Between Starting and Finishing
IsadoraCapri x Fem!Reader (established relationship)
Warnings/Tags: Romantic established relationship, Non-sexual affection, Y/N: implied inattentive ADHD, portrays ADHD traits: Task paralysis, Executive dysfunction, Burnout/creative block, Difficulty with routines, Irregular eating habits (non-graphic), Painter!Y/N, Protective!IsadoraCapri, Praise, reassurance and lots of hurt comfort themes :)
Authors note at the end, please read it 🥺 also... this is fic is quite long... oops
The first thing Isadora notices is the absence...
It’s subtle enough that it almost slips past her, the way small changes often do when they belong to someone you love – someone you see every day, someone whose rhythms have long since woven themselves into your own. If she hadn’t been standing close, if she hadn’t reached out on instinct, she might not have clocked it at all.
Y/N’s hands are clean.
Not washed clean – no lingering scent of soap, no dampness clinging to her knuckles – but untouched. No smudge of colour at the cuticles, no faint ghost of pigment staining the pads of her fingers. No flecks of paint stubbornly lodged beneath her nails.
Isadora’s thumb stills where it had been tracing lazy circles over the back of Y/N’s hand, her rings cool against warm skin. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t comment. Just… registers it, the way her wolf brain quietly slots information away for later.
Y/N is rambling about something inconsequential – an offhand comment about a plant she’s thinking of moving, or a half-formed idea she keeps losing the thread of. Her words tumble over one another, quick and bright and unfocused, and Isadora hums along in response, content to listen.
But her eyes flick back to Y/N’s hands.
Clean hands, on the eighth day of the school break.
That’s new.
Later, when Y/N drifts off to shower, Isadora wanders through the house alone, mug of tea cooling slowly in her grasp.
The house is peaceful in that lived-in way she loves – soft light slanting through the windows, a cardigan abandoned over the back of a chair, a scattering of rings left like breadcrumbs along the kitchen counter where she’d taken them off earlier to cook.
The conservatory door is open.
Isadora pauses there, leaning lightly against the frame. The room smells like earth and leaves and sun-warmed glass. Plants crowd every surface – lush, thriving things that Y/N adores and then forgets about in equal measure. Isadora waters them without comment, trims them when they need it, pretends it’s coincidence rather than habit.
The easel stands where it always does.
Yet it's empty.
No canvas propped against it. No paint-stained rag draped over the corner. The table beside it is clear, wiped down carefully, jars neatly lined up and bone-dry. Too neat.
The kind of neatness that comes from tidying without actually using the space.
Isadora exhales softly through her nose.
She doesn’t step inside. Doesn’t touch anything.
Just watches the light spill across the tiled floor, imagines Y/N standing here – standing and standing and standing, maybe – before turning away again.
It isn’t wrong. It isn’t bad. It just is.
Still, something in her chest tightens, protective and familiar.
That evening, Y/N sits cross-legged on the sofa, one of Isadora’s oversized button-ups slipping off her shoulder, bare skin peeking through. Her hair is twisted up messily, half of it already escaping to fall into her eyes. She keeps brushing it away, distracted, fingers restless.
Isadora sits behind her without a word and gently gathers the loose strands.
“Hey,” Y/N murmurs, a smile already tugging at her mouth. “What’re you doing?”
“Humour me,” Isadora says, voice warm, amused.
She braids slowly, carefully, fingers sure and practiced. Y/N stills almost immediately, melting back against her without thinking, shoulders dropping as if something heavy has been set down.
Isadora presses a kiss to the crown of her head.
There’s a faint hitch in Y/N’s breathing – barely there, easy to miss – but Isadora catches it. Her wolf does, too, ears metaphorically flicking forward, attention sharpening.
“You okay?” she asks, casual, like she’s asking about the weather.
Y/N hums. “Yeah. Just… tired, I think.”
Isadora accepts that answer the way she accepts most things from her – gently, without pushing.
