Initium Media | The Price of Boys’ Love: A Law Enforcement Storm Targeting Haitang Authors

The Price of Boys’ Love: A Law Enforcement Storm Targeting Haitang Authors

By Contributors Gan Yeyu and Yiyi

Published June 13, 2025

Mainland China / Politics / LGBTQ+ / Women & Feminism / Censorship / Sexuality / Gender / Law / Society / Queer

What problems arise from outdated laws? Is BL moral failure or exploration of desire? With the BL community already stratified, will its space shrink even more?

(Photograph Caption) October 11, 2024, Queen Sirikit National Convention Center, Bangkok, Thailand – At the 29th Thai Book Fair, readers browse Boys’ Love (BL) series books. Photo: Lillian Suwanrumpha / AFP via Getty Images

(Translator’s note: Danmei is an accepted translation for 耽美 among English speakers. Here BL, Boys’ Love, and danmei are used interchangeably for the same genre of writing.)

“Another wave has begun again.” In mid-May, He Yelin saw a Weibo post from a Haitang author summoned by the police. She was overwhelmed with helplessness. “After what happened in Anhui, we already knew what had happened (this time), but it was too late.”

In early 2025, law enforcement from Lanzhou, Gansu conducted cross-regional operations, summoning and detaining many online writers from Haitang Literary City, a Taiwan-based online literature site. Authors from Chongqing, Fujian, and Jiangsu were among those affected. Reportedly, they were charged with “producing and distributing obscene materials for profit.” By late May, news of arrests spread online. On June 1, the hashtag “Haitang Authors”(“海棠作者”) surpassed 100 million views on Weibo. On June 8, Haitang announced it would suspend operations for a month “to improve service quality.”

Haitang Literary City specializes in adult and BL content targeting female readers. As China tightens its censorship of online literature, especially sexually explicit and danmei works, Haitang became a haven for China mainland authors.

This crackdown is widely seen as a continuation of last year’s “deep-sea fishing” operation by police in Anhui. In 2024, authorities in Jixi County, Anhui arrested over 50 authors from multiple provinces for the same charges, “producing and distributing obscene materials for profit.”. One top BL author, “Yun Jian,”(远上白云间) reportedly profiting 1.84 million yuan (~256,000 usd) from her writings, was sentenced to 4.5 years in prison and submit all their earnings as fines.

Now, thresholds for criminalizing BL authors under “obscene material” laws are being lowered.

In 2018, renowned BL author Tianyi was sentenced to 10 years for selling 7,000 printed copies of her homoerotic doujinshi novel “Occupy”. But in the Anhui cases last year, the involved online works are not published as hard copies (In which case it would have been illegal in China - Translator’s note.) . At the same time, most of the arrested authors were top-tier writers. A legal team that had represented four of the involved authors told Sanlian Life Weekly that the amounts involved for their clients ranged from 200,000 to 400,000 yuan (~28-56k usd). In contrast, the authors involved in this year’s Lanzhou case were less well-known, and their earnings were significantly lower. According to Caixin, the disclosed amounts ranged from just a few hundred yuan to 20,000 yuan(up to 3000 usd). Online sources also claimed that some of the implicated authors had never withdrawn their earnings.

This new wave of arrests—dubbed “deep-sea fishing”—has drawn widespread public and legal concern, particularly regarding outdated statutes, questionable law enforcement practices, and inconsistent sentencing. Broader questions have surfaced: Are BL novels literature? Where are the boundaries of creative freedom of BL writing? How should we define “obscenity”? Can women write about their own desires freely?

According to mainland criminal defense lawyer Fang Aiyun, the case ignited public outcry because it touches on multiple intersecting issues: the Lanzhou incident exposes many injustices in criminal procedures, drawing attention from the legal community; the fact that most of the summoned individuals are female authors has mobilized those concerned with women’s rights and BL culture; and the “deep-sea fishing” and profit-driven law enforcement practices have attracted scrutiny from those concerned about private enterprises and the broader economic climate.

“Anyone with a bit of legal knowledge and a bit of conscience can sense the injustice in this case,” Fang Aiyun remarked.

