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Here’s another WIP part because I’m sooo proud of the shading. And because it’s Fryeday

I’m picking back up the punk Jacob and Goth Evie, but Evie gets to bathe in the sun as a treat since it’s rarely sunny in England. Theres a literal joke going around where after a week of sunshine, summer is basically over for England.

Jacob is posing awkwardly and holding literally nothing because I haven’t drawn the phone yet, Evie is at the back reading her botanical book that she got from her crush in her Archaeology course. I will draw a small doodle of Jacob suffering from hay fever (BONUS! My oc will appear because god damn it I’m suffering through drawing the two let me have this)

#jacob frye #assassin's creed #ac syndicate #assassin's creed syndicate #assassins creed syndicate #evie frye #assassins creed #frye twins #kim art fart #modern day au #punk Jacob #goth Evie

Question for your modern Fryes :3 (sorry if it's a dumb one)

What would each Twin's room look like

There’s no such thing as a dumb question. Only questions. Or else humanity would’ve not come far.

Punk Jacob Frye’s room would be a beautiful, chaotic eyesore—equal parts anarchist manifesto, teenage rebellion, and creative genius barely held together with duct tape and nicotine. It’s the kind of space that smells permanently of spray paint, faint cigarette smoke, and old leather, where the floor may or may not exist beneath piles of clothes, canvases, and zines. There’s nothing tidy about it, yet everything has a place if you ask him.

his room is a messy, this is taken from the inspiration of Jacob’s carriage in the train hide out. His room would have a lot of useless junk he collected over the years (badges, bottle caps, previous GCSES/A level course works and a lot of scattered sketch pages that he refuse to bin nor organise into a folder) despite Evie’s immense disdain. He would clean sometimes, once a blue moon when it becomes to cluttered and he needs to make more space— but in the end it will just become messy again and the cycle continues.

A mattress on the floor, of course. Covered in mismatched sheets—plaid, black, or once-white now grey from neglect—and always tangled. There’s only two pillows, one for him and the other for him too, Jacob often likes to sprawl out across the bed without anything getting in his way so only one or two pillows will keep him content. His bed is placed in the corner of the room beside a bedside table where is priorities are: his Oyster card, wallet, 1.5L of bottled water, phone and tossed accessories. It smells like cologne, stale sweat, and laundry that should’ve been done last week.

Bare minimum furnitures. A battered wardrobe with the door hanging off. A desk that’s more graffiti than wood, with carvings of lyrics, half-sketched concepts, and obscene doodles. On top of it: art supplies, lighters, books about political movements and punk subculture, open sketchbooks, empty mugs, and probably a rogue condom box with one left and long expired. The chair is missing a leg, replaced by a stack of zines

On the wall there would be collages of posters from movies, bands (obviously), self-drawn pieces, nicked off from the university notice board with the power of tape and blu-tack, prints from local artists at his university and in the small gaps where the posters can’t reach he’ll just plaster them with discount stickers. There’s a massive, hand-painted banner of the Rooks symbol taking up an entire corner, stitched onto what looks like an old bedsheet.

Floor? Chaos. Canvas scraps. Acrylic stains. Doc Martens kicked under the bed. Vinyl records out of sleeves. A cricket bat for some reason. Crumpled clothes—mostly black, torn, or safety-pinned—and somewhere, under all that, a half-eaten packet of crisps and someone’s missing sock.

Moving onto Goth!Evie.

Goth Evie Frye’s bedroom would be the absolute inverse of her twin’s controlled demolition zone. It is order cloaked in shadow, a sanctuary carved from curated gloom, deeply atmospheric with an eerie elegance that speaks of a girl who has read Wuthering Heights thirteen times, keeps a ceremonial dagger on her nightstand “just in case,”

One might be covered in cracked Victorian-style wallpaper—black-on-black damask—half-peeled as if she likes the aesthetic of decay. The wall above her bed has a collection of ornate black frames housing a mix of 19th-century anatomical sketches, old pressed flowers, dried moths, and woodblock prints. There’s at least one vintage mirror that always seems dusty no matter how much she wipes it down, she says it cursed just to freak her twin out.

A heavy iron frame, painted black and beginning to chip from age. The sheets are rich, dark velvet—midnight blue or blood red—always made with obsessive precision. Pillows of varying textures: silk, crushed velvet, and one shaped like a coffin. A single, perfectly folded throw with a subtle crow motif draped across the foot of the bed.

Lining her shelves are titles like The Book of Poisonous Plants, Mary Shelley’s complete works, and obscure French poetry books. She owns several hardbound editions of Macbeth and annotated volumes of Edgar Allan Poe. There’s a tiny, well-loved, dog-eared floriography book gifted to her by her boyfriend along with some cute postcards. She organises her university schoolwork in a folder kept tucked away.

Her desk doubles as a vanity, the surface covered in vintage perfume bottles, eye kohl in small metal tins, rings in little glass dishes, and a large oval mirror framed in wrought black metal. Her makeup is impeccably arranged—charcoal palettes, oxblood lipstick, black nail varnish, and a collection of piercings she switches out like chess pieces depending on her mood. There’s a single, worn leather journal with thick pages full of elegant, obsessive handwriting.

Spotless floor. She refuses to walk on chaos. A single, ornate Persian rug with dark burgundy and forest green threads sits beneath her bed and desk.