Do your heroes weep? Do they swoon with lust? Are they really confused by their new magical powers? Then you’re already a fan of romantasy. For those still waiting to discover romantasy: It’s fantasy, with strong female protagonists and fewer boring bits—the long treks over major landforms in hard weather. Sex is plentiful, but sex is not the genre’s defining feature. You can go chapters before encountering a reference to someone’s toned body. Far more significant are feelings and friendships between the heroes: enchanted beings with relatable self-esteem issues who don’t just seek and fight but also yearn and banter as they face down enemies who aren’t only evil, but super bitchy too. Then the heroes cry and have orgasms (sometimes they orgasm first and cry after).
In the kingdom of romantasy, one writer reigns supreme: Sarah J. Maas, the author of ACOTAR. It sounds like a missile-defense system or an autoimmune condition, but it’s the acronym for one of the most popular series of novels for adults written in the 21st century. A Court of Thorns and Roses is the first of many books about Feyre Archeron, a young huntress spirited into the faerie realm. Humans hate the leaders of the faerie world, called the High Fae, who once enslaved them. But as soon as one bursts through Feyre’s door, having shape-shifted into the body of a green-eyed, bearlike beast, the reader thinks, I bet some of these guys are going to be hot.
Feyre falls in love and breaks a curse and brings down a depraved fae queen, and that’s just in the first book—eventually she’ll assemble a crew of beloved sidekicks and a heap of supernatural powers. On any given week, you can see every book in the series stacked in a column on the New York Times best-seller list. If you combine ACOTAR with Maas’s two other series, Throne of Glass and Crescent City, she has sold some 75 million copies. The Lord of the Rings has likely sold more than twice that, but J. R. R. Tolkien had a 60-year head start.
After A Court of Thorns and Roses come courts of: Mist and Fury, Wings and Ruin, Frost and Starlight, and Silver Flames. Fans waited five long years for the sixth book. Would the next court have one syllable and two syllables? Would the decent faeries stop the awful ones from slaughtering and re-enslaving the humans? Then Maas announced, in a rare interview on the podcast Call Her Daddy, that she would actually be releasing three new books—one in October, one in January, and one more after that—and people lost their minds. Right away a question shot into the inboxes of America’s bookstores: Are you having a midnight release party? Tickets sold out. For one “fantasy ball” at a bookstore in El Paso, Texas, they sold out in 12 hours. A second party was announced; it sold out too. Book clubs began rereading all of the courts in preparation.
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On social media, bets were made about which of Feyre’s sisters or friends the new books would focus on, and what color the covers would be (Maas hadn’t done purple yet). In August, images of the next two jackets—for A Court of Splintered Harmony and A Court of Forgotten Melody—lit up Times Square. They were ombré!
But search The New York Review of Books or the London Review of Books for Maas, and you’ll find references to a German foreign minister, a river, the Pynchon character Oedipa Maas—and no trace of Sarah J. The New Yorker’s culture podcast summed up the low end of romantasy as “customer service wrapped in self-care wrapped in literature,” though one of the critics admitted that she’d loved A Court of Thorns and Roses. Hear enough writers lament that the only books that sell now are faerie or dragon or elfpunk porn, and you start to get the feeling that the literary establishment is committed to resenting this rare bright spot in the publishing industry.
Maas, now 40, was a teenager when she wrote an epic fairy tale about a young assassin who can slit throats as well as waltz at balls for a fiction site. That story was published by Bloomsbury, in 2012, as Throne of Glass. The novels that followed took off on #BookTok and then in real life thanks to a generation of former Harry Potter fans who now had jobs, babies, and stymied sex drives. These people (women) started reading (or listening). They started going to bookstores.
Fewer Americans are reading for pleasure every year, and yet people keep opening bookstores—romance bookstores in particular (more than 100 in the past year and a half alone, according to the American Booksellers Association). Zella Funkhouser, a high-school science teacher, runs three book clubs at the newly opened Bonfire Bookstore & Yarnery, in Shenandoah County, Virginia. She told me that she picked up A Court of Thorns and Roses in 2023, after having gone “years without really reading a whole lot.” Then back-to-back snowstorms hit, and her husband, who does road work for the state, spent days out plowing. Alone at home behind a wall of snow, Funkhouser devoured all five books. “We didn’t have internet; we didn’t have power,” she told me. “I was obsessed.”
