#eleanor bonneville fic

[spiralinghours]

“Into the White” (Part 1/?)

Fandom: Saw franchise

Rating: PG-13 (for this part?)

Characters/Pairings: Mark Hoffman, Eleanor Bonneville (very mild Mark x Eleanor eventually, but I promise it will make sense), Brad, Ryan, mentions of Lawrence Gordon, John Kramer, Jill Tuck, and (a very dead) Adam Faulkner-Stanheight (or Radford or whatever his last name actually is)

Tags/Warnings: Obvious mentions of torture and/or murder, there’s a brief choking moment, Eleanor being a true crime girly, language, this eventually turns into a feedist thing fyi

Summary: Eleanor has been using her classmates, Brad and Ryan, to dig deeper into her Jigsaw fangirl explorations. What she discovers is unexpected.

Author’s Notes: Wrote this in a morning, “edited” over afternoon martinis. Any unchecked errors will be fixed later. Thanks to my bud on here for fostering this idea. It’s borderline crack.

New Jersey, 2008

Gnashing at his bubblegum with unease, Ryan held open the door for Brad as he trailed out of the cellar behind him. Where, in prior months, they may have descended into the subterranean matrix through the main hallways of the house, they now had to practice better discretion due to the threat of discovery by either the authorities or Dr. Gordon.

Dr. Gordon would have been worse for a few choice reasons, but that was a whole headache on its own.

“How long until he starts getting suspicious about, well, you know, Hoffman?” Brad kicked a sizeable pebble out of his path as he inquired. “He’s gonna know eventually. You know, ‘cause he’s not dead. And probably won’t be for a while.”

“He won’t know if he never checks on him himself. That’s our job.” Ryan clamped a reassuring palm to Brad’s back, loving and

annoyed, though he didn’t know how much he bought his own words.

“Someone’s gonna find all those pizza boxes.”

“Then we clean them up and chuck ‘em out during the next drop off.”

“Fucking 10th Street Pizza.”

They walked a little while in silence, minds clouded with a lot of to-do’s and what if’s overshadowing the fact that they were likely late for some class or other.

As if a psychic link had sparked between their clouded minds, they turned to each other.

“Eleanor is gonna come snooping around here eventually,” Brad sighed.

“She’s got, like, dozens of other Kramer properties to dig around before she gets here. Hell, she’s been gutting Jill Tuck’s farm out by the river all week.”

“She’s so fucking weird.”

“I know. But maybe we just don’t tell her about this house in particular.” Ryan worked the black raincoat off as he spoke, trying to slip out of his “uniform” like an unwanted, limp skin. Wearing apprentice garb outside of “office hours” made him feel sick. It was the same way he never wanted to look at beige coveralls ever again.

“This house is probably public record as being both Kramer’s place and also Hoffman’s address. She’s gonna find it… And… I may have already told her.” Brad gritted his teeth, waiting for a thwack to the back of his head. He hated when Ryan did that.

Instead, Ryan just grunted and pressed his fingers tightly to his eyelids. “Then we better hope she doesn’t find him.”

——

Girls had to have their hobbies, especially ones with diligent course schedules and impressive extracurriculars. Beta Club and Scholar’s Forum paid off in high school—undergrad was just a repeat. It all looked good on paper. It would look even better on job or internship applications.

To Eleanor it was a personal point of pride; her repertoire looked shiny and vibrant and diverse in her mental curio cabinet. There was something to be said about putting in hours at medical school during the day and embracing, well, “urban exploring” at night and on the weekends.

Brad and Ryan were real ones for slipping her information on Jigsaw “memorabilia” spots throughout the city—even if it had started by Brad blurting something unintentionally one day and Ryan less-than-willingly going along with it.

But they were heroes—stars even—in Eleanor’s eyes. She had developed a deep interest in the Jigsaw killings in high school (“Games,” people would reiterate, “Games because Jigsaw is only putting people in situations. Whether they die is up to fate and wits.”), and by the time she had made it into the state university, Brad and Ryan had already been oversaturated in the media for the public trap they had endured.

They also happened to be in their senior year at the same school. There was no chance of escaping Eleanor’s prying.

Which was how she currently ended up at the back alley house on in the industrial district.

