Tom Hiddleston & Loki Imagines (xReader)

The Phantom of Mischief, Part 1

Carlotta Guidicelli dipped into an exaggerated curtsy, amid the thunder of applause and cheers. Her dress glittered in the soft lighting; the warm tones of her surroundings brought out the slight blush in her cheeks.

"Brava! Brava!" the audience cried. "Encore!"

But Carlotta merely smiled and floated gracefully offstage.

She was met in the wings by a somewhat flustered-looking stagehand, who promptly bowed and grovelled in abject subservience. "A most excellent performance, milady," he said, trying and failing to sound enthusiastic.

Carlotta waved him off. "Sì, I know-a that already. Why do you tell me that every time, 'uh? I am the leading signora; of course I am exquiseete. But you, peasant, flattery gets-a you no-where." Stalking off, she looked haughtily around as she made her way to the front of the Opera Populaire. "Doggy! Where is my doggy? Have-a you lose him again?" Her eyes narrowed. "Doggy!" she called loudly.

"Here, madame!" Her maid pushed her way forward, carefully handing the diva the tiny poodle in question. It yipped happily as it was transferred to his mistress's arms. Carlotta crooned over it. "See, you say no flattery, just the truth, uh? I am la magnifica donna, you get nothing out of eet, and you love-a me." And with a frankly unreasonable glare at the stagehand, she gave the dog a delicate kiss on the snout. "Now, on we go. On we go to the porch, where I meet with my public. Why do you all just stand there, hm? Come!" She sashayed onward.

From where he walked behind her, struggling to keep up, Monsieur Lefevre sighed heavily and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

Carlotta's sour expression turned to one of gracious smiles as she opened the large double doors of the Opera House. She gasped in surprise at seeing so many theater-goers gathered there, many of them waving flowers and gifts. Her surprise was all feigned, of course. It was a well-known and long-established Carlotta Guidicelli tradition to make an appearance after every performance, there to receive more laudation and give more autographs.

Her fans ate it up.

"La Carlotta!"

"Madame, over here!"

"Brava, Madame!"

"Madame Guidicelli! You are the Voice of Paris!"

Carlotta blushed with (again, feigned) modesty at the compliments. It was a habit she cultivated, having seen that such actions often pleased the crowd and therefore generated more praise.

Her act was rewarded when a tall, slender man elbowed his way to the front of the throng. Stepping forward, he audaciously took one of Carlotta's hands and kissed it. Then, as if by magic, he produced a large bouquet of pink roses from beneath his cloak and held it out to her. Carlotta, smiling coyly, handed her poodle to her maid and took the flowers. "Oh, Monsieur," she purred, "really, you are too kind, thank-a you, you are too sweet—Monsieur Lefevre, ees he not sweet?"

Lefevre turned from his conversation. "What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Carlotta." He returned to conversing with a distinguished older gentleman.

"I am happy they please you, madame," the flower-bearing man said in a velvety baritone, looking deep into Carlotta's eyes.

She batted her eyelashes and gave another coquettish smile.

Her arms, meanwhile, had been steadily filled with chocolates, flowers, and small trinkets, all gifts from her adoring fans. She gushed readily. "Ah, my public! My audience, my darlings, miei amici, miei amori, thank you, thank-a you, I am flattered—HEY!"