My Sweet Lord - Eric Clapton/George Harrison (aka Clappison or Husband-in-law slash)
One of those fics I've been meaning to post FOREVER
Title: My Sweet Lord
Pairing: George Harrison / Eric Clapton
Rating: R
Warnings: kissing, sex, betting, religious heresy
And please don’t think I’m knocking religion! That’s not my aim at all, so I’m sorry if I offended anyone or anyone’s idea of George Harrison, for that’s the opposite of my intentions.
Disclaimer: I do not own George Harrison, any of his songs, or Eric Clapton. But if I did…
Summary: George makes Eric a bet that he can write a love song about him without disguising his gender and not a single fan would know.
“Oh my lord,” George panted, his eyes shut tight as Eric Clapton’s teeth scraped down his chest.
Eric paused, grinning slyly. “I love the way you say my name in bed.”
George gently brushed Eric’s bangs out of his eyes. “My sweet lord,” he murmured.
“Hah, you wish.” Eric bit his earlobe, playing his own game like he always did when George’s sentimental side got to be too much for him.
George clucked his tongue reproachfully, but Eric shut him up with a rough kiss.
George broke for air, gasping and tearing madly at Clapton’s shirt. “Really wanna see you,” he murmured frantically. His long fingers snaked under the cotton and threw it over Clapton’s head before their lips attached again.
Eric moaned into his mouth, helping George release himself from his tightening pants.
“Really wanna…be with you,” George whimpered, hips bucking into Eric’s fingers as they fumbled with the zipper.
Clapton threw back his head and groaned, rubbing his loins against George once he got the jeans opened. George’s hand flew to Eric’s jeans, tugging down the zipper and stroking what lay underneath.
“Jesus, George! I-If you love me so much, why dontcha marry me,” Eric tried to tease, interrupting himself with constant groans. “Or you could just write a song about me…”
George’s eyes twinkled as he inched down until his head was level with Eric’s navel. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Slowhand.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, why are you called Slowhand? With ideas like that, it’s a wonder that’s the only part of your body deemed slow.”
Eric swatted his hair and kissed him once more. He just couldn’t help it.
“My sweet lord,” George murmured again, his lips making their way down to Clapton’s pantline. “That’ll be my new single, just you wait.”
A groan passed along Clapton’s lips before he chuckled. “Yeah. Right. Like nobody would see right through that, Harrison.”
His raised his famous eyebrows and crept back to eyelevel. “Don’t believe me? Just you wait. It’ll go to Number One, I guarantee it. And no one will have a clue what it’s about.”
Clapton chortled. “You’re on, mate. Fifty pounds is saying otherwise.” He ran his thumb up the inside of the other man’s thigh.
George moaned, taking fistfuls of Clapton’s hair to bring his face closer. “Make it a hundred,” he growled.
Eric’s hazel eyes searched George’s with a kind of cruelty. “Done,” he hissed against George’s parted lips before smashing into them in a violent attack.
George rolled himself over, kissing him back feverishly and wrapping his legs around his backside. “Oh! my Lord,” he moaned, laughing inwardly, knowing there was no way he’d lose this bet.
-------------------
Pattie smiled at George when he entered the kitchen mid-afternoon the next day.
“Where were you last night? I didn’t see you at all,” she cooed concernedly, smoothing his mussed hair.
“Yeah, was in the studio the whole night, didn’t catch a wink,” he replied curtly.
“But I heard you talking. Was there someone-?”
“Yes, I was erm….speaking with the Lord.”
“Oh!” Her pleasant smile vanquished the pout that briefly marred her face. “Oh George, you really do have the most intimate relationship with God.”
He grinned at her knowingly. “That, I do.”
------------------------
Three weeks later, George strutted from his car to the backdoor of Hurtwood Edge, Eric Clapton’s estate, holding the daily paper.
Eric met him at the door with a scowl, eyes flickering over the newspaper George was holding up, already knowing its solemn contents.
