Darkwood Library Episode 01 — The Bat Wing Effect: Why We’re Captivated by Dark, Winged Lovers

Transcribed by Sarah B.

Sarah (Host): Welcome to Darkwood Library, a podcast where cozy meets critical and no trope is safe. I’m Sarah, your literary curator and host in this storied nook made for long conversations. Here, comfort meets critique in velvet armchairs by the fire, as we explore the stories that enchant us and the patterns we can’t resist. So pour a cup of something warm, settle in, and let’s turn the page together.

[Cue: Melancholic piano and misty synth swell in — shadowed and spellbound, as if opening the door to a secret library at midnight.]

Sarah (Host): In this episode, we’re dissecting one of the most irresistible archetypes in fantasy romance: the bat boy. Also known in some corners of the internet as the Shadow Daddy.

He’s powerful. He’s brooding. He has literal wings, and a past that bleed through every glance. Whether it’s Rhysand’s shadows, Desmond’s velvet voice, or Creon’s quiet rage, this archetype has become a fantasy staple: the dark, winged love interest who could destroy you, but doesn’t.

We’re going to trace where he came from, why he works, what makes him complicated, and how he’s evolving in today’s fantasy landscape. This isn’t just a thirst session. It’s an invitation to dig into the metaphor, look at the shadows he casts, and ask: why do we keep writing, reading, and loving him?

What many people might not know is that the bat boy archetype has deep roots, much older than TikTok, ACOTAR, or even the modern romance genre. He may be a recent internet obsession, but he stems from a much older literary lineage. Let’s start with mythology.

Winged male figures have always hovered right on the edge of beauty and danger. Take Eros, the Greek god of love, who is usually pictured as this gorgeous boy with feathered wings who’s totally capable of enchanting you. In today’s culture, he’s basically Cupid.

But the original Eros wasn’t so soft and harmless. In Plato’s Symposium¹, there’s a group of men attending a banquet and they all give speeches praising love, or Eros, since he’s the god of it. They wax poetic about how love is like a divine madness; it’s irrational, overwhelming, messy, and impossible to resist.

Eros, or love, doesn’t wait for permission. It grabs hold, takes what it wants, and doesn’t let go, leaving you changed. And this is really what the bat boy boils down to: the fantasy of being undone by someone who could destroy but doesn’t.

But Eros had light, feathered wings. So where did the darker wings come from?

In Christian and apocalyptic mythology, fallen angels are representative of rebellion, seduction, and divine punishment. Their wings, once light and feathered and symbols of purity, are now reminders of what they’ve lost. This blend of grace and ruin is also quintessential bat boy: powerful, punished, and still somehow desirable.

There are other mythological stories that feature monsters with wings. Harpies, chimeras, and sirens are creatures whose wings signal danger. A lot of time, myths will use wings to mean that creature is untouchable, such as being above, beyond, or cursed.

And this meaning bleeds over into literature as well, especially Gothic literature. If you’ve never heard of the Byronic hero², it is a figure we owe largely to Lord Bryon and his successors. These are men who are broody, isolated, charismatic, and often morally grey. They’re powerful in their own right, but wounded within. They’re often exiled, and often carrying some great shame or secret.

If you immediately think of Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre³ who hides his wife in the attic or Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights⁴ whose obsessive love turns destructive, you’re on the right track. These characters didn’t have wings, but they have the same vibe as the fallen angels. They’re passionate, darkly seductive, and emotionally dangerous. When the heroine falls for them, it’s not simple, it’s a risk.

And that risk, that tension that arises between the danger and the desire, is part of the bat boy make up.

In the 20th century, this figure has evolved even more. We really start to see the literal wings reappear, especially in paranormal and urban fantasy. For example, Anne Rice’s vampires in The Vampire Chronicles⁵, first published in 1973 and concluded in 2003, aren’t winged, but they do fly. They’re also sensual, immortal, morally grey, and deeply lonely. So the idea of this powerful male character who lives outside of human morality but still craves connection begins to grow stronger.

