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summary: there's a new photographer in the city of metropolis and clark kent is determined to find out why the hell this kid thinks its okay to climb super tall buildings for pictures of superman while all peter parker is trying to do is pay his rent.

word count: 4076

authors note: i swear im writing my other clark fics but i had to get this one out dont hate me!! but i loved this idea from @rustedachilles and i just had to write something for these two cause yes they would be besties even with the age difference im sure of it!! anyways detective!reader x clark kent is coming next so be ready! lmk if yall want a part two to this as well cause i might have something planned.

Peter Parker sat in the back of a rattling bus, hunched beneath the weight of a worn backpack, his hoodie pulled up over his head despite the late summer heat. Outside the scratched window, the towering skyline of Metropolis rose like a city of tomorrow—cleaner, shinier, and somehow colder than New York. It wasn’t the chaotic patchwork of Queens or the familiar chaos of Manhattan. Everything here seemed more pristine, more polished. Like a movie set.

Peter wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

It had been three months since he left New York behind. Three months since the funeral. Since the battle that shattered Midtown and tore apart what little normalcy he had left. Aunt May was gone. MJ was… gone too, in a different way. And Ned—well, Ned couldn’t even remember who Peter was. The spell had worked. Too well.

Now he was truly alone.

He didn’t come to Metropolis for adventure or heroics. He came because it was far enough away to disappear. He needed space. He needed a life that wasn’t always gasping for air between battles and broken hearts.

Peter’s eyes scanned the passing buildings of the streets he has grown familiar with now. It had only really taken him two weeks to grow a routine. Wake up, eat something from his fridge that hasn't expired ( although most days he went without eating anything because his fridge was almost always empty ), try to find some work, which became a new step to his routine recently after getting fired from this pizza place a few blocks down after showing up late, again.

“Next stop, Docksider Avenue.”

The bus hissed as it came to a stop, the doors squealing open with a tired groan. Peter stepped off onto the cracked sidewalk, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. His feet moved on instinct now—past the boarded-up pawn shop, past the dented mailbox with peeling stickers, and finally to the rusted gate of his apartment building.

Peter buzzed the front door even though the lock was already broken. A tired buzz echoed back, and he pushed it open with his shoulder. The building smelled like damp carpet, mold, and takeout containers that had missed trash day. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead in the hallway, casting everything in a pale, sickly glow.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, avoiding the third step, which creaked like it was one cough away from collapse. His apartment—Unit 3C—was at the end of the hall. The door had been painted over a dozen times, but the paint always chipped off, revealing the layers beneath. He slid the key in, wiggled it just right, and gave the door a hip-check until it finally gave way.

The apartment greeted him with silence. No hum of a roommate’s TV. No May asking about his day. Just the quiet hiss of the radiator and the muffled sound of the city outside.

A mattress sat on the floor in one corner, sheets hastily thrown over it. His camera bag sat next to a secondhand desk, cluttered with memory cards and loose change. A half-eaten sandwich from yesterday waited on a chipped plate by the sink. The fridge hummed in protest as he opened it—two eggs, a bottle of ketchup, and half a gallon of milk. Expired.

Peter sighed and closed it.

He dropped his bag on the bed and toed off his sneakers, sinking down onto the mattress with a quiet grunt.

The springs creaked under him. He rubbed his face with both hands, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t home.

But it was something. For now.

And in his world, that had to be enough.

Unfortunately , it wasn’t.

Not when Peter was already three days late on rent and had only managed to come up with half.

As he walks up the steps to his apartment, Peter’s thoughts are running around, trying to come up with ways to get the rest of his rent so he’s not kicked out and in the streets.

Peter had just reached his door when he heard the unmistakable jingle of keys and the heavy, deliberate footsteps of Mr. Gallo, his landlord.

“Parker,” came the gruff voice behind him.

Peter winced and turned around slowly, already fishing into his backpack. “Hey, Mr. Gallo. I was actually hoping I’d see you.”

Mr. Gallo was built like an aging boxer—broad-shouldered, thick forearms, and a permanent scowl carved into his stubbled face. He wore a shirt two sizes too small and smelled vaguely of cigars and floor cleaner.

“You got my money?” Gallo asked, arms crossed.

Peter pulled a folded envelope from his bag and handed it over. It was noticeably thin.

“That’s... half,” Peter admitted. “I’m working on getting the rest. I picked up some freelance photography work downtown. I just need a few more days.”