“Congratulations,” he muttered, handing him a pre-written cheque from his pocket. George simply smiled.
Title: My Sweet Lord
Pairing: George Harrison / Eric Clapton
Rating: R
Warnings: kissing, sex, betting, religious heresy
And please don’t think I’m knocking religion! That’s not my aim at all, so I’m sorry if I offended anyone or anyone’s idea of George Harrison, for that’s the opposite of my intentions.
Disclaimer: I do not own George Harrison, any of his songs, or Eric Clapton. But if I did…
Summary: George makes Eric a bet that he can write a love song about him without disguising his gender and not a single fan would know.
“Oh my lord,” George panted, his eyes shut tight as Eric Clapton’s teeth scraped down his chest.
Eric paused, grinning slyly. “I love the way you say my name in bed.”
George gently brushed Eric’s bangs out of his eyes. “My sweet lord,” he murmured.
“Hah, you wish.” Eric bit his earlobe, playing his own game like he always did when George’s sentimental side got to be too much for him.
George clucked his tongue reproachfully, but Eric shut him up with a rough kiss.
George broke for air, gasping and tearing madly at Clapton’s shirt. “Really wanna see you,” he murmured frantically. His long fingers snaked under the cotton and threw it over Clapton’s head before their lips attached again.
Eric moaned into his mouth, helping George release himself from his tightening pants.
“Really wanna…be with you,” George whimpered, hips bucking into Eric’s fingers as they fumbled with the zipper.
Clapton threw back his head and groaned, rubbing his loins against George once he got the jeans opened. George’s hand flew to Eric’s jeans, tugging down the zipper and stroking what lay underneath.
“Jesus, George! I-If you love me so much, why dontcha marry me,” Eric tried to tease, interrupting himself with constant groans. “Or you could just write a song about me…”
George’s eyes twinkled as he inched down until his head was level with Eric’s navel. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Slowhand.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, why are you called Slowhand? With ideas like that, it’s a wonder that’s the only part of your body deemed slow.”
Eric swatted his hair and kissed him once more. He just couldn’t help it.
“My sweet lord,” George murmured again, his lips making their way down to Clapton’s pantline. “That’ll be my new single, just you wait.”
A groan passed along Clapton’s lips before he chuckled. “Yeah. Right. Like nobody would see right through that, Harrison.”
His raised his famous eyebrows and crept back to eyelevel. “Don’t believe me? Just you wait. It’ll go to Number One, I guarantee it. And no one will have a clue what it’s about.”
Clapton chortled. “You’re on, mate. Fifty pounds is saying otherwise.” He ran his thumb up the inside of the other man’s thigh.
George moaned, taking fistfuls of Clapton’s hair to bring his face closer. “Make it a hundred,” he growled.
Eric’s hazel eyes searched George’s with a kind of cruelty. “Done,” he hissed against George’s parted lips before smashing into them in a violent attack.
George rolled himself over, kissing him back feverishly and wrapping his legs around his backside. “Oh! my Lord,” he moaned, laughing inwardly, knowing there was no way he’d lose this bet.
-------------------
Pattie smiled at George when he entered the kitchen mid-afternoon the next day.
“Where were you last night? I didn’t see you at all,” she cooed concernedly, smoothing his mussed hair.
“Yeah, was in the studio the whole night, didn’t catch a wink,” he replied curtly.
“But I heard you talking. Was there someone-?”
“Yes, I was erm….speaking with the Lord.”
“Oh!” Her pleasant smile vanquished the pout that briefly marred her face. “Oh George, you really do have the most intimate relationship with God.”
He grinned at her knowingly. “That, I do.”
------------------------
Three weeks later, George strutted from his car to the backdoor of Hurtwood Edge, Eric Clapton’s estate, holding the daily paper.
Eric met him at the door with a scowl, eyes flickering over the newspaper George was holding up, already knowing its solemn contents.
“Congratulations,” he muttered, handing him a pre-written cheque from his pocket. George simply smiled.