The expectations for the day were low, sure, but just the hunt was thrilling on its own. Breathing in the same chemical-and-dust-speckled air where so many had roamed and died? It was twisted, but the feeling burrowed a warm elation deep in the pit of Eleanor’s stomach.

Bypassing the main entrance and, instead, stumbling upon the lesser-known door Brad and Ryan had been using—amongst a build-up of trash and webs—Eleanor managed to slip past dark entryways that lead into a vaguely larger space. Greenish light permeated from somewhere, but it was black besides that.

She shone a flashlight from her right to her left, luckily spotting a light switch that sparked on rows of washed out and faint fluorescents.

Like a startled insect, a mass of black jerked in a corner, but didn’t speak (save for a deep grunt of sorts). Was that… a… somebody?

“The fuck are you?” a rasping voice finally decided to pipe up, echoing dully through what looked to be a spacious, defunct bathroom. Eleanor wandered closer, taking a stance beside it. Him.

It was starting to become clearer. Even through the slightly graying whiskers creeping from his beard and temples, and the longer, dark hair curling down by his ears, Eleanor could place that sweat and grime-worn face. It had stoically stared out past the TV screen during local press conferences and field report interviews. And then national joint press appearances with the FBI. It was ingrained in the splotchy pages of the city’s periodicals: images of a man, victoriously yet humbly carrying a young Corbett Denlon from the trenches of the dank and dangerous Gideon Meat Packing Plant, matted green plush toy trailing behind in her petite grasp. That same heroic mug would be printed in the pages some months later for diametrically opposing reasons: “20 Found Dead in Metropolitan Precinct Massacre… Possibly More”… “Multiple Left Dead in the Wake of New Jigsaw Game”… “Former Lieutenant Detective Connected to Jigsaw Murders”…

The city’s decorated, tragic hero was the killer all along—behind it all. And while it was the largest scandal—that being an understatement—of the whole city, he was gone, never to be found. Left for dead. Any and all known locations linked to John Kramer, Mark Hoffman, or even the Metro PD had been raided twice over. Nothing.

“You’re… Detective Hoffman?” It left Eleanor’s lips as more of a shaky statement than a question. Inhibitions tossed aside, she cupped his beard-prickly chin and tilted his head to inspect the glossy, mangled scar. Remnants of infection and improper stitching glared through in a raised pink line, jagged and inflamed.

“Not really a detective anymore, wouldn’t you gather?” Mark wasn’t keen on too much chitchat, but was more distracted and curious by how some random college-aged woman would be able to identify him so quickly. Especially with how out of sorts he must have looked, sealed away in the darkness and must of some unknown death trap hideout. (Or, what once was.)

“How are you still alive? How long have you been here?” She pushed on, absently letting her bold hand wander down his thick neck, and to his shoulder.

“I should be asking you some questions,” he shot back, “like how you found this place.”

Eleanor exhaled harshly. “I feel like I shouldn’t say, but I honestly don’t know what lying to you would do. I mean, look at you. You’re already stuck here.”

“Thankssssss.”

“I could tell you that any properties that John Kramer once owned have all been made public, though left abandoned. That is true. But—”

“But?”

“Maybe I got a couple of friends from school that gave me a head’s up.” Eleanor’s grasp snaked down the length of chain keeping Mark in place, looking for any wear and rust.

“Let me guess, curly brown hair and a tall blonde? Fucking dickheads.”

“Well without those dickheads I wouldn’t have found you. I was just looking for… This actually!” Zapped to another plain of existence, thoughts of anything else completely left behind, Eleanor fervently crawled closer to the pipe Mark was chained to, anxiously grasping for something metallic.

Her eyes drifted up, with some remorse, to a skeleton clothed in a white shirt, its smears of blood turning brown and black from the passage of time. By its rotted hand was the item that had caught her attention: a thin and rusted hacksaw, dented up and broken in the middle.

“I never thought I’d be holding this… Let alone find it. Like, can you even? No one else has found this?”

Mark had to roll his eyes. The girl was late to the party, regurgitating all the exposition he had already gone through. But again, how would she have known anything?

“Say ‘Hi’ to Adam,” Mark grunted, “and his completely useless saw.”

“Where’s the other one?” Eleanor urged.

