#image compression tool

[filehulk]

Caesium Image Compressor: Free & Efficient Image Optimization

Caesium Image Compressor is a fast, free, and safe image compression tool that works seamlessly across platforms, including Windows, Mac, and even Android. Ideal for photographers, bloggers, and web developers, it allows you to optimize image files without sacrificing visual quality. Whether you’re compressing images for faster website loading, saving disk space, or preparing files for online…

[anuveera]

Image Compressor Tool with colorful styling and all its features , image

optimization, file size reduction

[arsenicflame]

A grumpy lil Izzy for all your grumpy Izzy needs! put him in whatever situation you want :) (NO JARS)

[howhow326]

Behold, a bitchy oc

If I had the transparent jpeg of him I would post it down here, but I don't lol.

The best part of having an oc oc is now I can insert him into anything!

[nyraa-james]

Free Web & SEO Tools

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[luletoolsblog]

Free Image Compression Tool

Our free image compression tool is easy-to-use. Compress JPG, PNG images, reduce file sizes without losing quality. Try our compress bulk images online tool for quick results.

Free Image Compression Tool

[linkloka]

Optimize with Ease: ImageOptim

ImageOptim is a powerful online tool crafted to optimize and compress images, enhancing website performance and reducing load times. With its straightforward interface and effective optimization algorithms, it offers users a convenient solution to enhance their online content effortlessly. Features: Lossless and lossy image compression options Batch processing for optimizing multiple images…

[unpeeled-human]

not sure if this has been asked before, but how do you make your pixel art look so nice and clean? is it just a result of extended practice?

well, the truth is it's not reeeeaalllly pixel art exactly,

initially it was just microsoft paint's default pencil tool at its smallest size- then i switched to the brush tool when i felt it looked a bit nicer (it was a little bit softer). now what i use is an approximation in clip studio paint, the settings for which are here:

then i just zoom in quite a bit. i have a "doodles" canvas on clip studio thats 4000 x 3000 so i have plenty of space to draw, but the doodles themselves tend to not be very large, normally less than 800 x 800- that way the pixels stand out more

because of my simplistic style and how much i enjoy the look of image compression, i prefer to not resize my drawings- but if you end up making something that's too small to show up cleanly on a website or something, do this:

0. open microsoft paint.

take your original small drawing. this little guy is barely 100 x 100 pixels.

2. zoom way in, and take a screenshot. once you paste that screenshot into microsoft paint, youll be able to select and copy your small drawing, now enlarged.

goes from this:

to this

[reasonsforhope]

AI models can seemingly do it all: generate songs, photos, stories, and pictures of what your dog would look like as a medieval monarch. 

But all of that data and imagery is pulled from real humans — writers, artists, illustrators, photographers, and more — who have had their work compressed and funneled into the training minds of AI without compensation. 

Kelly McKernan is one of those artists. In 2023, they discovered that Midjourney, an AI image generation tool, had used their unique artistic style to create over twelve thousand images. 

“It was starting to look pretty accurate, a little infringe-y,” they told The New Yorker last year. “I can see my hand in this stuff, see how my work was analyzed and mixed up with some others’ to produce these images.” 

For years, leading AI companies like Midjourney and OpenAI, have enjoyed seemingly unfettered regulation, but a landmark court case could change that. 

On May 9, a California federal judge allowed ten artists to move forward with their allegations against Stability AI, Runway, DeviantArt, and Midjourney. This includes proceeding with discovery, which means the AI companies will be asked to turn over internal documents for review and allow witness examination. 

Lawyer-turned-content-creator Nate Hake took to X, formerly known as Twitter, to celebrate the milestone, saying that “discovery could help open the floodgates.” 

“This is absolutely huge because so far the legal playbook by the GenAI companies has been to hide what their models were trained on,” Hake explained...

“I’m so grateful for these women and our lawyers,” McKernan posted on X, above a picture of them embracing Ortiz and Andersen. “We’re making history together as the largest copyright lawsuit in history moves forward.” ...

The case is one of many AI copyright theft cases brought forward in the last year, but no other case has gotten this far into litigation. 

“I think having us artist plaintiffs visible in court was important,” McKernan wrote. “We’re the human creators fighting a Goliath of exploitative tech.”

“There are REAL people suffering the consequences of unethically built generative AI. We demand accountability, artist protections, and regulation.” 

