Can we please normalize fandom crossovers ya'll. Especially when it comes to to unconveinal fandoms that don't go together. Like yeah. Putting Marvel and DC together makes scense. The two biggest superhero franchises on the planet. But I want to put Superman and a Modern Sinners Au so bad it's crazy ya'll.
A Souther reader who grew up in Mississippi with the Sinners gang and ends up bringing Clark home to meet her family.
Synopsis: Seven years after leaving Mississippi behind, Willow Cole's quiet life in Chicago is interrupted by two brothers
Warnings: Murder, Real History, Assualt
Chapter One---Chapter 2 (Coming Soon)
Willow was never a city girl. From the moment she was born, her world had been the cotton fields and dusty roads of Clarksdale, Mississippi. She grew up on a plantation where work began before sunrise and often lasted until the sky turned orange with evening light. Life was simple, but it was never easy.
Her home life was even harder.
She lived with her father and stepmother, a woman who seemed to hate the very sight of her. Willow never fully understood why. As a child, she thought if she worked harder, stayed quieter, and caused less trouble, things would improve. They never did.
What Willow didn't realize until she was older was that she was a constant reminder of another woman. Her father had loved someone before his second wife—Willow's mother—and no matter how many years passed, her stepmother could never seem to forgive her for it.
Still, Willow tried.
She picked cotton in the mornings and afternoons, carried goods to market when needed, and made herself scarce whenever she returned home. She learned how to move through the house without drawing attention, how to stay silent when tensions rose, and how to disappear into the background whenever possible.
Her father remained largely unaware of the hostility brewing beneath his own roof. After long days in the fields, he cared more about resting his aching bones than noticing the cold stares or sharp words exchanged between the women in his life.
Willow knew her family wasn't perfect, but things truly changed when she entered her teenage years.
Her body began to mature, and suddenly people started noticing her.
The men working the fields who had once paid her little attention now greeted her with compliments. Women at the market would smile and tell her how much she resembled her late mother. They admired her rich brown skin that seemed to glow beneath the Mississippi sun and her warm eyes that looked like dark molasses until the light struck them just right, turning them the color of honey.
Every compliment directed at Willow felt like an insult to her stepmother. Arguments became more frequent. So did the slaps.
Willow never raised a hand in return. She endured it quietly, carrying swollen cheeks and bruised pride through her days. People noticed, of course. They would glance at the marks with concern before offering kind words or compliments, but nobody ever asked too many questions.
And Willow never volunteered answers. By the time she reached her early twenties, she could no longer bear it.
One evening she packed what little she owned into a worn travel bag. A friend of hers was leaving town, heading north in search of opportunity, and Willow decided she would leave too. She wrote her father a heartfelt note, thanking him for everything he had done for her. She left nothing for her stepmother. Then she boarded a train and left Mississippi behind.
For years afterward, she would sometimes wonder if that had been a mistake. Chicago had promised opportunity. In many ways, it delivered. For the first time in her life, Willow found herself surrounded by Black families who could vote freely, send their children to decent schools, and earn honest wages in factories, stockyards, and domestic service jobs. There was pride in that. Hope, too.
But Chicago had its own ugliness. And Willow quickly learned that opportunity came with limits.
Most Black residents were confined to a narrow, overcrowded stretch of the South Side known as the Black Belt. Housing discrimination and violence kept families trapped there, packed into neighborhoods that grew more congested with every passing year. Landlords charged outrageous rents for cramped apartments because they knew people had nowhere else to go.
The city wasn't the freedom she had imagined. Sometimes it felt like a different kind of prison. She and her friend rented a tiny kitchenette apartment, little more than a single room divided by thin cardboard partitions. Privacy barely existed, and the walls seemed to hold the exhaustion of every family that had lived there before them.
Still, Willow endured it for the sake of having a life outside of the Delta. She worked. She saved what she could. She survived for seven long years. Then came the summer that changed everything. Willow remembered hearing the name Eugene Williams whispered throughout the neighborhood. A Black teenager. A swimmer. Dead because he had drifted across an invisible line in the water that white beachgoers believed belonged only to them.
His death ignited a fire that spread across Chicago. For thirteen terrifying days, violence consumed the city. White ethnic gangs swept through Black neighborhoods, attacking homes, businesses, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path. Sadly Willow lost more than her sense of safety during those riots.
She lost her friend during all of that, dragged from his automobile by a mob and beaten to death in the streets, he became one of countless victims swallowed by the hatred consuming the city. Afterward, Willow found herself alone.