“What? How did you know—? Ugh. Gordon threw it down the hallway, just outside the door.” The replay of that very moment, almost a year prior, was starting to boil Mark’s blood. He was faced with it, cursed with it, rewinding behind his eyes almost everyday.

“I gotta remember to grab it before we go.” Eleanor tucked the broken hacksaw into her satchel, eyes hungry towards the heavy sliding door.

“We?” Mark was drowning in the sudden onslaught of ridiculousness this college girl had trailed in with. It was a lot. “Wait now. Why are you here again?”

“Jigsaw. I’m… well, uh, I’m a fan.”

He could make out her cartoonish flush in the darkness and sickly strays of light.

“A fan?” That was rich. The files in Mark’s memories conjured up snippets of John criticizing every little adjustment he made on traps, explaining why smokers and rapists were on level playing fields when it came to “not cherishing life”… It was all very questionable.

“Yeah. Well. Not just of John Kramer, but like, the whole thing. All of it. All of you.” Her mouth twisted with a tinge of embarrassment at the admission.

“The fuck?”

“You know how some deranged losers are really wet for true crime? Like girls who have boners for Ted Bundy or whatever? It’s like that… but, you know… it’s you… Uh, ah, not the boner part. I mean, not to say—”

“You’re not a deranged loser?” Mark interrupted, feeling a chuckle come on for the first time in a good while.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t.” Her uncertain grin matched his own tired one. “Anyways, let’s get you out of here.”

“Get me out? With what?” Mark’s features resorted back to their natural cynical pout.

“Don’t worry, I have everything. I wasn’t sure what I was going to have to take apart to steal whatever was left.” She giddily waggled her fingers as she sorted through her bag for tools.

Mark could bargain that someone, somewhere, for some undeserved reason, had sent him an angel. He just wasn’t expecting said angel to be so unhinged.

[faxxmodem]

(@sawtober2024 day 7: FREE) pairing: Eleanor Bonneville/Pamela Jenkins rating: E Award-winning crime journalist Pamela Jenkins gives a talk on investigatory tactics. Eleanor takes the day off from cutting up cadavers to attend. (on ao3)

[spiralinghours]

“Into the White” (Part 2/?)

Fandom: Saw franchise

Rating: 18+ (to be safe idk)

Characters/Pairings: Mark Hoffman, Eleanor Bonneville, very mild Mark x Eleanor (like in a weird way)

Tags/Warnings: feeding kink (because of course there is); weight gain; mild age gap stuff (as in Eleanor is flirting with Mark… it’s all consensual but she’s in her 20’s and he’s in his 40’s); Stockholm Syndrome? (sort of?)

Summary: Eleanor, being a collector of all things Jigsaw, has acquired a hefty piece of memorabilia.

Author’s Notes: I’m so bad at summaries. Anyways, this is going nowhere but I’m having so much fun with it.

“Are you hungry?” Eleanor prodded, unaware of how her jeweled glance drifted down to the hefty paunch that rounded against the zipper of Mark’s jacket, or how tightly the weatherproofed fabric clawed against his ample (“Squeezable,” her intrusive thoughts added) sides. Something about it didn’t line up with the circumstances.

They were sat in her little red Maserati—matching the electrically chemical-cherry shade of her dye job.

“Always,” Mark laughed gruffly. “But, uh, I highly doubt anyone’s gonna play it cool if they see me roll up to the nearest Shake Shack.”

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll just go back to my apartment. You can get cleaned up and stuff too.”

Raspy choking sputtered from her lips as Mark’s large palm clasped tightly around her throat, swift and unexpected.

“You’re stupidly trusting of someone who’s killed most of the city.” His voice rumbled like a dangerous purr at the implication. “Why? What’s your motive?” He released her soft neck, noting a relatively unbothered look in her eyes despite fighting for breath.

“Most of the city?” Her voice tickled on the brink of laughter through strained coughing. She was taunting him. “I hardly doubt that a chunk of Umbrella Health, your precinct, and that Bobby Dagen circus counts for most of the city, but it is a lot. I commend you for that much. Watching all those people squirm in those traps—that’s gotta be exhilarating.”

The most unsettling of smiles crawled across her candy-rose lips as she peeled forward, breeze coursing through the rolled down windows.

