Lord Seth

The other day I read a series of posts on the Hogwarts uniform and how book!uniform differs from movie!uniform, which is more canonical and whether there’s been/there should be some retconning to unify the books, films and illustrations from different sources. Since wizarding fashion is one of my favourite subjects (particularly since the word “corsets” was mentioned in HBP), I thought I had to write a post about it. So here it goes.

On tradition and unmuggleness

As much as I like the movie uniforms, the way I see it, they’re irreconcilable with those described in the books, which, both because they’re from the book and because that’s how I see them in my head, I consider canonical. Most people point out as proof of this that in a couple of occasions we are told more or less directly that the basic (I’ll talk more about this later) uniform does not bear any house indicator (see the Penelope Clearwater and Crabbe-and-Goyle’d Ron-and-Harry Cases, both in CoS). This is true. However, what I see as a bigger issue is the fact that the movie!uniform is basically a muggle school uniform with robes instead of a blazer, which, considering how often we see wizards struggling with muggle clothing, doesn’t really add up. And given that school uniforms tend to be on the conservative side of fashion, it would make much more sense to have the Hogwarts uniform resemble traditional wizarding attire.

On openings and trouserslessness

The movie robes are completely open at the front save for one (PoA-onwards) or two (PS-CoS) little clasps, which would take next to no time to do up and undo, so the movie robes would be put on and off like a bathrobe or a coat. However, most (if not all) of the times we see Harry changing into his school robes he’s described as pulling them over his head. To me that implies that the front is not open all the way down, that maybe there’s just a small opening with a few buttons, like a polo shirt. Either that or the robes are open all the way down but fastening and unfastening them is so tedious that students simply never do them up or undo them all the way. In a pre-zipper world, a front opening like that would most probably mean a metric tonne of little buttons, at least (look up some old-timey portraits, particularly of women’s fashion. They took their buttons seriously). No one has time to fiddle with that many buttons, so it would be easier to undo a few of the top ones and pull the robes over your head.

Personally, I think the left-hand version fits the description of “plain black work robes” better. And yes, there’s no indication anywhere in the books that the sleeves are flared or gathered at the top, but they look more wizardy this way, so. 

For an even more undeniable piece of evidence that supports the idea of having a closed front, look no further than Snape’s worst memory in OotP. When he gets levicorpused by James, we see his underwear. He’s not wearing trousers. Wh. Why is he not wearing trousers??? Because there’s no risk of accidental exposure of one’s undergarments when there isn’t a massive opening on the front of one’s robes, that’s why. Also, if for some sinister reason he had not been wearing trousers under open-fronted robes, everybody would’ve been able to see his pants already and it wouldn’t have been “funny” when James revealed them.

Moreover, it seems that trousers, even though they are worn in the wizarding world, are neither required nor part of traditional wizarding attire. See the old man in the Quidditch World Cup. Trousers have been adopted to some extent, but they are not considered wizarding clothing per se, but rather a garment borrowed from muggles. So if we go back to the idea that uniforms tend to be conservative, the Hogwarts uniform would have probably been designed to be worn with no clothes underneath other than underwear.

On hats gone with the wind and cloaks

Hats. “One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear.” Day wear. In the films (PS, basically), hats seem to only be worn on special occasions. And I can understand that; On set they’re probably a huge inconvenience as they like to fall off and have to be touched up constantly and may cover something/someone important. Still, canonically, a pointed black hat for day wear is part of the Hogwarts uniform.

Now, do not quote me on this, but I am positive that in one of the books there is a description of a windy day where students grab the brims of their hats so that they don’t get blown off. That’s the one and only time in the whole series (that I can remember) where the uniform hats are said to be brimmed. It makes sense, though, as traditional witch hats do have a brim. Modest brims seem adequate for uniforms. (I do think it is strange to make students wear hats indoors, but oh well.)

Then there’s the winter cloaks. Again, plain and black, this time with silver clasps. No crest, no house colours. And there’s also the protective dragonskin gloves, which seem to be used both as protective gloves for Potions/Care of Magical Creatures/Herbology and as regular winter gloves.

