these prompts came together through community submissions and a voting form where people voted for their favorites, here are the top 53 prompts
i enjoy this format so like last year there are 15 creation prompts and 15 community prompts/questions. the community prompts are entirely voluntary but are here to possibly inspire some community interaction and trying new things
very excited to see some awesome creations in january!
go here for info/rules/tagging
go here for faqs
go here for the 2026 ao3 collection
(note: number 31 is not a creation prompt and not required to complete the challenge, it's just colored black so the colors add up)
text version of the prompts and rules is under the cut
(image description note: there are 31 numbered prompts, on each odd number the text color is black and on even numbers the text color is white)
Whumpuary 2026
a whump-themed multi media creation event for january
create for at least one prompt from each odd/black number to complete the challenge community prompts (even/white) numbers are voluntary
main prompts
memory loss | tied up | winter
do you prefer fandom or oc whump?
can't speak | caught | broken glass
have you done other whump events?
ransom | burns | not good enough
share your favorite whump media (tv, game, book, …)
drowning | "something isn't right" | hunted
send an ask to someone in the whump community
cornered | shaky hands | phone call
have you always liked whump?
trapped | sleep deprivation | "please"
share any music/videos/etc you listen to while creating
"hold still" | possession | impaled
any favorite things you'd like to see more of in whump?
breaking point | came back wrong | breathe
halfway through! rest & take a break
blood trail | "is this real?" | storm
take 5-10 minutes to work on a wip
seeing double | shivering | restrained
who's your current favorite character to whump?
attacked from behind | poison | red
comment on someones work in the #whumpuary tag
interrogation | numb | wrist grabbing
draw/doodle something whumpy
limping | fatigue | "i don't believe you"
what are your top 5 favorite whump tropes?
"i tried" | pinned against the wall | haunted
create in a new/less familiar medium
touch starved | "i need help" | secret reveal
share your favorite whump creation you’ve made
share your favorite whump creation someone else made
alt prompts
failed escape
gagged
old injuries
exhaustion
blood loss
"don't"
nowhere to go
flashbacks
rules & info
-any medium is allowed (art, writing, gifs, edits, ...)
-prompts are open for interpretation (but the context should be whumpy)
-create for at least one of three prompts on creation prompt days (black/odd numbers) to complete the challenge
-if you're not aiming for completionist you can do however many prompts you want any way you want
-community prompts (white/even numbers) are voluntary and don't count for completionist (but can be combined with creation prompts if applicable)
-use alt prompts to replace main prompts you don't like
some works posted on tumblr will be reblogged if tagged correctly
-#whumpuary2026
-#whumpuaryno1 (number of the prompt(s))
-any trigger/content warning tags
-any additional tags (fandom, oc, other used tropes, ...)
[ID: Deeply shaded greyscale art with blood in red of Eliot Spencer with short hair sitting at the edge of an open doorway, holding a cloth to a bleeding would on his right shoulder and leaning on the arm holding the cloth. The right arm is hanging limp on his extended right leg, and has bandages on the upper arm and hand/wrist, all of which have blood visible on them. The left leg is tugged up to his chest. His shirt is ripped and the sleeve entirely gone on the left side. Behind him, visible through the open door are bodies with blood around them. End ID]
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Prompt: Breaking point
Is this Eliot's breaking point, or is it the consequence of him reaching breaking point and snapping?
⚠️WARNING: This fanfiction contains graphic depictions of consensual sexual acts, such as oral sex, vaginal penetration, anal play, BDSM elements like light bondage, spanking, and dominance/submission, as well as multiple orgasms. The story also explores themes of a sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship, involving financial arrangements, power imbalances, and evolving romantic dynamics. Additionally, there are references to superhero identity, with elements of fantasy and mild exhibitionism. Strong language, explicit dialogue, and detailed erotic descriptions are present throughout. Reader discretion is advised, and if you are sensitive to any of these topics, please do not proceed. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t endorse or promote real-life behaviors without consent and mutual respect.‼️
You never thought you’d end up here, in the lap of luxury, but life has a way of surprising you. Six months ago, you were just another struggling twenty-something in Metropolis, juggling two jobs to pay off student loans and keep the lights on in your crappy apartment. The city was ruthless—rent skyrocketed, bills piled up, and your dreams of becoming a writer seemed as distant as Krypton. Then, at a Daily Planet charity gala where you were waitressing to make extra cash, you met him: Clark Kent.
