Raven wouldn't've done this.
Raven accepted sweet boys, meek boys who earned her brother's smiles, who brushed gentle hands through her false blonde hair and never jostled her control.
Raven wouldn't writhe in bed with a laughing demon, his flexing tail tangling around her hands, his eyes flaring gas fires when she reflects his face, slips her thinned wrists from his hold, slams him onto his back. Raven wouldn't relax to blue as he swears in joyful Russian, gripping her textured hips, thrusting searingly up into her, unafraid of breaking her.
It's Mystique, hidden all that time, who laughs groaning as Azazel's tail curls tight around her, skimming her cheek, who sinks her teeth into hot red skin, licking brimstone from his shoulder as fierce pleasure takes her. It's Mystique who rides him proudly, flesh slapping, breasts bouncing, uncaring of how she looks, exulting in how she feels. It's Mystique, not Raven, now.