She finishes the braid, ties it off, lets her hands rest briefly on Y/N’s shoulders.
A moment later, Y/N’s fingers find Isadora’s rings, fidgeting absently, twisting one around and around. It’s a habit. A comfort. Isadora lets her. Always.
“Did you want to play music later?” Y/N asks, glancing back up at her. “Or– I don’t know. We don’t have to.”
“We don’t have to, we can if you'd like,” Isadora agrees easily.
Y/N nods, relieved, then pauses. “I was thinking about painting today.”
Isadora keeps her expression neutral, open.
“Thinking about it?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” Y/N says, quick. “Just– thinking.”
There it is.
Isadora presses another kiss to her temple. “That sounds nice, sweetheart.”
Y/N smiles, small and shy, then looks away.
Later, when they’re in bed, Y/N curled into Isadora’s side, breath warm against her neck, Isadora lies awake for a while longer. She listens to the steady rhythm of Y/N’s breathing, feels the familiar weight of her against her chest.
Clean hands. An empty easel. Thoughts without follow-through.
Isadora doesn’t label it. Doesn’t diagnose or assume. She doesn’t need to.
She just knows her girl well enough to recognise the quiet before the storm – or before the stall. And she knows, too, that storms aren’t chased away by shouting at the sky.
She presses her lips softly to Y/N’s hair and murmurs, barely loud enough to hear, “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”
Y/N sighs in her sleep, nestling closer.
Isadora smiles into the dark.
She can wait.
...
Days stretch in a way that feels both too long and not long enough.
There are mornings when Y/N wakes with intent already buzzing under her skin – today, maybe today – and by the time she’s brushed her teeth, it’s slipped sideways, lost somewhere between the mirror and the doorway.
She drifts through the house like that, half-aimed, starting and stopping without quite knowing why.
Isadora watches.
Not in a hovering way. Not like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. Just… attentive, the way she always is, the way her wolf has taught her to be – aware of patterns, of disruptions in them.
Breakfast is the first tell.
Y/N pours herself a bowl of cereal and leaves it on the counter while she goes to open the curtains. By the time she comes back, she’s forgotten it exists. Later, Isadora finds the milk still out, the cereal gone soft and untouched.
Another morning it’s toast, cold and abandoned on a plate beside the sink.
Another day, half a sandwich wrapped back up and put into the fridge like it might be finished later.
It usually isn’t.
Isadora doesn’t comment. She just adjusts.
She slides a plate back in front of Y/N hours later. Cuts fruit into smaller pieces. Leaves snacks within reach – on the coffee table, beside the bed, on the windowsill in the conservatory.
Sometimes Y/N eats. Sometimes she doesn’t. Isadora keeps offering anyway, gentle as tidewater.
“You need to eat something, angel,” she says once, softly, not a command.
Y/N frowns, embarrassed. “I will. I just- forgot.”
“I know,” Isadora replies easily, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “That’s why I remembered.”
The conservatory sees the most activity.
Y/N goes in there often now.
She opens the windows wide, lets the cool air roll in, rearranges plants with great care. She wipes down surfaces that don’t need cleaning, lines jars up until they’re perfectly straight. She props a canvas against the wall… then leans it back again.
Isadora finds her sitting on the floor one afternoon, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the blank white like it’s personally offended her.
“Do you want company?” Isadora asks from the doorway.
Y/N startles slightly, then shakes her head. “No- yes- I don’t know. Maybe just… sit?”
So Isadora sits.
They don’t talk.
Isadora’s rings click softly when she shifts, and Y/N’s fingers find them without thinking, twisting one around and around.
After a while, Y/N sighs, frustrated.
“I keep getting this far,” she mutters. “And then it’s like my brain just– slams the door.”
Isadora doesn’t tell her to open it.
Instead, she says, “You got dressed. You came in here. That counts.”
Y/N scoffs weakly. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know,” Isadora says, and means I know how it feels, not you’re wrong.