The kitchenette suddenly felt larger than ever, its silence suffocating. Her friend was gone. The city felt hostile. And her landlord cared little for grief. Every week he appeared at her door demanding rent, his hand outstretched before she could even think about mourning.
Chicago had promised a better life. Instead, Willow often felt like she had traded one hardship for another. Perhaps the combination of loss and anger is what made her stand out to the most dangerous mobster in Chicago.
She was working as both a singer and a waitress at a Black-owned club on the South Side. The pay wasn't much, but it was enough to keep a roof over her head and food in her stomach. More importantly, it gave her something she hadn't had in years and that was a place where she felt like she belonged.
Willow quickly became one of the club's biggest draws. People came for the music, but many stayed because of her. Her voice carried through the smoke-filled room like warm honey, rich and smooth, capable of settling even the rowdiest crowd. When she sang, conversations quieted. Glasses paused halfway to lips. For a few minutes, people forgot about their troubles and simply listened.
Word traveled fast through Chicago, especially when money was involved.
It wasn't long before the club's growing reputation reached the ears of a man who had built an empire on knowing exactly where people spent their time and money. Al Capone. One evening, Capone arrived with several of his men. They occupied a large table near the back, drinking whiskey and observing the room. Most people either didn't recognize him or pretended not to. In Chicago, that was usually the smarter option.
Capone listened to the music, watched the crowd, and studied the employees moving between tables. Most of the waitresses wore practiced smiles, laughing at jokes they had heard a hundred times before in hopes of earning a larger tip.
One woman stood out. She wasn't rude, wasn't unfriendly. But she didn't bend as she carried herself with a quiet confidence that seemed completely natural. She spoke politely, smiled when she meant it, and ignored men when they mistook kindness for an invitation. Capone didn't know her name yet, but he found himself watching her more than the performers on stage.
She was beautiful, certainly, but that wasn't what caught his attention. He had seen beautiful women his entire life. Married the most beautiful there was. No, there was something else. A spark. Something steady beneath the surface. The kind of thing that couldn't be taught as it was something that could make people remember a place.
He was still watching when the trouble started. The front doors burst open and a group of drunk white men stumbled inside. Their laughter was loud, their speech slurred, and the smell of liquor seemed to arrive before they did.
The mood of the club immediately shifted as people looked away while others lowered their heads. Everyone knew what kind of night this could become. One of the younger waitresses nervously approached the men to take their order. She couldn't have been older than eighteen. Within moments one of them grabbed her wrist as another reached for her waist while the others laughed. The girl's face immediately paled as they spoke vile to her, almost like snakes wrapping around her body.
Capone watched the room. In all his years running his business he learned that fear had a way of rooting people in place. But not all people as he witnessed Willow step forward. She moved calmly through the crowd until she stood between the men and the frightened waitress.
"Look at you boys," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Loud as a Sunday morning and twice as cheap." The room went silent as everyone looked to the scene in front of them but Willow was far from silent. "You come down here because your own neighborhoods are too dull to entertain you, and the first thing you do is start causing problems." Her gaze swept over them. "Leave the girl alone. She's trying to earn a living."
A few people nearby exchanged nervous looks.
"Drink your liquor. Listen to the music. Keep your hands where they belong."
One of the men laughed bitterly.
"You got a lot to say for a colored girl."
Willow tilted her head slightly. "And yet somehow I'm still making more sense than all of you combined." A few snorts of laughter escaped nearby tables.
The drunk man's face darkened.
"You think you're funny?"
"No," Willow replied evenly. "But I do think you're embarrassing yourselves."
The man's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.
The room tensed. For the first time all night, Willow felt a flicker of fear but not enough to back down. But she knew this could end badly. The man stepped toward her, towering over her.
"Maybe somebody needs to teach you some manners."
Before Willow could respond, another voice cut through the room.
"That's enough."
The authority in those two words was immediate.
Everyone turned and saw that Capone had risen from his seat. Gone was the relaxed man enjoying a drink. What stood there now was the man whose name carried weight throughout Chicago. The drunk man's confidence vanished almost instantly. Capone adjusted his jacket and took a slow step forward.
"You came into a place trying to enjoy itself and decided to act like fools." His voice remained calm, which somehow made it more intimidating. "Now you're harassing women and threatening employees."
The man swallowed as Capone's eyes narrowed.
"You're ruining my evening." A long silence followed then Capone smiled...It wasn't a friendly smile. "If I were you, I'd leave before I decide to charge admission for this beating."
