Updated Intro Now That I Kinda Get How This Works:
Hello! It's 32W. I’ve been a long time lurker who finally wants to be part of this community! I’ve been into whump pretty much forever (since my formative years in the single digits), but I’ve been reading, writing, and drawing whump on and off for the last 15 years. I finally worked up the courage to post my own work this time last year, but I also reblog other people’s stuff too! My long-suffering wife is probably tired of hearing me talk about my fictional guys going through it as well, hence the blog!
Obligatory warning: minors DNI. Please. There’s gonna be nasty stuff on this blog and it will be tagged appropriately. Only you are accountable for your own online experience.
Likes and Interests
Slavery whump
Captivity whump
Pet whump (not exactly BBU, but BBU’s not bad)
Noncon/NSFW -will tag!
Noncon body mod -e.g., branding, tattooing, piercing
Kidnapping
Bondage
Caretaking
Communication barrier (language barrier, nonverbal whumpee, etc.)
G/t dynamics -relatively new interest but I like it
Squicks (nope-tropes, things I don’t like)
Gore -experimenting with mild gore, but I cannot handle a lot right now
Most hero/villain tropes -no shade, I’m just not into it
Supernatural whump -by this I mean magic and stuff. Again, nothing bad about it, just not really into it
Sickfics that have too much fluff
I have a Masterlist now
Special thanks goes out to @burnticedlatte @demondamage @whumperofworlds @poc-whump and other blogs and the people behind them who inspired/encouraged the making of this blog. You guys are awesome ❤️
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“No.” Sita said it so quietly that, for half a second, the word barely seemed to disturb the room.
They didn’t shout. They didn’t step away. They didn’t throw anything, threaten him, or give Thane a single dramatic reaction he could later reshape into evidence that they’d been unreasonable. They simply stood near the far end of the long cream-colored sofa, shoulders squared beneath a dark shirt, hands hanging loose at their sides, and refused him.
Thane stared at them from the armchair across the room.
The sitting room looked absurdly elegant around them. Warm amber lamps cast soft pools of light across polished wood and expensive upholstery. A fire burned low behind the glass fireplace screen, throwing occasional copper flickers across the framed photographs lining the mantel.
Thane appeared in several of them: Thane at premieres, Thane smiling beside actors and directors, Thane accepting an award, Thane with one hand resting possessively against Sita’s lower back while Sita wore clothes he’d chosen and an expression WRU had taught them to manufacture. Everything in the room had been selected carefully. Everything looked owned.
Thane’s surprise lasted only a moment before amusement replaced it. A slow smile spread across his face.
“You’re saying no to me?”
Sita’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really.”
“Yes.”
Thane settled farther back into the armchair as though the conversation had suddenly become entertaining. He’d abandoned his jacket earlier, leaving him in a pale button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. One ankle rested over the opposite knee. A crystal glass sat on the side table within easy reach, untouched for the moment, and his phone lay beside it. He looked comfortable. It was annoying.
If Thane had shouted, at least the sound would’ve acknowledged that their refusal had reached him. If he’d become furious, it would’ve meant the word had done something. Instead, he smiled at them as if they were a difficult animal making a noise he found charming.
“That’s cute.”
Sita’s jaw tightened. “I said no.”
“I heard you.”
“Then stop.”
Thane’s smile faded by a fraction. “You still think that’s how this works?”
Something cold settled low in their stomach. Thane’s expression brightened slightly, pleased that he’d finally found the nerve beneath the surface. He leaned toward the side table and picked up his phone.
Sita watched him unlock it. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“No.” Thane began scrolling. “You need reminding.”
Sita knew what he was looking for before he found it. Thane kept records of everything because possession delighted him, and documentation made possession tangible. He had copies of WRU contracts, medical authorizations, transfer records, behavioral summaries, training recommendations, medication schedules, lists of restrictions, ownership confirmations, purchase receipts, and evaluations that described Sita’s temperament, physical capabilities, medical condition, languages, obedience scores, usefulness, and supposed suitability for the person who’d eventually bought them.
The language always sounded clean. That was what Sita hated most.
WRU never wrote kidnapped. It wrote acquired. It never wrote captive. It wrote pet. It never wrote coercion. It wrote correction. It never wrote that a person had been stripped of the right to make decisions about their own life. It simply created forms with no place for that person’s decision to appear.
