The bathroom smells faintly of shaving cream and face paint. You’re perched on the counter, knees pulled up, just watching as your husband, Bill Skarsgard, leans close to the mirror. His reflection stares back at him, already pale under the heavy white paint, with those sharp red lines dragging from his mouth up to his eyes.

You tilt your head, studying him. He’s supposed to look like a terrifying clown. Instead, he looks unholy—in the sexiest way.

He continues practicing another line in that low, raspy voice. The sound makes you shiver, but not out of fear. Your eyes keep trailing down his bare back, the lean muscles shifting as he moves. Something about the contrast—the eerie makeup on your man, shirtless, still smelling faintly of his soap—just… does things to you.

You bite your lip. “Babe…”

“Mm? You’re staring,” he says without looking away from the mirror, voice deeper now, closer to Pennywise’s tone.

You smirk. “Maybe. I just didn’t think a clown could be this hot.”

That gets him. He sets down the brush, finally meeting your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch into a smirk, paint already smeared red at the corners of his mouth. “Hot, huh? Thought you were supposed to be scared.”

“Mm… not really scared. Distracted, maybe...”

He turns then, fully facing you, still holding the script in one paint-stained hand. His eyes darken, and the smirk spreads. He steps closer until your knees part automatically, letting him stand between them. He sets the script aside on the counter, one hand bracing beside your thigh, the other gripping your chin with fingers streaked in white paint.

“Distracted by this?” His voice dips into Pennywise’s growl, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip.

Your breath hitches. “Y-Yeah.”

The smirk deepens. Without warning, he leans in, kissing you hard. The taste of faint makeup fills your mouth, and when you pull back for air, your lips are smeared red. Bill looks at the mess and lets out a dark chuckle, low in his throat.