Tech Is Immune To Flirting, But She Keeps Trying! This Was Adorable!

Tech is immune to flirting, but she keeps trying! This was adorable!

#tech’s a coder not a flirter

Tech x Mechanic Reader

Summary: After the war, you reprogrammed a troop of abandoned B1 battle droids to serve with kindness—not violence. When Clone Force 99 shows up for a supply run, Tech questions your methods, and you challenge his logic.

You found them half-dead in the sand. Twenty B1 battle droids, dumped in a sun-scorched wreck outside the outpost, like bones picked clean by time and war. Most folks would've scavenged the parts, maybe sold off a few limbs if the servos were still functional.

But you? You were a little lonely, a little dangerous, and very, *very* good with code.

Rewiring them took weeks. You erased what the Separatists left behind, built your own parameters from scratch, and gave them something they'd never had before: choice.

You taught them to wave. To carry groceries. To call you "Friend" instead of "Master."

And when people flinched at the sight of battle droids strolling through town, you dipped your brush in paint. Mint green, lavender, sunflower yellow. You gave them smiley faces, heart decals, flower crowns made from leftover wire. You made them soft. Funny. Endearing.

They were still capable of violence—so were you—but they only used it when you gave the order.

Which wasn't often.

---

Clone Force 99 didn't arrive with blasters drawn, but the tension clung to them like dust. The mission was simple: a supply pickup for Cid. In and out. But this planet made Wrecker's nose wrinkle, and Echo kept his blaster low and ready.

Hunter spotted the droid first—lavender chassis, daisies painted across its plating, an old satchel slung over one shoulder as it meandered through the marketplace humming something vaguely cheerful.

"Is that... a B1?" Echo asked, narrowing his eyes.

"It appears to be carrying coolant," Tech said, scanning with his datapad. "And whistling."

Wrecker let out a low chuckle. "Guess the war *really* is over."

"Something's off," Hunter murmured. "Let's follow it."

They kept their distance as the droid turned off the main strip and waddled down a side alley, past a half-crumbling sign that read *THE FIXER'S NEST* in flickering neon.

The shop was a bunker of welded panels and salvaged Separatist tech. Outside, another B1—bright pink with a lopsided sun painted on its chest—was sweeping the doorstep and chatting to a GNK droid.

"Friend says no sand in the workshop," it explained, very seriously. "Sand gets in the gears. Sand *hurts feelings*."

The Bad Batch exchanged a look.

Hunter stepped forward and tapped twice on the doorframe.

You didn't even look up from where you were elbow-deep in a deconstructed astromech.

"You're late," you said, voice calm. "Tell Cid her coolant's in the crate by the wall. So's the power cells, bolts, and the weird candy she likes."

There was a pause.

"We didn't say we were here for Cid," Echo said slowly.

Now you looked up—smirk sharp, eyes sharper.

"Didn't have to. You've got that *'we work for someone mean, grumpy and morally grey'* vibe. Plus, you match the order details she sent me yesterday."

Wrecker moved to the crate and peeked inside. "Yep. All here."

"Of course it is," you muttered. "I run a business, not a guessing game."

Tech, meanwhile, was still staring at the droids—two were dusting the shelves with actual feather dusters, and another had just handed you a datapad while humming.

"These are B1 units," he said, voice laced with something between awe and concern. "Fully functional. Active. Painted."

You stood, wiping your hands on a rag. "I call that one Sprinkles."

"They're dangerous," he said immediately. "You realize they could revert to their original programming at any time—"

"Not mine," you cut in. "I rewrote them myself. Erased every combat subroutine. They're coded to help, protect, and be as non-threatening as a bowl of soup."

Tech stepped forward, clearly bristling. "Their hardware alone makes them capable of violence. You cannot override thousands of lines of military protocol with flower decals and whimsy."

"No," you said coolly, "but I can override them with skill, precision, and an understanding of droid psychology that clearly surpasses yours."

Hunter winced. Echo muttered something under his breath. Wrecker made the universal *oooooh, burn* face.

Tech, however, pushed up his goggles like you'd challenged him to a duel. "I would very much like to inspect your code."

You arched a brow. "What, no dinner first?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

You grinned. "Don't worry, Professor. I'll even let you use the comfy chair."

Sprinkles chirped and handed Tech a cup of caf with perfect comedic timing.

"Welcome, new Friend!" it said cheerfully.

Tech took the cup automatically, staring down at it like it might explode.

You leaned on the counter and gave him a slow once-over. "You gonna tell me how unsafe I am again, or are you here to learn something?"