Gallo slid a finger under the envelope flap, flipped through the bills inside, and grunted. “Freelance, huh? That’s a fancy word for 'no paycheck yet.’”

Peter gave a weak smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Gallo stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he handed the envelope back.

“Listen, kid. I’ve got three units with busted heat and a leaking roof over 2B. I’m not running a charity. You want to stay in 3C, I need the rest by Friday.”

“Friday. Got it. I will. I promise,” Peter said quickly, nodding like it might make the cash materialize faster.

Gallo narrowed his eyes. “I like you, Parker. Quiet, don’t throw parties, don’t bring weirdos around. But the rent don’t care if you're a nice guy. Friday, or I post the notice.”

He turned and started back down the hallway, muttering something about “damn artists” and “freelancers.”

Peter watched him go, then slipped into his apartment and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

He leaned against it for a moment, sighing. The half-empty fridge hummed in the background, mocking him.

Friday was four days away.

Time to suit up.

Time to be Spider-Man again.

Standing under the towering skyline of Metropolis, Peter felt a gnawing uncertainty. The city was shinier, quieter—cleaner, even. It didn’t have that grimy New York edge. Didn't have what Peter was used to seeing everyday but that's what he signed up for. Something new. Something bigger than himself. But most of all, it already had a hero.

Superman.

That was the problem.

Peter figured he’d start simple. Do what he knows. Peter crouched in the shadowed edge of a rooftop, just above the Narrows in Hob’s Bay, adjusting the settings on his camera. Wind tugged at the red and blue fabric of his suit beneath the hoodie he hadn’t fully zipped. His mask was rolled up to his nose, revealing only his mouth and chin, just enough to keep him breathing without fogging up the lens.

This part of Metropolis wasn’t in the tourist brochures. Down below, alleys twisted like mazes between shipping containers and crumbling brick buildings. Steam coiled from sewer grates. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a siren wailed and faded.

Peter pulled the mask down, zipped up the hoodie, and web to the side of a nearby crane. He perched there for a moment, surveying the street below.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Just need something… something classic. Web-slinging, wall-crawling, maybe a dramatic silhouette. No pressure.”

He set the camera to timed burst mode and webbed it to a lamp post across the street, aiming it carefully. He’d done this dance before in New York—pose, snap, move, repeat. Back then, it was second nature. But here, under the unfamiliar skyline, it felt strange. Like he was performing for a crowd that hadn’t even noticed him yet.

He took a deep breath, shot a web to the side of a brick warehouse, and swung.

Click-click-click.

Three shots caught him mid-air, legs curled, arm extended.

He landed, pivoted, and ran full speed toward a nearby wall. He leapt, stuck, and climbed—fast. The camera fired again.

Click-click-click.

Backflip off the edge. Twist. Land in a three-point crouch on a fire escape.

Click.

“Still got it,” he whispered, grinning beneath the mask.

But it wasn’t just about poses. He needed action. Something real.

Almost on cue, a shout echoed down the alley.

“Hey! Get back here!”

Peter turned in time to see two figures sprinting out of a bodega—one with a bulging backpack slung over his shoulder, the other a clerk chasing them, waving a flashlight and yelling.

Spider-Man was moving before his brain even finished the thought. He launched off the fire escape and swung low, closing the distance fast. The thief veered down a narrow side street. Peter banked hard, planted a webline on a dumpster, and slingshotted himself forward.

The camera caught it all from above, still snapping.

He landed directly in front of the thief, who skidded to a halt, wide-eyed.

“Hey, do you have a moment to talk about our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?” Peter quipped, tilting his head.

The guy turned to run the other way, but a web snapped out and caught his ankle mid-step. He crashed to the pavement, hard.

Peter casually walked over, webbed the stolen bag to a nearby post, and turned toward the camera with a perfect over-the-shoulder hero pose.

Click.

A minute later, he had the thief zip-tied and a quick note webbed to his chest: “Property returned. Guy's fine. — Spidey”

By the time the police arrived, Spider-Man was already swinging away, high above the rooftops, retracing his way to the lamp post where the camera waited.

He plucked it down gently, checking the preview screen.

Perfect arcs. Crisp action. Clear face shadows—just enough to be mysterious, not enough to ID. He even caught a dramatic flare of lightning in one of the shots.

Peter grinned under the mask. He slung the camera back into his bag, zipped up his hoodie, and vanished into the skyline.