“You’re an interesting one,” Mark huffed, wondering if maybe he should have reserved a little more fear and hesitation. He couldn’t shake the image of the tiny little redhead gleefully torturing him in the most unimaginable ways.

——

“Are the zip ties still necessary?” Mark grumbled from across the small, yellow bistro table. For a girl with a lot of medical school money from her parents, Eleanor’s apartment was small, as were all her craft store accoutrements that filled it. It made Mark feel like a clumsy bear, bumping into countertops and shelves at every turn.

The size of the place couldn’t take the entirety of the blame, as Mark was indeed a fairly dense and wide individual. It was a point that lingered across Eleanor’s observations and fluttered along her blinking, shadow-caked lids as he moved around.

“I may like you—I may be giving you a place to stay for now—but I also know all about you. Can’t trust you to not stab me in the throat,” Eleanor tutted with an overly-eager and amused grin. “You already forget about choking me in the car? Silly.”

Before letting him make another move past her front door when they arrived, she had made sure to keep his hands bound behind him with little plastic restraints. Sure, he could have easily busted out of them… but only if she hadn’t tightened them to the point of cutting into his thick wrists with too much pull force.

She kept a handful of the ties in her pocket, along with a box cutter, allowing her to replace them as needed: before hopping into the bath she drew for him, after giving him a fresh change of clothes, and so on…

The perverse shiver of self-satisfaction chilled through her, recounting how she hadn’t expected to find much else besides grimy crime scene tiles that day… And now? Now she was housing one of the last few apprentices that had been presumed dead. A nationally wanted killer. A threat.

While he was her guest, he was also at the mercy of her bindings and watchful eyes.

Watchful indeed.

Keeping his wrists secured to the tub’s faucet, Eleanor had scrubbed the sweat-caked muck off Mark’s skin, being mindful of any tender scars and untreated scrapes. A thick, rosy line shone above his tanned-gold complexion as she grazed the loofah across his broad chest. Heaving, strong chest, peppered with wisps of dark hair and the most minimal freckling…

‘Don’t comment, don’t comment,’ she hammered to herself, mouth tightening into a straight line and letting her hand go on autopilot as she continued to clean him.

Now, they sat across from each other in the meager galley kitchen, Eleanor plotting how to work around the bindings. “You like pie?”

“I guess,” Mark shrugged. He didn’t want to sound too demanding, but real food—a full meal—would have been preferred. “What kind?”

“Black cherry. With a little whipped cream, of course.” She was already turned towards the fridge, fishing the tin off a shelf. “I’ll order some delivery, but figured you might like a little something for now.”

“Ahem, again, the zip ties?” Mark couldn’t make the gesture of raising his hands with his arms behind his back, so he made a show of shifting his shoulders around.

“Leave it to me, Detective.” She replied with a dorky salute, moving to stand in front of him with a fork hovering.

“Seriously? You’re gonna feed me? What am I, a baby?”

“You sorta complain like one,” she giggled. “Come on.”

Fighting against irritation and burning cheeks, Mark leaned forward for the overloaded forkful of cherry glaze and crust. He couldn’t deny that it did taste pretty decent (it was hard to fuck up pie—even when it was subpar it was good), but maybe just having something sweet, and being somewhere clean and dry with doting attention on him was enhancing the stimulation of it all.

“Oooo he likes it,” Eleanor chirped like a little cardinal, waggling her black-polished fingers. “Good!”

Each subsequent delivery from the fork left tacky-sweet smearing across Mark’s lips and in the corners of his mouth. He’d begrudgingly let Eleanor tidy him up with a napkin, though he silently enjoyed it in its newness. Weird yet strangely pleasant.

“I’ll take a little more,” Mark sighed, settling in and getting comfortable. He absentmindedly relaxed his shoulders and sank against the chair backing, nearly forgetting he was literally bound to a little piece of IKEA furniture.

“More? You finished it. Pie’s gone. I didn’t even get to try any, thank you very much.” Eleanor didn’t actually mind, preferring to focus on the bewilderment flashing across Mark’s eyes. “I get it, you must be so hungry after being chained up all alone in that bathroom.” There was something knowing, almost teasing, in her voice.

Mark couldn’t bring himself to answer with something obvious and snarky. He looked around, feeling caught and under the microscope.

