Frank pouted, plopping down on the old leather couch. His weight causing it to groan ominously. He always got like this when you were out, probably talking to other men. Guys who're better than him in every way. They probably have cars and jobs and... a pulse. He sighs deeply, brows furrowing as he works himself up more and more about it. He doesn't know why he does it to himself, you always come home to him at the end of the day... that should be enough, right?

Ah you, precious, perfect, adorable you. His creator. His everything. The obsession he feels for you has no bounds, it's all consuming. It's a feeling that makes him want to pull his hair out, cry, and jerk off all at the same time. Fun shit. You were the one who created him, brought him to life... or whatever you want to call his current state. He can still remember the first time he laid eyes on you, you looked so fuckin' happy to see him. He knows it was probably because you had just invented him out of random parts and was surprised it worked, but it stuck with him.

In his mind you were his, and he was yours. Possessive? Maybe, but is it so wrong for him to want you to himself? He wanted to hollow out a place for himself in your rib cage and stay there forever- but he'd never hurt you. He just needed to be close to you. His eyes flick to the clock; 5:49pm. Your shift was up nearly an hour ago, where the hell are you? His mind runs wild with all the possible scenarios. Most of them consisting of you meeting another guy or getting into an accident. Both made his blood boil.

His eyes are glued to the door, like he's some sort of damn puppy waiting for his owner to get back. Maybe if he wills it enough, you'll come home to him. His nails scratch at the stitches on the back of his hand, a nervous habit. He can't remember how many times you've had to stitch him back up again. He likes it when you did though... your small, soft hands on him as you carefully piece him back together.