He was standing alone in a corner, notebook in hand, glasses slipping down his nose as he observed the room. You were balancing a tray of champagne flutes when a drunk socialite bumped you, sending one glass tumbling toward him. It splashed across his shirt, and you froze, mortified. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” you babbled, grabbing napkins to dab at the stain.
He chuckled, that deep, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “It’s okay. Really. I’ve survived worse.” His blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, the noisy room faded. He was handsome in an unassuming way—broad shoulders straining his tux, dark hair slightly tousled, a boyish smile that hid something powerful.
You insisted on helping, and he let you, his hand brushing yours as you wiped the fabric. “Let me make it up to you,” you said. “Coffee? My treat.”
He smiled wider. “How about dinner? My treat.”
That dinner was at a five-star restaurant you’d only read about. Over steak and wine, Clark laid it out: he was a busy reporter, often traveling, and he enjoyed company without complications. “I can help with your situation,” he said, eyes sincere. “Bills, rent, whatever you need. In return, discretion and… time with you.”
A sugar daddy. The term flashed in your mind, but Clark didn’t feel like the creepy old guys from stories. He was kind, attentive, and god, so attractive. You agreed, and just like that, your life changed.
The gifts started immediately. A new wardrobe—designer dresses, heels, lingerie that made you feel sexy. He paid off your loans, set you up in a luxurious loft apartment overlooking the river. “For when I’m away,” he explained, but you knew it was yours. Shopping sprees became dates: his large hand on your waist as you tried on outfits, his voice low in your ear. “This one. I want to see you in it tonight.”
The intimacy came naturally. Your first night was at his modest brownstone, a place that didn’t match his generosity. He cooked pasta, poured wine, and talked about his farm-boy roots in Smallville. The conversation flowed, laughter easy, and when he kissed you on the couch, it was electric. His lips were soft but insistent, hands roaming your body with a reverence that made you melt.
“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling back, eyes searching yours.
“Yes, Clark. Please.”
He carried you to the bedroom, laying you on the sheets like you were precious. Undressing you slowly, he kissed every inch—your neck, collarbone, breasts. His mouth closed around a nipple, sucking gently, tongue flicking until you arched, moaning. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you wet, circling your clit with expert precision. “So beautiful,” he murmured, slipping a finger inside, then two, curling them to hit that spot.
You came hard, gasping his name, and he didn’t stop, licking you through it. Then he sheathed himself in a condom, entering you slowly, stretching you with his thickness. He was big—thick, veined, filling you completely. His thrusts were measured, deep, building a rhythm that had you wrapping your legs around him. “You feel amazing,” he groaned, kissing you as he sped up. You came together, his body shuddering above yours, holding you close after.
That was the beginning. Sex with Clark was addictive. He had stamina for days, his body a masterpiece of muscle and control. He held back—you could sense it, like he could crush the bed if he wasn’t careful. It thrilled you, made every encounter intense.
Tonight, it’s the Metropolis Grand Hotel, suite 2501. You’ve been seeing him more frequently, the “arrangement” feeling less transactional and more… real. He texts you earlier: “Room ready. Wear the red lingerie. Can’t wait to spoil you.”
You arrive in a trench coat over the set—red lace bra and panties that barely cover anything, stockings gartered high. The door opens before you knock; Clark’s there, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. “You came,” he says, pulling you inside, kicking the door shut.
“Always do for you,” you tease, shrugging off the coat. His eyes darken, raking over you.
“God, you’re stunning.” He backs you against the wall, kissing you fiercely, tongue claiming your mouth. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs rubbing nipples through lace until they’re hard peaks. You moan into the kiss, grinding against his growing erection.
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping his waist as he carries you to the bed. Setting you down, he strips off his shirt, pants, boxers—revealing his cock, hard and throbbing, pre-cum glistening. You reach for it, stroking the length, but he stops you. “Let me taste you first.”
Pushing you back, he kneels, spreading your legs. He tears the panties aside with a rip— he’ll buy new ones—and dives in. His tongue licks broad stripes through your folds, savoring your wetness. “So sweet,” he groans, sucking your clit, fingers plunging inside, scissoring to stretch you. The pressure builds fast, your hands fisting his hair as you buck against his face.