Another day, Y/N gets as far as squeezing paint onto the palette. She lines the colours up thoughtfully, hands shaking just a little with the effort of decision. Isadora watches from the kitchen, heart aching with pride and restraint in equal measure.
Y/N washes the palette clean forty minutes later without touching the canvas.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, the words tripping over each other. “I don’t know why I can’t just–”
Isadora crosses the room in three strides and cups her face, thumbs warm against her cheeks. “Hey. Sweet girl. You don’t need to apologise.”
“But I didn’t–”
“You tried,” Isadora says firmly, gently. “And that matters.”
Y/N’s eyes sting, frustration pooling hot and fast. Isadora pulls her into her chest, lets her hide there until the feeling ebbs.
Some nights, dinner is eaten on the sofa in mismatched bites. Some nights, Y/N pokes at her food until it goes cold, then curls up with her head on Isadora’s thigh instead. Isadora feeds her forkfuls without comment when she lets her. When she doesn’t, she just rubs slow circles into her back.
There’s no routine to hold onto – only moments.
And Isadora meets each one as it comes.
She braids Y/N’s hair in the mornings when it seems like too much effort to manage. She lets Y/N chatter aimlessly while she practices music, grounding her with sound and presence. She never says go paint.
Instead, she says things like:
“I like having you here.”
“You don’t have to do anything today.”
“I’m proud of you, you know.”
One afternoon, Y/N laughs suddenly, a sharp, humourless sound. “I feel like I’m wasting time.”
Isadora looks at her, steady and sure. “I feel like you’re surviving something quiet.”
Y/N blinks at that. Looks away.
Later, Isadora finds her once again in the conservatory, sleeves rolled up, paint brushes ready. She doesn’t announce herself this time. Just leans against the frame and watches Y/N sit there, frozen, breathing unevenly, hands hovering uselessly in her lap.
Isadora resists the urge to step in.
To fix. To coax. To help.
She knows better.
When Y/N finally drops her hands and lets out a shaky breath, Isadora simply says, from the doorway, “Do you want some soup, pretty girl?”
Y/N laughs weakly, scrubbing at her face. “Yeah. That’d be… yeah.”
Isadora brings it to her. Warm. Simple. Easy to eat.
Y/N manages half of it.
Isadora kisses her temple and says, “That’s enough for now.”
And somehow – somewhere between the unfinished meals, the untouched canvases, and the days that blur into one another – something begins to loosen.
Not yet.
But soon.
...
It’s nothing.
That’s the worst part about it.
Isadora only asks, “Do you want me to move this?” as she reaches for a stack of sketchbooks on the dining table – books that have been sitting there untouched for days, slowly migrating from neat pile to scattered mess.
The words land wrong anyway.
Y/N’s shoulders tense, breath catching sharp and fast. “Can you just- stop?” she snaps, the sound sudden and loud in the quiet room. “I was going to do that.”
The silence that follows is immediate...
Awful.
Isadora freezes, hand still hovering mid-air.
Her expression doesn’t harden. Doesn’t shift into anything defensive. If anything, her eyes soften – but that almost makes it worse.
Y/N feels it crash over her all at once: the heat in her chest, the pressure behind her eyes, the horrible twist of regret that follows too close on anger’s heels.
“I didn’t mean-” she starts, then falters. Her hands curl into the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that like that, I just- I wasn’t-”
Her voice breaks.
Isadora sets the sketchbooks down carefully, like they’re fragile, like Y/N is. She crosses the room slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Isadora stops in front of her. “Hey,” she says softly.
Y/N can’t look at her. Shame crawls hot up her neck. “I shouldn’t have snapped. You were just trying to help and I- I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”
Isadora reaches out anyway, fingers warm as they curl around Y/N’s wrists, gently uncurling her clenched hands.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says, steady and sure. “And I’m not upset.”
Y/N lets out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. “You should be.”
“I’m not,” Isadora repeats.
She guides Y/N closer, pressing her forehead to hers. Their noses brush.