In series like Darkfever⁶ by Karen Marie Moning in 2006, there are fae kings with ancient magic and dark appeal. While not winged, they do radiate that bat boy energy by being dominate and secretive and emotionally opaque.

Then comes A Court of Thorns and Roses⁷ by Sarah J. Maas in 2015. When this book was released, she brought all of these characteristics together, and we were given Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, winged Illyrian warrior, and master of shadows and seduction. He’s genuinely the full package. He’s mythic, Gothic, paranormal, and distinctly romantic. And his wings aren’t just aesthetic. They are integral to the story’s intimacy and power dynamics.

Maas makes the metaphor of the wings literal. Rhysand doesn’t just act like a fallen angel with his wings. He doesn’t just brood because he has trauma. And he doesn’t just protect the heroine. He helps her find her power. That’s a key shift from previous iterations. The bat boy shifts from a threat to a partner in transformation.

And Rhysand isn’t alone. In the same series is Cassian and Azriel, who also get the bat boy treatment by being winged, war-hardened, emotionally damaged, and fiercely loyal. They each represent slightly different flavors. We’ve got the golden-hearted solider, the haunted spymaster, and the noble strategist. And so the archetype becomes modular.

Outside of ACOTAR, the bat boy begins to spread further.

In Rhapsodic⁸ by Laura Thalassa, which came out in 2016, we have Desmond Flynn, also known as The Bargainer. He’s a fae king with wings and shadow powers. He’s seductive, ancient, and tied to the heroine through magical bargains in the form of a beaded bracelet around her wrist. This story deals with time, longing, and trust between the main characters, which deepens the emotional intensity.

In Court of Blood and Bindings_⁹ by Lisette Marshall, which came out in 2022, Creon emerges as a more restrained bat boy. He’s grieving, he’s noble, and he’s bound by politics and magic. He’s got real wings, real pain, and his romance is shaped by secrets and sacrifice.

Across all of these stories, the wings aren’t just magical features. They are loaded with symbolic weight.

They help mark the bat boy as ‘other.’ He is not human. He is not tame. But… they also allow for flight, for rescue, and for intimacy. They become both a barrier from others and a bridge for the heroine. Because when the bat boy rescues the heroine and carries her through the air, it’s a metaphor that she’s letting herself be vulnerable. She’s choosing to trust that he won’t drop her.

So the bat boy is built from myths and monsters, from Gothic angst and fae glamor. He’s the legacy of centuries of storytelling about desire and dangers, intimacy and power. And in fantasy romance, he’s no longer just a warning. He’s a wish.

So why are we so obsessed with bat boys?

Why do we gravitate toward these winged, morally grey men who smolder in the shadows and carry centuries of pain behind their eyes? Why do we find ourselves annotating scenes where the heroine takes to the skies in his arms, whispering secrets we didn’t even know we longed for?

Though, yes, we love the aesthetics, the answer lies in something a little deeper.

Because wings, after all, aren’t just decorative. They’re deeply symbolic, remember? In literature and myth, wings often represent transcendence, freedom, and power. To be able to fly is to escape the boundaries of gravity, society, or fate. When a love interest has wings, we’re being told something rather profound: that this is a character who rises above ordinary constraints. He can move between worlds, from earth to sky, from mortal to divine.

But wings also carry a certain weight. They imply history, cost, and fallibility.

A man with wings has usually earned them, through blessings or curses. There’s a tension between his capacity to rise and the pain that anchors him. This is the first layer of the bat boy’s appeal, that he’s both powerful and also wounded. He’s both celestial and cursed. He occupies that space between hero and monster. And that duality hits something primal in us.

Psychologically, wings mean more than just physical freedom. They’re a symbol of emotional repression. A bat boy functions within strict roles: warrior, commander, prince, assassin. He’s duty-bound, hardened, armored by necessity. But the wings tell us a different story. They hint at what he wants, not just what he is, and what he longs for is to be free.

