Emily's art🎨: Black Cat cosplay

Comics Universe Festival truly promised to be an apocalypse for the ordinary—a place where reality tangled with fiction. For Emily Riva, it was the birthday of her soul.

The city, a three-hour drive from Wizosh, had transformed into a kaleidoscope of madness:
On the main festival squares stood full-scale replicas: New York, draped in superhero banners; Asgard, with its majestic, cracked Bifröst bridge, as if foretelling a battle of gods; Gotham, cloaked in mystery, where every second person in a trench coat embodied the eternal struggle between good and evil.

Tourists poured in from every corner of the country to take part in this unique celebration. The air buzzed with festival energy and freedom of expression - people spoke in the languages of costumes and masks. One man loudly declared himself Thor, swinging a fake Mjölnir; another played Venom, sending shivers and laughter through the crowd. A woman portraying Captain America’s mother even presented forged “documents” proving her lineage, earning laughs and applause.

Emily, fully aware of the day’s significance, had made a radical decision. She skipped an important exam, didn’t bother explaining - she’d make up excuses later. At work, she lied, claiming she had a university obligation, and her sympathetic boss granted her two days off.

Arriving at the festival, Emily looked utterly ordinary: hoodie, jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder. It seemed like any other bag - unless you knew what it carried. Inside: carefully packed cans of paint in various shades, sponges of all sizes, a mirror, wipes and, of course, her untamed passion for comic characters.

The women’s restrooms at the exhibition center had become a transformation workshop. Chaos and excitement filled the air: girls in elaborate costumes frantically fixed makeup, adjusted wigs, and repaired tiny flaws. One participant quietly cried, trying to salvage the tail of her dragon costume. Another screamed, hands on her head:

— Where’s my cloak?! Who took it?!

Emily found an empty stall, closed the door behind her, and placed her “secret arsenal” on the toilet.

— Let’s go.

Her resolve was unshakable. She stripped completely—down to her last stitch, even her underwear and shoes—leaving herself utterly naked. This moment always stirred mixed feelings of shame and pride; after all, thin walls separated her from dozens of people. But experience from past transformations—especially her first clown cosplay—gave her the confidence and courage needed.

She knew her body had to be a clean canvas to create the perfect Black Cat. Special matte black waterproof paint, dark as midnight, glided over her skin, forming the base for intricate details. A tight silhouette, sharp lines emphasizing the character’s strength and grace: the cutout over her chest, gloves up to the elbows, elegant stiletto heels—all crafted with meticulous care. Every motion was deliberate, every sponge stroke precise, turning an ordinary girl into a legendary comic heroine.

Thin lines of black gel along her nails created the illusion of real claws. The mask—made of ultra-thin black fabric on an elastic band—had fluffy ears, perfectly mimicking a cat’s. They sat flawlessly, accentuating the expressiveness of her eyes behind the small eye slits.

— This isn’t just cosplay, — Emily whispered, studying her reflection in a pocket mirror. — This is… transformation.

Forty minutes later, she emerged from the stall - like a figure rising from the shadows. Unrecognizable. Sleek. Sharp. Her body had become one with the costume, skin transformed into art. Every curve, every line emphasized the power and independence of the heroine. Her eyes, hidden behind the mask, radiated calm and readiness—but beneath them flickered a predator’s gleam, capable of piercing anyone daring to challenge her.

At the cloakroom, Emily handed in her backpack—tools, clothes, used materials - like returning a piece of her old world, now left behind.

At the main entrance, lit by bright lights and buzzing with festival energy, Emily paused. A deep breath filled her lungs with fresh air, charging her with energy and resolve. Her gaze swept over the crowd. She met smiles, admiring looks. People recognized Black Cat, the embodiment of strength and freedom, stepping into their world.

With a light, springy step, she crossed the threshold - like stepping over an invisible line between the mundane and the magical.

Emily slowed as she passed the stage where the costume contest was in full swing. Here, she felt something deeper than just stares or whispers - a vibration in the air. Her attention caught on a young streamer dressed as Luke Cage, standing near the podium. He held a phone, its screen pointed directly at her. Under the text “LIVE: WHO IS THIS BLACK GHOST?!” comments flashed:

“Is that a costume?”
“Is she naked?”
“Film her in 4K!”
“Mom, I’m seeing an angel!”

The words pierced her mind like sharp arrows. For the first time since the transformation, Emily didn’t feel fear or shame - only a sharp, electric awkwardness. Yes, her body was covered in expert paint. Yes, it looked like a perfect costume. But beneath it - nothing. No fabric. No lining. No protection. Just her own skin, exposed, despite the mask and paint.

This sudden exposure to thousands of viewers sent a shiver through her. Every step became a statement, inviting questions. The sway of her hips, the gentle bounce of her chest, the shadow between her legs - all felt betraying, threatening to shatter the image she’d so carefully built.

— Oh God, — she whispered, barely holding her breath. — They’re live-streaming me.

And I’m naked.

Suddenly, her mind flooded with conflicting thoughts. Run? But where? The camera had already captured her. The audience had already seen her - this way she never meant to show herself. Instead of stopping, Emily sped up, as if trying to outrun the camera’s gaze. Her legs moved faster, fleeing not just the lens - but herself, this sudden truth: she wasn’t just a heroine. She was a person - vulnerable. Real.

Despite the inner conflict, she kept moving, weaving into the crowd, seeking shelter in the human flow. Pride in her creation warred with shame over her nudity. But she knew: today, she hadn’t just played a role. She had lived an epic moment that would stay with her forever.