(Photo Caption) June 8, 2025—Supporters overseas show solidarity with Haitang authors.

Photo: Submitted to freewritersofhaitng IG

“Suddenly, they take not just your income—but your life.”

The rumours of Haitang authors being summoned by the police spread again on social medias.

According to a report by Sanlian Life Weekly, this round of detentions began in March. Records online also indicate that police operations targeting Haitang authors began as early as January.

Reportedly, one author learned during interrogation that as many as 200 writers could be involved in this case. A lawyer told Initium Media that at least several dozen authors had been summoned or arrested. Initium was unable to independently verify the total number of those involved.

He Yelin began paying attention to the arrests of Haitang authors as early as July last year. She had been a fan of BL novels for over a decade, and the pen name “Yunjian”, who had published a large body of work, was one she was very familiar with. Seeing Yunjian facing a harsh sentence and being forced to pay huge fines, He Yelin found it absurd.

“I always knew writing erotic fiction was a legal gray area in China, but I never thought they’d actually go after these authors, hand down such heavy sentences, and make them submit so much money,” He Yelin said. “I know that Yunjian is a very hardworking writer—over more than a decade, she rose to become a top-tier author. And now, suddenly, not only do they strip away her earnings, they’re taking away her entire life. They punish her, and they shame her just because her writing involves sex. That’s what I really can’t accept.” “Honestly, it’s painful. What’s wrong with women expressing their sexual desire? It’s not like we’re going out and harassing people in the streets,” She said angrily.

She also found that this latest group of arrested authors is in even worse situations than before. Many are younger, and financially less established. “Many among this group are students, only just entered adulthood with little personal income and precarious family backgrounds.”

According to personal accounts posted on Weibo, one affected writer said she had just been admitted to graduate school, and her writing income was around 2,000 yuan (~300 usd, pocket change I tell you - Translator’s note). She mentioned that police confiscated her phone and accessed her chat history without a search warrant. Another author, who funded her undergraduate studies through student loans, had her grad school offer revoked due to the case. She feared a criminal record would severely impact her future job prospects. Yet another author, who earned just over 20,000 yuan(~3000 usd) in a year, said she had to sell her gaming account and tablet just to afford travel expenses to Lanzhou after receiving the police summons. She made a public post seeking loans to help pay the fine. Many authors expressed that writing had been their way of escaping reality.

(Photo Caption) August 13, 2009 – A customer in an internet café in Shanxi, China.

Photo: Stringer / Reuters / Imaginechina

“On platforms like Haitang, the more explicit the writing, the higher the chance of being seen—so authors might push their boundaries to gain visibility and earn some income,” He Yelin explained. But she emphasized that, fundamentally, these authors weren’t writing erotica with the intention of making money. Over the past few weeks, she chatted with several writers and asked why they started writing BL novels. The answer was usually: “I’ve always read web novels. I just wanted to try writing them myself. It began out of a love for storytelling and creativity.”

After consulting several lawyer friends, He Yelin learned that there was room for legal defense in the Haitang cases, and many in law practices hoped to help. Some even offered pro bono legal aid.

She began messaging authors privately, offering help with legal resources. But she noticed that most of them were paralyzed by fear and remained silent. “Many saw the messages but didn’t reply—they were too afraid,” she said. “They worry that hiring a lawyer would anger the police. If they don’t adopt the ‘plead guilty and accept punishment’ attitude, then law enforcement won’t be lenient. So they’re too afraid to officially appoint a lawyer.”

Criminal defense lawyer Fang Aiyun is also deeply invested in the Haitang case. She was struck by how some authors, due to financial hardship, had to borrow money or take out loans just to pay fines or bail.

One of the most discussed aspects of the case is the “deep-sea fishing” tactic. Fang explained that this refers to under-developed regions using government power to pursue cases in more economically developed areas, especially against companies or individuals that can generate revenue. Fines and (so-called )restitutions from such cases go to the jurisdiction handling the case, which directly funds the local government. “These prosecutions are driven by profit. This is one of the most serious examples of injustice in today’s criminal justice system,” Fang said.