And so enters the heroine, who acts not as his savior, but as a mirror. She doesn’t free by him force. She frees him by seeing past his wings, past his armor, past his reputation, to the real him. And that ends up being more powerful than any spell. Because we all love the moment where she tells him that she’s not afraid of him because she knows him. She’s seen past the mask, and she loves him anyway.

From a psychological lens, particularly the Jungian one, the bat boy embodies the Shadow archetype.

Carl Jung’s concept of the Shadow¹⁰ refers to the parts of ourselves we repress or deny, like anger, lust, hunger, grief, ambition. These are things we’ve labeled as dangerous, unworthy, or socially unacceptable. And the bat boy channels these qualities. He’s what we fear to become, but also what we secretly long to embrace.

So when the heroine falls for the bat boy, she’s not just falling in love. She’s undergoing a kind of transformation where she’s confronting her own boundaries: what she believes about herself, what she wants, what she fears she can’t have. The romance becomes light meeting dark, control meeting surrender, or safety meeting risk.

And this journey is mirrored in us, the readers. We’re not just reading a love story. We’re engaging in wish-fulfillment where the bat boy offers us the fantasy of total visibility. Of being known in our own darkness and being chosen because of it, not in spite of it.

Now, we can’t forget the power dynamic. When a man with supernatural strength, magical abilities, and massive wings chooses to be gentle, when he chooses to restrain himself, to care, to protect without controlling, that restraint becomes erotically charged. It’s the tension that draws us in. He could destroy, but he doesn’t. And that’s not just hot; it’s healing.

Because many of us, especially those taught to navigate a world of hazards, know that being vulnerable is rarely without risk. The bat boy fantasy isn’t only about flirting with danger; it’s that with him, you’re safe. He knows his own power and still picks tenderness.

All right, so let’s talk about the flight part.

There’s a reason fantasy romance authors write scenes about the bat boy carrying the heroine into the sky.

Think of scenes like Rhysand flying Feyre above Velaris or Creon ferrying Emelin into the night. Think of those moments where gravity breaks, the world falls away, and there’s just them, above everything.

Her letting him carry her is her choosing trust over control. It’s the ultimate trust fall, literally. And in return, she gets to see the world from a new height. This change in perspective also mirrors what’s happening emotionally to the heroine. She’s rising out of her fear, out of isolation, and out of her old narrative.

And these scenes are seldom just romantic. They’re transformative for the characters.

Plus, there’s an tactile intimacy to wings that fantasy authors absolutely love to explore. The softness and warmth of skin. The vulnerability of letting someone touch a part of the body that can’t be easily hidden. Not to mention that these are often erogenous zones for the bat boys. Letting another touch them is a signal of trust because touching one’s wings crosses a boundary, but it’s also an invitation.

Wings blur the lines between humanity and divinity, between monster and man, between freedom and burden. And in that blurred area, the bat boy ascends to something more than a trope.

He becomes a symbol of what so many of us readers crave: a partner who sees the hardest parts of us, our scars, our shadows, our sharpness, and still reaches for us. Still lifts us up. Still carries us into the sky, and doesn’t let us go.

So we know the bat boy archetype didn’t just appear out of nowhere, but he exploded into mainstream fantasy romance in the 2010s, almost overnight becoming one of the most dominant love interest types in the genre. And what’s fascinating is why he rose when he did, and what that says about the state of romance, fantasy, and fandom. So let’s start at the beginning of his rise.

In 2016, A Court of Mist and Fury¹¹ by Sarah J. Maas really launched Rhysand—High Lord of the Night Court, brooding Illyrian warrior, master of shadows and reluctant softness—into instant fandom stardom. He wasn’t the golden-boy love interest. He wasn’t the safe choice. He was complicated, older, more powerful, secretive, and he had wings.

Wings that weren’t just cosmetic but central to his appeal because they marked him as something other, something dangerous, but also something capable of carrying the heroine away from everything that could hurt her.

His character kind of redefined what a fantasy love interest could be.