Black Cat, skillfully navigating the crowd and exhibition stands, felt growing attention. Several people—mostly Spider-Men—approached, asking for photos. Emily, uneasy, struck poses that concealed unwanted details—slightly crossing her arms over her chest to hide hardened nipples. She knew she was outside normal city rules, but she didn’t want to accidentally become a national scandal.

Her mind kept circling back to the streamer.

— I hope he doesn’t save the footage, — she thought, constantly checking her phone for mentions.

But time passed—and soon, the costume contest began. Emily’s heart raced as they announced the most talked-about participants. Her name was third. Unexpected—but flattering. Yet the urge to vanish into the crowd grew stronger. She leaned against a stand of painted artworks, trying to blend in.

Her heart pounded like a hammer when the organizer approached—face stern, voice cutting through the noise:

— Are you out of your mind? Cover yourself now.

— What… but… — Emily tried to protest, but the crowd surged, literally shoving her toward the stage. Cameras flashed, lights blinded her, and panic surged anew. Her carefully hidden secret was out. If before there was illusion, now everyone saw the truth in seconds.

Her thoughts tangled:

— What will they think? Did they all notice? — she panicked inside, feeling shame burn through her.

Then, the host’s loud voice cut the air:

— Looks like we have a winner for “Most Provocative Costume.” And the prize goes to… Black Cat!

Her image filled the giant screen—and in that moment, Emily realized: no retreat. Overcoming embarrassment and fear, she lifted her head high, radiating unshakable confidence. The stage wasn’t a place of fear anymore. It was her triumph.

— Felicia Hardy, — she whispered when the host asked her name, trying to sound natural—though the host’s slightly confused expression said otherwise.

— Our first winner. Black Cat! — the host announced, and the hall erupted in applause.

Some whistled. Some filmed. One voice shouted:

— That’s illegal!

Approaching the microphone, Emily gathered her last courage.

— Thank you for the prize… And… I didn’t think I’d win anything, — she began, feeling the judging stares of other Black Cat cosplayers in real costumes.

Closing her eyes for a second, she steeled herself and said with raw passion:

— I didn’t come here to be like everyone else. I came to show: a heroine can be herself. In any situation. Even if caught at the scene of the crime!

Winking at the crowd - like a true cat - she gracefully jumped off the stage, leaving her words echoing behind. A quick shift in scenery let her vanish into the crowd, skillfully avoiding the guards’ watchful eyes. The organizers, though they’d awarded her, clearly wanted to confront her. But Emily had already slipped behind a comics stand, and they passed by.

Realizing it was time to go, she headed for the exit - only to face security, undoubtedly briefed to stop anyone like her. Sighing in frustration, Emily spotted the streamer who’d filmed her - he stood in a corner, swapping batteries.

— Hey! — she whispered, approaching from the side.

He spun around, stunned.

— It’s you… Listen, you just made history! Can I get a quick interview?

— Not today, — Emily replied. Then, with a sly smile: — But I’ll send a shoutout to your viewers… if you bring me my bag from the cloakroom.

— You’re leaving already? — he asked uncertainly, glancing at the guards.

— See, my look… let’s say it doesn’t quite fit public decency, — she said, nodding toward security. — They’re looking for me.

The guy, nervously glancing in that direction, said:

— Uh… okay, I’ll try. But… what if you’re lying?

— One chance, — Emily said firmly. — I’ll record a greeting for your viewers. And I promise… I’ll leave you my ears as a souvenir. Please! Just get my things fast.

He nodded and headed to the cloakroom—then suddenly turned, walking straight toward the guards. Emily bit her lip, watching.

— Fucking hell, — she whispered, realizing she might be trapped by her own game.

Her heart pounded as she watched the streamer approach the guards, talking to them. Her thoughts raced:

Did he just…

But when he turned and gave her a thumbs-up, relief exploded in her chest.

— He led them away! — Emily whispered, barely believing her luck. Seizing the moment, Emily quickly grabbed his camera and aimed it at herself. She posed, trying to look natural while carefully covering intimate areas. On screen: genuine gratitude, a warm smile.

— Mrrrow, hello there! This is Black Cat! Thank you for the support! — she said warmly. — And special thanks to my streamer friend for the help! Without him, I’d be stuck here. And definitely caught.

She handed the camera back. The guy returned with her bag, grinning with relief.

— Get out fast before they come back, — he whispered, handing it over.

Emily quickly checked the contents, nodded, and rushed to the exit—her heart swelling with warmth. She turned for one last thank you.

— Thank you so much! And here… — she said, removing the cat ears and offering them.

— Anytime. Not every day you meet a naked cosplayer who follows her idea so… uncompromisingly.

— I’m not naked at all, — she added with a mischievous smile. — Just painted.

With one last look, she ran for the exit, pulling on a long hoodie.

Outside, removing the wig and mask, she felt the fresh wind caress her face - like a festival’s farewell kiss.

On the bus, as the paint began to smudge - especially on her thigh, rubbed by the seat. Emily only smiled. She could’ve worn pants, but the long hoodie, like a second blanket, safely covered her from prying eyes. Through the window, the city passed by - lights, shadows, silhouettes in lit windows and deep inside, she prayed no one close to her would see her on the news or in streams.

— “Even if they do - let them not recognize me,” — she reassured herself.

Back home, she went straight to the bathroom. Under the shower, watching dark paint swirl down the drain, Emily felt free. Her body returned to itself - became hers again.

Sitting on the floor, eyes closed, she whispered:

— Today I was… naked. I was vulnerable. I was ridiculous. But also… I was incredibly cool.

Opening her eyes, she said:

— And I don’t regret a thing.

These words weren’t just admission. They were declaration.
She had found the courage to be herself - unafraid of judgment.
This day would forever remain in her memory - a symbol of inner freedom.
Of walking her own path.
Of being seen.