Things I love about each type!! based on multiple personal experiences
ENFJ love: You genuinely care about your family. You’re softies. You have a
way of making everyone listen to you and believe you, no matter what. That
inspires an inner leader in me, well done. You’re usually great at making
friends and meeting new people.
ENFP love: You are energetic when around people you like, which is almost
all the time. I see you have a longing to deeply connect with people. You are attracted
to people that you want to be, or have qualities you wish you had. You are
intelligent, so stop acting dumb. My time spent with you is never wasted, I
always learn something, and feel loved. Thanks for the brilliant and accurate
ENTJ love: You are strong. I can say evil and inappropriate things in front
of you that would be considered socially strange and you either add on to it or
laugh, rather than calling the police or my therapist. You are passionate. You secretly
want people to like you instead of just follow you.
ENTP love: We don’t have conversations, we have discussions. It’s beautiful.
I’ve never heard you engage in small talk. Your emotions are intense. I love
how all you do is argue and debate and invent. I need you in my life.
ESFJ love: You are the most loyal and caring people I’ve ever met. You just
want to have fun, and make sure everyone else is having fun. You cry openly,
but loathe doing it. Despite what you think, people like you, okay? You are
likable. Also, learn to turn your back on people who turn their back on you.
ESFP love: Nothing will stop you. NOTHING. Nobody could survive the way you
do. You have endless energy and love. You are deeper than the internet says.
You people have inspiring messages, and you’re never done saying yes. Everyone
knows your name.
ESTJ love: You’re bluntness inspires me. You are true to yourself. You won’t
let things get you down. You are trustworthy. You don’t care about popular
society norms. You are crazy and hilarious, your quotes are memorable. Fabulous
story tellers. Fucking brave, ruthless, and metal as fuck.
ESTP love: The perfect amount of sadistic. Reliable and loyal. You are
strangely seductive and charming. You know what you want. Decisive.
INFJ love: I want to be more like you. I’ve always been drawn to you people.
You are incredibly organised. The definition of saying nothing and thinking
about everything. You have a likeness for the strange and for the antique. Old
INFP love: Attracted to the fucked up things in the world. Wallow in your own
sadness swamp, and don’t want to get me involved. You guys always put others
before you. Way too selfless.
INTJ love: The way you think. You make people worried, angry, and laugh
without trying. In fact, you have no clue what you do that makes them feel that
way. Keep going.
INTP love: You are mental. You have an amazing brain but you don’t train it
hard enough. Smarter than people think. Generally funny.
ISFJ love: I love that when you are angry or drunk you guys are always the
boss. Great leaders because you see what you’re capable of and cater to people
specifically. Will do anything for the people you love, or people who are
going through a shitty time.
ISFP love: You live in beautiful spaces. You keep to yourselves. I love that
you guys love me. Somehow you see the best in people. You are all secretly emo.
ISTJ love: I actually trust you. If someone tells you something or if you
see or hear something you aren’t supposed to, you keep it to yourself even if people
hound you for it. A brilliant friend, you won’t lie to them. Interested in
things that make you think. Strong moral compass.
ISTP love: Soft, yet hard. Extremely quiet, but when you speak and
contribute you make everything better. Problem solvers. Disappears all the
time, people don’t question it anymore. Really hard to hate.
“I come seeking help… regarding this power that has been handed down over time… Prayer will awaken my power to seal Ganon away… Or so I’ve been told all my life… And yet… Grandmother heard them–the voices from the spirit realm. And Mother said her own power would develop within me. But I don’t hear… or feel anything!
Father has told me time and time again… He always says, “Quit wasting your time playing at being a scholar!” Curse you… I’ve spent every day of my life dedicated to praying! I’ve pleaded to the spirits tied to the ancient gods… And still the holy powers have proven deaf to my devotion.
Please just tell me… What is it…? What’s wrong with me?!”
SLYTHERIN: “When stories speak of Chimaera granting wishes, the people in them always waste them. You don’t need three – you only need one. Wish for unlimited power, which you can control and understand completely. You could use that for anything. Why wish for land or money? Power can create that. Some things are beyond power’s control, you’d say. What of love or human emotion? Power could change that too. Power can do anything.” -Laura Lam (Masquerade)
It’s on a whim; he walks straight past the florist on the commute home every other day, doesn’t he? Only today the gaudy Easter arrangements and strands of faerie lights are something like a siren song, and he stops in front of the shop and bites his lip and stares at the window, and something in him says that this is a thing he ought to do.
He never bought his girlfriends flowers. They wilt and die, after all, and there’s all that awkward scrambling for water and a vase to put them in. Always seemed a sad waste of ten quid. Wine was a far more sound investment for an evening.
Sherlock won’t expect flowers, though, and there’s something about that that makes the idea infinitely more appealing. There’s no generic flowers-chocolates-wine-jewelry progression with Sherlock. There are instead ‘here, I saw this book on people who’ve been killed by their exotic pets and thought you’d enjoy it’ gifts and ‘here’s a Lucky Cat because I love making you laugh’ gifts, and he thinks flowers might be just the thing for a ‘here, I think you’re lovely and wanted you to have something lovely’ gift. It might even be a surprise, and it’s not often John gets the pleasure of surprising the World’s Most Observant Man.
He goes inside and stands there awkwardly, tries to browse casually and feels more awkward still. Eventually the shop-keep takes pity on him and strolls over and gives what sounds like a prepared sales pitch for straight blokes. Which is fair enough, John thinks, but he still appreciates how the man’s demeanor loosens up considerably when he tells him he’s looking for something for his partner, emphasis on the not-a-wife-or-girlfriend.
He leaves the shop with a recommendation for a pub he ought to check out, several enthusiastic well-wishes for his and Sherlock’s relationship, and a dramatic bundle of irises wrapped up in soft green paper.
They’re tall, and curly, and vibrantly purple. They make him smile.
He jogs up the stairs back at 221b to the bellow of Sherlock’s voice telling him he’s late, and that he shouldn’t have bothered stopping for bread on the way home because Mrs. Hudson already brought some.
John wears a small, knowing smirk that grows into a grin that grows into a wide, joyful smile at the sight of Sherlock’s furrowed brow and sudden, surprised silence. This is good; this is very good.
John clears his throat and ducks his head slightly, holding out the flowers and watching Sherlock as he stands there quietly in his pajamas. John thinks he can feel his face go red. He tells Sherlock the flowers are for him. He tells him he saw them and thought of him. He tells him lots of things, talks about the supportive shop-keep, makes a few awkward jokes, realizes he’s rambling nervously, and shuts up after a minute.
Sherlock takes the flowers.
He stares at them, blinks a few more times, then shifts into John’s space and leans down and gathers him into a hug with his free arm, dropping his face into the space between John’s neck and his jacket collar. There are muffled words spoken into his skin, something like ‘thank you, they’re beautiful’ and ‘no-one’s ever.’ John brings his arms around Sherlock’s waist and breathes into the curls at the nape of his neck. They smell dusty and warm, like an unwashed day spent in the flat.
He feels suddenly nauseous with how much he loves him. He does. He’d buy him flowers every damn day if it would make him happy, fill the flat with them; sod his pollen allergy.
He watches a few minutes later as Sherlock clatters through his lab supplies and rifles through the kitchen cupboards before finally holding up an enormous beaker with a triumphant flourish and filling the thing carefully with water and irises and the little packet of plant food that came with them, and John thinks the awkward scrambling for a vase didn’t turn out to be that bad after all.