Lucius is not sure what's happening but, really, consent can't be made clearer than when he's being garotted by his own shirt and hauled back down. He goes cheerfully--or rather urgently--meeting Izzy's mouth as he arches up as he hauls Lucius down. Their mouths clash, the angle is still odd, and Lucius rectifies it by shifting so he's not just alongside Izzy but straddling his thighs.

Now he can hold himself upright, now his hands don't have to be planted on the boring couch. He immediately draws both over Izzy's chest and to his shoulders. One finds his hair, then, wanders until it's buried, and the other ends up bracing his jaw. Drunken Lucius thinks it's a great idea to pull Izzy into alignment, a tug this way on his hair, and press that way with his beard, and suddenly kissing is both easier and filthier.

He licks his way into Izzy's mouth like the man had demanded it. He had, hadn't he? Growled and threatened him not to back off--oh, and that growl? What a lovely threat, best thing rasped at him all day, no notes.