Before Rhysand, many romance arcs, even in fantasy, still followed a fairly typical arc: they idealized masculinity and clean morals with neatly resolved conflict. But Rhys introduced something more gritty. His pain was layered, his morality was situational, and his affection was intense but slow-burning. And that blend of dominance and devotion, severity and sweetness became the new ideal. And readers definitely took interest.

The rise of ACOTAR coincided with the rapid growth of BookTok, Bookstagram, and fantasy BookTube. Suddenly, Rhysand wasn’t just a character but a cultural icon.

Across platforms like TikTok, you can find videos with captions along the lines of ‘I’m looking for a Rhysand, not a reality check.’ Fans cosplay citizens of the Night Court with black wings, starry night motifs, and shadow crowns. The hashtag #batboys began as an insider fandom joke and has become a self-sustaining genre category.

And then it spread further in 2016 with the tandem release of Rhapsodic by Laura Thalassa, the first book in The Bargainer series. In this series, we meet Desmond Flynn, a fae king with wings, night magic, and a centuries-spanning connection with the heroine Callie. Their relationship is slow-burn, riddled with tension, and marked by that signature bat boy energy of forbidden, fated, and emotionally intense.

Desmond is not a copy of Rhysand, but he does share a similar blueprint: he’s an immortal fae, he’s morally grey, he’s devoted to one woman above all, and he’s deeply burdened by the responsibility of power. And again, flight plays a crucial role in their intimacy because when Desmond carries Callie through the sky, it’s not just romantic, it’s symbolic of trust, freedom, and perspective.

Let’s jump ahead to 2022, when Lisette Marshall self-published Court of Blood and Bindings, the first in the Fae Isles series.

Creon, the male main character, checks every bat boy box: he’s got dark wings, a razor-sharp wit, a haunted past, and enough lethal skill to earn the monicker of the Silent Death. But Marshall gives us more than just the usual shadows and smirks. Her world is filled with ruthless court politics, and a romance that takes its time. Creon isn’t simply mysterious. He’s burdened by guilt, torn between duty and something softer. His emotional walls aren’t treated as automatically seductive. They’re questioned, pushed against, and slowly, painstakingly dismantled.

Even within the world of ACOTAR, the bat boy trope isn’t confined to one character.

Cassian and Azriel, Rhysand’s brothers-in-arms, offer two additional variations on the bat boy theme. Cassian, the general, embodies the physicality and heart. He’s the golden-retriever version of the archetype. He’s fierce, loyal, quick to laugh, but also utterly ruthless when it comes to protecting what’s his.

Azriel, on the other hand, is the pure brooding fantasy. He’s quiet, deadly, and gentle with those he loves. His shadows aren’t just magic, they’re a metaphor for emotional repression. The fandom’s obsession with his untold story, especially his romantic tension with Elain, speaks to just how invested readers are in these morally grey, emotionally complex men.

And we readers do get invested.

Fan polls that ask ‘which bat boy is your favorite’ regularly draw thousands of votes and even more zealous debate. Some fans love the softness under Cassian’s swagger. Others prefer Azriel’s quiet devotion. Some remain fiercely loyal to Rhysand’s tactical tenderness.

What’s interesting is how this love spills out of the books and into fandom identity, because the bat boy has become a personality alignment. We’re not just reading about him, we’re choosing him. We’re claiming our fantasy boyfriend, designing our bookish dream court, building our own little mythos of desire.

There are Spotify playlists titled “Training with the Bat Boys”¹² and “Bat Boy Core.”¹³ Pinterest boards of wing tattoos. Etsy shops selling “High Lord of the Night Court”¹⁴ candles. This archetype isn’t just trending, it’s thriving. It’s become shorthand for a whole emotional experience.

And the bat boy isn’t limited to epic fantasy anymore.

His vibe has seeped into dark contemporary romance and paranormal romcoms. Winged characters, from fae to fallen angels, demons to shapeshifters, retain the emotional dynamics: dangerous man, hidden softness, emotional unmasking, flight-as-trust.

Even books like The Serpent and the Wings of Night¹⁵ by Carissa Broadbent feature winged male love interests who blend bat boy aesthetics with high-stakes worldbuilding. And the recent surge in romantasy hybrids, like Fourth Wing and The Hurricane Wars, shows that readers are hungry for more morally grey love interests with wings and feelings.