She pointed out that in previous “deep-sea fishing” cases in mainland China, the targets were often profit-making companies, so public sympathy was limited. But when authorities imposed severe criminal charges on marginalized groups, it would naturally trigger greater public sympathy.

By June, an increasing number of legal professionals began speaking out, offering to assist Haitang authors. A team, mainly made up of criminal defense lawyers, came together to defend the writers within the realm of laws. In addition to lawyers, scholars from various fields and grassroots volunteers also joined the cause, with people on social media offering free housing and psychological counseling for the affected authors.

According to He Yelin, some law enforcement officials, upon learning that lawyers were offering help, called authors to warn them not to speak publicly online and encouraged them to plead guilty and accept punishment voluntarily. Some authors declined pro bono legal services, while others, worried that the police might find out they had consulted lawyers, blocked the lawyers’ accounts immediately after asking questions. “But the lawyers didn’t mind,” She said. “They just wanted the authors to get useful information.”

“I used to feel that online discourse really stigmatized Haitang. You’d see people saying things like, ‘Writing smut? You’ve got no shame. You deserve to be jailed.’” At first, facing the chaotic discussions on Weibo, He Yelin wasn’t optimistic. “I thought, if I could just find a few lawyers and help a few authors, that would be enough. I didn’t expect so many people to be willing to step in.”

“The legal scholars say: the laws are outdated and need to be revised. If individual cases can push forward the development of the rule of law, that would be the best outcome,” She said.

(Photo Caption) August 21, 2013 – Jinan Intermediate People’s Court, Shandong Province, China. Police officers exiting the courthouse.

Photo: Ng Han Guan / Reuters / Imaginechina

A Law in Urgent Need of Reform—What controversies have arisen? What issues regarding law enforcement and legal interpretation are the legal community concerned with?

The central charge this time is under Article 363 of China’s Criminal Law: “producing, reproducing, publishing, selling, or distributing obscene materials for profit.” Legal experts question the methods of proving and measuring criminal liability.

In her article “Evidentiary Issues in the Haitang Case,” Professor Chen Bi of China University of Political Science and Law pointed out that the prosecution in the Haitang case primarily relied on two factors for determining criminal liability: “actual click counts” and “profit gained.” The former has long been a point of contention between the prosecution and defense. However, Chen notes that there are legal uncertainties in how “click counts” are calculated, and there is currently no transparent or standardized method.

Police may calculate click counts in different ways—either treating an entire work as a single unit or breaking it down by chapter and summing the totals. The latter method means that if a reader revisits a single chapter multiple times, each view is counted, which can lead to inflated traffic statistics and distort the determination of criminal liability.

Chen expresses concern about these counting methods. She argues that even if a novel is considered pornographic, it is still a cohesive literary work, and its chapters should not be treated as independent entities. Its circulation and potential social harm should be assessed holistically. Moreover, any click count should be de-duplicated, excluding fake traffic generated by bots, intentional manipulation, fabricated data, hacking activity, or clicks made during police investigation and evidence collection.

The legal basis for using click counts in obscenity-related cases first appeared in 2004. According to Procuratorate on certain issues concerning the application of law in criminal cases involving the production, reproduction, publication, sale, and dissemination of obscene electronic information via the Internet, mobile communication terminals, and voice services (《关于办理利用互联网、移动通讯终端、声讯台制作、复制、出版、贩卖、传播淫秽电子信息刑事案件具体应用法律若干问题的解释》) , the sentencing floor was set at 10,000 clicks. In 2010, click counts involving minors were reduced to 5000.
But unlike traditional printed materials, online content spreads far more easily, and the thresholds established back then are no longer appropriate for today’s digital environment.

Chen also raises concerns about the outdated legal framework being applied. She notes that both click counts and profit thresholds used to establish criminal liability continue to rely on judicial interpretations from 2004 and 2010, and that they no longer align with the principle of “restraint” (谦抑性)in criminal law—which holds that criminal laws should only be applied when no other legal options work for the case, so as to achieve maximum social benefit.

