Yo if you liked that glass painting thing this might be cool for you, too. It’s a How It’s Made that shows how they make millefiori paperweights, which uses a similar millefiori technique as the other guy. I love watching glass working, and this is a neat video. Slight trypophobia warning, though, there’s a lot of repeating patterns with small dark circles. 


Roman Millefiori Mosaic Glass Bowl, 1st Century AD

This object would have been produced in an Italian workshop, but was inspired by Hellenistic glassmakers, who invented the mosaic technique (they, in turn, had been inspired by glass objects from Egypt). Artisans would make these by producing canes of glass and then cutting them into sections to produce the appropriate form; these were heated together to form complete objects. The kilning process, followed by an intensive polishing process, meant that these were very effort-intensive to make, and therefore expensive. Still, they were hugely popular with the Roman populace, foreshadowing the coming popularity of blown glass after its invention in the mid 1st century AD.

Looking at all my old art reminded me how many damn characters I use to have, some of them I legit still love. This is Millefiori (it means ‘one thousand flowers’ in Italian), the god of flowers and sweet scents ~ a lion with a flower mane is hardly original, but I like the idea of nature gods that are pretty but can also rip your chest cavity open.

- Inlateautumn's 30 days of Katekyo Hitman Reborn challenge: 
Day eighteen - Favorite Millefiore member

Technically, he’s a Vongola now. But even when he was still a Millefiore, the only thing I could think about while watching him is how much I appreciate him.

Whether he’s good or bad, his personality seemed so incredibly appealing to me. He’s clueless, smart, modest, grateful and immensely dedicated to his passion. His interest in robots comes first to literally everything, and that’s why Spanner is wonderful. 

Birthday Heartache

Imagine for Dave’s birthday or for Christmas you get him a genuine Italian made Millefiori paperweight

I can do this!  If you don’t mind, I’m gonna wrap up a little crush plot in here, just because this man doesn’t get enough eyes turned his way.  I hope you enjoy it, because here it is…comin’ ‘atcha!

(Part 2  Part 3)

David Rossi wasn’t the kind of man to boast.

Let me rephrase that.

David Rossi wasn’t the kind of man to boast about things that you usually boast about.

Example.  Rossi would boast about the women who coo over him at a guest lecture, but he would never brag about the woman he takes to bed after a wonderful Italian dinner at his house.

Another example.  Rossi would brag about his new Italian loafers that he bought for himself, but he would never brag about the beautiful necklace that he may or may not have purchased for a girl he was dating.

Another example.  Rossi would brag about his appeal to younger women despite his age, but he would never brag about his actual age…or birthday.

And this year, you decided to change that last one.

You scoured the internet for months.  You had listened intently to his conversations with others, constantly logged conversations he had with you, and was always following his eyesight if the team ever got together.  You judged every compliment he paid someone, from a compliment on Penelope’s shoes to a compliment about Hotch’s tie.

You wanted to find something good.  Something…something especially for him.

But you continued to come up short.

“Why the long face, beautiful?” Morgan asks, ripping you from your internet search as he leans down to see what you’re looking at.

“Just struggling with buying someone a present,” you mumble.

“Anyone we know?” Morgan asks, turning his gaze towards you as a smirk breaks out on his face.

“Nah.  And I always struggle with buying people gifts.  It’s why I always default to gift cards,” you admit.

“So that’s why we all get cards from you during the holidays?” Morgan jousts, chuckling on your shoulder as you shake your head.

“Dick,” you murmur, shooting him a side-glance just as you hear the elevator doors ding open.

“Everybody up to the briefing room,” Hotch says.

“Great,” you hear J.J. murmur as she rolls her eyes.

“Coming!” Spencer pipes up, grabbing his messenger bag as he makes his way for the stairs.

Sighing as you close out your computer screen, you feel Morgan squeeze your shoulder gently as your eyes end up trailing over to Rossi.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, hot stuff,” he says through his chuckle as he turns to walk away, heading for the stairs as you catch Rossi’s eyes.