The men didn't need to be told twice. Within moments they were backing toward the door, muttering curses under their breath before disappearing into the night. The entire club seemed to breathe again and then applause broke out from several tables.
Willow looked toward Capone.
"Thank you."
Capone waved the gratitude away.
"Nah. You handled yourself just fine." His eyes studied her for a moment then he smiled.
"Tell me something, sweetheart. Ever thought about working somewhere bigger?"
Willow frowned at that.
"What do you mean?"
Capone gestured toward the room around them.
"I've got a new Black and Tan club opening soon. Bigger crowds. Better pay. Better opportunities."
Willow stared at him.
Chicago's most infamous man was offering her a job. Seeing her hesitation, Capone chuckled.
"You can sing. You can work a room. And judging by tonight, you've got enough backbone to survive this city."
For the first time in a long while, Willow felt something she hadn't felt since leaving Mississippi.
Hope. And that maybe Chicago wasn't done with her yet. Willow began working for Capone not long after that night, and to his credit, everything he had promised turned out to be true.
The club was bigger, busier, and far more successful than the one she had left behind. From the outside, however, it didn't look nearly as impressive as people imagined. The building itself was a long, low brick structure that had once served as a commercial automobile garage. Most people walking down 35th Street would never guess what was hidden behind its walls. The only hint of luxury was the massive illuminated marquee stretching out over the sidewalk, glowing against the Chicago night like a beacon.
At the entrance stood a pair of polished mahogany double doors that looked expensive enough to belong in a mansion rather than a nightclub. On either side were enormous Black bouncers dressed in custom-tailored tuxedos, checking names and invitations with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for banks and government buildings.
Willow found comfort in that as the men at the door didn't let trouble stroll in off the street. Anyone who crossed those doors either belonged there or had business with Capone himself, and very few people were foolish enough to cause problems once they were inside.
The interior was what truly stole her breath. Every wall was covered with vibrant Art Deco murals painted in rich golds, deep blues, and warm terracotta tones. Stylized jazz musicians played brass instruments frozen in paint while dancers with flowing feathers seemed to move beneath crescent moons and glittering city skylines. Even after years of working there, Willow still found herself admiring them during quiet moments.
The air was perpetually thick with cigar and cigarette smoke, creating a bluish haze beneath the warm glow of brass chandeliers hanging overhead. Amber-shaded table lamps cast pools of golden light across crowded tables filled with businessmen, musicians, politicians, gamblers, and socialites.
People from every walk of life gathered there. Some came for the liquor, others came for the gambling. While many came for the music. That was where Willow belonged.
The bandstand dominated the room, elevated above the crowd like a throne. Night after night she stood beneath the lights and sang until her throat ached. The blues flowed through her veins as naturally as breathing. She sang about heartbreak, loss, hope, survival, and every hardship life had thrown her way.
People listened and for the first time in her life, Willow felt seen. The money certainly didn't hurt either.
She made more in a month than she had once made in nearly a year. After so many years of scraping by, she was finally able to breathe. She paid her landlord months in advance and still had money left over. The old man nearly fell over when she handed him the stack of bills.
Willow could tell exactly what he thought and he assumed she was selling herself. A lot of people did. But she wasn't though she was selling her voice. She was selling long nights, sore feet, aching muscles, and every ounce of passion she poured into that stage. Every dollar she earned came from hard work.
Years passed like that. Then one evening everything changed.
"Ya hear?" Betty asked while they wiped down the bar after closing. "Capone's opening himself another place."
Willow looked up from the glasses she was drying.
"Seriously?" she asked. "Well, he's always got something going on."
She wasn't upset by the news. In truth, she liked Capone more than she probably should. He had given her an opportunity when nobody else would. Whatever people said about him—and they said plenty—he had always treated her fairly.
Betty leaned closer.
"Apparently he's stepping back from this place."
That caught Willow's attention.
"He is?"
"That's what everyone's saying."
Willow frowned.
"Who's taking over?"
Betty grinned. "Some new fellows. They call themselves the Smokestack Twins."
Willow paused.
"The Smokestack Twins?"
"That's what I heard."
The name sounded ridiculous. She imagined a pair of soot-covered factory workers with rough hands and dirty faces. Nothing particularly intimidating or impressive about that Which was why she nearly choked on her drink the following evening when she saw them walk through the front doors.