Peter tightened the straps on his backpack, heart thudding as he stood in front of the towering glass doors of The Daily Planet. The spinning globe above the entrance gleamed in the morning sun like a golden promise. He stepped inside, swallowed by the hum of voices, the rhythmic clacking of keyboards, and the faint aroma of burnt coffee and ink.

He waited at the front desk, awkwardly fidgeting while a receptionist finished a phone call.

"Can I help you?" she asked, barely looking up.

"Uh, yeah. I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Perry White? I’ve got some freelance photography I think he might want to see."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, ma’am.”

The receptionist studied him for a moment before picking up her phone. Peter tried not to shift too much, though his palms were already starting to sweat.

Minutes later, he stood in the editor’s cramped office, photos spread across the desk like trading cards.

“These are pictures of... Spider-Man?” Perry asked, squinting at one.

“Yeah,” Peter said, smiling. “Caught him this morning. I figured with a new hero in town, maybe—”

“I’ve got a new intern who takes better phone pictures than this,” Perry grunted. “You want to sell photos? Bring me Superman. That’s the story. That’s what sells papers in this town. Spider-guy... bug-man... whatever—no one's paying attention to that when Superman's out there saving the world every other Tuesday.”

Peter stood silently, a warm feeling taking over his ears as he's hit with rejection.

“Close the door on your way out, son,” Perry added without looking up.

Peter walked out of the office, head down, photos clutched in hand. He was halfway down the bullpen, eyes on the photos, mentally cataloguing which shots might look better with tighter crops, when—bam—he collided with someone broad and solid.

The photos flew from his arms, fanning out across the glossy floor like oversized playing cards.

“Oh, man—sorry, sorry!” Peter said quickly, dropping to his knees.

“No, that was my fault, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the man said in a warm, steady voice as he knelt down too.

Their hands reached for the same photo—Peter’s favorite one: Spider-Man swinging against the Metropolis skyline. Their eyes met, and Peter blinked.

He recognized the face instantly. Clark Kent. The tie, the glasses, the ever-so-slightly crooked posture meant to downplay a frame that could stop a truck. He looked exactly like the articles he’d read—and like the Daily Planet press badge swinging from his collar.

Clark smiled politely, handing Peter the photo. “This is... actually really good. You took these?”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean, yeah—I did. Thanks.”

Clark flipped through a few more prints. “You’ve got a real sense of movement. Composition too. These tell a story.”

Peter chuckled lightly. “Appreciate that. Not that it matters much. They’re not Superman.”

Clark looked up at that, head tilting. “Superman’s not always easy to catch on camera.”

Peter shrugged. “Neither is Spider-Man.”

Clark extended a hand. “Clark Kent. Reporter.”

Peter shook it. “Peter Parker. Freelance.”

Clark’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Freelance photographer?”

“Yep. Mostly city stuff, street shots. Action, when I can get it. Pays... okay. Well. Barely. Honestly, today was my first real break in a while.”

Clark glanced toward Perry’s office and nodded. “I get it. Breaking in here isn’t easy.”

He hesitated for a beat, then asked, “Would you be interested in taking a few photos of Superman for me? I’ve been covering a few stories lately, and my usual photographer is tied up with some international assignments.”

Peter blinked. “You want me to take pictures of Superman?”

Clark smiled. “You’ve clearly got the reflexes for action shots. And the eye.”

Peter hesitated, fidgeting slightly. “I mean... yeah, definitely, I’d love to. But I’d have to... y’know... be paid for it.”

Clark laughed gently, the sound calm and genuine. “Of course. This isn’t charity work—I get a photo budget for assignments. You’ll get your rate.”

Peter’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Okay then. Yeah. I’m in.”

Clark took a small notepad from his pocket and scribbled down an address and time. “Superman’s going to be helping with a rescue op near the West River industrial zone this afternoon. Nothing huge—at least, not yet. But you might get a few good shots of him in flight or lifting something that shouldn't be liftable.”

Peter nodded, mentally calculating battery life and lens options. “Got it. What kind of shots are you looking for, exactly?”

Clark gestured broadly. “Mid-action stuff. Heroic angles. Flight, strength, clarity—something that shows hope. If you can capture the humanity behind the cape, even better.”

Peter was already thinking through possible rooftops. “Yeah... yeah, I can do that.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, voice lowering slightly. “Just be careful. Superman’s rescue ops can go from calm to chaos in about half a second.”

