Gregory spread the avocado over the toast and sprinkled tomato on top as if it were cake decorations. There was a joy in how he did it, as if for a moment he was happily absorbed by a feeling of love that played in his subtle smile and soft gaze. Then he brought it over, his and mine, the breakfast that became a part of the rhythm of our lives together. For the first time ever I could see every day of my future and I wanted it, I wanted to stay and be apart of it more than anything I've ever wanted.


Oh hey! You’re back again! I’m so glad you came m’dear. So happy to see you. You know, I was a little worried I came on a bit strong yesterday, but I feel a lot of passion for this project of mine. But enough about me. How are you? Did you sleep well? Did you eat a good breakfast? I was a bit naughty when it came to breakfast. I guess I should have had muesli from the tub I made for the kids but instead I sneaked a cinnamon bun from the freezer, forty five seconds in the microwave and it’s as good as when it came out of the oven yesterday. I’m feeling a calling for a second, but hey, who’s counting?! Not you, I can tell that from your face. Oh, sorry, you don’t know why you came back and you’re wondering if you should leave? No, no, please stay. Like I said, I’m so glad you came back in your jeans...your sari...your pyjamas...your underpants? No, don’t tell me about those, I’ll just imagine you’re dressed until you are...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, March 12, 2015*.

Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by Daisy.


I walked into the serving room at the hotel. Everywhere I looked there were stacks of food. One section as a continental breakfast, the other a traditional english breakfast, I didn't know where it start first

By purplecompton, May 29, 2014.

The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, April 27, 2012.

Found in The Hunger Games, authored by Suzanne Collins.


“M’up.” Jongin mumbles, barely coherent.

“Make me breakfast.” Sehun whines in his ear.

“Make it yourself.”

“Don’t wanna.” Sehun gives a particularly vicious jab to Jongin’s belly-button and Jongin silently says goodbye to the idea of any more sleep. He rolls over to look at his clock and groans. 9am. Why?

“Why, Sehun. Why.” He groans.

Sehun just giggles and starts dragging him bodily out of bed, ignoring Jongin’s half-hearted grumbling. He lets Sehun lead him downstairs to the kitchen and then wanders round picking up things to make breakfast. His culinary skills only extend to toast or cereal, so that’s what Sehun’s getting.

He plonks the rather pathetic-looking breakfast down in front of them – mm, dry toast (they don’t have anything to put on it) and coffee with no milk because there’s only his sister’s soy milk left.

“Mmm, breakfast of champions.” Sehun snarks. Jongin flips him the bird.

By jongdae, February 8, 2015.

Authored by maknaerulez, here.


Instead of enjoying the aroma of croissants, toast, hash browns and all the other confectionaries you could possibly imagine for breakfast on a Sunday morning, I awoke every day to the smell of smoke coming out of a cigar, and every time it was a guard, lazily leaning on my cell door.

By laura_elaine, August 25, 2016*.