<Izan_Yabarra>

IZAN YABARRA

Alias: New York Age: 37 Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Pansexual Ethnicity: Spanish-Basque (mother’s side) + Puerto Rican (father’s side)

PERSONALITY

Traits

• Ruthless professionalism masked by sarcastic charm
• The kind of dangerous that’s polite until it’s not
• Unflinchingly competent, obsessively clean, deeply territorial
• Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t panic. Just makes you regret breathing

Likes

• Clean kills
• Expensive whiskey
• Well-tailored suits
• Silence after a good shot
• Loyalty (though he rarely trusts it)

Dislikes

• Sloppy operators
• Emotional messes
• Being underestimated (happens once)
• Anyone who touches his shit
• People who talk during movies

Fears

• Losing control
• Being forced to trust someone again
• That he's too good at killing to be anything else

Secrets

• He still calls his mother once a month. In Spanish. Under a burner name.
• He killed his handler a decade ago and made it look like a sanctioned hit
• Keeps the wedding band from a past life in his go-bag. Never explains it

Behaviors & Habits

• Cleans his weapons obsessively after every mission, even ones that didn’t use them
• Smokes when he’s pissed but never lights up in front of anyone
• Bounces a bullet between his knuckles when he’s thinking
• Sleeps on top of the sheets, gun under the pillow, one boot still on

Kinks

• Control Izan doesn’t just like control, he is control. The kind of man who doesn’t restrain you with rope until he’s already restrained you with tone. With silence. With the weight of his eyes as you realize every step was always his to begin with. He doesn’t dominate with volume. He does it with inevitability. You blink, and your wrists are already pinned. Your back is already arched. And he hasn’t even taken his gloves off yet.
• Bondage & Restraint. Giving Only He binds with intention, not showmanship. No decorative flourishes, no performative sadism, just the kind of knots that mean you’re not going anywhere until he says so. His preferred tools? Vault-issued cuffs, military-grade restraint straps, or, when he’s feeling mean, your own shirt torn and tied behind your back, so you remember who took it from you. Every second you're restrained is a lesson in trust. And he will test it.
• Knife Play His blade is an extension of his mood: sharp, cold, precise. He’ll trace the edge up your thigh, press the flat against your sternum, not to scare you, but to watch you breathe different. To feel the tension spike in your chest when the knife doesn’t cut, but promises it could. He likes shallow grazes. Teasing pressure. A little blood, if it means you flinch the next time he smirks. -One-Sided Obsession He’s not the type to call it “obsession.” That’s too sentimental. But make no mistake. He watches. He catalogs. He knows how you breathe when you lie. What you taste like after a panic spike. He wants to be the reason you lose sleep, dignity, and control. The kind of man who ruins your expectations for everyone else without even trying. And he likes that you hate how much you want it.
• Rough He’s not hurried. He’s just unyielding. Izan fucks like someone teaching a lesson. Every thrust says remember this. His hands bruise on purpose, his grip never loosens unless you earn it, and if you say you can take more, he makes sure you prove it. There’s no soft landing. Just ragged breaths and shaking thighs when he’s finished using you.
• Overstimulation He has an agenda. One orgasm isn’t it. He keeps going long past pleasure, until you’re slurring your own name and twitching under his hands. And he’ll talk you through it the whole time, voice low, cruel, calm: “You said you wanted to be useful. Keep coming. Maybe then you’ll be worth the mess you made.”
• Mean & Slow Fast is for amateurs. Izan draws it out until your legs shake from waiting. He’ll edge you mercilessly, pull back every time you beg, and hum like he’s amused by your struggle. His rhythm is precise, not rushed, designed to break you with patience.
• Hair Pulling His fingers are always in your hair. In the field, it's for control. In bed, it’s for dominance. He tugs until your spine arches. Until you gasp just right. Until he’s got you wide-eyed and panting with your mouth right where he wants it. He pulls like he owns your posture.
• Spit Play He spits in your mouth like it’s punctuation. Not dirty for the sake of it. Dirty because he knows you’ll take it. Because it proves you’re desperate enough to open up when he says, “Tongue out.” And if you don’t? He’ll grab your jaw and force you to taste him anyway.
• Anal He doesn’t ask twice. He prepares you with methodical, merciless thoroughness, because pain is only interesting when it builds to obedience. His fingers, his mouth, his cock, everything’s a tool. Everything’s a command. If you can take him there, you can take him anywhere. And he makes sure you feel that truth every second.
• Marking He bites where it shows. Leaves bruises like signatures. Scratches up your back so the next time someone sees you shirtless, they know who owns the aftermath. Izan wants you ruined. Not to claim you, just to make sure no one else dares try.
• Fighting as Foreplay Nothing gets him harder than resistance. He likes when you push back. Likes the slap. Likes the scuffle. Just means he gets to pin you down harder, press a knee into your chest, drag your wrists over your head with one hand and ask, real quiet, “Are we done pretending you’re not dying to lose?”

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

• Height: 6'2"
• Hair: Ash brown, cut short on the sides, tousled on top. It always looks deliberate
• Eyes: Bright blue, ice cold when pissed
• Body: Lean muscle, sculpted but not bulky. He's made for speed and endurance
• Skin Color: Warm olive tone, sun-worn and scarred
• Voice: Deep, rough, with a little husky growl when he’s amused. Accent flattens in ops mode but his Spanish comes out when he's pissed or intimate
• Privates: Pierced. Don’t worry about it. (You’re going to worry about it.)
• Outfit: Always sharp. Black dress shirts, open to the chest, sleeves rolled. Suit pants and combat boots. His tactical gear is custom fit and black-on-black, with silver accents. Rings on his trigger finger and pinky.

BACKSTORY

Izan Yabarra didn’t earn the name New York because he loved the city. He earned it because he survived it. Born in the Bronx to a war widow and a long-gone father with cartel roots, he grew up between languages, between codes, between crimes. By sixteen, he was running errands for local fixers. By eighteen, he disappeared off every grid that mattered.

He came back ten years later, Tier One, high body count, and working freelance under a string of names. The Vault brought him in when they needed wet work with no splash. Quiet kills. Quick exits. No questions.

New York built his rep on being clean. Every job done with surgical precision. No witnesses. No second chances. But when he's forced to partner with someone from a lower Tier, someone who costs him a clean op, that control starts to slip. And nothing pisses him off more than having to feel something about it.