“There,” Thane said, turning the phone toward them.
Sita didn’t look.
“Read it.”
“No.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “There’s that word again.”
Sita stared at him.
Thane held the phone slightly higher. “Come here.”
“No.”
His expression hardened. “Sita.”
They stayed exactly where they were. The distance between them wasn’t large—a few steps, nothing Sita couldn’t cross quickly if they wanted to—but they didn’t.
Thane waited.
Sita waited longer.
Eventually, he sighed through his nose. “Fine.” His thumb moved across the screen. “I’ll read it to you.”
Sita’s stomach tightened.
Thane began halfway down the document in the calm, almost bored voice of someone reading clauses from an insurance agreement. He skipped the pieces that didn’t interest him. Transfer authorization. Owner designation. Custodial control. Medical consent authority. Behavioral management. Residential authority. Travel authorization. Financial responsibility.
The words drifted through the warm room and made something monstrous sound bureaucratic. There were no restraints in the document. No locked doors. No photographs of bruises. No needles. No record of the moment Sita had stopped remembering who they’d once been. No note explaining that the person described on the screen hadn’t volunteered for any of it. There were only numbered sections, reference codes, signatures, and crisp administrative language.
Thane looked up. “Does any of that sound familiar?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His thumb tapped the side of the phone. “So we’re getting somewhere.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched. “No?”
“No.”
Sita’s voice stayed level.
Thane frowned as though they were being intentionally obtuse. “Do you want me to simplify it for you?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to.”
He stood.
Sita’s body tightened automatically. The reaction was small enough that another person might’ve missed it, but Thane didn’t. He noticed everything about Sita when it could be interpreted as a response to him, and the tiny shift in their shoulders pleased him.
He crossed the room slowly. That was deliberate too. Thane always slowed down when Sita wanted distance. He turned proximity into something he could control one measured step at a time. His polished shoes made almost no sound against the thick rug. Sita watched him approach without retreating. They could’ve crossed the room before he reached them. They could’ve put the sofa between them. They could’ve left. But movement invited pursuit, and Thane loved turning pursuit into proof that Sita needed controlling.
So they stayed.
He stopped directly in front of them, close enough that Sita could smell his cologne and the glowing phone screen illuminated the underside of his jaw.
“There.” He held it between them. “Look.”
“No.”
Thane’s patience fractured slightly. “Look at the damn screen.”
Sita lowered their eyes.
The WRU logo sat near the top of the document. Black and gold. Clean. Professional. Respectable. Beneath it were identification numbers, authorization codes, dates, and classifications. Sita’s gaze found one number immediately.
363.
Something inside them tightened. They could read dozens of numbers on the page, but that one dragged their attention toward it like gravity.
Thane saw where they were looking. “There you are.”
Sita’s eyes hardened. “That’s a number.”
“It’s your designation.”
“It isn’t my name.”
Thane’s jaw tightened.
“Fine.” He scrolled. “Here.”
Another section appeared.
Registered owner-assigned name: Sita.
They stared at it. The name felt strange on the page. Too neat. Too official. A name Thane had chosen because he’d wanted something prettier than 363. Something he could call across a restaurant. Something photographers could print beneath pictures. Something that sounded like a person’s name without granting the person beneath it any actual personhood.
Thane tapped lower on the screen. “And there’s me.”
Sita’s gaze moved.
Owner of record: Thane Barlow.
His name sat there in clean black text. Not partner. Not guardian. Not emergency contact.
Owner.
The word looked obscene in the middle of such immaculate formatting.
Thane smiled. “You see?”
“Yes.”
“So explain the confusion.”
“There isn’t any.”
“You keep telling me no.”
“That isn’t confusion.”
He stared at them. Sita finally lifted their eyes from the screen.
“I understand what it says.”
“Good.”
“I’m still saying no.”
Thane gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You really don’t understand this.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Then why are we having this argument?”
“Because I don’t agree.”
Thane went quiet. For several seconds, he simply looked at them. Then his face softened into something patient and patronizing.
“Sita.”
They hated that tone.
“There’s nothing here for you to agree with.”
The sentence struck harder than Sita expected. Their fingers curled slightly at their sides. Thane lifted the phone between them again.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
“WRU did.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately. No hesitation. No discomfort. No apology. WRU had signed on Sita’s behalf, and that was enough for him.