(Photo Caption) September 13, 2024 – Xi’an, China. Visitors browse books in a bookstore.

Photo: CFOTO / Future Publishing via Getty Images

It’s worth noting that since Haitang Literary City and its operators are based overseas, and its readership includes users outside China, there’s a question of whether clicks from overseas should be excluded when calculating “actual traffic volume.”

In her article, Professor Chen Bi also raised this point: “First, if people inside China can’t even access the Haitang website, then do these authors truly endanger the public order of our society? If readers are accessing it by bypassing the great firewall, could the authors argue that ‘my work is only intended for overseas readers’? Second, since Article 363 of the Criminal Law is designed to protect China’s social order, should clicks from overseas readers—for whom such reading may be legal—be excluded from the count?”

In fact, this issue goes beyond online literature. Other internet-related criminal cases in China, such as intellectual property violations and cyberbullying, also hinge on how click counts are calculated, and judicial interpretations in these areas are equally outdated.

Regarding “profit,” Haitang offers both paid (VIP) content and reader tipping, which authors can withdraw as income. However, according to Caixin, in the Lanzhou case, known earnings for involved authors ranged from a few hundred to 20,000 yuan. Some authors had never even withdrawn their earnings despite receiving tips. One writer told Caixin that they had been writing for 2–3 years, had stopped months before the investigation, and as of 2025, still hadn’t cashed out.

Beside legal theory, the enforcement process itself has also drawn scrutiny in this case.

“Most of the Lanzhou cases are still in the investigative phase. And even at this early stage, there are serious procedural concerns—such as whether proper procedures were followed when summoning the authors, or whether cross-regional enforcement was lawfully executed,” said criminal defense lawyer Fang Aiyun. “After the authors were brought in, were there any instances of illegally obtained evidence, including threats, coercion, or deception? Many authors likely lack a legal understanding of their rights and may be tricked into making self-incriminating statements.”

It’s been reported that some authors were threatened with expulsion or loss of graduation opportunities during police questioning. Fang emphasized that if suspects are coerced into confessions under extreme stress or duress, such statements should be excluded as illegal evidence under the law.

Other reports indicate that in some cases, police had not even read the author’s work prior to the summons. They accessed the author’s account at the police station to view the content, and only later verbally conveyed the results of the “forensic assessment.”

(Photo Caption) July 12, 2018 – Zhongshan, Guangdong Province, China. Sex dolls hang in a factory warehouse.

Photo: Aly Song / Reuters / Imaginechina

In cases involving “obscene materials,” a central issue lies in how “obscenity” is determined—and by whom.

According to Article 367 of China’s Criminal Law, “obscene materials” are defined as books, films, tapes, images, and other items that explicitly depict sexual acts or promote pornography in a vulgar manner. The law makes exceptions for scientific works related to human physiology or medicine, and for literary or artistic works of value that contain sexual content. However, key terms like “explicit promotion,” “pornographic,” and “obscene” remain highly subjective and ambiguous, often influenced by prevailing social norms, regional differences, and the moral or personal judgments of those involved in adjudicating such cases.

Moreover, a regulatory document issued in 1988 by the National Press and Publication Administration—Interim Provisions on the Identification of Obscene and Pornographic Publications(《关于认定淫秽及色情出版物的暂行规定》)—remains in effect and may still be cited by forensic institutions in criminal proceedings.

Legal scholar Zhuang Yiqing emphasizes that “obscenity,” as a central element of criminal liability, remains legally vague. Since the crime was codified in the 1990s, key judicial interpretations—including the 2004 Interpretation I, the 2010 Interpretation II, and a 2017 supplement focused on protecting minors—have not meaningfully updated the substantive standards. This lag has resulted in the lack of a clear, uniform benchmark for identifying “obscenity” in judicial practice.

Obscene works, cannot be simplistically defined through a one-dimensional lens. Instead, it’s worth asking why people seek out such content and what the underlying intent of the writing might be.