On house pride (or the lack thereof)

So far we have established that the uniform consists basically of plain black garments: a set of black robes (closed front), a black cloak, a black hat. Hence, by default, there is no way to tell what house a student belongs to just by their attire. Or is there? Here’s where the “basic uniform” I mentioned  before comes into play.

It is true that the robes, hats and cloaks are plain black when bought. And yet, there are many points in the story when Harry seems to simply know what house some students belong to, even when he clearly doesn’t know them. We get constant references to “a gorup of first year Ravenclaws” or “a Hufflepuff girl”, and since the story is told from Harry’s point of view rather than an omniscient narrator’s, there must be a way for Harry to tell apart people from different houses without knowing them personally. So how can we reconcile the ideas that some people’s house is recognisable at first sight while other people’s isn’t? It’s quite simple: CUSTOMISATION.

Bagdes, scarves, appliques, ribbons, hat ornaments, buttons, socks, belts, and a long etc, to show your house pride. Just as we can get jumpers and hoodies and caps and whatnot with the name and colours of our uni or specific college, kids in the wizarding world are probably able to buy (and make) house merchandise. These items would be available at Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, and parents would send them to their children once they’ve been sorted or the kids themselves would be able to get them via owl order.

also i would imagine, in the fishbowl culture of a boarding school, there would be significant pressure to display a minimum amount of group and status markers. why would a student be wearing no house identification if they weren’t concealing that information? your hogwarts house shows who you’re with socially, where you’re allowed to go geographically, and what your priorities are likely to be personally. everyone you’d meet, from first years to teachers to ghosts to the very portraits on the wall, would want to know how to categorize you, in order to enforce customs and rules, and to totally resist that would involve making a deliberate and transgressive statement. 

that being said, i really like the idea of interhouse friends incorporating minor accents of one another’s colors into their array of house designators. a blue ribbon worked into the red and gold, or some black in your green and silver, that kind of thing. hufflepuffs would probably go around looking iridescent. which in itself would be a good indicator of a hufflepuff. 

(Oct 21st - Oct 27th)

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“Yeah, I knew when I saw him at the orphanage. I figured if the kid had some decent fucking parenting that we could avoid the whole ‘Revelations’ shite. Nasty business, that.”

George, who’s name has been kindly changed from Damien, approaches his new mother with a huge spider in his hands. It promptly bursts into flames.

It’s at Christmas dinner, that you let slip your amazement to your mother. How good Anne is for him and how he’s improved a lot. Still summoning hellhounds for games of fetch, though.

“Oh, he’ll forget how to do that when he falls in love the first time,” Your mother laughs, smiling wide.

“How do you know that,” you ask bewildered.

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?

anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.

demon: then why?

anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.

demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.

anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!

My mother also talked about periods to my brothers.

When I first got mine I had terrible cramps. Crippling cramps. I once was camping with my family and a few of my big brother’s friends when my period came. My cramps were so bad that my mom gave me a full pain killer ( I was 13 and before that she only gave me pills cut in half).

I literally laid down on my parents’ air mattress and cried in pain for an hour before the pill kicked in.

My brothers friend came in to the big tent and I was just curled up and sobbing. Now, I was quite the tomboy and was known to rough house with my brothers and their friends and made sure I wasnt seen as just “a little girl.” So my brother’s friend was confused to see me openly weeping in the fetal position (seriously, these were the worst cramps I have had in my life. My vision went white). He asked what was wrong with me.

My big brother stood up immediately and suggested a nice long hike. During this hike I am sure he had a pretty awkward conversation with his friend explaining menstrual cramps, because when they got back the pain pill had (mostly) kicked in and I was sitting up at a table when my brother’s friend sheepishly asked me if I was feeling better. I said I was better, and he said good.

When we made s'mores that night my brother and his friend kept me well supplied with chocolate.

Making sure sons know as much about periods and menstruation as daughters makes them better brothers, better sons better fathers, and better men. A man that understands a period will not lightly accuse a woman of “being on her period” if the woman is in an argument.