Isadora’s voice drops, softer still. “That wasn’t about me. That was frustration spilling over. I know the difference.”
Y/N’s eyes finally lift, glossy and red. “I hate that I do that. I hate that I get snappy and then I feel like I’ve ruined everything.”
Isadora hums quietly, her wolf settling, grounding. She rubs slow, soothing circles into Y/N’s wrists with her thumbs. “You didn’t ruin anything, sweet girl.”
“I yelled.”
“You raised your voice. Once,” Isadora corrects gently. “And then you took responsibility. That matters.”
Y/N swallows hard. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” Isadora says, and kisses her forehead. “And you’re forgiven.”
The word hits harder than Y/N expects. Her shoulders slump, tension finally draining as she leans into Isadora’s chest.
Isadora wraps her arms around her fully now, holding her close, protective and warm. “You don’t have to be gentle all the time,” she murmurs into Y/N’s hair. “Especially not with me.”
Y/N exhales, breath shuddering. “You’re too good to me.”
Isadora smiles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m exactly as good to you as you deserve.”
They stand there for a moment longer, the world quiet around them, the snapped words already dissolving into something softer.
When Isadora finally pulls back, she cups Y/N’s face and tilts her chin up just enough to meet her eyes. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s sit down. You don’t have to do anything else right now.”
Y/N nods, small and grateful.
As Isadora leads her away, she squeezes her hand once and adds, fond and low, “My sweet girl.”
And the guilt – for the first time in a long while – loosens its grip.
...
It doesn’t begin with a decision.
There’s no moment where Y/N wakes up and thinks today is the day, no deep breath of resolve, no internal speech about motivation or discipline. If anything, it starts in the middle of something else – mid-thought, mid-wander, mid-cup-of-tea.
She’s barefoot, padding through the house with no real destination, tugging absently at the hem of one of Isadora’s old shirts.
The conservatory door is open again, sunlight pooling across the floor in warm, lazy shapes.
She pauses.
Not because she means to paint. Just because she’s there.
The canvas is leaning where she left it last, angled against the wall. Something about the way the light hits it – soft, imperfect, broken by the shadows of leaves – makes her chest tighten.
She steps inside without quite realising she’s done it.
The room smells right today. Damp soil. Dust. Oil paint that’s been sitting, waiting.
Y/N sets her mug down on the windowsill. It goes cold there. She doesn’t notice.
She sits on the floor, back against the wall, staring at the canvas. Minutes pass. Maybe more. Time loosens its grip.
Then – almost without permission – she reaches for a brush.
It’s the wrong one. Too big.
She swaps it for another.
Then another.
She frowns, lines up a few on the floor beside her. The small, precise movements quiet something restless in her chest.
She dips the brush into paint.
The first stroke lands messy and unsure, but it lands.
Something clicks.
The world narrows.
Isadora hears it from the other room – not sound, exactly, but absence.
The house shifts, the way it does when Y/N disappears into herself. The wolf in her lifts its head, alert, recognising the change in rhythm.
She moves carefully, quietly, peering into the conservatory from the hallway.
Y/N is on her knees now, paint already smeared along her fingers, a faint streak across her cheekbone like she’s brushed her face without thinking. Her hair has come loose, strands falling into her eyes, but she doesn’t notice. She’s breathing slow and deep, brush moving steadily, decisively.
She doesn’t look stuck.
She looks consumed.
Isadora leans against the doorframe and stays there.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step inside. She doesn’t want to risk pulling Y/N back to the surface. This– this – is fragile, sacred.
Minutes pass. Then hours.
The sun shifts. Light creeps across the floor, then retreats. The plants rustle softly when a breeze slips in through the open window. Isadora shifts her weight once, silently, and keeps watching.
Pride swells warm and quiet in her chest.
Y/N changes brushes without pausing, mixing colours with instinctive ease. Paint gets everywhere – on her arms, her legs, the hem of her stolen shirt. Isadora’s heart aches fondly at the sight of it.
