Calum:
It had been an accident, Calum's nickname for you.
He'd been walking you home from a date, fingers intertwined steps in synchronisation. You'd been laughing at whatever he'd just told you, presumably a stupid anecdote about the boys that he couldn't remember now, and the streetlights had been projecting your shadows onto the concrete below your feet. But more importantly, their light had been casting a glow around you that made you look so ethereal that it had stolen his breath, and Calum didn't think he'd ever seen someone so beautiful.
"What are you staring at Rockstar?" You giggled, your nickname for the Maori boy established a long time before his. "You've got a goofy smile on your face."
"Just you Angel." He'd shrugged, your smile softening as the pet name had fallen from his lips subconsciously. "And all your beauty."
"Shut up." You'd rolled your eyes then, moving to knock your shoulder against his, although your hand had given his a gentle squeeze.
But he couldn't drop that image of you then, so effortlessly beautiful and heavenly that the term seemed so fitting, so perfect, that Calum couldn't find a reason as to why he'd call you anything else.
He kept that a secret though, letting everyone draw their own conclusions as to how and when he'd begun to call you something other than Y/N.
"One of the lads at the studio asked me if it was because you were really innocent." He smirked one night, trapping you against the kitchen counter with his hips.
"And what did you say?" Your expression mirrored his, hands resting on his lower abdomen as Calum's smirk only grew.
"I didn't. I just showed him these." He tugs on the neck of his t-shirt to reveal his collarbone, and consequently the constellation of purple marks that surrounded it, ones which almost matched the patterns he'd left at the base of your neck. Your own smirk widened at the sight before you returned your eyes to his. "He doesn't think that anymore."
"You tell him the real reason."
"Nah. Let him think it was ironic or something. Makes it fun that way."
"What if he talks to that waitress who thinks you call me it because of the non-existent time I saved your life?"
"Well then they'll have a lovely chat."
Calum enjoyed the mystery that surrounded it; enjoyed that it was your little secret. And whilst he made no attempt to hide the fact he called you Angel, he did ensure that the origin stayed unknown, allowing you to have a little piece of your relationship that was private.
But most of all, he liked the smile that graced your lips every time he reminded you of his favourite memory of you.
Michael:
It wasn't a surprise Michael's nickname for you came from a moment of sarcasm.
Whenever people asked him about it, whether it be an interviewer commenting on how cute the term of endearment was or a friend poking fun at how cheesy he was being, a smirk would simply settle on his face, and he'd recount the memory as clearly as if it had happened earlier that day.
"She always gets her own way." He would begin, a look of pride in his eyes. "Don't know how she does it, but no matter what people fall at Y/N's feet to do her bidding. And I remember there was this day really early on in our relationship where loads of people had done stuff for her, like really menial stuff, and when it was just the two of us she asked me to pass her her drink, and without thinking, I just said 'Of course Princess.'. It just stuck from there, the idea that she was a Princess and always got what she wanted. It's not cute or anything, promise."
And of course, the sarcasm often accompanied his nickname for you.
If you ever asked him to do anything, even if it was just to help you up from the sofa, he'd roll his eyes and mutter a quick 'Anything for you, Princess.' If you'd argued, he'd often throw his hands in the air and storm off, yelling back at you to 'Stop being such a Princess!' If you were trying to convince him of something, he'd just smirk at you, before agreeing with a 'Whatever you say Princess.'
But there were the times when it wasn't sarcastic, even if he denied them.
Michael would whine it in the morning when you got out of bed and he wanted you to come back. He'd hum it softly when you were wrapped up in his arms and his fingers were tangled in your hair. He'd sing it as he walked in the door as a greeting and he'd yell it from another room to capture your attention.
Because while it originated from a sarcastic comment, the pet name was now something both you and Michael took pride in.
He'd bought you a tiara once, a child's plastic one on your birthday so you could wear it for the day. And whilst he told everyone it was because today of all days you needed to have your demands met, he'd mumbled something quietly to you about 'every princess needs a tiara' as he'd placed it on your head.
Because even if he joked about it, you were Michael's princess. And he wouldn't change you for the world.