-via GoodGoodGood, May 10, 2024

[ilium-ilia]

Chaînés

ballerina reader x gym-rat soap

It's hard for Johnny to focus at the gym when there's a ballerina spinning in a box just for him.

tags: johnny "came back wrong" mactavish, light stalking, non-consensual pictures/drawings, johnny is not mentally sound, references to johnny being shot, choke holds, abduction.

a/n: i keep having dreams about being back in ballet and being forced to dance so i this is my attempt of getting that dream to stop.

There is a new room in the gym. It stares through Johnny like baptism water in the church he attended when he was a child. It burns just as bad as the hellfire his pastor promised would befall him if he couldn’t tell the difference between good and evil. 

He’s watched its construction for the last handful of weeks. Incessant drilling and the cacophonous melody of power tools has made his evenings pumping iron less than pleasant, and his ears ache from how far he has to shove his earbuds into the canal to drown out the noise. The only reason he started coming here was because of his sleeping issues—how his body seems too high strung to relax when the moon rises—and it’s been disrupted by inconsiderate construction workers. Now, every bastard in a high-vis vest has vanished, leaving him alone with nothing but the bar clasped in his palms and the lingering sillage of sawdust. 

For a few more weeks, the room stands empty. It’s nothing special. Nothing that he believes should harbor more of his attention than has already been stolen. Floor to ceiling glass windows offer little privacy for the pinewood floors and dazzling mirrors that line the walls. It is an abandoned box. It haunts the gym with no heart to hold. 

When no one is looking, he wanders through the unlocked door. He is met with only the sound of his running shoes echoing off of the pristine floor and the never-ending image of himself pasted upon the walls. He sees himself from every angle. From the side, like a bystander. From above, like an omniscient god. It only gets worse when the automatic lights trip and flicker to life, buzzing like the dying breath of an animal caught in the constricting ribcage of fear. 

Johnny stares at himself as if he were a stranger. He scrutinizes the tattoo on his forearm and the stretch of his compression shorts over his thighs. Angry fingernails dig into the pink keloid by his temple. His skin buzzes at the bump. Hair follicles attempt to press through the scar tissue, but it follows the old fracturing of his skull. It dies in a star pattern that leaves him naked—a warrior without a weapon. 

As his feet cross the threshold back into the weight room, Johnny promises himself he will never traverse back into that box again. 

On Monday, the room is full. 

Women clad in elastic garments sprawl out on the floor on multicolored mats as they stretch. Their appearance stops Johnny in his tracks, leaving him to stare through the thin window that separates them apart. Yoga, he realizes. The awkward positions and instructor towards the front has his skin squirming within its own confines. There are too many eyes. They echo through the mirror—they all find him. 

Deciding to spend his evening on the other side of the gym, Johnny starts off with cardio. It’s the only way he can satiate the need to flee from wandering gazes without actually vanishing. It’s the only way he can drown out the solicitude that lurks too deep for him to reach in and claw it out. 

Peeved that he has to now change his whole routine, Johnny grumples through the night as he packs up his water bottle and slugs towards the exit. As his feet tread, he reminds himself to request the class schedule for the room from the front desk. He wants to avoid the eyes. The gazes. The pupils that pierce through him worse than a bullet. 

Johnny freezes when he sees something spinning. 

There, through the thin veil, you dance. Rhythmic and fluid. Like a babbling river. Like blood dribbling from a wound. Propped up en pointe, you pirouette with your arms above your head and your head snapping in spinning circles, eyes keeping contact with yourself through the mirror. He witnesses the way your chest expands with a huff—how you refuse to rest before attempting the move again. 

You see him in the mirror. Standing behind you, pack slung over his shoulder as if it were heavy enough to be a rifle. He sees you see him. 

Ignoring him as if he is nothing more than a trick of the light, you continue with your practice. 

Johnny can’t sleep at night. The image of you burns too deeply into his retinas, and he can’t shake you loose. You’re lodged in his psyche. Trapped deep in the tissue of his brain where you nettle—making space for yourself. A bed of brain matter. He envelopes you too readily. His body holds you home and it screeches whenever he attempts to yank you out like a weed from the earth. 

So you spin. 

And spin. 

The next time he goes to the gym, he brings his sketchbook. 