He met your gaze, thoughtful now. Curious. "...Both."

You smiled, victorious.

---

Tech hadn't stopped talking for fifteen minutes straight.

Not that you minded. His cadence was quick, his mind quicker, and his goggles fogged slightly whenever he got excited. Which, it turned out, was often—especially when discussing battle droid memory cores, sub-routine overrides, and how you managed to build a loyalty system based on *empathy* instead of authority.

"You replaced their original fail-safe with a social dependency loop," he said, practically glowing. "That's... innovative. Risky. But brilliant."

"I try," you said, leaning against your workbench. "It helps that they trust me. Most people don't trust anything unless they can control it. Droids aren't any different."

Tech nodded slowly, examining the code you'd opened for him on your terminal. "You used a behavioral reinforcement system. Repetition and reward. This is similar to clone trooper training methodology—except applied to machines."

You gave him a sly look. "Are you comparing yourself to a B1?"

"I am acknowledging structural parallels in behavioral learning patterns," he replied, completely straight-faced.

You grinned. "That's what I said."

Tech paused, frowning slightly. "You are... amused by me."

"Observant, aren't you?" You stepped closer, brushing your shoulder against his as you leaned in to point at a line of code. "This part here—subtle failsafe. If they ever encounter an override attempt from an external signal, it loops them back to me."

He blinked, eyes darting from the screen to your face. "That is... impressively cautious."

"I've been told I'm full of surprises."

He didn't respond—just squinted closer at the screen.

You sighed, lips twitching. "Nothing? Not even a blush? Stars, you *are* all business."

Before he could answer (or continue missing your very obvious flirting), a loud crash echoed from the street outside, followed by the unmistakable hiss of a thermal disruptor and the annoyed squawk of one of your droids.

You were already moving.

Outside, a low-rent bounty hunter—tatty armor, one glowing eye, and an attitude that outpaced his ability—was holding one of your B1s at blaster point.

"Move, scrapheap, or I'll scrap you myself," he snarled.

The droid blinked. "Friend said no yelling. Friend also said no blasters unless you bring candy."

"*Candy?*"

You stepped into the street like a storm cloud in boots.

"Is there a reason you're threatening my droid, or are you just bored and stupid?"

The bounty hunter turned to you, smug. "This thing walked in front of my speeder. I don't care how shiny you paint 'em—B1s are still clanker trash. I'm just doing the galaxy a favor."

You gave a slow whistle.

Three more droids stepped out from alleyways and rooftops, all armed with repurposed but deactivated blasters—they didn't need live ammo to intimidate. One even had a frying pan.

The bounty hunter backed up a step.

You raised a hand.

"Engage," you said simply.

They moved like a synchronized swarm. Two pinned his arms while the others knocked the blaster from his hands and dismantled his boots with surgical precision. The frying pan droid stood back and provided color commentary.

"Friend says don't be mean! Friend says fix your attitude!"

The bounty hunter was on the ground and begging within seconds.

You stepped forward, crouched down, and grabbed him by the collar.

"You threaten one of mine again, and I'll let them finish what they started. You hear me?"

He nodded frantically.

"Good." You turned to your droids. "Escort him to the edge of town. Gently."

They saluted with cartoonish enthusiasm and dragged him off, half-hopping as they went.

You stood, dusted your hands, and turned back to find Tech watching with an unreadable expression.

"Well?" you said, folding your arms.

"That was... efficient," he admitted. "But highly aggressive."

You raised a brow. "They followed my orders exactly. Didn't fire a shot. Didn't kill. Didn't even insult his boots. I programmed them to protect what's mine, not wage war."

"But the capability—"

"*Exists.*" You cut in. "Just like yours does. Just like mine. The question isn't what they *can* do. It's what they *choose* to do. And what I program them to choose."

Tech looked at you then—really looked at you. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes. Understanding. Respect.

Maybe even admiration.

"They're not like the others," he said, finally.

You smirked. "Neither am I."

He hesitated, adjusting his goggles. "Would you... allow me to assist you in refining their motor skills protocols? I have a few ideas."

You leaned on the workbench again, grinning. "You wanna help me teach battle droids ballet?"

Tech blinked. "Not... precisely."

"Come on, Tech," you said, voice low and teasing. "Live a little."

He didn't answer, but he did roll up his sleeves and pull out a datapad, already scribbling new subroutine formulas with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You might not have cracked the flirtation firewall yet—but the code was definitely compiling.