In actual criminal investigations, it is often the police who determine whether specific content qualifies as obscene or pornographic. “Which part is considered obscene or whether the entire novel is obscene—and how much of it—is a major issue in such cases, including who has the authority to decide,” notes Fang Aiyun. For example, in cases requiring autopsy or psychiatric evaluation, assessments are typically carried out by certified forensic professionals. In contrast, for obscenity cases, it is often public security (police) departments that issue assessment opinions. “This effectively allows an administrative agency to substitute the court’s adjudicative power, which poses a significant problem. In some cases, no formal forensic opinion is issued at all—judges make the determination themselves. I believe this reflects how subjective and lacking in objective standards the process can be.”

Tsinghua University professor and legal scholar Lao Dongyan further argues that written content generally poses less societal harm than videos, audio, or images. Whether such material is accessible to the general public, whether age verification is in place for account creation, and whether it risks exposure to unwilling audiences or minors should all be factored into determining whether it constitutes “distribution” or causes public offense.

This highlights a deeper question: how should society understand the concept of “obscenity” or “pornography,” its potential harm, and its reason for existence? If the aim is to protect minors, are there more effective or reasonable ways to implement such protective measures?

Following the controversial “Haitang case,” Zhuang Yiqing began reevaluating the criteria for judging obscene works. In his view, obscene works should not be condemned based solely on rigid definitions. A more important question is why such desires exist and what authors are truly trying to express through their writing.

“There is a segment of the population with a genuine reading need and corresponding desires. Shouldn’t society make room for them?” Zhuang asks. “It’s not appropriate to crudely label this group or their works as obscene and tell them to stop writing and plead guilty. We should consider a content rating system. That would be a more rigorous and responsible approach.”

(Photo Caption) May 3, 2021 – Suzhou, Jiangsu Province, China: The mainland Chinese drama series “Word of Honor” sparked a wave of popularity for “Boys’ Love” (danmei) content. Concert tickets for events themed around the show sold out rapidly, with fans posing for photos with posters at the venue.

Photo: STR/AFP via Getty Images

Caught Between Commercialization and Censorship: Class Stratification and Diverging Fates in the Creation of “Danmei” Content

The term danmei (耽美), borrowed from Japanese, literally means “to indulge in beauty.” In China today, it refers to romance stories between men, with a majority of creators and readers being women. In the early 1990s, as China connected to the world wide web, various forums and portals emerged. Around the same time, danmei works began entering China from Japan, spreading across online forums. From 2002 to 2003, major web literature platforms like Qidian and Jinjiang Literature City were born from these forums and went on to become dominant players in the Chinese online literature space. Fueled by the internet, localized danmei fiction in China began to flourish, forming tightly knit communities.

However, official censorship soon followed. Cultural studies scholar Yiming, who has long researched Chinese danmei culture and fan communities, noted that documents indicate Chinese authorities began suppressing danmei literature around 2007. In August that year, the General Administration of Press and Publication and the National Office for Crackdown on Pornography and Illegal Publications issued a joint notice targeting online obscene content. A total of 384 websites were penalized—fined or shut down—and hundreds of danmei forums and e-book libraries were cleared.

In 2014, the online literature industry was hit hard. Authorities launched the “Clean the Web 2014” campaign, shutting down dozens of websites and removing content deemed sexually explicit or politically sensitive. Jinjiang, one of the largest danmei platforms, renamed its “Danmei” section to “Pure Love,” instituting a rule that prohibited any depictions “below the neck.”

According to Yiming, it was around this time that Chinese danmei fiction began to be reshaped: “Desire was gradually excised from the genre—first explicit sex scenes were banned, then even suggestive descriptions.” This led to a bifurcation: mainstream danmei works began self-censoring, transforming into sanitized “pure love” stories, while works that retained sexual content were pushed underground or migrated to uncensored sites outside China like Haitang, AO3, and Feiwen.

By 2018, this divide between “surface” and “underground” danmei had become even more pronounced. That year, the adaptation of a Jinjiang danmei novel into the web series Guardian (《镇魂》) became a sensation in China. The show reframed the romantic relationship between the two male leads as bromance. The commercial value of “cleaned-up” danmei was fully realized. In stark contrast, that same year, author Tian Yi was sentenced to ten years in prison for writing and distributing a danmei novel with explicit sexual content, convicted under the crime of “producing and selling obscene materials for profit.”