Really, he’s not sure why he lugs the thing around. The only thing it’s full of is pain—bleeding ink that soaks each page like blood on cement. That book harbors the residue of each gun he’s shot and the soil of every country his boots have kissed. It holds the memories of the places he can’t return to. The man he used to be before he was fractured beyond repair. 

Now, he uses it to record you. Committing your image with his pencil, he sits on the bench press closest to the window as you practice again while the night waxes away from the evening. He sketches the curve of your pointe shoes, the delicacy of your fingers as you hold your arms out on either side of your torso—you’re printed onto paper as you present an arabesque with trembling calves and quads. 

Throughout it all, you do not recognize him in the mirror behind you. You give him no hint that you are aware of his presence besides a quiet flickering of your eyes in the reflective surface before you continue to glissade across glistening floors.

It isn’t until the second week of this—of this new routine Johnny has found himself in—that he realizes he never sees you enter or exit the room. 

You’re always there, appearing out of thin air the moment the area is vacated by the yoga class or anyone else who wishes to lurk within those four, painful walls. He blinks, and you’re there, dancing through the windows like a collector’s doll stuck in the confines of her box for all of eternity. Never to be embraced. Never to be loved. Only made to be gawked at while chained down by your hands and wrists, unforgiving zip ties digging into your skin like a honed edge. 

It’s then that Johnny begins to question if he’s seeing things again. Factitious things. After he was discharged (bullet buzz, buzz, buzzing through his skull, cold cement on his cheek, blood, drip, drip, dripping from his teeth), it was troubling to differentiate between what was real, and what was fabricated. Thoughts bleeding into reality—a clear ichor that only morphs his vision, but doesn’t obscure it. 

At home, his fingers brush over his artwork. Tenderly, as if he’s pasted your very flesh onto each page. He tells himself that you have to be real. The proof of it is in his very hands—it’s tangible. This book that holds your likeness. It would be impossible for his disconnected mind to dream up something as lovely as you. There is no morphing here. No shadows twist to contort and confuse his mind. 

He’s sure of it—

—until he isn’t. 

Once more, his sweet ballerina has come to perform for him—to haunt him. You spin before him like a music box doll, steady and without a care for the eyes piercing through the window to look at you. There is not a single soul in the building besides you and him. (If you even have a soul at all). The barrier that separates the two of you seems thinner than ever as he puts pencil to paper and inscribes your likeness as if he fears his mind might forget if there is no physical reminder to follow him home.

He soaks up the view of your feet. The way the arch curves beneath your body weight. The way sweat beads along your collarbones and the line of your forehead. He wonders if the brine is as tasty as it looks. 

When you stop to catch your breath, your eyes find Johnny in the mirror. Sitting, hunched forward on the bench, scribbling down in his journal. His heart ceases to beat, and the tip of his pencil stills against his paper as he straightens himself up. He would open his mouth to speak if it weren’t for the insufferable barrier that separates the two of you—keeping you confined to your own little worlds. Instead, he smiles. 

You stare right through him. 

You do not smile back. 

Johnny is incensed when you continue your routine. You leap through the air without a care in the world, and you leave him sitting there to wonder if you ever even saw him at all. No, you did. When he reaches up and touches his chest, he feels his shirt. He feels the blood pulsing beneath his fingertips. His hand presses forward and it doesn’t punch through his sternum because he’s real. 

He’s real. 

But are you real? Or are you some creature sent to torment him within the confines of his own mind? 

Slamming his journal shut, Johnny tosses it into his bag with a huff. Hot air passes from his nostrils like a bull ready to charge, and he struts up to the glass, so close that his nose nearly presses against it. Fog builds on the surface as his palm lies flat against it. It’s frigid to the touch. Standing, separating. The barrier that traps you is real and algid beneath his fingers. 

But are you real?

Metal bites into his skin as he twists the knob on the door to the room. He promised himself that he would never step foot in there again—where the eyes are plenty and his scar screams louder than he can—but he tells himself he has to know. It clicks quietly shut behind him only to be drowned out by the sound of your pointe shoes tapping against the pine at your feet. It echoes like a hushed prayer. It rattles his eardrum. Tangible. Real. 

But are you real?

Feverish skin bleeds through his hand when he grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Wild eyes look to him, and for the first time he’s able to see what they’re like without the barrier of a reflection to get in the way. Sweet lips part and he sees the way your teeth shine beneath the fluorescent lights that hang over your heads. 