Sita looked back at the document. The signatures appeared near the bottom: Thane Barlow, a WRU representative, another authorized official. Initials stood beside several clauses, followed by dates, transaction references, and approval codes. Sita searched the page carefully, then the next one. Their eyes returned to the signatures.
“There isn’t one.”
Thane frowned. “What?”
“A place for me.” Sita pointed toward the screen. “Your signature is there.”
His eyes followed their finger.
“WRU’s is there.”
He said nothing.
“There isn’t a line for mine.”
For the first time, something uncomfortable flickered across his expression. It wasn’t guilt. Sita knew him too well to mistake it for that. It was annoyance. They’d found a detail that made his preferred story uglier when spoken aloud.
“You weren’t the purchaser.”
Sita looked at him. “I was the thing being purchased.”
His mouth tightened immediately. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Making it sound disgusting.”
Sita stared at him. “It is disgusting.”
Thane scoffed. “Everything with you has to become some moral argument.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I think buying people is wrong.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Sita didn’t move.
Thane lowered the phone. “You were trained for this.”
“I was forced.”
“You were trained.”
“Those aren’t different things.”
“They are.”
“No.”
His expression hardened. “There it is again.”
Sita’s hands slowly closed into fists. Thane noticed immediately. His gaze dropped toward them.
“Don’t.”
Sita looked at him.
He didn’t move away. That was a strange, infuriating thing.
Thane knew exactly what Sita could do to him. He’d watched demonstrations before purchasing them. He’d seen Sita throw larger men over their shoulder. He’d watched them disarm trained security staff, break holds, control joints, and put people on the ground in seconds. He knew their reflexes were faster than his. Sita could break his wrist before he finished another sentence. They could sweep his legs and put him on the carpet. They could pin him. They could walk out.
Physically, there was almost nothing stopping them.
Thane still stood within reach because physical strength wasn’t the only kind of power in the room.
There were guards downstairs, security cameras around the house, drivers who answered to Thane, and staff whose employment depended on him. There were doctors authorized to discuss Sita’s care with him, lawyers who had copies of the ownership documents, and WRU personnel who would identify Sita as escaped property if they ran. There were police who could be shown a contract and hospitals that would find Thane’s name attached to Sita’s records. A system had been built around them so thoroughly that Thane didn’t need to be physically stronger.
He only needed to be recognized.
Sita could put him on the floor. The paperwork would still say owner. They could get through the front door. The records would still say property. They could tell someone they hadn’t consented. The signatures would still exist.
Thane watched the realization settle over them. His expression softened with satisfaction.
“There.”
Sita looked at him sharply. “There what?”
“You understand now.”
“I understood before.”
“No.” He slid the phone into his pocket. “Before, you were being stubborn.”
Sita’s jaw tightened.
Thane stepped closer. “You keep acting like this is some relationship where we vote on things.”
Sita said nothing.
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
“This is ownership.”
The word dropped between them, heavy and ugly. Thane didn’t whisper it. He didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he seemed pleased to finally strip away the softer language.
“You’re mine.”
Sita answered immediately. “No.”
His face went still. Then he smiled slowly.
“You keep saying that like repetition changes reality.”
“It doesn’t change reality.”
“Apparently you think it does.”
“It tells you what I want.”
Thane’s smile thinned. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It should be.”
“But it isn’t.”
Sita stared at him.
Thane tilted his head slightly. “According to WRU, you’re mine.”
“No.”
“According to the contract, you’re mine.”
“No.”
“According to every legal record attached to you, you’re mine.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Stop.”
“No.”
The word remained quiet.
Thane stepped closer until there was barely any space left between them. “You think I’m going to stand here and let something I paid for tell me what rights I have over it?”
Silence fell.
Sita’s face emptied.
Thane froze. He’d heard himself.
Something I paid for.
It.
For one brief second, embarrassment crossed his face. Then arrogance swallowed it.
“You know what I meant.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“You called me something.”
“Sita.”
“And then you called me it.”
His eyes hardened. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.”
Thane exhaled sharply. “You’re impossible.”
“No.”
His mouth tightened. “There’s that word again.”
He reached toward their face. Sita turned away. His hand followed.
“Sita.”
“No.”
His fingers closed around their jaw. Not violently. He didn’t need violence every time. His grip was merely firm enough to hold their face where he wanted it, fingers pressing beneath their chin while his thumb rested against their cheek.
