A/N: So, I believe I was the one to request this category so I could write/publish this. I got the idea while studying the play in my AP English class. Please don't think me too strange about this.

Disclaimer: I do not own Oedipus Rex, written by the playwright Sophocles.

Warnings: Mature themes, obvious incest. Set pre-canon. And, please excuse any typos.

Breeding a King
By: Nuit Songeur

Oedipus slowly made his way to his bedchamber. It had been a long day; more and more reports were coming in about the horrid state of the city: their beloved Thebes. Plague, death, stillborns. It was a bad dream slowly becoming a nightmarish reality. He didn't know what to do. Oedipus had just rid Thebes of the terrible Sphinx and now he had a new monster to deal with, the clawing talons of Death.

Creon should arrive tomorrow from Delphi, he told himself. Something he had been doing for the past few days.

Was the city cursed? Had someone offended Apollo, somehow? Or had he ascended to a throne of a city where hope and vitality were virtues that had long since been forsaken? Whatever the case, he had to solve it, right the wrongs of some evil doer. But what those wrongs were, he had no idea and he wouldn't know until the return of Creon. But, meanwhile, there was someone waiting for him.


The door slowly swayed open to reveal his beautiful wife awaiting on the massive bed. The canopy was drawn back to reveal her half-naked body only partially covered with a white gossamer gown. He eagerly crossed the room to her and hovered over her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he mounted.

She was older than him, of about thirteen years, but her beauty did not reflect her age. She was as ripe and voluptuous as the lovely Helen, descendent of a god to be able to endure such radiance. And she was his, a prize won by defeating the cunning sphinx. Her late husband- the gods rest him- surely did not deserve such beauty all for himself, the shriveled old man.

She was his wife, now. And he bed her properly, loving and caressing her exquisite body. Faintly, an old prophecy came to mind.

But Jocasta was not Merope.

And the light cloth of the white dress was not Merope's but rather Jocasta's as it fell delicately from the curves of her breasts and hips. Those alluring hips. Already they had begot him four children, all conceived on unforgettable nights of sleepless pleasure.

And when he came, sowing his seed, it was not in Merope but certainly Jocasta. The beautiful Jocasta.


Despite the beauty, the pleasure, the immense heat of the night, Oedipus would reflect later that he wished it was Merope instead of the beautiful Jocasta.

But all the same, Merope was not Jocasta. And there would have never been beauty, pleasure, heat, or passion if she was.

On the off-chance that anyone's reading this, I hope you enjoyed. And, please review with your thoughts.