The room seemed to notice them immediately. As conversations dipped while heads turned. Even the musicians on stage appeared distracted for a moment. The twins looked nothing like Willow had imagined. They moved with the effortless confidence of men accustomed to being watched. Expensive suits hugged broad shoulders. Their polished shoes gleamed beneath the chandeliers. They looked dangerous in the way sharp knives looked dangerous—elegant, controlled, and fully aware of the damage they could do.
The similarities between them were obvious, but not identical. One wore his confidence openly, smiling as he surveyed the room like he already owned it. The other was quieter, his sharp eyes taking in every detail while speaking very little. And honestly neither man looked old enough to command the kind of respect they immediately received.
Yet people moved out of their path without being asked. That alone told Willow everything she needed to know. The Smokestack Twins weren't simply replacing Capone. They were becoming something powerful in their own right.
Willow did her best to avoid the Smokestack twins.
Not because she was afraid of them. Lord knew she'd dealt with dangerous men her entire life. She'd grown up around men who carried trouble in their pockets and violence in their eyes. The twins weren't anything new in that regard.
No, she avoided them because she knew better.
Men like that always came with complications.
The problem was that avoiding them became a whole lot harder when they owned the place she worked.
What made matters worse was that the brothers had somehow figured out she was from Clarksdale. Ever since then, they seemed determined to drag her into conversation whenever they crossed paths. They spoke with the same Mississippi drawl she grew up hearing, and every time one of them opened their mouth, she felt a little piece of home she wasn't sure she wanted to remember.
Tonight, however, it seemed her luck had finally run out.
Willow arrived early, as she always did. The club wasn't open yet, leaving the building unusually quiet. The cooks were laughing about something in the kitchen while waitresses prepared tables for the evening rush.
She had dressed for the stage. A silky black dress hugged her figure before flowing down to her calves. Around her shoulders rested a feathered black boa that swayed whenever she moved. Under the warm lights of the club, she looked every bit the star her customers believed her to be.
She had barely made it halfway across the floor when the door to the VIP room opened and Stack stepped out. The moment he saw her, his face split into a grin that revealed a flash of gold.
"Well now," he drawled. "Look what finally wandered in."
Willow immediately sighed. Of course. Stack chuckled at her reaction.
"See now, Every time me or my brother walk into a room, you start actin' like a cat lookin' at bathwater."
Willow rolled her eyes and continued walking. "Evenin', Mr. Moore." The formality only seemed to amuse him more.
"Mr. Moore?" he repeated. "Girl, you make me sound eighty years old."
She ignored him but unfortunately, Stack wasn't the type of man who accepted being ignored. A moment later he stepped in front of her path.
"Where you runnin' off to?"
"I ain't runnin' nowhere."
"Mhm." His grin widened. "Could've fooled me."
Willow folded her arms and let out a sigh
"What do you want?"
"Conversation."
"Well, you picked the wrong woman."
Stack placed a hand over his chest as though she had wounded him.
"Damn, Willow. That's cold."
"You'll survive."
"I reckon I will."
The amusement in his voice only irritated her more. Which only made her more irritated when Stack leaned slightly closer.
"Me and Smoke been wonderin' what we did to make you dislike us so much."
Willow laughed. A short, humorless laugh.
"You think too highly of yourselves. I don't dislike y'all. I just don't see no reason to know y'all."
"Now that's a lie."
"It ain't."
Stack pointed at her as she quickly went quiet.
"You avoid us."
"I got work to do."
"You leave every room we enter."
"Coincidence."
"You won't even look at us half the time."
Willow stared directly into his eyes. "There. I'm lookin'. Happy now?" For a second Stack looked genuinely surprised before bursting out laughing.
"Lord have mercy."
Before Willow could respond, another voice entered the conversation.
"You botherin' that woman again?"
She turned to find the other twin approaching from across the club and saw Smoke. Unlike his brother, Smoke carried himself with a quieter confidence. He wasn't smiling, but there was amusement in his eyes as he looked between them. Stack immediately pointed toward Willow.
"She mean."
Willow barked out a laugh before she could stop herself. as Smoke shook his head.
"You probably deserved it."
"See?" Stack complained. "This why I can't stand y'all."
"Because we tell the truth?"
Willow could feel herself relaxing despite every effort not to.
The brothers were dangerous men. Everyone knew that. Yet watching them bicker back and forth felt less like talking to gangsters and more like watching two stubborn cousins argue at a family cookout.
Smoke looked toward her.
"You from Clarksdale, ain't you?" There it was again, that question. Willow sighed as she really didn't like talking about it.
"Yeah."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Knew it."
"How?"
"Way you talk."
Stack nodded.