(Photo Caption) April 27, 2024 – A customer takes a photo of posters inside a Thai-themed café in Japan, a popular gathering spot for fans of Boys’ Love television dramas.

Photo: Yuichi Yamazaki/AFP via Getty Images

Founded in 2015, Haitang (海棠网) became one of the primary platforms for underground danmei fiction featuring explicit sexual content. Yiming notes that some of the stories on Haitang “could arguably be considered pornographic,” but she emphasizes the causal link with censorship: “Desire was violently expelled from mainstream danmei, so naturally it flowed elsewhere. And when regulation is too strict, it creates a pressure cooker effect—suppression gives rise to greater release. Haitang became the outlet for that.”

Huang Yan, in her 30s, was first introduced to Japanese yaoi manga in high school. In 2019, she visited Haitang for the first time: “I thought—wow! The world of original Chinese danmei in Simplified Chinese is so rich and fantastical!” Haitang featured everything from mpreg (male pregnancy) to Lovecraft-inspired themes. Compared to Japanese Boys’ Love, which often focuses on workplace romances, Huang found Haitang more diverse and explicitly sexual.

Haitang introduced a paid content system, where authors could label the sexual content of each chapter, and readers willingly paid for the content they wanted. Among platforms that allowed sexual content, Haitang stood out as the most commercialized, compared to the nonprofit nature of AO3 or Feiwen, according to Yiming.

Still, the burden of censorship weighs on all danmei creators—but unevenly so.

Yiming describes a kind of class stratification within the danmei production ecosystem. At the top are mainstream, often commercially successful authors who write sanitized stories for the general public. Many of these writers have significant cultural capital and literary skill. Priest, author of Guardian, is a prime example: her works have been published and adapted into hit web dramas. In this top tier, the erotic elements of danmei have been squeezed out—leaving those themes to be picked up and explored by lower-tier writers.

But it’s precisely those at the bottom who face the greatest legal risk. Writers of explicit danmei fiction cannot publish in mainland China and face criminal charges for “obscenity.” Even those in the “safe” upper tier have come under fire. In 2021, the danmei drama adaptation craze collapsed. At one point, over 80 danmei shows were in production or pre-production. But in the second half of that year, policies effectively shut them down. Guangming Daily, a state-affiliated paper, warned that such shows “distort public taste,” and the National Radio and Television Administration (NRTA) called for a boycott of danmei adaptations. The genre has struggled to recover in mainland China ever since.

From the Tian Yi case to multiple Haitang-related arrests, it’s clear that creators of sexually explicit danmei content are especially vulnerable—not only barred from publishing, but also facing criminal penalties and imprisonment.

Censorship affects all danmei authors, but the consequences are not equally distributed. “I think the community is, at its core, united,” says Yiming, “but commercialization and censorship have forced them onto divergent paths.”

(Photo Caption) February 14, 2012 – A couple kisses during a Valentine’s Day contest at a café in Shanghai, China.

Photo: Eugene Hoshiko/AP/Imaginechina

Danmei as a Game: Deconstructing and Reimagining Traditional Social Norms

After news of the Lanzhou arrests broke, Huang Yan saw polarized reactions from danmei readers on Douban discussion groups. Some opposed the crackdown, criticizing the severity of the sentencing. Others, however, argued that writing “porn” was knowingly breaking the law, and thus the punishment was deserved.

“Writers and readers used to belong to the same community,” says Yiming, a cultural studies scholar. “But now, people no longer identify with that idea.” She has observed a growing rift between danmei authors and readers. On one hand, the Haitang incident brought underground danmei works into the public eye, drawing criticism from readers who prefer “clean” fiction or hold more traditional moral views. On the other hand, commercialization may have alienated the relationship between creator and audience.

Looking back at the 2018 Tian Yi case, Yiming noted how some readers began to distance themselves from authors, adopting a consumerist attitude: “Some would say, ‘I paid you to write this, but whatever consequences you face—that’s not my concern.’” These readers want the content, but feel no responsibility for its production.