Sita’s shoulders locked.
Thane tipped their face upward. “Look at me.”
They resisted. Their eyes remained fixed somewhere over his shoulder.
“Sita.”
Their gaze snapped toward him. Conditioning moved faster than conscious choice.
Thane’s smile appeared instantly. “There.”
Sita hated the satisfaction in his face.
“That’s what I mean.”
Their hands tightened at their sides.
“You can complain. You can glare. You can keep saying no until you’re hoarse.” His thumb stroked once across their cheek. “But underneath all of that, you know.”
Sita stared at him. “Know what?”
“Who you belong to.”
“No.”
His fingers tightened slightly. “You’re mine.”
“No.”
“I bought you.”
“No.”
“I signed for you.”
“No.”
“I’m legally responsible for you.”
“No.”
Thane’s voice became calmer as Sita’s refusals continued.
“I decide where you live.”
Sita’s breathing changed.
“I decide when you travel.”
Their shoulders stiffened.
“I authorize your medical care.”
Their stomach sank.
“I control who gets access to you.”
Sita’s fists tightened.
“I approve your schedule.”
His gaze stayed fixed on theirs.
“I sign your paperwork.”
He leaned slightly closer. “So keep saying no if it makes you feel better.”
Sita stared at him.
“But tell me something.” Thane released their jaw and allowed his hand to fall away. Sita didn’t move. “If your no has all this power you think it has, why can’t you leave?”
The room went silent.
Sita’s eyes flicked toward the door.
It wasn’t locked. That was almost worse.
They could reach it in seconds. They could open it. They could walk down the hallway, descend the stairs, cross the foyer, and continue toward the front doors. Then security would notice. Thane would make a call. Staff would intervene. Someone would tell Sita to calm down. Someone would insist Thane only wanted to help. Someone would contact WRU. Someone would retrieve the documents. Someone would ask Thane what had happened before asking Sita.
If Sita fought their way out anyway, every record surrounding them would transform escape into theft. Thane wouldn’t become the captor. Sita would become the dangerous pet who’d gotten loose.
They looked back at him.
Thane watched their silence with growing satisfaction. “You see?”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
Sita’s voice stayed quiet. “I see the paperwork.”
“Yes.”
“I see what they gave you.”
“Yes.”
“I see what they took from me.”
Something in his face tightened. “That isn’t—”
“I know exactly what you’re saying.”
Thane stopped.
Sita’s hands slowly relaxed. “I know your name is on everything.”
Their voice remained steady.
“I know mine isn’t.”
He watched them.
“I know WRU says you can choose my doctors. I know they say you can choose where I live.”
Thane’s expression grew colder.
“I know you can authorize things for me without asking.”
“Sita.”
“I know.”
The word stopped him.
“I know nobody needs my signature. I know nobody asked what I wanted.”
Silence settled between them. Sita took a slow breath.
“I understand.”
Thane studied them. Then something satisfied returned to his expression.
“Good.”
Sita looked directly at him. “But I still said no.”
The satisfaction vanished.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Thane smiled again. This smile felt different. There was no attempt at affection in it now, no indulgence, no fondness. There was only certainty.
“Fine.”
Sita’s stomach tightened.
Thane walked back toward the side table and picked up his glass. “You can say no.”
They watched him.
He took a drink. “I never said you couldn’t.”
Sita’s expression changed.
Thane lowered the glass. “You just need to understand that saying it doesn’t require me to listen.”
Sita stared at him.
There it was. Simpler than the contract. Cleaner than WRU’s language. More honest than anything written on the screen.
Their refusal wasn’t prohibited.
It was irrelevant.
They could say no, and Thane could proceed anyway. They could object, and he could overrule them. They could refuse, and he could produce documentation stating that their refusal carried no legal authority.
Sita looked around the room again. The expensive sofa. The polished floors. The framed photographs. The warm lamps. The fire glowing behind glass. Nothing here looked like a cage.
That was the point.
The bars weren’t metal. They were signatures. They were classifications. They were authorization forms, ownership statutes, medical permissions, and records that transformed Thane’s control into administrative normalcy.
Thane set his glass down. “You’ll be happier when you stop fighting facts.”
Sita looked at him. “No.”
He laughed softly and walked toward the door. His hand settled on the handle.
“You’re mine.”