Peter nodded again but only half heard him. His thoughts were already spinning: light balance, shutter speeds, timing. Superman. In flight.

He didn’t notice the way Clark gave him one more lingering glance, eyes narrowing ever so slightly in quiet curiosity.

“See you there,” Clark said with a smile before disappearing back into the bullpen.

Peter stood there a moment, blinking, photos in hand, heart racing again.

Superman photos.

Paid gig.

Byline next to Clark Kent.

This city might just work out after all.

The wind off the West River carried the scent of burning rubber and rusted metal as Peter Parker walked through the industrial zone. Rusted shipping containers lined the cracked concrete.

The place looked abandoned, but that morning, Clark Kent had said it would be the site of a Superman-led rescue op—some kind of cleanup operation after a chemical spill caused by a malfunctioning LexCorp drone truck.

Peter wore a faded jacket over a shirt he thrifted the other day, camera bag slung across his shoulder. He’d already webbed up three cameras to different high vantage points—one strapped to a busted security pole, another fixed beneath a twisted scaffolding beam, and a third nestled in a rusted-out window frame across the yard.

Each one pointed toward the active zone, set to timed bursts with motion triggers.

The wind picked up. Peter zipped up his jacket and squinted into the distance.

“Come on, Big Blue,” he muttered. “Anytime now.”

And then—a boom.

Concrete exploded across the lot, sending chunks of debris sailing like shrapnel. A massive mechanical arm burst through the side of a nearby warehouse, followed by the rest of its body—a hulking, reinforced LexCorp exo-loader, clearly hacked or malfunctioning. Sparks flew from its joints, and the red glow in its visor pulsed like it was scanning for something—or someone—to crush.

Peter dropped behind a container, eyes brows furrowed in confusion. “Guess it’s not just a cleanup after all.”

A sonic crack split the air as Superman arrived, landing in a blur of blue and red between the loader and a trapped group of workers huddled near a toppled forklift. His cape whipped behind him as his eyes glowed with heat vision, warning shots blazing into the air.

Peter's cameras started firing in rapid bursts.

“Perfect,” he whispered, heart pounding.

He webbed to a nearby platform for a better vantage point, angling his lens just right. Superman moved fast—one moment shielding the workers, the next grabbing a support beam and redirecting the falling loader arm like it was nothing but cardboard.

Then, mid-action, Superman’s head snapped toward Peter.

Before Peter could react, Superman was right there, landing next to him with a gust of wind and concern etched across his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Superman said firmly, eyes scanning the area behind Peter. “This thing’s targeting anyone moving. You need to leave. Now.”

“I was just—” Peter started, half-raising his camera.

Superman held up a hand. “No photo’s worth your life, okay? Go home. It’s not safe out here right now.”

Peter blinked, “Right. Totally. Going. Home.”

Superman gave him a quick nod, then rocketed back into the fray before Peter could even finish pretending to leave.

Peter waited a beat, then turned back.

"I'm not missing this shot."

He sprinted low and fast, ducking behind a crumbling wall and switching to a telephoto lens. The loader was swinging wildly now, tearing into the side of a building, and Superman was locked in a blur of counterattacks—dodging, shielding, protecting.

Peter snapped shots between bursts of motion—Superman mid-punch, lifting a fallen beam, catching a runaway truck with one hand.

Then the loader's head turned.

Toward Peter.

A flash of red light sparked from its chest port. A blast fired—loud, fast, uncontrolled.

Peter leapt backward, webbed up, and flipped—but not fast enough. The edge of the blast caught his side mid-air and sent him tumbling into a pile of metal debris.

Pain exploded in his ribs as he landed hard.

“Okay,” Peter groaned, gasping. “That’s... fair. That’s what I get.”

He lay there for a moment, checking to make sure nothing was broken. His shoulder screamed in protest.

Still, the camera was somehow still intact, cradled in his arms like an egg.

“That’s gonna be a good one,” he whispered through gritted teeth, before crawling to a safer corner.

An hour later, Peter was back in his apartment, ice pack pressed to his ribs, bandage on his forehead and laptop glowing in the dark.

The photos were incredible.

Superman mid-air with debris exploding behind him. Superman lifting the loader’s arm with workers scrambling to safety. Superman pausing mid-flight to glance off-frame—probably toward him.

Peter couldn’t help smiling. These weren’t just action shots. They were stories.

