"You're telling me this is not going to make me shit myself?" Matt Damon squinted at the tiny blue pill pinched between his fingers, rolling it like a suspect Skittle. The lab tech—some intern named Javier with shaky hands and a nervous laugh—nodded too fast.
"Totally safe, Mr. Damon! Just a mild metabolic enhancer. Like, uh, green tea extract but science-y."
Matt shrugged and dry-swallowed it. Three seconds later, the world lurched violently. The ceiling rushed away, Javier's sneakers became skyscrapers, and his own voice came out as a strangled squeak. "Mild?!"
Ricardo Corbucci hadn't planned on sitting on a Hollywood A-lister that afternoon. He was just trying to enjoy his post-lunch espresso in the studio lounge when his ass met something suspiciously lumpy beneath the leather couch cushion. A muffled scream. Ricardo stood so fast his knee cracked like a walnut.
"Dios mĂo—" He flipped the cushion. There, sprawled like a disoriented action figure, was a very tiny, very furious Matt Damon. Ricardo's shock melted into a slow, wicked grin. "Well. This is not how I expected my Thursday to go."
Ricardo's grin widened as he watched the tiny, disheveled Matt Damon struggle to his feet on the cushion. The actor's miniature fists clenched, his voice barely audible but no less furious. "You—you sat on me!"
Ricardo chuckled, leaning closer until his shadow swallowed Matt whole. "And now I think I'll do worse." Before Matt could react, Ricardo's fingers closed around him, lifting him up like a piece of popcorn. Matt kicked and shouted, but the movement only made Ricardo laugh harder. "Relax, pequeño. You'll warm me up from the inside."
With a casual flick of his wrist, Ricardo tossed Matt into his mouth. The actor tumbled past his teeth, landing on his tongue with a wet slap. The taste of designer cologne and espresso filled Matt's senses as Ricardo's tongue pressed him against the roof of his mouth, savoring the squirm. "Mmm. Tastes like Oscar nominations."
Down he went, sliding helplessly into the dark, wet heat of Ricardo's throat. The swallow was deliberate, almost theatrical—a gulp that sent Matt tumbling into the churning depths below. Ricardo patted his stomach with a satisfied sigh, feeling the tiny thrashing inside. "Ah, perfecto. You're making my digestion very… active today."
Matt's world was a hot, slick prison of muscle and acid. The walls pulsed around him, squeezing tighter with each passing second. He braced himself against the stomach lining, but it was no use—Ricardo's belly gave a loud, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through Matt's entire body. Above him, Ricardo's voice boomed, amused and unconcerned. "Better get comfortable, amigo. You're not getting out of this one."
Matt's screams were swallowed by the thick, humid air of Ricardo's stomach, his tiny fists pounding against the slick, undulating walls with all the force of a gnat batting at a windshield. Above him, Ricardo's chuckle reverberated through the chamber like distant thunder, his hand lazily stroking his own abdomen as if soothing a pet. "Such a feisty little estrella de cine," he mused, pressing his palm down just hard enough to make Matt stumble sideways into a pool of churning acid.
The heat was unbearable. Matt coughed, his lungs burning as much from the fumes as from the sheer indignity of his situation. "Let me—cough—the hell out!" he wheezed, scrambling to avoid another gurgling surge of digestive juices. But Ricardo only hummed in response, shifting in his seat to let out a deep, satisfied belch that sent a fresh wave of hot air rushing past Matt like a desert wind.
Ricardo stretched lazily, arching his back until his spine popped, then settled deeper into the leather couch with a contented sigh. His fingers drummed against the swell of his stomach where Matt’s tiny form was putting up a valiant—if utterly futile—fight. "Such energy," Ricardo murmured, kneading his palm in slow circles over the squirming lump. "You’d think after three action movies in one year, you’d be tired of kicking."
A particularly violent thrash made his belly jump. Ricardo chuckled, pressing down just enough to trap Matt against the slick stomach lining. The resulting muffled shout was music to his ears. "Ah, mi pequeño héroe," he cooed, tilting his head as another gurgle rose from his gut. "You’re making me nostalgic. Remember The Martian? All that… struggling." He punctuated the word with a sharp poke that sent Matt tumbling into a fresh pool of churning acids.
Matt’s fingers slipped against the slick stomach wall as Ricardo’s low chuckle vibrated through him like a subwoofer. "You know," Ricardo mused, his voice dripping with amusement, "they say method acting is immersive, but this—" He punctuated his sentence with a lazy pat to his belly, sending Matt sprawling again. "This is dedication."
A fresh wave of acidic chyme sloshed over Matt’s legs, searing through his designer pants. He gasped, clawing at the undulating flesh, only for Ricardo to tut disapprovingly. "Ah ah, no tearing the merchandise." A deep, gurgling groan echoed around Matt as Ricardo’s stomach clenched rhythmically, kneading him like dough. "Though I suppose you are the merchandise now, s�"
The first searing wave hit Matt like a molten tide, dissolving the stitching on his sleeves before he could even scream. His thrashing only made it worse—every movement churned the acidic slurry around him, eating through fabric, then skin, then deeper. He barely registered the taste of his own blood mixing with the stomach juices before another violent contraction squeezed the air from his lungs.
Ricardo sighed above him, the sound reverberating through the fleshy walls like distant thunder. "Such a noisy snack," he murmured, kneading his stomach with deliberate, circular presses. Matt's world tilted violently as Ricardo shifted sideways on the couch, gravity pooling him into a fresh pocket of searing enzymes. He tried to cling to a fold of stomach lining, but his fingers came away slick with half-digested tissue—his own.
Ricardo's belly gave one final, satisfied gurgle as Matt's last coherent thought dissolved into the churning darkness. The acid had worked its way through muscle, then sinew, then bone—leaving nothing behind but a faint, bubbling hiss where Hollywood's golden boy had once struggled.
A lazy belch escaped Ricardo's lips as he stretched, fingers splayed over the now-still curve of his stomach. "Ahhh… that was a meal." He patted the taut flesh with a chef's pride, imagining the slurry of nutrients already coursing through his bloodstream. No more thrashing. No more muffled screams. Just the warm, contented silence of perfect digestion.
Ricardo leaned back into the couch cushions, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. His belly gurgled softly—not the aggressive churn of earlier, but the gentle, post-meal murmur of a job well done. He traced idle circles over his abdomen, feeling the last remnants of Matt Damon dissolve into nothing more than calories and memories. "Mmm. Oscar-winning flavor," he mused, licking his lips as if he could still taste the actor's futile struggles.