"And that attitude."
Willow narrowed her eyes.
"What that's supposed to mean?"
"It means ain't nobody got an attitude quite like somebody from Mississippi."
For the first time all evening, Willow found herself smiling. Just a little.
Stack immediately pointed at her.
"There it is!"
"What?"
"That smile."
She instantly wiped it away.
"Don't start."
"Oh, I'm absolutely startin'." Willow groaned and pushed past him. "I got work to do."
Stack called after her obviously feeling himself
"That's the longest conversation you ever had with me!"
Without turning around, Willow lifted a hand and waved him off.
Behind her she could hear both brothers laughing. And despite herself, she felt the corners of her mouth tug upward again.
The next few weeks settled into a rhythm Willow wasn't entirely prepared for. The Smokestack twins were everywhere. Not in the way bosses usually were, hidden away in offices counting money and barking orders. Smoke and Stack were constantly moving through the club. Some nights they worked the floor. Other nights they sat with musicians discussing bookings, handled deliveries, spoke with security, or fixed problems before they became disasters.
It surprised Willow.
Most men with money liked being seen with it. The twins seemed more interested in making sure the place actually ran. That didn't stop Stack from becoming a nuisance as every single night he found a new reason to bother her.
"Willow."
She didn't look up from polishing glasses.
"What?"
"You smile today?"
"Go away."
"That's a no."
"Stack..."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Go bother somebody else."
His grin flashed. "No." Then he'd laugh and disappear before she could threaten him properly.
The man was exhausting. But Smoke was different, he rarely sought her out the way his brother did. Most of their interactions happened naturally. A passing comment while she cleaned tables. A brief conversation after her set ended. A few words exchanged while the club settled into the quiet hours before closing.
At first, Willow hadn't thought much of it. Then she realized she knew things about him, just little things. But the dangerous thing about little things was how easily they added up.
She learned both brothers had served overseas during the war. The information surprised her. One evening she found Smoke repairing a loose railing near the stage.
"You know how to do that?"
Smoke glanced up from his work.
"Know how to use a hammer?"
"No."
"I know how to fix things."
Willow folded her arms as she watched.
"Where'd you learn?"
"Army."
She blinked. "You was in the Army?"
Smoke nodded.
"Me and Stack both."
That had opened an entirely different conversation. Willow found herself sitting on the edge of the stage while he worked.
"How come y'all never mention that?"
Smoke shrugged.
"Ain't much to talk about."
"You fought overseas."
"Yeah."
"And that's all you got to say?"
"What you want me to say?"
Willow stared at him. The man really was impossible sometimes. Over time she learned that was simply who he was because Smoke spoke when he had something worth saying. Everything else stayed inside. Stack, on the other hand, would happily fill any silence within a fifty-mile radius. It was through dozens of small conversations that she learned more about them.
They were from Mississippi. Born and raised in the exact same place as her and the realization had caught her completely off guard.
"No."
Smoke nodded.
"Yeah."
"You're lying."
"I ain't."
"Clarksdale, like Delta Clarksdale?" Smokes silent nod made Willow nearly drop the tray she was carrying.
"That's...Wow I never even knew y'all were born there"
Willow couldn't stop smiling. For the next fifteen minutes they talked about places neither of them had thought about in years. Roads, Churches, Stores, Food, The way summer heat sat heavy over the fields. The smell after a thunderstorm. For the first time since leaving Mississippi, Willow spoke to someone who understood exactly what she meant without needing explanations.
It felt strangely comforting. Dangerously comforting.
After that, conversations became easier. More natural. Some nights Smoke would sit near the stage after closing while musicians packed up their instruments and Willow would join him for a few minutes before heading home.
A few minutes became fifteen. Then thirty. One night she found him sitting alone with a cup of coffee.
"Coffee this late?"
Smoke glanced up.
"It ain't that late."
"It is for normal people."
"You work in a nightclub."
"Exactly. I know what late looks like."
That earned the smallest smile from him. She found herself smiling back. The conversation drifted aimlessly after that. Favorite foods. Bad jobs. Places they'd lived. Willow complained about Chicago winters. Smoke complained about Chicago drivers. Somehow they spent nearly an hour talking about absolutely nothing. Those conversations became her favorite part of the evening. Not because they were exciting but because that was their relationship. They spoke and learned about one another. She tried to fight the subtle attraction she felt for the man, she knew there was a lot more to Smoke then what was said but for some reason her initial plan of staying far away...Became a distant thought as she only wanted to get closer.