There she is.
Isadora leaves a couple times – to use the bathroom, to drink water, to let the house breathe – but she never strays far. Each time she passes the conservatory, she checks in with her eyes only.
Y/N doesn’t notice.
At some point, her movements slow.
The brush hesitates, then presses down harder, more deliberate.
She leans back, head tipping against the wall, eyes unfocused as she assesses the canvas.
Her chest rises and falls, heavy now.
When she finally sets the brush down, it’s not with satisfaction or triumph, but with exhaustion. Her hands shake faintly as she scrubs at her eyes, smearing a dot of blue across her nose.
She laughs under her breath, breathless and dazed.
Isadora waits a full minute before moving.
When she does, it’s slow and careful, her presence announced only by warmth and familiar scent. She kneels beside Y/N, close but not crowding, and offers her a glass of water without a word.
Y/N startles slightly, blinking as if surfacing from deep water.
“Oh-” she murmurs. “Hi.”
Isadora smiles softly. “Hi.”
Y/N takes the glass, draining it greedily, then slumps back against the wall again. “I didn’t… I don’t know how long I've been in here.”
“I know,” Isadora says gently.
She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t comment on the painting. She just rests her hand on Y/N’s thigh, grounding, steady.
Y/N leans into her touch instinctively, eyes closing. Her voice is small, tired, but lighter than it’s been in days. “I feel… wrung out?”
Isadora’s thumb brushes slow circles where her hand rests. “That makes sense.”
After a moment, she adds, low and warm, meant only for Y/N, “I’m really proud of you, sweet girl.”
Y/N’s breath stutters, something tight loosening in her chest.
Isadora presses a kiss to her temple and stays right there, holding space, letting the quiet settle back around them.
The painting can wait.
The world can wait.
What matters is that Y/N found her way back – to herself – without being pushed.
...
The crash comes quietly.
One moment Y/N is sitting upright against the conservatory wall, still buzzing faintly with the echo of colour and movement, and the next her head tips forward, exhaustion pulling at her like gravity remembered all at once.
Isadora notices immediately.
“Hey,” she murmurs, gentle but steady. She slides her hands under Y/N’s arms, helping her to her feet before her legs can give out. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Y/N blinks, slow and unfocused, then looks down at herself. Paint everywhere.
Her hands, her forearms, a streak across her collarbone where the too-big shirt has slipped sideways, exposing skin dusted blue and green.
She huffs out a tired laugh. “I made… a mess.”
Isadora smiles fondly. “You always do.”
The bath is already warm by the time they get to the bathroom.
Isadora must have started it while Y/N was still drinking her water, thinking three steps ahead the way she always does when Y/N can’t.
Steam curls in the air. The lights are dim.
Isadora helps her out of the paint-stained shirt carefully, slow and reverent, like she’s handling something precious. There’s colour everywhere – on Y/N’s shoulder, along her neck, down her legs where she must have knelt without noticing.
“Hold still,” Isadora murmurs, rolling up her sleeves.
Y/N sinks down into the bath with a sigh that borders on a whine, muscles going slack almost instantly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life.”
“You say that every time,” Isadora says, amused.
“And every time it’s true.”
Isadora laughs softly and dips a cloth into the water, wringing it out before pressing it gently to Y/N’s hands. She works slowly, methodically, washing paint from her fingers, her palms, beneath her nails.
The water clouds with colour.
Y/N watches her through half-lidded eyes. “You’re very patient with me.”
Isadora glances up. “That’s because you’re worth being patient for.”
She moves to Y/N’s arms next, then her shoulders, careful around the spots where fabric rubbed paint into skin. She pauses at the smear along Y/N’s collarbone, just below her neck.
“This one’s stubborn,” she murmurs.
Y/N grins weakly. “That tracks.”
Isadora cleans it anyway, gentle fingers warm against her skin. She wipes at Y/N’s neck, her jaw, her cheek – where a faint streak of colour still lingers like evidence of joy.