Basically, we’re not just here for the monster boyfriend. We want the emotionally complex, physically powerful, symbolically rich fantasy partner who flies.

Now, for all their allure, the bat boy archetype isn’t above critique. In fact, the more popular it’s become, the more scrutiny it invites, and that’s a good thing.

Loving a trope doesn’t mean ignoring its flaws, it means looking at them closer. Asking better questions. Making room for complexity because life isn’t black and white. So let’s step back and ask, what doesn’t work about the bat boy?

Let’s start with, honestly, the biggest red flag: the way trauma is used to excuse bad behavior.

So many bat boys have a tragic backstory. It’s part of why we love them. They’ve been abused, betrayed, enslaved, or exiled. Their pain is the reason for their emotional guardedness, their violent reputation, and their unwillingness to be vulnerable.

But sometimes, that trauma is used as a shield. It justifies emotional manipulation, a refusal to communicate, and even coercive behavior.

Take A Court of Thorns and Roses, for example. Rhysand’s past is undeniably traumatic. He’s suffered years of sexual coercion, psychological abuse, and the burden of leading an entire court in secrecy. Despite this, his early treatment of Feyre is deeply problematic.

Some readers view this as a redemption arc. It’s evidence of Rhysand’s layered morality. However, others argue, as in Grace Lapointe’s Medium essay¹⁶, that reframing coercion as protection blurs the line of consent, especially when the story rewards Rhysand with romantic fulfillment.

And this issue isn’t limited to Maas’s work.

Across fantasy romance, we see bat boys who withhold information “for her own good,” who test boundaries in the name of passion, who push the heroine away only to pull her back when it suits them. And because they’re brooding and broken, readers are encouraged to see this as vulnerability or love.

But here’s the problem: trauma isn’t a free pass. It explains behavior, but it in no way excuses it.

So when the heroine has to fix him by absorbing his pain or his silence or his temper, that is not romance. That’s emotional labor disguised as intimacy.

This genre is evolving, and many authors are writing bat boys who learn and grow and take accountability. But the pattern still remains widespread enough to be worth looking at because the line between romantic tension and emotional manipulation is thin, and sometimes the story does not know the difference.

Which brings us to power imbalances.

Let’s be honest here, bat boys are rarely equals to their love interests in terms of age, power, or status. They’re usually centuries older, magically superior, and politically dominant. And while that dynamic can be thrilling in fantasy because it’s a sandbox where we get to play with danger, it also raises some hard questions.

Like, what’s the difference between chosen submission and coerced compliance? When a heroine is mortal, newly empowered, or emotionally vulnerable, and the love interest is immortal, all-knowing, and endlessly patient with her resistance, is it really a slow-burn romance or is it grooming in prettier packaging?

In many cases, the heroine’s agency is framed as strong simply because she argues with him, but arguing with a man who could level cities doesn’t necessarily make her an equal. Especially when the story ends with her choosing him anyway, and often surrendering to his world, his court, or his war.

That’s not inherently bad, but it is worth asking why we’re so drawn to stories where power skews so heavily in one direction and the romance still works?

And then there’s the issue of representation.

Most bat boys in popular romantasy are described the same way: they’re straight, white or white-coded, able-bodied, traditionally masculine, and emotionally tortured in a noble way. Their pain makes them deep, not volatile. Their silence is brooding, not scary. Their violence is controlled, not chaotic.

There’s a bit of a sanitized trauma at work here.

What would a neurodivergent bat boy look like? What about a disabled one or a trans one? What about a bat boy whose trauma wasn’t wrapped in heroic sacrifice but messy, stigmatized survival? How would the story treat him? Would we still find him just as desirable?

Right now, most bat boys fit into a very narrow mold. It’s one that rewards certain kinds of masculinity and excludes others. And when we romanticize only this kind of brokenness, white, chilled, battle-scarred, and noble, we’re reinforcing a pretty limited emotional blueprint.