Good:

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Better:

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I need to get out of here

I have never made any type of post like this and it’s going to be long and annoying but I just can’t fucking take this anymore. I’m Sophie, I am a 19 year old latina girl who has been living with an abusive man double my age for the last couple of years after running away. I feel trapped here and I have no means to leave safely at all. I’m mentally ill and on disability which doesn’t leave me with any room to get away from him and he is extremely controlling even when it comes to money and what I should have to owe him for living with him.

I have no family to lean on and the friends I did have, he has cut me off completely from them. He’s smashed my phone when he got paranoid leaving me with nothing and no one. He monitored my phone and my social media so I have had to make separate accounts to try and hide him from seeing what I post. Not only that but he is racist, he hates women, believes in white supremacy, thinks that all girls should only be with men and give themselves to men whether they want to or not.. it just goes on and on and never stops. He always talks about genocide, thinks women ask for too much, ect. He has actually gone to jail in the past for assault. He threatens me with violence if I don’t do the things he asks for all the time and my mental health has gone downhill since I came here. There are so many things that have happened that I can’t even talk about.

I am always being taken advantage of, threatened, manipulated into sex, into giving him money, just so that I won’t be out on the streets with no where to go. This type of life is making me want to kill myself if I can’t get a change soon but I am terrified of the thought of leaving him. I want to get a restraining order so that he can’t come after me, but if I do that I will have no place to live because I can’t afford the apartment I live in if he’s not here. I need help getting out. There is no way I can afford to pay a deposit, pet fee, and first months rent on a cheaper apartment with the income and type of life I have right now. He knows about how much money I bring in a month, and with my bills and everything I have very little. I know what I need is a lot, my goal is around $500 dollars even though that won’t begin to cover it, I don’t expect much help at all. Even a couple dollars I have that I can hide from him will hopefully add up.

I was at risk of being homeless when I met him because of leaving my family. I thought that because he had issues too that he was a good person at heart but I can’t take the way that he treats me anymore, it has only gotten worse. If you don’t believe me, or think I shouldn’t be asking for this kind of help or think this is all my fault just block me. I have had too many people act like I am over exaggerating or that I’m crazy. I will just block you.

Just in case you forget this exists.

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1. Ah Fai was a chief animator for McDull’s animated features. He’s super cool. Ultimate senpai. 

2. Previous post on breakdowns right here 

Some thoughts on acceleration and force

I presented this in the order of how I slowly understood the trick of delivering force - first an abstract concept of impact taught by Ah Fai, then a more complicated discovery on the acceleration pattern, last back to a more abstract concept of breakdowns. 

Like I’ve previously stressed, 2D animation is everything but one single approach. There’s no one rule that rules them all, but interchangeable ideas with math, or physics, or music, etc. There’s no “perfect” animation either, but what is perceived as organic and dynamic. E.g., using the Fibonacci numbers to animate didn’t bring me a perfect animation! On the other hand, a tiny change in the pattern could already make the feeling of force so much more powerful. 

We were there, sixteen year old me and seventeen year old her, holding hands and window-shopping, minding our own business.

This Salvation Army shitheel gets aggro about it in the middle of the mall and I’m there totally flabbergasted cause like, it’s christmas

Only, 16!Tabi had even less composure than 26!Tabi, so I lost my fucking mind on her.

Thing is: when I’m really angry, I don’t rage, I go all cold and apparently that freaks people out, because I could see my gf backing up and the lady getting tense and then I realized that anger doesn’t solve problems.

So instead, I started wailing.

Picture this: 5’4, tiny, blonde haired high school girl with her little violin on her back and pearls in her ears just as PTA-approved as could be, full on sobbing in the hallway.

Just, sobbing like my dog’s been shot.

Now my gf’s like, “oh fuck” and the lady’s like “oh fuuuuck!” and I’m here, head thrown back, tears down my cheeks and in that shrill, distressed, /loud/ voice, “WHY WOULD YOU B-b-be so MEAN?! It’s CHRISTMAS!”

And the lady’s like “please stop Oh fuck” because now we have a crowd, and this Molly Weasley of a woman putters over, “what’s the matter, dear?”

