again. “You sure about this, Agent?”

“As sure as you are, Doctor.”

“Good, because I really want to do this.” With that, he drops to his knees, hands sliding up your legs and laughing when he catches sight of your shoes. “Huh, we match.”

When you look down, he's in those familiar battered Chuck Taylors of his.

“Yeah, I guess we do,” you say a little breathlessly, his hands sliding under the skirt and up your legs, gently pushing your legs apart until they reach your underwear.

“Responsive, indeed,” he hums, feeling how wet the fabric is, before pushing it aside and slipping a finger into you, making you whine. “That's it, that's what I want.” He pulls out, finger sliding up until it finds your clit, and you gasp, throwing a hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your pleasure. “Oh, no, that won't do at all. Let me hear you, sweetheart, let me hear what I do to you.”

You're helpless, and you do what he asks, focusing solely on the way he toys with you, the way your legs shake as you try to stay upright. Your skirt is in the way, stopping you as you try to spread your legs further apart, and it seems he's fed up with it too when he pulls away from you and pushes it up to your hips, leaving you almost entirely bare in the cool October air.

“Spencer, what about-”

“Believe me, sweetheart, it's just us in the park now. There's no one around to hear you scream. And if they do, they'll think it's just part of the evening.” His fingers play with your clit again, and you find yourself getting close to the edge, the fear of even the slightest chance of being caught like this sending a thrill down your spine. “That's it, let go, be a good girl and come for me.”

His words push you over the edge, the way desire coats them your final undoing, and you shake apart against the tree, the hand on your hip the only thing keeping you upright as you scream your pleasure and his name into the night. He doesn't stop until you're whining from overstimulation, and when he stands back up, his mouth is on yours again, tongue brushing across your lips and the barest hint of stubble rasping deliciously against your skin. You slide a hand between you, cupping him through his slacks, and he groans as you reach for his belt, pulling the leather out of the buckle before turning your attention to the button and zipper.

It's not easy, trying to do it one-handed and at this angle, but you manage it eventually, pushing his boxers down and then freeing his erection from them, your hand wrapping around his length and sliding up towards the head.

“Sweetheart, don't start what you can't finish.” His voice is rough, not deep like it was before, but like you're ruining him, and you smile against his lips.

“I'm only finishing what you started.”

His hand drifts back down to your underwear, and he finds you even wetter than before, your body aching for him, and then he freezes.

But you know why. “I'm clean. I'm on birth control. We're good, if you trust me.”

You don't normally do things like this but…it's Spencer.

And right now, you want to feel every single part of him.

You reach for his shirt, loosening the tie and undoing the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat so you can run your hands against the smooth skin of his torso, and when you're done he's pressed right up against you again, hands taking hold of the thin fabric of your underwear. “Do you care about these much?”

“Nope. Rip ‘em.”

The sounds of popping stitches and tearing fabric hits your ears just a second before the cold air makes you very aware that you're now totally bare from the waist down in a fucking theme park, but you hardly have a moment before he's pressed up against you, hot and hard and leaking.

He lifts you like there's no effort in it at all, your legs wrapping around him, and then his cock is notched against your entrance, where you're desperate and aching, and for a moment, it's like you can't breathe.

There's nothing in the universe except for you and him in that instant, and when he looks at you, hazel eyes impossibly dark in the night, you nod, and he pushes in.

He goes slow, which you're thankful for, because he's big, but he eventually bottoms out, leaving you gasping and clenching around him involuntarily. He kisses you tenderly, your legs wrapped around him tight, and he pulls almost all the way back before he pushes in again, quickly falling into a punishing, desperate rhythm, and you have to bite down on his shoulder to keep yourself from screaming.

It seems like his penchant for talking extends to love-making, too. “God, so good for me, taking me so well, like you were made for me-”

Your makeup is well and truly ruined, and your dress will be covered in small tears from the bark of the tree, but you're finding it incredibly hard to care because the way you're aligned has him pressing against your clit with each push and pull, dragging you kicking and screaming back to the edge. Every thrust reverberates through you, and you end up pulling his hair as he groans into your mouth. “Just like that sweetheart, let me get you there, want to feel you unravel on my cock, so gorgeous, so fucking perfect, let me fill you up, just like you need, you greedy little thing-”

A final thrust undoes you as he kisses you again, and you gasp into his mouth as you clench around him, dragging him over with you with a bitten-off curse, filling you just as he'd promised he would.

You end up practically collapsing against him as you come down, and he's wrapped around you, holding you close, but gently, like you're something fragile, something that needs to be cared for, protected. His nose is buried in the juncture of your neck and shoulder like he's trying to commit the way you smell to his memory, make sure it leaves and indelible mark there and you sigh when, eventually, he slips out of you, leaking the evidence of what you've just done leaking down your thighs - not that you can find the energy to care about the mess.

He slowly lets you slip to the floor, and your hips are a little sore and your legs feel like Jell-O, but then he stretches a hand out to you, his shirt and waistcoat somehow done back up as he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. He looks perfectly put together, except for the absolute mess that used to be his scare makeup. He looks less like a skeleton and more like he's just kind of anaemic.

You don't even dare to think what you look like right now. Your wig’s in knots, you're sure, and you internally cringe when you think about trying to brush it out when you get home.

Fuck it, it can wait until the morning.

Spencer leans down to kiss you again, this time soft and sweet, and you whine a little when he pulls back again. He takes one of your hands in his, and starts leading you down the path under the trees as the lights from the park start to shut off, the only light the moon and the stars above you.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home, sweetheart.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine. There's no chance I'm letting you out of my sight for the rest of the evening. Plus, I'd quite like to see you in some actual lighting and without makeup the next time I make you come like that.”