This time, Sita didn’t answer.
Thane glanced back. He seemed pleased by their silence. Then he left, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Sita remained where they were. For a long moment, they looked at the empty doorway while their pulse beat hard in their throat. They could follow him. They could open the door. They could leave this room whenever they wanted. They could refuse every command he gave for the rest of the night.
None of those things altered the structure surrounding them.
If they left the house, Thane could report them. If they needed medical care, his name appeared in their records. If they tried to sign a lease, arrange travel, authorize treatment, open an account, or make any formal decision about their own life, someone could ask where their owner was.
Sita looked down at their hands.
WRU had trained those hands to fight, restrain, disarm, track, and retrieve people who ran. They’d built Sita into something physically formidable and then surrounded that body with laws designed to make strength meaningless.
Sita slowly flexed their fingers.
They could break a lock. They couldn’t break a contract by touching it. They could overpower a guard. They couldn’t physically wrest their own legal personhood back from a filing system. They could put Thane on his knees, and his name would still be written above theirs.
Sita stared at the closed door.
Their answer hadn’t changed.
No.
The word still belonged to them. Its meaning hadn’t weakened. Its truth hadn’t disappeared. But truth and power were different things.
For the first time, Sita understood that difference completely.
Their refusal mattered to them. It described the boundary they wanted. It marked the place where their will ended and Thane’s began. Legally, however, the room didn’t recognize that boundary.
WRU had built the arrangement so thoroughly that Thane didn’t have to silence Sita. He didn’t need to forbid the word. He didn’t even need to convince them that they meant yes.
He only needed a world willing to treat no as irrelevant when it came from someone classified as property.
Sita whispered it once into the empty room.
“No.”
The word sounded small against the quiet.
Nothing changed. The door stayed closed. The house remained his. The paperwork remained valid. His signature remained where theirs should’ve been.
Sita finally understood the ugliest part of what WRU had done.
They hadn’t taken away their ability to say no.
They’d taken away everyone else’s obligation to care.
I am not personally super into like. metaphors of referring to a character as another character's dog. however I would be really intrigued if someone used another animal. "call off your dog": trite, passé, probably reductive. "call off your cat": fresh, intriguing, makes me wonder what specific feline quality the character possesses. "call off your lionfish" well I am absolutely baffled but I am seated.
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they didnt listen, by the way. because of course they didnt. theyre hiding domo ai from the member list and forcing them into private and public servers. use
/ban user:1153984868804468756
to get rid of it.
if you're interested in the Colorful support post i made regarding this, its under the cut. i'm livid.
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"You didn't like it?" Whumper's hand tickles the swollen flesh around the bindings on whumpee's ankle.
Whumpee twitches away, voice hoarse and broken.
"Are you deaf? I told you to take your hands off me like a hundred times!"
"No, I heard you begging for me to stop, but you don't understand... I did it because I love you..." Their hands slide up whumpee's trembling legs.
Whumpee grimaces in disgust, letting their head drop back onto the pillow and trying not to feel the hand smoothing across their naked, sweaty back.
"You'll understand..." Whumper's fingers catch a tear rolling down whumpee's nose, wiping it away with their thumb. "We'll do it until you understand, don't worry."
"No no, I understand!" Whumpee's eyes fly open, desperately turning to whumper, voice barely controlled. "I understand. I swear."
"Then let's do it again." Whumper smiles. "And this time, try to enjoy it. Let me love you, whumpee."
as a continuation, whumper ends up getting whumpee's meds, but gives it to them the wrong way (like giving them no food with it when it's supposed to be take with a meal) and then whumpee gets an hour of nausea and headache with a racing heart feeling like they're about to die until the medication is properly absorbed and starts working
NOOOOOOOOOOOO OH MY GOD, NOOOOO!!! That would be *scribbling notes furiously* noooo, that would be horrendous, how could you say something like that?? Or Whumpee takes them at night (to sleep) and Whumper starts giving them their meds in the morning, and Whumpee’s body just shuts down, but Whumper has methods of keeping them awake, mwuahahahah
The nausea is not fun, AND WHY DOES NOTHING MAKE IT GO AWAY?!?!! You just have to sit with that bitch😭 My brain always feels so foggy, like there’s expanding air inside my body it’s so strange
Like the pills are meant to help, and then you miss one, eency, weency insignificant time by accident, and your body DIES?!?!!! Your body just S T O P S like excuse me?! Also do you get that thick tongue?? Like, you can’t form words around it sometimes and your voice echoes in your head, it’s so weird, it’s so like— body horror esque and you’re stuck with it😌 for at least two days until your body recovers, because the second day you’re dying because you’re tired from missing the meds the day before, LIKE HELLO!!!!