And mall security’s coming and this bell ringer is looking very uncomfortable so I just look at this matronly ellen-watching suburban housewife lady, eyes wide and wet and my lip wobbling.

“I was, she s-said, s-s-she said I was going to HELL!”

And I burst right back into tears.

Maaaaaaaan, they didn’t even stick around to ask why she’d said it. Soon as I said it, Mall po-po bounced her like a fucking pogo stick.

We get outside and my girlfriend’s like “that is the most Slytherin thing I have ever seen anyone do.”

So yeah, they’re not just ‘homophobic’, they’re bigoted fucking murderers.

(Wikipedia article on her death conveniently (for SA) omits Salvation Army connection, linking only to expired articles from local newspapers)

SA claims that they didn’t turn her away, and accept all homeless people, except, it’s not like Jennifer Gale was only trans woman refused shelter by Salvation Army, making this denial appear to be worth less than bullshit:

https://thinkprogress.org/salvation-army-refuses-housing-shelter-to-transgender-woman-2660c79b4cd4#.bo53qrxf9

When I was younger, a lot of people would approach me awkwardly. “Wow, you’d be so pretty if you stopped wearing all those boy’s clothes!” or “Wow, you’d be so pretty if you’d let me give you a makeover!” Sometimes, these people had somewhat good intentions, others were waiting for the moment to join the crowd that bullied me. I experienced all the fake smiles and snickers behind my back. We all know how this goes. Your friends and your family tell you you’re beautiful. They tell you, “oh, honey, don’t listen to them.” You’ve grown accustomed to thinking “well, they are my family/friends, of course they say this to me.” Well, reality check sweetcheeks, you are indeed beautiful. After many years of soul searching and trying to figure out my self worth, sexuality, and gender identity, I’ve finally embraced my own version of beauty.

I’ve mostly presented masculine during my lifetime. However, it comes to a shock to people when I discuss my dating history with men. I’m pansexual/omnisexual, which means I experience attraction despite someone’s biological sex or gender identity. So with that being said, with being masculine presenting, and dating women, the word dyke was heard a lot. I was told to stop lying about my sexuality, to stop looking at men, to stop dating men, because it was a mere cover-up for my lesbianism. This, however, was before discovering my gender identity. I felt stupid not being able to explain how being boyish didn’t correlate whether or not I could be attracted to men or be deserving of any man taking a second look at me. I was made to believe I needed to prove my femininity, which made it even less believable for some.

I love the feel of sweatpants and tank tops, but I also find myself in lust with the “girlish” things in life; make-up, cuddling, teddy bears, cute throw pillows on the bed. Even in same-sex relationships, I have found myself wanting to be the little spoon or be the one to take 30 minutes to look pretty. The only response I would receive is “oh, that’s kind of weird.” I researched for years what this could’ve been called. At first, I was almost willing to give people what they wanted, and acknowledge myself as a boy trapped in a girl’s boy, but that didn’t feel right. I dressed in drag a few times and it felt great. It felt great when I was dolled up too though. I realized with time and research that I was genderfluid but was unfortunately quiet about it for a very long time.

More specifically, the type of genderfluidity I experience is called being fluidflux. This means my gender and the intensity of my gender changes. I loved days where I was feminine, I loved days where I was masculine, I loved days where I was a little in between, or days I didn’t really feel like either. It felt like a balancing scale that my brain would tip in whichever direction it felt like, but I learned to enjoy the ride, though tough at times. Midday switches can suck!

My version of beauty is different than what most are used to. So let me take a second to say this: fuck your standards of beauty. What is beauty to you? Is beauty painting your face everyday with endless amounts of make-up? Is it laying down at just the right angle when you take a selfie so your cleavage shows? Is it pouting your lips and poking out your hips when an attractive fellow walks by? Is it filtering your speech so you don’t offend anyone with your somehow masculine tone and language? Here’s an idea: maybe this is only considered beauty to you because this is what society has conditioned you to believe is beauty. As cliche as it sounds, we all have our own brand of beauty.