On a Saturday night in June, her book club discussed Thorns and Roses. Erin was reading the series for the third time, Tiffani for the fourth, Abby for the fifth. “We’re not reading high literature, let’s be honest,” one of the women acknowledged. But they weren’t looking for formal innovation; they were looking to be inspired and turned on.
It’s true that you’re rarely transported by ACOTAR ’s language. Characters say things like “I admire your balls, Feyre.” Sometimes they make me laugh. “Shall we assist you, or just flap here, talking?” a leader of winged reinforcements asks, when it seems the battle has been lost. Characteristic of the genre, the books remix familiar stories. The first meal in Beauty and the Beast, minus the dancing silverware. Pride and Prejudice, if the lovers started out on even worse terms. Hades and Persephone, if the king of the underworld just really got you.
But even if you don’t read romantasy (I don’t read romantasy), the books are well crafted and very entertaining. And for its hard-core fans, ACOTAR has achieved something like a vertical integration of the imagination: the raw fiber of old myths woven into new stories, processed through the internet, refined into audiobooks for intimate delivery straight down the ear canal, which drive fans back to bookstores, where they can buy a keepsake hardcover and even, if they’re lucky, drink themed cocktails in ACOTAR-inspired ball gowns at midnight.
With this kind of power, Maas doesn’t need the literary establishment. (Bloomsbury, her publisher, declined to share advance copies of the new novels with me.) At one point, Maas puts her toughest character alone in a library. She’s full of rage and a terrible power. And—take this, haters—she’s reading a smutty romance.
In the Call Her Daddy interview, with her high cheekbones and golden hair and bare feet tucked beneath her, Maas looked a bit like one of her own characters as she talked about her “useless” creative-writing degree and recalled telling a professor, “I will never fucking write a poem.” She couldn’t understand “the meter and the rhythm” and had to ask her math-major boyfriend (now husband) for help. But when you read about a battle ending with enchanted water bubbling from “the lips of all the Hybern soldiers as Tarquin drowned them on dry land,” you suspect she knows what meter is, even if she doesn’t care what it’s called. She’s got a line of nearly perfect iambs there.
Enough about language. We’ve gone too long without talking about sex, and Maas would not approve. Sometimes she makes you wait for it (faeries, who are basically immortal, can spend centuries edging) but then, before you know it, someone’s getting a blow job in the dining room.
The books get dirtier as they go. Reading on the subway about Feyre coming so hard that she “couldn’t tell where one climax ended and the second began,” I might have been less embarrassed to be caught watching actual porn. I really wished that one crucial sex scene hadn’t involved so much wet paint. Maas’s characters are often splattered with something: mud, blood, stardust, semen (but only by Book 5). Still, there’s this one scene: Feyre—degraded, but into it—and a throne room, and a thumb moving in lazy circles … I’ll say it. I’m just going to say it. I liked it.
Smut aside, what really matters is how the characters grow together. You keep reading to see if they track down the enchanted artifacts but also to find out if true romantic partnerships are possible, the kind where care is taken and respect given. In the real world, many women are profoundly disappointed by and mistrustful of men. You might assume that this is why so many women are suddenly so eager to fantasize about another species entirely. But, fundamentally, these books are stories of friendship and love. Why should the novels’ popularity suggest that women are giving up on men? It could mean they’re holding out hope.
Maybe, eventually, more than a handful of men will read these books. After all, I was raised on the paperback heroes of my father’s epics: The Lord of the Rings, The Wheel of Time. And Harry Potter, of course. Being a girl didn’t stop me from wanting the boy to save the world. I remember listening to The Sorcerer’s Stone in the car as a child, on road trips with my family, when things were not so good, when things were sometimes pretty bad, and seeing, not the tense edge of each parent’s opposing shoulder, but the night sky across the ensorcelled ceiling of the Hogwarts dining hall.
Romantasy readers know they’re not actually going to “go out and find dragons and magic,” Funkhouser said, but if they’re snowed in—or trapped by a pandemic, or up with a nursing newborn, or stuck in any of the ways humans tend to get stuck—it can help to imagine they could. Some books make you want to be a better writer or thinker, some books make you want to be a better person, and some books make you glad to be reading them. There may be a ceiling on what this literature can do. But it’s an enchanted one.
This article appears in the November 2026 print edition with the headline “Those Books of Smut and Wonder.”