“You know, people probably assumed you starved to death above all else. I mean, if they even knew what happened to you.”

“Like you know anything,” Mark scoffed, not meeting her eyes.

“I know enough. Duh.” She walked behind him, picking at strands of his overgrown waves, raking them between her fingers. “But it doesn’t take a professional to see how… not underfed you are.”

“Excuse me?” His voice was sharp, but bumbling, like a cat caught with its paw in the fish bowl.

“In fact, you’re a little bigger than I remember how you looked in the papers and on the news. I can’t imagine how someone can get fatter after being locked up for almost a year.”

“Whoa, I, uh…”

“It doesn’t matter. A big, intimidating guy like you? Hard to not be built the way you are. Must be natural. I mean, it’s not just anyone who can kill a roomful of FBI agents with their bare hands. Detective, did you ever play rugby? Or football?”

She sounded like she was… Was she flirting with him?

Eleanor moved her small hands to his shoulders and trap muscles, rhythmically squeezing any knots she could pinpoint. Mark remained frozen to the chair (not that he could move too much anyways), slight unease building up at the foreign intrusion. Not terrible, he had to remind himself, but so much touching was new.

“I don’t know what you blackmailed or bribed Brad and Ryan with,” she spoke low and quiet, hunkered down close by Mark’s ear, “but I’m guessing they’re the ones that have been keeping you alive. And they’ve been doing a decent job of it too.” She was practically draped over him at that point, reaching a hand down to lightly trace the way his stomach rolled out past his chest—the enticingly heftiest part of him.

While his dark layers and boxy raincoat may have obscured his barrel build for months, his thicker figure was too hard to hide in the fresh clothes he’d been given. Some threadbare, lived-in New York Dolls shirt that typically hung off Eleanor’s body like a blanket looked more fitted on Mark: some wiggle room, sure, but enough tautness cupping around his chest, love handles, and protruding belly. The gray joggers he’d been given were a similar story, though slightly less forgiving in the waist and the thighs. The elastic was already biting into him, and some unnerved part of his skittish dog brain wondered if it was on purpose.

“I have to admit, I have a thing for bigger guys, Detective. A soft spot for a soft build, heehee.” Eleanor’s giggles were bordering on creepy, grating in Mark’s ears as she lowered down onto his lap.

“I told you, I’m not a detective anymore so you don’t need to keep calling me that.” He ground his back teeth reflexively, plush lips giving way to a sneer.

“Ugh, but it feels weird calling you MARK. You’re, like, my dad’s age almost. Well, maybe an uncle or something. Feels very informal.”

“You’re worried about formalities? Really?” In lieu of shrugging for emphasis, Mark widened his eyes and panned his glare around, optically pointing to the way Eleanor had straddled one of his thighs like a rocking horse and had started braiding a tuft of hair by his ear. “Call me Mark.”

“Mmmm… I mean, I’m gonna call you what I want.” Eleanor rolled her eyes playfully in consideration. “Mark is fine. But Detective Grumpy Ass is funnier.”

‘Goddddd,’ Mark exhaled internally, ‘I really am a prisoner.’

“Oh, also, what’s with the ‘D’?”

“‘D?’”

“‘D. Hoffman’ on your old badge?”

“I burned my old badge. What? Wait—”

“Don’t worry, I found the unburnt scraps before that warehouse got cleared out. I was curious. Does the D stand for David or something? Is that what I should call you? You have a first name or a middle name that starts with D?”

Mark winced with embarrassment at the recollection. “It stands for ‘detective’. I signed that when I was hammered. Got a little confused.”

Squealing delightfully, Eleanor got up and fished the charred old cards and wallet from a baggie in a nearby drawer. “Oh. My. Godddddd. I love knowing that! You’re so silly.” She pulled out a remaining half of Mark’s New Jersey state ID and gave it a thoughtful glare. “Wow, 5’10”, brown hair, blue eyes and… 215 pounds? I highly doubt that’s up-to-date.” The giggling continued as she returned her stash to its hiding place and bounded back over to Mark.

“Okay, please… If you unbind me, I promise I won’t hurt you or do anything,” Mark pleaded with the utmost calmness he likely ever mustered.