“Clark… fuck…” You come, gushing on his tongue, and he drinks it all, humming.
Your turn. You push him onto the bed, straddling his thighs. Kissing down his chest, you lick his abs, then take his cock in hand, pumping slowly. He hisses, head falling back. You lean down, licking the tip, tasting salt, then sucking him deep. Hollowing your cheeks, you bob, hand twisting the base. His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding. “Just like that, baby. Your mouth is perfect.”
He pulls you up before he comes, flipping you onto all fours. “Need to be inside you.” The head of his cock teases your entrance, rubbing through slickness. You push back, and he thrusts in, bottoming out with a groan. The stretch is delicious, painful-pleasurable. He grips your hips, pulling out slow, slamming back in.
The pace is punishing—skin slapping, bed rocking. His hand reaches around, fingers on your clit, rubbing circles. “Come for me,” he commands, spanking your ass lightly. The sting sends you over, clenching around him. He follows, thrusting deep, filling you with hot spurts (no condom tonight— you’re on birth control, tested clean).
But Clark’s not done. He flips you onto your back, kissing you lazily as he hardens again. “Round two,” he murmurs, sliding in slow. This time, it’s intimate—missionary, legs over his shoulders, deep thrusts hitting your g-spot. His mouth on your neck, sucking marks. “You’re mine,” he growls.
“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, knowing the word drives him wild.
He speeds up, hand on your throat with gentle pressure—no danger, just possession. You come screaming, nails raking his back (he heals fast, you’ve learned). He pulls out, coming on your stomach, painting you white.
Shower time. Under the steam, he washes you, soapy hands gliding over breasts, ass, between legs. You drop to knees, sucking him amid the water. He fucks your mouth gently, then lifts you, pinning you to the tile. Legs around him, he thrusts up, water cascading. “So tight,” he grunts. You come together, slipping in the wet.
Back in bed, he spoons you, cock sliding in from behind. Lazy fucks, his hand on your breast, pinching nipple. Fingers find your clit, rubbing slow. “One more, for me.” The build is torturous, pleasure coiling tight. You come softly, him following with a sigh.
As dawn breaks, you lie tangled, his arm heavy. “I don’t want just the arrangement anymore,” he confesses. “I love you.”
Heart racing, you turn. “I love you too, Clark.”
He smiles, kissing you. The sugar daddy becomes your everything.
But let’s rewind—how did you discover his secret? Three months in, during sex in your apartment. He lifted you mid-thrust, holding you airborne as he pounded in. “How are you doing that?” you gasped.
He set you down, sighing. “I’m Superman.”
It explained everything—the strength, the absences, the restraint. It made sex even hotter. One night, he flew you to a secluded beach, fucking under stars. His super speed vibrated his finger on your clit, making you squirt for the first time. “That’s my girl,” he praised, licking you clean.
Roleplay became a thing. Him as Superman, you the damsel. He’d “rescue” you, then ravish you—tying wrists with his cape, fucking you against a wall. Or you as the dominant, riding him while he “submitted,” though his power always lurked.
Gifts continued: a private jet to Paris, where he fucked you in the Eiffel Tower view suite, against the window. Vibrator toys he controlled via app during his Planet meetings—you’d text “stop” when you couldn’t take more, but he loved the tease.
Emotions grew. Jealousy when he mentioned work with Lois. “She’s a friend,” he assured, then showed you with passionate sex—eating you out for hours, multiple orgasms until you begged mercy.
The hotel night seals it. After the marathon, you talk dreams, fears. “Be mine,” he says.
“I am.”
The future? More spoiling, more love, more mind-blowing sex. Clark Kent, your sugar daddy turned soulmate, the Man of Steel with a heart for you.
Whumpee looks the same at first glance. Normal enough, for dying and returning.
But in time, the... subtler changes become apparent.
Their best friend looks them in the eye for the first time since they came back.
It's a different shade of blue.
Their touch is always icy cold, as if they never recovered the body heat lost during death.
They smile just a little too wide.
Or not wide enough.
Their teeth a little too sharp.
Sometimes Whumpee stares into the shadows, perhaps lost in memory, perhaps challenging a lurking entity.
The evidence of the wound that killed them is still there.
A jagged scar, messily healed.
The shoulder that was broken before the final blow still aches, healed, but not properly.
