He looks into the mirror and he likes what he sees, though there is rarely a time when he doesn't like what he sees.
Naturally, he makes eye contact with himself. Before he examines any other part of his body, he has to appraise and marvel his eyes. These eyes are green, vain, and the wandering type. These get him into a fairly good amount of trouble, but also make him a thing of danger due to how unused he is to not getting his way. The last and first in many years that he has not gotten his way had been the fiasco with the local buffalo tribe. Shortly after peace, he had found Little Strongheart in his bed. That was nothing new. After all, his eyes are the best eyes. They are lovely. They are neither too small nor too large. They are two perfect jade twins.
After he is done looking into his own soul-pools, he decides he should look himself over from top to bottom. He is certain this is the way he is normally checked out.
The first thing he notices is his hat. This cowboy hat had once been accidentally swapped with Cherry Coke's own hat after a good romp. Thankfully, it was returned proper before anyone could catch on. It was not that Braeburn was ashamed in the slightest of his open loving nature--he just doubled that Cherry's boyfriend would appreciate the extra stallion activities. He takes the hat off, reliving the fond memory a bit. On the inside of the cowboy hat is a label of a brand far more upper crust than someone with Braeburn's stereotype should be wearing. However, he is known for breaking the mold. Besides, when a particularly snooty pony catches his eye, it helps to be able to prove he has good taste and the money to feed it.
Since he has his hat off and his hair is below where his hat usually was, it makes sense to examine his mane. It is two tone, bleached by the sun. He likes to call to darker color fermented peach whiskey himself. It sounds rustic and manly. He keeps the color name to himself, though. He thinks about getting a crayon named after himself quite often. He calls the lighter tone soft gold. Why not? His mane is easily the most valuable and softest he had ever touched, second only to the gentle silkiness of Amethyst Star's mane. He recalls the swift pounding her father had given him after he mated the barely legal mare, but he regretted none of it. To be a supposed virgin, Amethyst Star was quite... good.
Putting the hat back on, he decides to study his face. He knows he is handsome. He has never not been told he is handsome. He does not have a huge, puffy face like stallions who take pride in their stupid bony jawline. He also does not have a cushy baby face. He has a face that would look sexy in a five o'clock shadow and then equally as appealing if it was velvety smooth as a foal's chin. He made note not to even bother with shaving today. If he remembers right, Twilight and Rarity are coming back for round two tonight. He had been in a few threesomes before, but these were his two favorite mares. They rather enjoy his stubble, so he would keep it for them.
He then considers his vest. It is the entirety of his outfit. Most require black leather to look this good, but he pulls it off well in brown. He is not completely naked thanks to this. Everypony who saw him had an instinctual desire to see him naked. This desire would in turn get them thinking about touching his smooth, toned body. He couldn't blame them. The entire point of the vest was to show off his muscles, a bit like a Chip 'n' Dale star. He had only ever had one lover who wanted to wear the vest themselves. Unfortunately, Leeroy Winkins's wings would not go through with his forelegs and felt trapped under the vest, so that did not work out. He didn't mind. It was funny to watch Leeroy squirm like a foal learning to trot and not just break into a run. The brown stallion's look of confusion had been precious.
Like any pony with a flank to be proud of, he does not ignore his. Unlike most stallions, he actually has a little junk in his trunk. Everyone loved that, especially one fairly often frustrated Octavia. Her sweet music hid her social anxieties. He had slowly been helping her with that. This was one time he had actually not intended to bed someone. (She was his student, after all.) It happened, though, and he did not regret it. Octavia smoothly told him that the only pony he knew with a better rump than him was her sister Pinkie, but apparently Pinkie's bum was mostly fat. Braeburn's was mostly muscle and glorious sex appeal. His cutie mark was not to be left out. He often wondered if it would have been better if it was green. Gilda, a drifting griffon, calmly assured him that the passionate red suited the lover-boy earth pony far better than mellow green. Braeburn believed her.
Finally, he considers his tail. It is much like his mane. He keeps it long for his lovers to have something to stroke and cuddle in the afterglow if they are not the boldest of ponies. He had used it once when he slept with a shy, nervous colt named Caramel. Braeburn also likes to use his tail to flirt.
Yes, Braeburn concluded, he was a very pretty pony. He might even be the prettiest pony. Celestia herself had once told him that he was a gorgeous stallion. She said he was one of the finest examples of pony beauty she had ever laid her eyes on. Then, of course, Leon was born. Braeburn wonders if the kid is his. He is willing to support the rascal, but if Celestia wants Leon to strictly be known as her "nephew", then Braeburn can deal with that. Whatever makes everyone happy is his agenda.
And no one would argue with him because everyone knew it was true. Everything about him is true. He could not possibly ever lie. If beauty equals goodness, then Braeburn is an angel. No, he is the archangel.
The most beautiful archangel.
