Undertale Patience Novels & Stories

Because Anastasia doesn’t understand the meaning of patience. I roll my eyes, drag a hand over my face. She’s Jake’s problem, not mine. But she’s also his mate, which means she’s family. And this girl doesn't have word patience in her dictionary... which means she doesn't give up until you give in. This better be something good. The screen won’t stop buzzing. Persistent. Like her. I cave, thumb sliding across the glass. “Patience, Anastasia. You ever tried it? Might suit you.” My words drip sarcasm, no venom, just the usual jab.

Badly. He’s called and texted relentlessly. My phone buzzes nonstop. But I refused to respond. I told myself I wanted to teach him a lesson: abandoning his Luna after our first night while he runs off on business was emotional torture. He’d try mind-linking, I’m sure, but I preemptively had Penny teach me mind-blocking. I had to protect myself from his scent floods and endless apologies. With a heavy breath, I rounded a corner—and froze, when a hoarse voice stopped me .

"You think he's going to escalate that too." "I think," Dante said slowly, "that a man who has spent twenty years being patient does not suddenly become this active unless he has concluded that patience is no longer an option. Which means he's not testing us anymore. He's executing a plan that was already prepared, the moment the situation crossed whatever threshold he'd set for it." He looked at the city outside the window, dark and cold and entirely unaware. "And I think tonight, right now, while we're having this conversation, he is doing the same thing to every other piece on the board." He called Vincent.

He was thorough with me. Not in the instrumental sense. Thorough in the way of someone who has been given a gift they understand the value of and intends to demonstrate that understanding without haste. He moved over me with the patience that was his most fundamental quality, the patience of a man who had learned early that things worth having required sustained attention and had applied that learning to everything that mattered to him. I did not manage anything.

PATREA. "Do you think that if I promise to be gentle, you will let me kiss you?" My eyes widened before my forehead creased. "Aren’t we going too fast?" "If six months is too fast, then yeah, I’m going too fast." He spoke in a voice devoid of any emotion before he pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. "You’re upset." "I am. I’m a demon, Patrea. I don’t have the patience of a saint or even of a human."

And he said, very quietly, before he walked out to make the call he needed to make alone: “Eighteen years.” Just that. Two words. The door closed behind him. Daniel and I sat in the silence. Outside, New York went on without us, loud and continuous and completely unchanged by the fact that everything inside this room had just shifted on its axis. I looked at the name on the page. I thought about patience. Real patience. The kind that does not waver or adjust or second-guess itself, that simply continues, year after year, invisible and certain, until the moment it no longer needs to be.

“Listen to yourself, bro. You just said if Lucas lets him. Don't worry about it. I think Lucas loves you. So you need to be patient until he is ready.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm scared, do you think he will listen to me tomorrow?” “No, he won't, maybe in a few weeks or months.” “What?” “What do you expect? You can't expect him to hug you tomorrow. He is very mad at you. Why didn't you give him a chance to explain? You should have given him the benefit of the doubt. You need to give him time and gradually make up for what you've done. It can only work when he believes that you trust him. So you need a whole lot of patience.”

A thoughtful expression settled over him. “Yut...” “Mm?” Pat lowered his gaze. “Don't you think he's too good to be true?” "Pat asked quietly without looking at Tee, who kept his attention on the television screen, though he couldn't have said what program was playing. It was easier than letting Pat notice the exhaustion he was trying so hard to hide. “In what way?” Tee asked Pat struggled to explain. “You know.” “No, I don't.” Pat sighed. “He's patient.”

Patient in a way that has years in it — not the patience of waiting for something to happen, the patience of someone who has already waited so long that a few more minutes is nothing. I know that patience. I learned it. "Kael." I don't look at him. "What is it." He's quiet for long enough that the wind moves through the ridge twice. A piece of bark falls from the pine to the left, hits the ground, small sound in all the silence. "The last confirmed Void Wolf," he says, "before your mother." Three words left. He spent four. I do the math. Before my mother means more than fifteen years ago. The shape in the tree line has silver eyes and the particular patience of someone who has been surviving

They marked where she carried tenderness and where the wound still came open. I swirled the whiskey, tasting the pleasant burn, and measured my next moves like one composes a letter. Patience was not passivity; it was the slow architecture of influence. Give a book left on a pillow. Return a locked phone. Unbar a window. A small mercy, then a withdrawal. Each oscillation would pry at the edges of certainty until even hatred sat beside doubt.