His kind smile and polite head-nod always make your cheeks flush.

“You comin’?” he asks, your body not moving as he stands rooted to the ground, looking at you.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” you say quickly, closing out your computer screen as you swivel in your chair, “I’m coming.”

Maybe watching him in this case would spring some inspiration.


And inspiration is what you got.

During the entire case, the team couldn’t figure out what the unsub was using to kill his victims.

That was, until a piece of chipped glass was found in the head wound of the fourth victim.

“A what?” Hotch asks, his stern gaze furrowing deeper as Rossi begins to smirk.

“A paperweight, Hotch.  And a nice one, apparently,” Rossi says.

“People still use paperweights?” Hotch asks.

“I mean, I do.  I still would if I hadn’t of broken mine a month ago.”

You feel your ears perk up as you cock your head slightly towards them.

“Do we know what kind of paperweight?” Hotch asks.

“The lab’s working on that now, but it gives us more than we had,” Rossi admits.

After identifying the weapon, it was just a matter of tracking down the original purchase to obtain a name.  And before you knew it, 24 hours had passed and you were on a plane home.

You were anxious to get back to your laptop.

Riding the elevator up with the team, you feel Rossi’s shoulder brush up against yours as you turn your head towards him, meeting his caring eyes as your cheeks flush.

You diverted your eyes before he began to profile your dilating pupils.

“Family dinner?” Rossi asks.

Listening to everyone murmur their excuses as to why a dinner at 9 PM wasn’t going to happen after being up for the last 24 hours, you snag your laptop out from a drawer in your desk as you stuff it in your go-bag.

“I’m up for food if you’re up for food,” you offer.

“Wonderful,” Rossi says, offering you his arm, “because I know of this hole-in-the-wall Italian place that stays open until 11:30.”

It wasn’t until you turned around in the elevator with him and took stock of the team that you realized they were all grinning from ear to ear, their arms crossed over their chests as your eyes widen slightly.

Conniving little snakes.


Your date with David had been perfect!

Well, you didn’t know if it had been a date, but he did offer to pay.  And drive.  And get you wine.

It was a date, right?

You honestly didn’t know, because the next week at work was just like any other week.  Paperwork, quick lunch breaks, lots of coffee, and a few late nights.

But the big thing?

Nothing felt as if it had changed.

There were no lingering glances from your older colleague.  There were no exchanged smiles or little smirks or stolen moments.

It was as if the fine-dining experience hadn’t even happened.

So when you had taken to the world of the internet, you had decided that a paperweight was the way to go for his birthday.

But just as you were about to purchase an engraved paperweight for him, you see an ad flash up on your screen for something called “Millefiori paperweights.”

They had beautiful designs.  Swirls and flowers and polka dots.  It didn’t necessarily strike you as the kind of paperweight an older gentleman would own, but you got curious and clicked anyway.

And whoa, did the prices ever make your eyes widen.

Flicking through the pictures, your lips curling up at every brightly-colored dome that crossed your screen, you feel yourself freeze as your eyes suddenly land on it.

The perfect paperweight.

And your breath froze in your throat.

The beautiful dome, clear as day and made of crystal, had a beautiful dark blue, silver, and pale yellow swirling design in it.  The ebbing and flowing of the beautiful streaks reminded you of the Van Gogh painting “Starry Night,” and you realized then and there that it would be perfect for David.

But it wasn’t until you purchased the $2,000 paperweight without even blinking that you realized you were in love with him.

You were in love with David Rossi.


Fluffing your hair as you stand on the porch of his home, you clutch the gift within your hands as you reach out for his doorbell.

Rossi hadn’t been into work all day, and you assumed that he had taken time off to celebrate his birthday on his own terms.

So when you had gotten off of work, you had decided to get yourself dressed up a bit.

And after you had dressed yourself up, you figured you would splash on some makeup.

And after the makeup comes the hair.

And after the hair comes the confidence.

And pretty soon you found yourself writing a sprawling handwritten note about your undying love for your older colleague, complete with one of your favorite love poems scribbled at the end before folding it up and putting it into a perfumed envelope.