Yet pain doesn't affect them in the same way.
Whumpee stares at the blood running down their arm from an accidental cut numbly, as if it were happening to somebody else.
They walk off injuries that would have incapacitated anyone else, ignoring stab wounds, injuries to vital organs, blows that should cause severe concussions.
But the only wounds that bother them are the old wounds from the day they died.
Whumpee flinches at sudden movements.
When they sleep, they are tormented by nightmares.
In battle, they are a force to be reckoned with.
Enemies are found torn to pieces with no mercy.
Their teammates try to reconcile with the changes.
Whumpee is still the same person, after all.
Aren't they?
Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf
phillip graves x reader, kidnapped user, protective/possessive graves, @whumpuary day 5: ransom, not good enough
Phillip's hands braced on the table, his eyes closed as he tried to gather himself. For a moment, no one dared to speak. They'd seen him angry before but this was different. This quiet rage terrified grown men; even his own men.
“They sent proof?” he asked with surprising calm. “Proof of life?”
A tablet was slid across the table. He glanced and closed his eyes again to push down the visceral rage rising up. One look had been enough. You, bound to a chair. A bruise blooming dark along your jaw. Your eyes unfocused but alive. Glaring at the camera. Alive.
His jaw tightened so hard it ached. Ransom. Someone had dared to take you for ransom. Money wasn’t the problem. It never was. He could wire the ransom ten times over without blinking, but he’s seen this game before. Pay the money, buy time and still get a body back.
He would not let that be you. Not you. Never you.
His mind flashed without permission. Images of you, half asleep in his bed, mumbling his name. Your fingers curling into his sleeve, trying to buy a moment longer before he had to leave. Your soft laugh when it was just you and him. Always gentle and sweet and trusting and his.
“No negotiations,” Phillip said, voice lowered into a lethal hiss. “I want eyes everywhere. Satellites, drones, informants. Burn through favors. I don’t care what it costs. Find them.”
And his men scrambled to comply, practically falling over themselves, as Phillip's eyes wandered to the image they sent of you.
I'm coming, sweetheart. I'm coming.
By the time Phillip steps into the little hole these rats had been hiding out in, it was already aflame. The last bits of gunfire sounded, largely replaced by shouting now, as his Shadows rounded up your captors and forced them to their knees. His focus, for now, however, was on the door, which was being guarded by five of his men.
Inside, you saw slumped over in a chair, wrists rubbed raw, eyes helf closed, hair falling in your face... He swallowed down the urge to run back and beat your captors to death on the spot.
Instead, he came closer and dropped to a knee before you. Gently, he whispered your name. His heart pounded when your fingers twitched and slowly, your head lifted.
His hands were gentle as they cupped your face, smearing blood on your cool skin as his thumbs brushed your cheeks. It was like coming home.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough and unguarded. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
You blinked at him as if unsure that he’s real. He cut the bindings himself, caught you when you sagged forward, and pulled you against his chest. His arms were steady and calm as they pressed you in, burried your face in the crook of his neck.
His eyes closed as he held you, felt you. I got you, baby.
His second-in-command cleared his throat behind him. “Sir. Orders on the kidnappers?”
Phillip didn't look back. “Don't kill them,” he ordered calmly, holding you closer. “That's not good enough.” Only then he turned, eyes cold and endless. “Pack them up. I'll be handling them personally.”
The Shadows noded and dragged the screaming men away.
“Let's get yu home,” he whispered in your ear and brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I'll never let anyone hurt you again.”
With little effort, he lifted you and stood, cradling you like something priceless. As he carried you toward the waiting plane, flanked by his shadows, his heart calmed as you tucked your head beneath his chin.
Having you against his chest helped. It was almost enough to make him consider simply executing your captors, but then his eyes dropped to your wrists. To your bruised cheek. He felt your tremors. His expression hardened again.
He was not the type to be weakened by his love. It hardened him, into something violent and destructive, something that did not know mercy when you were concered.
He boarded the plane with you in his arms, one hand pressed firmly to your back.
Once he arrived at the Compound, he would get you treated, showered, tucked into bed, and then he would slaughter your captors until they would not be recognizable as human beings anymore. And once he was done, he would wipe his hands, and slip into bed with you.
You would never know the blood he spilled in your name, and he planned to spill enough to drown anyone who might want to hurt you.
