Best 22 quotes in «hawk quotes» category

My clutch and wrap had fallen to the floor because both my arms were around his neck, my body was plastered to his, one of his arms was tight around my back, the other hand had slid in my dress and down and was cupping the cheek of my ass, skin to skin (I was wearing a thong, which was a smart move on my part not only to avoid panty lines but because his warm, strong hand cupping my ass felt freaking great) when I heard my father clear his throat.

I never knew a woman could be fierce and beautiful and smart before I met you. Every time I see you I think of a hawk, beautiful and deadly.

She infested his mind, thoughts of worshipping her in dark ways, her laugh would be his reward, her screams his payment for a man worthy of being in her fucking presence and not dying of overexposure to all that goodness.

Our relationship wasn’t easy. It wasn’t mellow. It wasn’t comfortable and sedate. He was too bossy and I was too much of a smartass. We bantered and sometimes we fought. But I’d learned I was completely unable to endure Hawk being mad at me and then I’d noticed that Hawk felt the same. No grudges were ever held. We created sparks but those sparks never caught the kind of fire that could do damage. Instead, we got over it and moved on.

The Hawk hired fifty harpers and jesters and taught them new songs. Songs about the puny fairy fool who had been chased away from Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea by the legendary Hawk. And being such a legend in his own time, his tales were ceded great truth and staying power. The players were delighted with the epic grandeur of such a wild tale. When they had rehearsed to perfection the ditties and refrains portraying the defeat of the fool, the Hawk sent them into the counties of Scotland and England. Grimm accompanied the group of players traveling to Edinburgh to help spread the tale himself, while Hawk spent late hours by the candle scribbling, crossing out and perfecting his command for when the fool came. Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, he would reach for his set of sharp awls and blades and begin carving toy soldiers and dolls, one by one.

The devil couldn’t walk into a holy house and not expect a few flames.

Black hawk down. Black eagle up.

What the hell's wrong with you? You look like you're about to have a seizure." - Hawk "If your halo shines any brighter, it's going to permanently damage my retinas." - Jace

There's a superstition among falconers that a hawk's ability is inversely proportional to the ferocity of its name. Call a hawk Tiddles and it will be a formidable hunter; call it Spitfire or Slayer and it will probably refuse to fly at all.

There was some biblical irony in that somewhere only Mary Magdalene would understand hitting above her weight grade.

Hawk's belly sunk hollow, black and empty, much like his chest that corroded desire into something nasty and wrong. Hawk paced until his knees creaked, glaring down at his phone like he could reach through and touch what he was forbidden to want.

By the ancient bond of the spellclave, I command you, Spider. Stop, or be turned to stone!

Ghost bird, do you love me?" he whispered once in the dark, before he left for hs expedition training, even though he was the ghost. "Ghost bird, do you need me?" I loved him, but I didn't need him, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be. A ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. This was the way of things here. There were no reasons so mighty that they could override the desire to be in accord with the tides and the passage of seasons and the rhythms underlying everything around me.

Hawk?" He gazed up at her, still crouched on the floor, ready to pounce if she so much as moved an inch.

Hawk was a fucking selfless savior, practically a saint. Where were his wings?

He got the deviant joke loud and clear, the one about the biggest head case craving the taste of a psychiatrist. The little bit of a thing was smarter than most.

He wasn’t good. He was a goddamn cruel bastard.

Hope was a weak rebellion not meant for the likes of him.

...he lifted the fat and frightened hawk onto his fist reciting it passages from Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard II, Othello-- 'but tragedy had to be kept out of the voice'-- and all the sonnets he could remember, whistling hymns to it, playing it Gilbert and Sullivan and Italian opera, and deciding, on reflection, that hawks liked Shakespeare best.

He was a mortal man with more flaws than bones, shackled to a fantasy of his own nightmare making.

His little bit of a thing was an addiction he shared with no one.

Hunting hawks did not belong in cages, no matter how much a man coveted their grace, no matter how golden the bars. They were far more beautiful soaring free. Heartbreakingly beautiful.