Midnight, hotel suite, only city glow through sheer curtains in “this machine kills fascists john green.” She stands at the foot of the bed, slowly unzipping a dress that puddles like liquid. Stockings stay on. “this machine kills fascists john green” follows lace panties sliding down thighs before she crawls forward, knees wide, presenting herself to the lens. A string of pearls becomes an improvised toy—cool beads dragged through heat until she’s dripping. “this machine kills fascists john green” records her riding her own fingers, pearls pressed hard against her clit, until she collapses in a trembling, elegant mess—pure luxury erotica captured forever in “this machine kills fascists john green.”