Still, she remembers that after Tian Yi was sentenced, some readers publicly posted on Weibo, saying: “This prison sentence belongs to all of us.” That left a strong impression on her. “But this time, with the Haitang case, hardly anyone is saying that.”

Amidst the divided opinions, Huang Yan struggles to understand the moral condemnation of erotic fiction: “Reading smut should be something you can do proudly.” Some online users defended the authors by calling danmei a form of artistic creation. But Huang herself says, “Yes, the stuff on Haitang is pornographic—but from my point of view, porn isn’t a crime.”

One academic study of China’s danmei community argues that danmei touches on two major taboos in Chinese society: sex and homosexuality. When the National Press and Publication Administration defined “obscene publications” in 1988, it explicitly listed “homosexual acts” and “sexual perversion” together under the category of obscenity. Another study says while public and legal attitudes toward homosexuality have evolved since then, censorship still often follows the logic of “homosexuality = deviance = pornography.” Moreover, because online literature is frequently dismissed by both elites and the general public as low-brow “fast food culture,” danmei authors often struggle to defend their works as artistically valuable enough to avoid anti-pornography laws.

(Photo Caption) March 27, 2012 – A man’s silhouette appears on a laser-lit art installation in Singapore.

Photo: Wong Maye-E/AP/Imaginechina

For Yiming, sexual content is vital to danmei: “Sex is part of human nature—it’s part of the characters’ lives. It’s important in literature. Why must it be stripped from danmei?” Removing it, she says, only leads to more content that’s purely about sexual release.

Sexual scenes are also a form of commentary. In danmei, they often involve role reversals or shifting power dynamics. “The dominant/submissive roles—gong and shou(top and bottom, uke and seme)—might not be fixed,” Yiming explains. “They might be one way outside the bedroom, and another inside it. I see danmei as a kind of game—one that deconstructs or reconfigures our understanding of traditional social norms.”

Yiming mentions how even highly masculine figures, like Elon Musk and Donald Trump—recently joked about online as a “couple break-up”—can be placed into danmei narratives that subvert gender expectations.

This subversion of gender roles is, for many, a key part of danmei’s appeal.

He Yelin, now in her twenties, began reading danmei in middle school, starting with the Grave Robbers’ Chronicles, where the characters Wu Xie and Zhang Qiling were a popular fanfiction couple. She preferred danmei and fantasy over classic literature and would download million-word stories onto her MP3 player to read them on its tiny glowing screen.

As a naturally assertive child, He Yelin found danmei relationships more novel and egalitarian than those in heteronormative romance: “In traditional romance, the girl is always mistreated, then saved by the guy. But in danmei, you often see two equals. That feels more balanced.”

Pineapple, another danmei fan turned writer, began reading in high school and has been writing for over a decade, publishing on niche platforms like Lofter, Qinghuayu, Feiwen, and Haitang. She agrees that danmei redefines masculinity: men in these stories don’t have to be strong and stoic—they can be soft, emotional, even vulnerable. “That makes them more complex and charming.”

Many domestic and international scholars argue that danmei carries a form of queer resistance—rejecting singular definitions of gender and sexuality. Yiming believes this queerness is most evident in underground Chinese danmei, which includes challenges to social norms, liberation of desire, fluid sexual fantasies, inclusive gender identities, and exploration of taboo themes like BDSM and incest. In the case-related works she’s seen, Yiming also observed interesting writing—such as depictions of intersex characters with both male and female anatomy.

However, this exploration of taboo themes also intensified online criticism, with some users accusing the authors of being “perverted” and “morally bankrupt.” Scholars offer an alternative reading.

One study analyzed the portrayal of father-son relationships in mainland danmei fiction. While early 20th-century male authors used symbolic patricide to express generational conflict, contemporary danmei writers tend to eroticize this tension. Instead of violent rebellion, their stories seek mutual understanding through intimacy, suggesting a feminine reimagining of familial power structures through love and desire.

(Photo Caption) November 11, 2018 – Taipei, Taiwan: A gay couple poses for wedding photos.