“There’s some in your hair,” Isadora notes quietly.
Y/N groans, tipping her head back against the tub. “No. Not today. Please.”
Isadora smiles. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
She rinses what she can reach easily, fingers combing through just enough to get the worst of it out, careful not to overwhelm her. The rest can wait. There’s no rush.
When Y/N is clean enough and utterly spent, Isadora wraps her in a towel and guides her to sit on the closed toilet lid. She presses a kiss into her damp hair, right at the crown.
“You did so good,” she whispers. “I’m so proud of you.”
Y/N’s face heats instantly. “You keep saying that.”
“That’s because it keeps being true.”
She helps Y/N into soft clothes – nothing restrictive, nothing demanding.
Back in the bedroom, Isadora settles her against the pillows, then disappears briefly before returning with a small bowl and a spoon.
“What’s that?” Y/N asks, suspicious but curious.
“Cereal,” Isadora says. “The easy kind.”
Y/N accepts a few spoonfuls, leaning back between bites, eyes closing. She doesn’t finish it. Isadora doesn’t comment.
When the bowl is set aside, Isadora climbs into bed with her, pulling her close, tucking her head under her chin. She strokes her hair slowly, avoiding the still-damp spots.
For a while, they just breathe.
Then Y/N murmurs, voice clearer now, softer but lighter, “You- you watched the whole thing, didn’t you.”
Isadora hums. “Most of it.”
“Creepy.”
“Protective.”
Y/N tilts her head back just enough to look up at her, eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “You’re definitely smug about it.”
Isadora smiles, unapologetic. “Maybe a little.”
Y/N laughs softly, then immediately blushes when Isadora’s thumb brushes her cheek. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m… precious?”
Isadora leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead. “You are precious.”
Y/N groans dramatically, hiding her face against Isadora’s chest. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me,” Isadora says easily.
A breath.
“…Yeah,” Y/N admits, muffled. “I really do.”
Isadora tightens her arms around her just a little, voice low and warm in her hair. “Rest now, pretty girl. Tomorrow can wait.”
And for once-
It does.
...
Isadora wakes to the familiar weight of Y/N curled into her side, breath warm and steady against her chest.
Morning light filters in through the curtains, pale and unassuming. The house is quiet again, but it feels different now. Lived in. Breathing.
Y/N shifts, fingers finding Isadora’s curls without opening her eyes, fiddling slowly as if reacquainting herself with something known and grounding.
When she finally stretches, she leaves behind a faint smear of dried paint on the sheets – missed in the bath, tucked beneath a fingernail, proof of yesterday lingering into today.
Isadora smiles to herself.
There’s a mug on the bedside table with cold tea in it. A bowl in the sink downstairs that was only half-finished. The conservatory still smells faintly of oil paint and damp earth, the canvas waiting exactly where it was left – not demanding, not abandoned.
Clean hands had worried her once.
This quiet evidence of return doesn’t.
Isadora presses a kiss into Y/N’s hair and lets the morning unfold without expectation.
They have time.
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Hi....... I wanted to say sorry for being a bit absent lately.
This fic is… a little bit of me. It reflects how I’ve been over the past... while, especially how my ADHD shows up when it comes to creating. I do love writing - so, so much - but sometimes I get overwhelmed, or stuck, or hit that point where I want to write and just… can’t. Task paralysis is very real, and it can be frustrating and disheartening in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
I’ve actually written more than I’ve posted, but after not uploading for a month, I got in my own head and felt scared to come back, like I’d somehow missed my chance. This fic is me gently stepping back in and being honest about where I’ve been.
I’m still here. I still care deeply about this space and my readers. I’ll do my best to keep posting, but I’m asking for a little patience with myself as I find my rhythm again.
Thank you for being here, for reading, and for being kind 💙
All likes, follows, comments, reblogs and requests are very much appreciated - I love hearing from you guys!
Much luv & thx,
bvnny 💛
