Well, this is a surprise for you all. I finished this and though it's absolute crap, I'm going to post it because I now you are all dying for something, whether it's an update or another story itself. Please read and review.

Takes place before 'Raiders' but after her and Indy meet.

I didn't ask him to come in my life. I didn't need him in my life. But somehow, Indiana Jones was one of those people that once you got in too deep with, you couldn't get out.

I used to be orderly. I used to have a grip on my life. I never had problems worth noticing, I never had issues that normal teenage girls were supposed to have. I was Marion Ravenwood, invincible and strong.

And then he showed up.

It was the little things about him that agitated me at first, frustrating me in the midst of my mind set of eternal concentration. He was too intriguing for me not to notice. The way he fidgeted with the fedora when he was talking to me, the tunes he whistled whenever he passed me in the hall, it nagged at the corners of my sanity, snipping at it, fraying it at the edges like a worn out carpet in an old storage house.

I tried to hold it together, I tried to keep my shields up, the barriers I had worked so hard to build over years of practice.

Somewhere in the midst of that, somewhere in the post-acquaintance-pre-friends relationship is where I fell apart. There was simply something about him that drew me in, ripped my sanity to pieces, and resolved my will in a way that made everything I did for him.

I was seventeen, naive, and young. I blame him for my hearts sudden traumatic decision to love him. I didn't know what I was doing, or why I was doing it. It was all irrational. Everything I felt for him was harebrained and hopeless, yet being with him seemed to be the only thing that made real sense. It was like being pulled out into the sun after being shoved into the dark for too long a time.

I'm probably more to blame for what happened between Indy and I. I just had no self preservation. Everything I had worked so hard to keep hidden, every feeling, every cryptic secret, very aching desire all came tumbling out when I met him. I could have denied his companionship, knowing it would go further without even trying to. I could have kept away from him, but I couldn't. Like a fly to a light, like bee to a pollen-filled flower, like a magnet to piece of metal, I was drawn to him.

If talking to him was enough to erase my will, then kissing him was about twenty times worse. My resolve all but liquefied. I remember his lips on mine, soft and gentle, but slowly tearing apart my very being. Like sand paper to my heart, he eventually wore away at my feelings with every touch, every kiss, every whispered 'I love you' into my ear. After two minutes of this my eyes would water, because there was so much to feel, yet it wasn't enough.

I was in a fragile state. Being with him meant sky-high happiness, forgetting everything but him. But being away from him was the worst I'd ever been through. Even if he left for a few hours, I was empty, not knowing what to do with myself. I sat aimlessly in my room for hours on end like an absolute idiot.

I felt that with him, I could build myself up again. I could bring back my iron will and feisty attitude. He was like my source of life. My source of air.

And then he left.

It was like having the oxygen sucked out of your lungs and being replaced with acid. Countless days I think I wandered around the house, staring blankly at the things that reminded me of him. His room, which was cleared out mostly, became my new room. I can't even count how many nights I lay in that bed, smelling his musky, woodsy scent on the sheets and pillow. It didn't fade. I bet it's still there in that old abandoned house, lingering like dust on the furniture.

It took ten years to pick up the pieces. It took ten, long, tear filled years to bring a bit of meaning back into my life. I've made myself stop living for him. I began to live against him, hating what he did to me, what he was able to manipulate me into with a simple confident smile.

I hate a lot of things about Indiana Jones, now that I've managed to bandage my nearly visible wounds. The repairs are messy, rushed; I was all too eager to get him out of my head and my heart. But they're done up in a way that will keep me alive...for now.

I hate his laugh, I hate his eyes, and his smile and every part of him that I ever once adored and admired.

The loathing I feel fuels me with vigor that keeps me going, tending to my little pub. When my customers look at me, they see a girl with a head on her shoulders and her feet planted firmly on the ground. They don't see the woman who cries herself to sleep at night, who refuses to even look at a man for fear of comparing him to another one more dear to her than he should be.

Indiana Jones wrecked me. Like a ship dashed against the rocks, he shredded every emotional, happy part of me and burned it into forgotten cinders.

I ignore the fact that I always think of him, I ignore the fact that he's in every dream I have, bad or good. It doesn't matter anymore.

The first time I fell in love with Indiana Jones, he became my sun. My air. My oxygen. My LIFE.

He also became my darkness. My sickness. My ghost. My apocalypse.

And yet, despite the fact that he was my very undoing, the unraveling of my entire soul, the one thing in the world that broke me, underneath it all, he's the one thing I know I CANNOT live without.

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Thanks, luffs!