He clicked through them, curating, touching up lighting here and there. He couldn’t wait to show Clark.

Though, come to think of it... he hadn’t seen Clark anywhere at the site.

Not once.

Peter paused, tapping a key idly. Clark had said he’d be there, hadn’t he?

He frowned slightly, made a mental note of it... then shrugged it off.

"Probably got tied up somewhere."

Still, as he saved the final photo set and leaned back with a satisfied sigh, a small grin tugged at his lips.

Superman might’ve told him to go home... but Peter Parker got the shot.

And he was definitely getting paid.

The next morning, Peter stood in front of the towering globe above the Daily Planet, clutching a manila envelope tight against his chest.

A breeze tugged at the edge of the bandage on his forehead, reminding him with a dull throb of just how close things had gotten yesterday. He’d cleaned the cut, patched it up, and decided it looked better than the bruise on his ribs felt.

But none of that mattered.

Not right now.

Because inside that envelope were the best pictures he’d taken in months—maybe ever. Action shots of Superman that looked like they’d been pulled straight out of a blockbuster. Heroic, sharp, intense. The kind of work that could land him a real freelance contract. Maybe even a front page.

Peter practically floated through the Planet’s bullpen, dodging coffee runs and half-shouted edits. He spotted Clark at his desk, typing something methodically, glasses slightly down his nose. He looked calm. Focused.

Peter approached with a smile so wide it almost hurt.

“Morning, Mr. Kent,” he said, dropping the envelope gently onto the desk. “Got plenty for you to choose from.”

Clark looked up. “Peter—hey.”

Peter peeled the flap back and fanned out a few prints, spreading them across the desk. “There’s about two dozen in here. I sorted them by angle and lighting, but honestly? They’re all solid. You’ve got Superman mid-lift, shielding people, fighting off that—whatever that thing was. The lighting in the warehouse collapse one? Unreal.”

Clark’s eyes moved from the photos to Peter’s forehead. His brow furrowed. “You alright?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Clark tapped the corner of one of the photos. “You’re hurt.”

Peter self-consciously reached up, brushing the bandage. “Oh. Yeah. It’s nothing. Just caught a bit of the blast. But the shot I got right after? Worth it.”

Clark's jaw tightened as he continued flipping through the photos. The shots were incredible—no denying that.

But they were close. Too close.

Most had been taken from dangerous angles—under crumbling scaffolding, within feet of explosions, almost in Superman’s line of fire.

Clark looked up again, this time more sternly. “Did you even hear me when I told you to stay back? To be safe?”

Peter’s smile faded. “I—I was careful.”

“Peter,” Clark said, voice calm but firm, “these are the kinds of pictures someone gets right before they end up in a hospital bed.”

Peter flushed and looked down. “You asked for action shots.”

“I asked for shots,” Clark said, holding up one of the photos. “Not a suicide mission. I told you it could get dangerous, and you still ran toward it.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “I got the photos you wanted.”

“I didn’t want you hurt.”

Peter stepped back, frustration rising in his chest like a swell. “Why do you even care? You weren’t there. You said you would be.”

Clark's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

Peter bit his tongue but couldn’t stop the words. “You’re sitting here telling me what’s too risky while you didn’t even show up. I was out there alone, trying to make rent, trying to give you exactly what you asked for.”

Clark didn’t answer at first. He just looked at Peter with something that wasn’t anger... but wasn’t soft, either.

“I don’t feel comfortable using these,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Not if you got hurt taking them.”

Peter felt the air go out of his lungs. “But they’re good,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “They’re really good.”

“They are,” Clark said. “But a few cool photos aren’t worth your life. Not to me.”

Peter could feel the pressure behind his eyes. His throat burned. He looked down at the photos, now scattered across the desk—bright, sharp, perfect... and suddenly completely useless.

He swallowed hard and nodded once.

“Thanks for the chance,” he said, voice brittle.

Clark started to say something else, but Peter turned, already moving toward the door.

He left the photos behind.

He didn’t look back.

And as the elevator doors closed behind him, Peter stared at his reflection—at the tired eyes, at the bruised pride, at the bandage that suddenly felt like it meant more than a scratch.

This city was supposed to be a fresh start.

But somehow, it felt just like home.

#superman #david corenswet #superman 2025 #spider-man #tomholland #peter parker #ᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢꜱᴇʟꜰᴘɪᴛʏ