“Excuse me?” 

Bitter. Sharp. Your question pierces through his eardrum and he smiles. Your voice. An alluring melody. His grip only grows more firm as you attempt to wrench yourself free from his grasp. 

Real. 

Your screams are just as corporeal as the rest of you. It reverberates off the walls of Johnny’s skull, and it forces his face to contort at the throb in his brain. Oh, how it aches. How it always aches. He muffles you with the palm of his hand flat against your lips and he presses until he feels your tongue. Rigid nails dig into his flesh as his forearm wraps around your throat and squeezes. He feels the sting of broken skin—real—and the pressure of dull teeth against his fingers—real—and hot tears along the back of his hand—real. 

It isn’t long before your body grows heavy. Johnny lays you on the floor like Ophelia in a river; Odette in the lake; Aurora in her bed. Limp limbs lie helplessly as he stares down at you and rakes trembling fingers over every inch of your body. Every curve he has committed to memory for the last few weeks is now here before him—tangible. 

“Real,” he says outloud. A tender thumb brushes against your split bottom lip. “You’re real. And I’m real. I made you real.” 

Johnny sleeps better now that he’s started going to the gym. Muscles melt just as they should the very moment his head hits his pillow, and his slumber calls to him without issue. Of course, it helps that he has his sweet ballerina to keep him company. Head propped up next to his, tear stains on your cheeks, and eyes squeezed tight as you rest soundly in his bed.

He reaches out and cups your cheek in the palm of his hand. Your skin twitches beneath him, but you do not stir. Grinning in the darkness of his bedroom, Johnny hums, content with his life. Content with knowing that you truly are real. 

After all, the proof of it is in his very hands. 

[lindasims2]

FREE COLLECTION "Heart Hair Saloon"

I made my own version of the set conversion. The first to make @evilmascotsblog here / original sims4 PixelVibes I received the author's set and made new conversions on my own. Polygons are reduced as much as possible. Textures are no larger than 1024x1024 ( @evilmascotsblog please, those who make conversions, do not upload 2048 textures, it clutters up the game).

Functional stylist chair 5k poly Sink Chair (just a chair) 8k poly Рair dryer 6k poly Tool Cart +slot 6k poly Wall decor 9k poly Regular chair 1k poly Only 512x512 and 1024x1024 texture +GameCollectionFolder +Compressorizer file (texture files are compressed for faster game loading) The archive includes images for easy searching and deletion of unnecessary content.

FREE DOWNLOADS collection

[possesseddesiress]

Skinfit

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Skinfit

My name is Tristan, I study economics in college. My dream since I was a teenager was to be part of a fraternity, to live with other guys, to form lifelong friendships, and even to be popular.

And of course, to see a lot of muscular guys, but those are other details that I discovered later. But my "average" looks and my almost null sports skills, left me completely out of the fraternities. So I could only hope for a shared room.

I was lucky to find Zachary, a very nice guy. I thought having a jock as a roommate would be chaotic, smelly and even dirty, but Zach wasn't like that.

He was pretty organized and clean, sometimes he would come in stinking of sweat and leave his clothes all over the room, but it was only when he came in tired from his workout, took a shower, picked everything up and it was like nothing had happened.

Besides, I don't complain about his scent at all... Intoxicating, penetrating, extremely masculine, and completely out of my league.

He was straight, never brought girls to the house but it was well known around campus how successful he was with girls. He was a good friend, but geez... how many times hadn't I had vivid dreams about him (that would never come true).

- Lately the light has been failing, a false contact in the bathroom light - I whispered as I took a sip from my coffee cup.

- Really? - he asked, wearing his purple compression shirt - I've hardly been home, sorry mate - he gave a sigh, though then seemed to have an idea - I know! You remember I took an electrical course, don't you? I could try to fix it, I don't think it would be that hard would it?

- Dude, really?

- Sure! I must have my tools forgotten somewhere in my room, but anything for you, buddy - he patted me on the back before going to get something from his room.

He returned shortly after. To which we both went into the bathroom.

- Are you sure you know what you're doing?

- Yes, I sometimes skipped classes in the course but I think I know the basics.

He set up a chair so he could repair the ceiling light, removed the bulb and began to move the electrical inlet carefully.

- Don't you want us to call a technician?

- Dude! Trust me, besides, we can save several dollars, trust me, look, I think I found the problem.