Even the way bat boys express their vulnerability follows a pattern.

They don’t break down. Instead, they brood, they disappear, or they internalize everything until the heroine coaxes it out through patience, physical touch, or declarations of loyalty. It’s stoicism in sexy clothing, and while that can be satisfying, it also reinforces the idea that man have to earn softness with suffering.

We rarely see bat boys who cry, apologize, or who name their feelings without being prompted. But we could.

There’s room in fantasy romance for emotionally fluent, diverse, and subversive winged love interests. Ones who don’t rely on tropes of dominance and silence to signal their depth. Ones who are powerful and emotionally available. Who protect and communicate.

This is not a rejection of the bat boy archetype. It’s an invitation to improve it.

Because the truth is, these stories are deeply emotional. They matter to us. And when we challenge the parts that fall short, when we hold space for consent, diversity, and true emotional growth, we make the fantasy stronger, not weaker.

We don’t need to burn the bat boys. We just need to let them grow up.

Now, despite all of the criticism, some of it serious and necessary, the bat boy isn’t going anywhere.

In fact, he’s thriving. He’s still brooding in his corner, still watching the heroine like she hung the stars in the sky, still dominating fan art and playlists, quizzes and tropes, and hearts.

So do we keep coming back?

Because underneath the wings, the shadows, the smirks, and the trauma, he offers us something primal. Something that speaks to both fear and fantasy. He is the one who could destroy everything, but he doesn’t. And the reason he doesn’t is you.

That’s the core fantasy.

It’s not just about being loved, it’s about being chosen by someone powerful to ruin you, and trusting them enough not to. The bat boy is the fantasy of restraint with teeth. He’s protective love. It’s not gentle or safe. It’s fierce, it’s loyal, and it’s deeply bound.

He won’t always say the right thing. He may not know how to cry. But he sees you. He sees your strength, your darkness, your desire, and he doesn’t flinch. He reflects back your own complexity. He makes space for the contradiction. And in the fantasy, he makes it safe.

But here’s he key: the archetype is evolving.

The bat boy of 2025 is not the bat boy of 2015, and that’s such a good thing.

Ten years ago, many of these characters were written as emotional fortresses. They were closed off, emotionally constipated, only letting love in when the heroine battered down their walls. It was satisfying, but it also reinforced the idea that softness had to be earned with suffering.

Now, however, we’re seeing something different.

Take Creon from Court of Blood and Bindings by Lisette Marshall. Yes, he has all the classic bat boy traits. He’s got the wings, the inhuman beauty, there’s war in his past. But he’s not just a brooding mask. His guilt and longing are obvious. He’s reflective. He struggles to trust without controlling. And he names those struggles. That emotional self-awareness isn’t weakness, it’s depth.

Or look at Desmond Flynn in Rhapsodic by Laura Thalassa. He’s playful and flirtatious. He doesn’t hide his fascination with Callie. He leans into it. Yes, he’s powerful, but he’s also emotionally available in a way that doesn’t undercut his appeal. His darkness also isn’t just aesthetic. It’s textured and it coexists with vulnerability.

This shift matters because it shows how authors and readers are no longer satisfied with brute strength or haunted silences. We want the complexity. We want the growth. We want the bat boy who doesn’t just protect the heroine with his wings, but who protects her boundaries. Who listens. Who unlearns.

We’re also seeing more emphasis on emotional safety.

The new bat boy can say “I need you,” not just “you’re mine.” He doesn’t just sweep the heroine away. He asks if she wants to be carried. And when she says, “Not yet,” he waits. He’s not brooding in punishment. He’s holding space for her autonomy.

It’s not that the tension is gone, it’s that it’s now earned. And when that shift happens, when the power isn’t just felt but shared, the intimacy deepens.

These bat boys doesn’t stop being magnetic because they respect consent. It actually makes them even more compelling because now, their restraint isn’t just sexy, it’s safe. And that safety, in a genre that plays so often with power and peril, is it’s own kind of high-stakes fantasy.

