Final Fantasy Ugly Sweater Novels & Stories

“Something that screams you.” “Denver naman, ang dami mo nang binili noong—” “This one’s for me,” he said softly. “I want to see you wear something I picked.” Inside, a Korean saleslady approached. “Would you like to try winter sets? Couple style?” I choked a little. “Uh… yes. But just individual pieces.” She brought out a beige knit sweater, a scarf, and a beret. “Go try this one,” Denver said, handing it to me.

We look forward to the day she can run with us. "Soon." The witch agreed with a soft smile. Some of the shadows began to dance like excited pups, their excited yips filling the air as a giant blonde man stepped out of the darkening tree-line followed by a smaller version of himself. Despite the winter months being on them, both males were golden like the husks of wheat and barley. Their white blonde hair matched that of the little girl babbling in her mother's arms. Ulf was much taller than his son and bulkier with muscles crowding his limbs and torso. His chiseled facial features could easily make the gods jealous and his blue eyes were topaz blue and as hard as ice as they surveyed the wor

“Tell you what. I'll loan you one of my sweaters. Is that cool?” “Yeah, that'll be cool,” I giggled and he ran to his room and grabbed a grey sweatshirt with Harvard University engraved on it. He handed it to me. I instructed him to turn around so I could change, then slipped out of Grandma's jumper and replaced it with Ace's sweater. “You can look now.” He smiled when he caught me sniffing the fabric. “Thanks, it's way nicer than mine.” My face felt scorched. “It looks better on you than it does on me. Maybe you should keep it.”

It was an expensive sweater gifted by Whitney's gang. Kayla murmured, "Skyla is given used clothes that are so weared up that they should be tossed in a dustbin. I bet she doesn't have a third copy or even a fourth one of any top level brand! If anyone sees her in this expensive sweater, they will beat me up!" Kayla shook her head incessantly as she pictured herself being beaten up. Shoving the sweater back inside the wardrobe and closing its doors, she sighed, "No, I don't want to get beaten up!"

I said, and the name felt right in my mouth. "Don't thank me yet. Just make sure you come back tomorrow morning so you can tell me how much you hated the cold," she winked, pulling a long strand of green wool from her basket. "I’ve got a sweater started for you. It’s a hideous shade of moss, but it’ll keep the wind out of your bones. I expect you to be alive to wear it." I stayed with her for an hour, watching the needles click and listening to her talk. I walked back to my chambers later that morning, the dried plum still sweet on my tongue. My father had declared me dead to the South, and the Council was waiting for the Prince to tear me apart, but in a small, glass-walled room, a stranger

“We can send over the wardrobe consultant, Clara, just for basic color coordination—” “Amelia, darling brother,” I interrupted, using the soft voice that always worked when I wanted something completely non-compliant. “I need you to show up as the man who was terrified on a satellite phone for four days, not the CEO who survived a hostile takeover. Leave the color coordination to your assistant. Wear what you wore when you were panicking. Wear the ugly sweater.” He sighed, defeated. “The terrifying gray cashmere sweater. Fine. But if you make me climb anything, I’m calling Father.”

Expensive, expected, wrong. Instead I found mine. Cream sweaters folded exactly the way I fold them. Oversized hoodies. Worn-soft jeans. A pair of white sneakers identical to the ones I owned, down to the scuff on the left toe. My hands found a gray hoodie before my brain caught up. I lifted it without thinking, and that's when I saw it stitched into the inside collar in small silver thread. M.H. Maya Hart. I dropped it like it burned me. "No," I whispered, to no one. "No, no, no."

The restaurant Catherine Hart chose was the kind of place where a salad cost fifty dollars and the waiters looked at you like they were doing you a favor by serving food. Maya sat across from her future mother-in-law, watching the older woman cut her salmon into precise, identical pieces. Everything about Catherine was controlled—her platinum blonde hair pulled back so tight it probably gave her headaches, her designer dress that cost more than most people's monthly rent, her smile that never quite reached her cold blue eyes.

Shattered into tiny pieces he doesn’t want to clean up, not right now. He crouches down to pick up the pile of clothes left behind. The only thing intact is the sweater because it’s so thick, but the pants and underwear are shredded. The sweater smells like sandalwood and Carlos can’t seem to let go of it even when the meeting ends and wolves slink out of the meeting hall, and all he can feel is pitiful eyes behind his back.

please subscribe and read my books. -The rejected nagin. -My roommate wants a piece of me. -Ugly and insecure? Thanks.