So you might ask… what do I believe is beauty? Beauty is being confident in who you are no matter how you present or what kind of clothes you wear. When I present female, I’m beautiful. When I present male, I’m beautiful (and hella handsome, might I add!). When I present female with a touch of masculinity, I’m beautiful. When I present male with a touch of femininity, I’m beautiful. When I present a mix of both female and male, I’m beautiful. When I walk out of the house in plain attire, not really sure where I am on the scale that day, leaving the world to decide what the hell I am, I’m still beautiful.

Loki ( or rather Loke/Loptr/Hveðrungr) as in the original Norse god, was many things you might not know. Here are a few of them:

-gender fluid -pansexual -a mother -intersex

These things are not tumblr inventions, or Marvel inventions (both is fine on it,s own and I am a huge marvel fan, and I love tumblr etc). Marvel doesn’t acknowledge most of these points. This is the original mythology/Edda Loki.

Gender fluid: He loved to transform and transcend between genders. He also practiced magic, which was seen as ergi/womanly ( Ergi might loosely translate as “gay”, in the sense of being “unmanly -__- . though Odin did the same and used magic, he wasn’t seen as ergi ). There are different accounts of him walking around as a woman for pure fun, enjoying male attention etc. - transformation was very much his "thing”!

Pansexual: Loki had a lot of sex, with any kind of living being ( and trees, and rocks 👌🏻). He didn’t care if it was man, woman or in between or neither. He was known to be sexually hungry, adventurous and daring. He had several affairs, casual sex and two devoted wives, over the cause of his life.

A mother: Loki fathers children, but he also gave birth to officially one, but potentially more. In different versions of the myths, he might have given birth to a few of his monster children ( he is known as the “mother of monsters”). They are most commonly told to be his giant wives children, but there are very old untranslated poems and stories where he is giving birth to a few of them. While that is debatable, he did birth Sleipnir the horse. While people try to say Loki was raped by the stallion, the original Prosa Edda and early poems actually never say he didn’t enjoy being a female horse or the interaction with the stallion. It’s said that him sand the stallion had “such dealings” that he fell pregnant. That’s open to interpretation in my opinion. He wasn’t “raped by a horse”, he was a female horse himself at that point. If you see Loki as a cis male, it might feel odd to think he might not dislike what happens with the stallion. But if you know Loki was gender fluid and sexually very adventures, it’s suddenly a lot less weird or unimaginable. He might not have planned for that encounter, because he only wanted to distract the horse, but there is no real statement that he totally hated everything that happened. I mean, being in a mare-mindset and all? BUT it’s all up to personal opinion, and it’s fine to believe one thing or the other.

Intersex: Loki as a giant ( or half giant) was most likely intersex. The Jotnar of Jotunheimr were giants known to have both male and female genitalia, according to many versions of north mythology ( not just the Edda, but other myths and retellings too). They birthed an sired children alike, so when speaking of Lokis mother or father, it doesn’t mean them being male or female, rather if they had given birth to him or not. There are different giants in the Edda with strikter gender presentation. But when it comes to the Jotuns/Jotnar of Jotunheimr, they were intersexual beings. There are different versions of Lokis origin ( we ignore marvels silly attempt to make him Odins adopted son. They were blood brothers!), in some he is presented as a half-Jotun, in other just as a normal giant. But half or full-giant, he was most likely just as intersexual as the other giants in the myths. Most likely!

These are some points people might not know about him. I researched a lot over the years, even talked to a danish Loki-expert who works with Viking museums in Denmark and Sweden. If you never heard of these things about him, please don’t just disregard these details about Loki and his rich history. It’s what MAKES him Loki.

Even if you’re Agender : I love you Even if you’re Anongender : I love you Even if you’re Bigender : I love you Even if you’re Cisgender : I love you Even if you’re Demigender : I love you Even if you’re Genderfluid : I love you  Even if you’re Gender Neutral : I love you Even if you’re Non-Binary : I love you Even if you’re Omnigender : I love you Even if you’re Pangender : I love you Even if you’re Transgender : I love you