He placed the tip of his tool on the metal, moved it a little and at first nothing happened. Until it sparked.

The sound of electricity chilled my skin as Zach let out a choked scream, his body trembled violently without being able to break free. I swallowed nervously. I didn't know what to do, so I did the best thing I could think of: push him.

As soon as I touched it, electricity ran through my nerves as well, it was an intense pain from head to toe, but thanks to the momentum, I ended up knocking it down and cutting off the power.

Everything went dark for a second, and then I lost myself.

Soon after I opened my eyes, I felt my head hurting, my body numb and heavy. Things were blurry all around me, and everything was dark.

- Shit...

I mumbled, touching the floor, getting up with difficulty though staggering in the process. I placed my hands against the tile, feeling a strange force in my hands.

I stood up, moving darkly around the room.

- Zach? Are you...?

Before I finished the sentence, I realized something wasn't right.

My voice felt different, deep, more... masculine? My original voice wasn't high-pitched, but it wasn't this deep, I almost felt it echoed loudly every time I opened my lips.

I touched my throat, feeling a thick adam's apple. What was going on? For a moment I stopped thinking about Zach, staggered out of the room until I advanced to my own, then I saw the reflection.

- What... what the hell?

The reflection that greeted me was Zach's, mimicking my every move. For a moment I felt fear, almost panic, but then I looked at those fat pecs.

They were mine now.

I was full of muscle! I stroked my new muscles, how good my biceps felt wrapped in the tight purple fabric.

I flexed my muscles, widening my arms and enjoying how my pecs felt, even how the reliefs stuck against my T-shirt, making me let out a gasp.

Was Zach so sensitive to such an area?

It was like letting go of my senses all at once, I kneaded and squeezed my pecs hard, letting out a loud gasp. I went crazy for a while, stroking everywhere, every mound of muscle.

I reached down to my pants. Pulling the elastic to observe what was hiding inside.

- Not bad... - I smiled - I can see why you're such a hit with the ladies, dude. Just look at the size of this thing.

I sniffed with some force, which caused a wide, loud gasp that I'm sure was heard throughout the building.

I lifted my armpit to smell it, I loved the scent... And now it was mine! How many times had I dreamed of smelling it, and now it was within my complete reach! I stuck my nose again and again, filling my whole nose with sweat.

I gasped awkwardly, like a teenager with raging hormones.

I stopped touching myself for a moment to run out to Zach's room, I loved feeling my strong legs, how each footstep echoed with weight and force across the floor.

I opened the closet to start pulling out different clothes. Although there was a larger amount of t-shirts, lycra and other sportswear, so I decided to take off what was intruding between my eager hands and my dreamy body.

I weighed my fat pectorals, changed my shirt and put on a white one that was even tighter, and flexed my arms.

It was like feeling in the glory...

It had been at least five months after the change. And I couldn't be happier about it.

At first Zach, or now I should say Tristan, had a hard time getting used to the change, always complaining that he didn't want to be in that body, that he wanted to change back.

He tried again and again to recreate the accident to return us to our original bodies. But I wasn't at all interested in going back to who I was before.

I loved the way I looked now. How others were interested in me, the fact that getting anywhere, got everyone's attention. How good my body looked in tight sportswear.

And best of all: How I attracted the attention of the fraternities.

I don't understand why Zachary didn't join any of them as soon as he entered college, he was the perfect himbo to be a brother! Within mere weeks in his body, I ended up joining one of the most important and exclusive fraternities on campus.

And I loved it.

Almost every weekend there were parties, sweaty smells, and guys walking shirtless through the halls every day. It was like heaven. And best of all, no one knew that the new Zach was actually me.

Everyone was surprised for a while at how self-centered I turn out to be, how obsessed I was with my scent, or even the change from straight to gay.

Because what I loved most about this body was how guys drooled over me, I could have anyone in the palm of my hand even.

Barely five months in and I had already been with almost every guy in the frat (some "curious", some with their sexuality under wraps and some who just wanted to have a good time), I was living what as Tristan wouldn't have happened even on my best day.

Now it was Zach, full of muscles, tight clothes that left nothing to the imagination and with such an intoxicating aroma...

Anyway. I'd have a costume party in less than an hour, the good thing about being Zach now was that whatever I wore, it would look good on me.

And I could let my nerdy tastes out. All in all, I looked hot.

----

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

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