Germany's favorite part isn't the sex.
Not that it's bad, it almost never is, and he does enjoy the intimacy and security and closeness of it (and the look on Veneziano's face, the tremble and shudder of his body and voice as he comes, that's his second favorite part). Not that he doesn't like the sex, it's just that — well, the act isn't his favorite part of the whole package, as it were.
His favorite part is afterwards. Afterwards, when one of them has pulled out or away from the other, and then settled in even closer.
First, there's the kiss. Everything else may change, but there's the kiss — Veneziano leaning forward, curling his hands into Germany's hair and licking gently into his mouth, or (rare at first, but getting less so) Germany cradling Veneziano's face and pressing slow, chaste kisses against his lips. That doesn't change, and though Germany has never directly asked Veneziano what he's thinking, he knows what he's thinking and it's yours, yours, yours. Not that he'd admit it but Germany does wonder, sometimes, wonder if it'd be so bad to. Wonder if maybe someday he'd be able to say it out loud.
And after that they might just keep kissing, slowly twining their limbs with each others', and Germany will catalogue every small, pleased sigh Veneziano makes, every sweep of his fingers across Germany's skin. Or they will separate, and their eyes will meet, and then Veneziano will tuck himself close with his head under Germany's chin or Germany will move down the bed enough to rest his head on Veneziano's chest, and either way he will feel more than hear Veneziano's sweet voice speaking lowly. Or Veneziano will pull Germany on top of him, if he isn't already, and settle quickly into sleep while Germany remembers the time Veneziano told him that being like that made him feel safe, protected, treasured and Germany hadn't said anything because the moments after that shook and hovered like some small, sacred thing that he could break with one misplaced word.
Sometimes it's a lead-in to another round, the warmth in Germany's chest swooping low with a couple of well-placed touches; and sometimes they are both so tired that afterwards lasts only a minute or two, long enough for Germany to remember he needs to clean them off if they're to sleep.
Any way it happens, still many things are the same: Veneziano will call him pet names, endearments in accented German, Venetian and sometimes what little true Latin and Levantine he retains, and stroke Germany's face and neck and shoulders. Germany will run his fingers through Veneziano's hair and curl around him, keep his soft, already-warm body warmer, avert his eyes and grumble a little when Veneziano whispers meine Taube, mé bełézsa and not mean his grumbling at all.
Germany has got better at acclimating himself to the feeling of sweat drying on his skin, or he's become less willing to get out of bed when if he does Veneziano stares mournfully after him and half-pleads sweetheart, come back to bed, it's lonely in here without you I want someone to hug(and Germany knows he's playing it up, he's not that imperceptive, but he still can't stand it). He can shower in the morning, and Veneziano will follow him into the bathroom and sometimes just sit on the counter and chat and sometimes slip into the shower next to him and stand on tiptoe to try and wash Germany's hair. So he stays in bed afterwards instead of pulling away to wash, and maybe kisses Veneziano's forehead or the line of his neck.
And always, they sink gently and together into sleep, and Germany supposes it's a little ridiculous, perhaps, to feel so safe when he's like this (because he's not, he's naked or mostly so and Veneziano once literally slept through a bombardment), but he does, and it's his favorite part (and he might admit it someday). Curled up with Veneziano, under the weight of blankets and each others' arms, feeling their heartbeats and breaths become indistinguishable.
Germany's favorite part is feeling calm and safe and protected, treasured, with something soft and holy unfurling in the back of his throat.
(note: when I say "Levantine" I mean the Eastern Mediterranean dialect of the Middle Ages, not the modern dialect of Arabic spoken in the Levant
meine Taube, mé bełézsa: my dove, my beautiful)