I started my reply with claiming my experience isn't much of a body horror and then wrote it down and had to reconsider that statement
i don't get the thick tongue, or the brain zaps that are the trademark of my meds (effexor, anyone?), i'm not very sure about physical symptoms besides the nausea but
it feels like i died when i forgot to take my meds and my consciousness jumped to the nearest timeline where i'm alive, and i have to adjust to a new body, it takes more mechanical control and less actually experiencing the world, it feels like it takes time to really get in there and settle
it's not an echo i get, but i need to do everything consciously, because even simple tasks aren't automated yet, it comes with a lot of talking to myself in full sentences and statements and not vague ideas and pictures along some word fragments like i normally do
and then everything is normal and I forget about it until the next time it happens ✨
You're not creating real people, you're creating the illusion of real people. You don't have to mention their favorite food if it doesn't come up, you don't even have to know it, though if they were actual people they'd have one. You can throw plot events at your characters to force them to take certain actions, or you could just rewrite the characters to be the kind of characters who would take those actions anyway. Your characters have a life of their own in their own little world, but don't be afraid to play god to get what you want out of them.
In the vast majority of cases, a character's strengths and flaws should be the same thing. There are exceptions (you can have a character be clumsy for the lols without needing to find some way that it's an advantage), but for most character traits, the difference between a flaw and a strength is the situation at hand and learning when to indulge it.
desire is the source of action, so your characters should WANT things. all of them should have something they want that's good for them, something they want that's bad for them, and something that's just a little silly, for spice.
Treat your secondary characters like they are the main characters of another story. I don't mean you have to know everything about them, but if their role in the story could be replaced by a cardboard cutout, then the story will feel flat where it encounters them. Give them their own motivation/wants/desires, and it will help you immensely in writing their interactions with the main character, and make the world seem bigger/more real to the reader.
Unlike real life, if you want anything out of your characters, you need to put them through meaningful hardship. Angst for the sake of angst is fun to toy with, but at the end of the day, there needs to be a reason for it or it's just not going to be interesting. Make sure that it's something that will get you more character out of your character.
People like "vibrant" characters. All that means, really, is dialing up their traits a LITTLE louder than they would be in real life. The reader is only ever going to receive at most 80% of what you mean (and often much lower), and 80% or less of a character is pretty boring. But if you overshoot in a carefully calculated way -- say, catapulting 120% of a character in the reader's direction -- then what the reader receives is 100%, and then they are happy and entertained. So go just a little harder than you think you need to.
Also, nobody actually likes a bleeding-heart perfectly moral Pollyanna-ish simpering protagonist. You gotta scuff 'em up a little bit. Get 'em grungy. If they really are a kind and good person, spend some time thinking about how HARD it is to be kind and good, how it is an intentional choice. How there might be a total bitch inside them who has been repressed and is screaming to get out. That's called TENSION, and it is TENSION which makes a story or a character interesting and compelling. More tension, more good.
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The difference between a story being problematic and fucked up is how seriously it treats the subject matter. fucked up good, problematic bad.
Like, Twilight is problematic. Flowers in the Attic is fucked up. one has shallow characters who respond like they're in a story because there's no sense of fear because they know they're not real and can't die, and the other has characters written like people. your story can have all the same stuff as a problematic story but if it treats its characters as people about it it's not problematic, it's fucked up.
problem is that a lot of people can't tell the difference and they treat a fucked up story as problematic, or a problematic story as perfectly fine. it's not the same thing. Lolita isn't problematic, it's fucked up, but everyone who hasn't read it thinks it's problematic. A Song of Ice and Fire CAN be problematic but a lot of the stuff people criticise as being problematic is actually just fucked up, but also some of his fans treat the problematic stuff as fucked up when it's actually problematic.
if you want to write problematic stuff you gotta make it fucked up, but if you fucked up it's just problematic. you know what I'm saying?
problematic means the author never actually sat down and thought the implications through. fucked up means the author knows perfectly well and is just having family unfriendly fun about it