Photo: Ann Wang/Reuters/Imaginechina

Still, perhaps it is precisely danmei’s rebellious nature that puts it at odds with authorities.

In 2021, Ban Yue Tan, a publication under state news agency Xinhua, warned that danmei might negatively affect teenagers’ gender identity and emotional development. The following month, Xinhua listed danmei alongside “effeminate men” as undesirable cultural trends to be resisted. In the recent Lanzhou case, one author reported that police bluntly equated danmei with obscenity.

“They think danmei is obscene. They believe homosexuality is dirty, corrupt, degenerate, pornographic,” says He Yelin.

He Yelin recalls encountering more explicit danmei in high school, which became a form of self-guided sexual education: “We didn’t have sex education. Everything we knew about sex—we learned from smut.”

In the ongoing debate between “freedom of expression” and “protecting minors,” some advocate for an online content rating system. But Yiming warns that this would require users to register personal information, raising serious privacy concerns for minors. She believes the primary responsibility lies with parents, who should guide and accompany their children.

To survive in an increasingly repressive environment, many danmei authors now publish erotic chapters on overseas sites or cloud storage, sharing access links separately to avoid takedowns. But this fragmented format creates reading barriers and disrupts narrative coherence. Author Pineapple says danmei writers must constantly choose between exposure and artistic integrity.

“We’re like guerrilla fighters,” Pineapple says, describing the fragile ecosystem she and her peers live in.

“We’ve always been drifting… among my friends there’s this unspoken consensus: no platform is permanent. We’re always moving, always migrating. So no one’s really surprised anymore—just sad and disheartened.”

Epilogue

Last year, when Pineapple first heard news of a Haitang author being arrested, she immediately deleted all her works on the platform and deactivated her account.

“My first reaction was just deep, deep sadness… Writing feels so risky now, and I’m uncertain about the future,” she said. She noticed many other authors on the site were also deleting their profiles and content. When a second wave of arrests followed, she and her writer friends would remind each other to take down their works as a precaution.

(Photo Caption) February 14, 2012 – Valentine’s Day confession on a beach.

Photo: Bobby Yip/Reuters/Imaginechina

Yiming believes this round of arrests will have a chilling effect on danmei authors, significantly shrinking the number of people willing to write. Still, she remains convinced that some will continue. The need to write and the desire to express never really disappear, but the ways in which people share may become more private.

What gives her hope is that many legal professionals have stepped in to support and engage in public discourse around the case. This, she feels, may help spur judicial progress.

However, much of that public conversation has been repeatedly censored and erased, preventing meaningful discussion from advancing or being preserved. Issues that had already been addressed during the first wave of arrests last year are now having to be revisited from scratch. Recently, legal aid and legal education materials related to the Haitang case have also been repeatedly deleted from Chinese social media after being posted. “I hope these conversations can be kept—not only in people’s memories, but also made accessible to anyone who wants to understand this community,” Yiming says.

The desire to see legal reform is one reason why lawyer Fang Aiyun wants to help these authors. “I just can’t stand injustice,” she says. “If the law can be changed, then people who shouldn’t be facing criminal prosecution won’t have to live in fear anymore. People should be able to read what they want, and not face criminal consequences for doing so.”

Another reason she’s compelled to help is personal. Among her friends are both readers and writers from Haitang. “I’ve never used Haitang myself,” she admits, “but I’ve read pirated versions. I’m an indirect reader, too. These authors are people just like my friends—people close to my heart.”

Pineapple didn’t erase everything from her Haitang account. Before deleting her profile, she took screenshots of reader comments—mostly discussions about the plot, character interpretations, and reactions to foreshadowing and hidden details. But because she was in a rush, she regretted not screenshotting each page.

For her, reader feedback has always been a key motivation to keep writing. Those screenshots, she says, will continue to serve as encouragement in the future.

She plans to keep writing. “Because this is my passion,” she says.

(Note: Names such as He Yelin, Fang Aiyun, Zhuang Yiqing, Huang Yan, and Boluo are pseudonyms used to protect privacy.)