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“The referee told me this league has never had a brawl of that magnitude," said Mr. Penderwick after a long, painful silence. "Of course, at the time I was pretending to be a casual passerby and not a father at all.”
― Jeanne Birdsall, The Penderwicks on Gardam Street

“Assassins take no pride in fighting fairly. We take pride in winning.”
― Robin Hobb, Fool's Quest

“No violence, gentlemen â€� no violence, I beg of you! Consider the furniture!”
― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone

“Don’t say to yourself, ‘Everyone argues!â€� to justify and normalise your fighting, when the most natural thing is to love.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“I mulled over what he had told me as I savored the Scotch. Not bad, really â€� like a beer that’s been in a brawl.”
― David Justice

“The Give and Take Athletic Association lived up to its name. The hall of the association in Orchard street was fitted out with muscle- making inventions. With the fibres thus builded up the members were wont to engage the police and rival social and athletic organisations in joyous combat. Between these more serious occupations the Saturday night hop with the paper-box factory girls came as a refining influence and as an efficient screen.”
― O. Henry, The Complete Works of O. Henry

“How ill-inspired we are when
Life, brawling in its crude matter-of-fact way
Decks us with the cold fist of reality”
― Laurence Overmire, Gone Hollywood

“I would have my room,' Cardan said, narrowing his eyes and assuming his most superior pose. 'Perhaps you two might take whatever this is elsewhere.'

Part of him thought she would laugh, having known him before he perfected his sneer, but she shrank under his gaze.

Locke stood up, putting on his pants. 'Oh, don't be like that. We're all friends here.'

Cardan's practiced demeanour went up in smoke. He became the snarling feral child that had prowled the palace, stealing from tables, unkempt and unloved. Launching himself at Locke, he bore him to the floor. They collapsed in a heap. Cardan punched, hitting Locke somewhere between the eye and the cheekbone.

'Stop telling me who I am,' he snarled, teeth bared. 'I am tired of your stories.'

Locke tried to knock Cardan off him. But Cardan had the advantage, and he used it to wrap his hands around Locke's throat.

Maybe he really was still drunk. He felt giddy and dizzy all at once.

'You're going to really hurt him!' Nicasia shouted, hitting Cardan's shoulder and then, when that didn't work, trying to haul him off the other boy.

Locke made a wordless sound, and Cardan realised he was pressing so tightly on his windpipe that he couldn't speak.

Cardan dropped his hands away.

Locke choked, gasping for air.

'Create some tale about this,' Cardan shouted, adrenaline still fizzing through his bloodstream.

'Fine,' Locke finally managed, his voice strange. 'Fine, you made, hedge-born coxcomb. But you were only together out of habit; otherwise, it wouldn't have been so easy to make her love me.'

Cardan punched him. This time, Locke swung back, catching Cardan on the side of the head. They rolled around, hitting each other, until Locke scuttled back and made it to his feet. He ran for the door, Cardan right behind.

'You are both fools,' Nicasia shouted after them.”
― Holly Black, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

“If I was acting like a politician's kid, I would not have been here for a small brawl. Maybe I would have been here for a rape case.”
― Ashwini Rudra, Delhi via Lucknow: Once, love travelled this route

“I would have my room,' Cardan said, narrowing his eyes and assuming his most superior pose. 'Perhaps you two might take whatever this is elsewhere.'

Part of him thought she would laugh, having known him before he perfected his sneer, but she shrank under his gaze.

Locke stood up, putting on his pants. 'Oh, don't be like that. We're all friends here.'

Cardan's practiced demeanour went up in smoke. He became the snarling feral child that had prowled the palace, stealing from tables, unkempt and unloved. Launching himself at Locke, he bore him to the floor. They collapsed in a heap. Cardan punched, hitting Locke somewhere between the eye and the cheekbone.

'Stop telling me who I am,' he snarled, teeth bared. 'I am tired of your stories.'

Locke tried to knock Cardan off him. But Cardan had the advantage, and he used it to wrap his hands around Locke's throat.

Maybe he really was still drunk. He felt giddy and dizzy all at once.

'You're going to really hurt him!' Nicasia shouted, hitting Cardan's shoulder and then, when that didn't work, trying to haul him off the other boy.

Locke made a wordless sound, and Cardan realised he was pressing so tightly on his windpipe that he couldn't speak.

Cardan dropped his hands away.

Locke choked, gasping for air.

'Create some tale about this,' Cardan shouted, adrenaline still fizzing through his bloodstream.

'Fine,' Locke finally managed, his voice strange. 'Fine, you mad, hedge-born coxcomb. But you were only together out of habit; otherwise, it wouldn't have been so easy to make her love me.'

Cardan punched him. This time, Locke swung back, catching Cardan on the side of the head. They rolled around, hitting each other, until Locke scuttled back and made it to his feet. He ran for the door, Cardan right behind.

'You are both fools,' Nicasia shouted after them.”
― Holly Black, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

“Do you know,' Cassian drawled to her, 'that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?'

Nesta's burning gaze slid to him, still outraged- but hinted with incredulity.

He just went on, 'It was Amren's fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.'

She blinked slowly.

But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.

Until Lucien breathed, 'What are you?'

Cassian didn't seem to dare take his focus off Nesta. But my sister slowly looked at Lucien.

'I made it give something back,' she said with terrifying quiet. The Cauldron. The hairs along my arms rose. Nesta's gaze flicked to the carpet, then to a spot on the wall. 'I wish to go to my room.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Wings and Ruin

“St. Vincent took in the curious tableau before him . . . the clusters of bewildered onlookers, the affronted ‌innkeeper . . . and the Earl of Westcliff, who stared at him with avid bloodlust.

The entire inn fell silent during that chilling moment, so that Westcliff’s quiet snarl was clearly audible. “By God, I’m going to butcher you.”
― It Happened One Autumn: The Wallflowers by Lisa Kleypas

“War is the evolution of a brawl.”
― Tamerlan Kuzgov