We’re also seeing a widening of emotional tone.

More bat boys are allowed to be funny, soft, joyful. Not every emotionally complex male lead needs to be dripping in angst 100% of the time. Sometimes, the bat boy teases, sometimes he cooks, sometimes he says the vulnerable thing first. And we, the readers, are responding.

We want the morally grey love interest who grows. We don’t want him to just dominate a room, we want him to reflect on why he needs to. We don’t want him to just hold her at a distance, we also want him to learn to hold her hand.

The fanfiction, the playlists, the character analyses are all evolving too. More fans are writing alternate universes where bat boys go to therapy. Where they journal and talk to their brothers about their feelings. Where they still wear all black and have wings, they still fight wars, but they also show up for game night.

Because underneath the darkness, what the bat boy offers isn’t just the fantasy of danger, but the fantasy of healing, of transformation, of a man who was once a monster, but chose not to be, and keeps choosing that.

That’s the emotional mixture readers crave. Not the perfection, but the progress. Not the softness by default, but the softness that’s chosen. Every time a bat boy pulls someone in close instead of pushing them away, he’s telling a story of change, and in that story, we find hope.

So in the end, maybe it’s not just the wings, the shadows, or even the sharp jawlines that keep us coming back to the bat boy.

Maybe it’s the ache beneath all that power. The quiet, constant question of ‘what if someone saw me… and stayed?’

These characters offer more than just danger. They offer the possibility of being held by someone strong enough to break the world, but who chooses, again and again, to be careful with you.

As the archetype grows, not just more emotionally honest, but more respectful and more human, we’re not losing the fantasy. We’re refining it, deepening it, and making room for something more tender inside the dark.

Next time, we’ll be pulling another well-loved trope off the shelf: enemies to lovers. We’ll look at why stories that begin with sharp tongues and broken trust so often end in epic devotion, and what that says about the line between resistance and desire.

If you enjoyed wandering these dark corridors with me, I’d love if you’d take a moment to rate and subscribe where you listen. It helps more than you know.

You can also follow me on Instagram and TikTok at @darkwoodpod for book recs, moody musings, and a little more literary mischief between episodes.

And if you’re feeling brave, drop a comment or DM and tell me about your favorite bat boy, or the story that first made you fall for monsters with soft hearts. I always love hearing what’s haunting your shelves.

Until then, light a candle, pour something worm, and leave a little room in your reading nook for monsters who mean well.

This is Darkwood Library. Thanks for wandering the stacks with me.

[Cue: Soft ambient tones and minor piano fade out — lingering, wistful, like the last page of a gothic fairytale.]

¹ Plato. The Symposium. c. 385 – 370 BCE.
² Bryon, Lord George Gordon. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. John Murray, 1812-1818.
³ Brontë, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Currer Bell, 1847.
⁴ Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights. Harper & Brothers of New York, 1848.
⁵ Rice, Anne. Interview with the Vampire. Ballantine Books, 1977.
⁶ Moning, Karen Marie. Darkfever. Delacorte Press, 2006.
⁷ Maas, Sarah J. A Court of Thorns and Roses. Bloomsbury USA Children’s, 2015.
⁸ Thalassa, Laura. Rhapsodic. Lavabrook Publishing Group, 2016.
⁹ Marshall, Lisette. Court of Blood and Bindings. Lisette Marshall, 2022.
¹⁰ Jung, C.G. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Princeton University Press, 1980.
¹¹ Maas, Sarah J. A Court of Mist and Fury. Bloomsbury USA Childrens, 2016.
¹² Csorrell98. Training with the Bat Boys (ACOTAR). Spotify.
¹³ Melina, Nicole. bat boy core 🦇🔥. Spotify.
¹⁴ Willow & Sage Giftshop. Rhysand Candle. Etsy.
¹⁵ Broadbent, Carissa. The Serpent and the Wings of Night. Carissa Broadbent, 2022.
¹⁶ Lapointe, Grace. ACoTaR’s Rhysand Should Have Stayed a Villain. Medium, 2020.