#clone trooper oc

[tuatara-time]

I am catastrophically bored at work, if anyone has clone trooper OCs please feel free to ramble about them to me! I wanna hear about your guys :)

[jabba-the-jedi]

chucks this at you (aka, I don’t know how to introduce a character)

Traps and Aytee : )

In love with the lothwolf themed armor…

He’s up on my Artfight! (scootrr)

[jay-jabbers]

Drawing a Clone Trooper helmet took me 38 minutes (still not fully pleased with it, but I gave up). The longest section of this drawing (1 hour, 19 minutes).

His name is Scooter by the way. The one with just the stripes is him during the war, the one with the vines is post-war, in the Rebellion.

[nenek0-x]

KAngel and... Clone KAngel? Lol

Advanced Recon Kawaii (ARK-Trooper).

Krooper?

[borifledraws]

drawing someone else’s sw oc inspired me to finally draw my own— this is Commander Stonesthrow, or Stone for short!

I played as him in a long running clone wars campaign (in the ffg/edge star wars ttrpg) as the right hand man to my friend @communistjohnkat’s jedi character, Allista Cinnastar. he’s loyal, an inspiring leader, and unhealthily codependent on his general/secret jedi lover 🥰🥴

[cacodaemonia]

Commission for @elismor, of her delightful OC, Flood. Such a cutie 😍

[monoetr]

The narrow corridor of the Republic outpost is lit by the harsh fluorescent lamps. Clone troopers pass him in disciplined streams. Graft walks among them, datapad in hand. As he steps aside to let a squad pass, a loud voice cuts through the ambient noise:

“...6119? Graft?!”

His spine goes rigid even before he turns. The tone hits some buried neural pathway before the words themselves register.

An infantry clone stands there. He is older now, broader too. A red pauldron on his shoulder stands out against the white armor. Graft’s gaze catches on the man’s face. He notices a flicker of recognition in clone’s eyes as they track up to the scar across Graft’s forehead.

“Kriff… that is you! Haven’t seen you since Kamino!”

In the next seconds Graft’s mind produces three parallel responses:

Logical one: identify the trooper, then assess his relevance to the pending mission. Provide neutral acknowledgment if necessary.

Physiological one: try to ignore unbearable tightness in the chest and the faint pressure behind the eyes.

Mnemonic one: get a vivid mental image of metal lockers, hands on his shoulders, the moment before impact.

None of these responses align, so he just defaults to the safest possible script:

“You require something, trooper?”

The other clone huffs a small laugh. 

“Still got a beam up your ass, huh? It’s me, Bitter.” A pause. “Your…batch?”

Graft processes the information, but it doesn’t create any emotion he can label. Instead, it creates noise. Static.

Bitter’s expression shifts: a mix of awkwardness and… guilt? That part Graft doesn’t know what to do with.

“Listen… uh. About back then. Uhm. We were stupid kids, we just didn’t know any better.” His eyes flick to the scar again. “No one taught us how to, you know… Didn’t expect you to end up… like this.”

Graft’s jaw tightens a millimeter, the kind of movement you notice only if you know what you are looking for. His internal processes spike: is he referencing the incident? Is this a threat? Is this an attempt at reconciliation? What is the correct protocol of action here? Why is he still looking at the scar? Why does my chest feel constricted?

He settles on the only truth he knows:

“The past is not operationally relevant.”

Bitter winces at his delivery. 

“Yeah, yeah.... Right. Sure. Still… you didn’t deserve-” He stops, looks away at a passing trooper. “We should’ve treated you like a brother.”

Graft doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to feel, but something in him objects. A small, sharp flicker of… irritation?

He speaks softly, evenly, the kind of voice he uses when interrogating an especially hostile suspect:

“Incorrect. I did not fulfill the behavioral pattern expected of a brother. Your actions attempted to correct deviation.”

Bitter stares at him, horrified.

“That’s not- we weren’t!” He swallows. “You think that was correction?!”

Graft stands perfectly still. He doesn’t feel defensive or angry. He simply doesn’t understand why the conversation is happening in the first place.

“It is irrelevant. You are dismissed, trooper.”

Bitter opens his mouth, maybe to apologize again, maybe to explain, but nothing really comes out. He gives a stiff nod instead and walks off, slow at first, then faster, as if trying to escape the hallway. Graft remains.

The corridor feels too bright. His pulse is too loud. He should go file his report, but his feet don’t move. He touches the edge of the scar with two gloved fingers before letting out a shaky exhale.

[mindsmist]

Now that all my ref sheets are done i might as well post my Artfight again :D