If you’re gonna go full cheese…

Reaching your finger out as you ring his doorbell, you feel your heart thundering against your forehead as you see the doorknob begin to turn.

Watching as the door slowly begins to swing open, something inside of you triggers, prompting you to shroud your present for him…along with the note…inside of your jacket as a light giggle emanates through the crack of the door.


Watching as Rossi’s face appears before you, a smile from ear-to-ear as his rosy cheeks give him away, you feel the slow ache in your heart clutch your stomach as you hear the lilting voice call out from his home.

“Who is it, handsome?”

“A work colleague,” he calls back, turning his head towards the body-less voice, “gimme a sec.”

“Don’t be long,” the young woman beckons.

Watching him as he steps out onto the porch, you watch as he closes the door before throwing one of his arms around you.

“Y/N!” he cheers.

“Hey there, David,” you say, trying to put on your best smile as you pull back from him, your present and letter clutched between your arm and your side underneath your coat.

“What brings you around?” he asks.

“I uh…” you stammer.  “just wanted to make sure you weren’t alone on your birthday,” you say.

I mean, it was partially the truth?

“Well, I thought I was gonna be,” he starts, “until my lecture this morning,” he says, thumbing behind him.

So he hadn’t taken off work because of his birthday…he had taken off because of a lecture.

“Way to go, you dog,” you smirk, winking at him as you try to swallow the ache rising in your throat.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of a beautifully dressed Y/N?” he lulls, “You look fantastic.”

His compliments meant nothing now.

“Just got off a date,” you lie, “Wanted to stop by and make sure you had some company on this special day.”

“Your date is done at…8?” he asks, checking his rather expensive watch as you fake a little chuckle.

“Rough one,” you continue to lie.

“Well, thank you for keeping me in your thoughts,” he says, bringing his hand to your upper arms as he leans in, kissing you on your cheek.

His lips on your skin made your knees clatter together.

“Well, I won’t keep you from your birthday nookie,” you joust, winking at him as your soul hangs onto the hope that he won’t say exactly what you know is coming.

“You never know,” he says, winking as his hand reaches back for his doorknob.

He always said that before a date.

And you could always tell by the smile on his face the next morning, and the way his shoulders relaxed against his body, that he always knew.

In the back of his mind…he always knew.

And that realization made you irate.

“Have a good night, David,” you say, your voice light and full of meaning.

“Good night,” he says, backtracking into his home as you turn your back to his front door.

Drawing in a shaky breath as your wobbling legs begin to walk you to your car, you lean your weakened body against the cool metal frame as the tears begin to pour down your face.

This was what it felt like.

This is what all of the poems you always read were talking about.

This drowning sorrow of the heart.

This crashing thunder of reality.

This unquenchable need to shriek until you shattered the heavens.

This is what real, true, crumbling heartbreak felt like.

You couldn’t breathe…like your lungs had filled with the fluid leaking from your eyes.

It burned to breathe.

Sniffling hard as you bite down on your lower lip to stifle your sobs, you turn your body and scurry back up the steps of his porch, bending down as you place your present and handwritten letter onto his welcome mat, your teardrops hitting the concrete as you draw a shaky, jaw-quivering breath.

Thank god for the long weekend ahead.

Making your way back to your car, you wipe at your tears as you open your door and scoot into your seat, cranking your car as you slowly begin to move your vehicle towards the open road.  You felt your foot depressing the gas pedal quickly as you stare blankly at the road ahead of you, your mind whirling as you reflect back on your dinner with Rossi, cursing yourself for being so analytical of his every move.

So naive about his intentions.

It was just like you to be blind and still over-analyze a situation.

And before you could pull yourself from your trance, you felt your car careening to the right, the clover-leaf ramp merging you onto the highway as you cut on your high-beams, your car’s tires turning at a rapid place as you look at the receding exit signs for DC in your rear-view mirror.

A night or two away from the city wouldn’t hurt.