“Why should I believe you? Hmmmm?”

“Because, honestly? You make me nervous.” His eyes rolled up, widened and glassy-blue. A stab at a little vulnerability couldn’t hurt, right?

Eleanor threaded a lock of fried, red strands through his lips in thought. “Truce? No weapons, no murdering each other? Although, I didn’t mind the choking too much. But, like, maybe let me tap out if you decide to do that again.” There was that overly-excited yet blank grin again. Jesus…

“God, yes, okay,” Mark agreed. “And, this should go without saying, no getting the authorities involved. We’d obviously both have some problems.”

“Well duhhhhh.”

“So we’re good? You’ll let me go now?”

“Not until after you’ve eaten. You said you were still hungry, right? You’re gonna stay put, relax, and I’m gonna feed you. I’m gonna take care of you. Get you back to one hundred. You don’t have to worry about going hungry, like, ever.”

“Is this, what, a thing for you?”

“Heeee, you ask a lot of questions. Oh! And on that note, the delivery should be here any moment!”

——

Mark wanted to protest. He didn’t think it was physically, scientifically possible to fit anymore into him. He was stuffed to the ribs and then some with a spread of chicken, mashed potatoes, and some other staples that seemed close enough to comfortable home cooking. He couldn’t tell what all was ordered and devoured, just let Eleanor prop his chin up with one hand and scoop spoonfuls of this and that with the other. All with the admiration of a sculptor appraising their own work.

Something deep in his complacent, lazy-cat desires fought against the instinct to ask Eleanor to stop. A lot was head-butting his survival instincts at that moment. But she was being sweet—if still awkward and somewhat intense—and the fuzzy tranquility of that, mixed with the drowsiness of a overfull belly, started to lull him into less guarded territory.

Without the accessibility of his hands, the worn out T-shirt had ridden up just enough over his navel, leaving him exposed and unable to adjust. Eleanor slowly noticed this, and, with an adoringly insane flare in her eyes, darted her palms to the sides of his gut, tickling and hefting with glee.

“Ugh, don’t do that,” Mark groaned, desperate tone sounding so foreign against his usual tepid demeanor. “I’m too full for that, cut it out.”

Eleanor stilled her hands, opting for a more gentle touch. “Say ‘please’! Where are your manners?”

Mark could feel his lids getting heavy, breathing shallow. He was too worn. “You’re enjoying this too much. Fucking weirdo.”

“Say please, Detective Grumpy. Be nice.” She feigned a lippy, red pout.

“Please, Eleanor.”

“Okay, since you were so sweet.” She beamed, snapping her hands away and grabbing the box cutter from her pocket. With a brief moment of careful sawing, the zip ties were off, leaving pink indentations behind. “I’m thinking we watch a little Criminal Minds. You like Criminal Minds?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Eleanor gave a non-answer with her lingering light laugh, helping him from his seat in the kitchen to her jade green couch (another piece of furniture that looked simultaneously cheap and stylish—a university student staple).

Mark plopped down heavily with a sigh, surprised to see Eleanor tuck in close by his side, head on his shoulder, knees tucked up to her chest. “Yeah, just make yourself comfortable,” he mumbled sarcastically.

“You’re cozy. Like a body pillow.” She smiled deeply, eyes shut with contentment.

“You keep feeding me like this I’m gonna look like a pillow.”

“Yeah, I highly doubt you mind that. You just don’t wanna say you like it. Besides, the more different you look from the last time anyone’s seen you in public, the better. You wanna be recognized if we go out?”

“Where you gonna take me? A Hot Topic?”

“I’m surprised you know what that is. Oh! Speaking of which, we should go shopping! You’ll need new clothes. I’m thinking a leather jacket… Some jeans…”

‘I was a lieutenant once,’ Mark sighed internally, eyes squeezing with exasperation, ‘now I’m some girl’s dress-up doll.’

But his grumbling and griping halted once he felt a petite, cold hand slither up under his shirt, lightly scratching at his belly. He couldn’t deny how nice it felt.

“A little to the left,” he mumbled, reclining further back and tucking an arm under his head.

“You ever see stuff in real life like on these crime dramas?” Eleanor piped up as she turned on an episode.

“Probably. You gonna ask me about it the whole time?”

“Probably.”