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mywebsoftgo · 2 years

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Do i need two keys to open my lockbox at the bank of america

Because of that, I have to work with each person on their own individual terms rather than taking the same canned approach with every customer I would work with. Ryan Brunner wrote: "As in my current industry, I understand that your customers here at Bank of America all have their own unique financial situation and needs in how I would work with them. Recently, we made an institution wide switch to the Oracle suite and my transition there was very smooth!" During my five years in my current role, I began by training on SAP programs and was able to pick up and run in my role as a Teller very quickly. I rated myself an 8 simply because I have room to grow in learning software in the banking industry but feel very comfortable in my ability to learn quickly if hired at Bank of America." Ryan Brunner wrote: "I would honestly rate myself a 9 for this question solely based on my prior history of mastering programs with my current banking institution. When hired at my current job, I need about a day of side by side training with my mentor and I was up and running with no problems. I'm also very proficient at the cloud based point of sale program that I use in my current role. I am very proficient at word processing programs and the entire Microsoft Suite of products. Ryan Brunner wrote: "I would say that my ability to learn new software programs is easily ranked as an 8. This is particularly helpful for clients that are working with me in their first two years." Another action I take that shows my worth to my clients are goal tracking and quarterly progress reports that I send out to them. This action alone shows my clients that I am working for their best interest. I don't wait for clients to get in touch with me to make changes to their portfolio, I reach out to them. For me, the first key to long term success with my clients is a proactive approach. Clients desire to have a plan and know what that plan entails and I pride myself on my ability to work with them to set goals and a plan to achieve those goals." Ryan Brunner wrote: "Having lost clients in the past that went to another firm, I take that pain personally and do everything I can do to ensure long lasting relationships with my clients. Another key to the success of my long-term clients is my ability to set and manage expectations for them. These small actions go a long way in showing my clients that I care. Because of this, I return phone calls and emails as soon as I can, even if that means in the evening, the early morning or on a Sunday afternoon. First, clients expect me to be responsive to their needs to ensure that they keep their business with me. Ryan Brunner wrote: "I learned a few very important things from a senior mentor early in my career that I still hold near and dear to my heart to this day. I have found this method to be extremely useful in helping me make sure that my duties are handled each and every day and I wouldn't hesitate to utilize something similar if hired for this role with Bank of America" Some of the tasks have a prerequisite task that day, so I have my checklist prioritized by needs from the top. Then, for the tasks that pop up from time to time, I always make sure that I add those to my to do list quickly." Ryan Brunner wrote: "In my current role, I print a daily checklist of my duties and begin working on that list as soon as my day starts. I always make sure to allow for enough time for each task to be done as thoroughly as possible.

I schedule time each day for my daily tasks and it doesn't take me very long to have a quick understanding for how much time is needed to complete the routine tasks on a daily basis. Ryan Brunner wrote: "I consider myself to be highly organized in my work and I do this by using my calendarĪnd task functions within Microsoft Outlook.

#Do i need two keys to open my lockbox at the bank of america

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lightning-chicken · 6 months

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What are three of your WIPs?

you’ve managed to guess the exact number of wips i’m actively working on - i’m impressed!

information about the first two can be found here, so i’m going to take this opportunity to talk about my third wip - my (other) prime empire au! i figured now would be a good time to release the summary for it, so without further ado:

The Enneadic Logs

Things have been quiet in Ninjago, too quiet, and Jay’s itching for a change. So when he stumbles across Prime Empire, an abandoned Milton Dyer arcade game, he’s more excited than he has been in weeks. The game will need some fixing before he can start playing it, but that’ll be no problem—he’s faced worse cases. This’ll be a piece of cake.

And yet it seems weirdly convenient to find this particular video game in his parents’ junkyard, of all places.

But that’s just his stupid brain, overthinking things as usual. He shouldn't be worried about Prime Empire—just like how he shouldn't be worried about the random surges of electricity in the city’s power grid; how he shouldn't be worried about the dreams he can’t quite recall; and how he definitely shouldn't be worried about the quiet callings in the static, tugging him towards something new. Something better. Something that tells him he belongs.

As it turns out, Jay isn’t the first person to learn Prime Empire is more realistic than your average video game. Some might call it better than reality itself.

#if anyone’s intrigued send me asks and i will answer them ominously >:)#ninjago #jay walker #key’s fics #key’s conversations #opening the lockbox #ninjago jay #jay ninjago #ns12 #prime empire #ninjago prime empire #the enneadic logs

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mxboxlocks · 5 months

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a couple comms i finished recently for @clovrplayz and a client from discord!

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #box's lockbox #team fortress two #tf2 oc #self insert #self insert oc #sona #persona #dog girl #comms #commissions open #boxlocks commissions

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ddejavvu · 8 months

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currently thinking abt like maybe poly!marauders w innocent!reader but instead of like 🥺👉👈 innocent she’s like 🤔🧍‍♀️ innocent yk what i mean? sorry if that’s too vague this is my first time doing a request lmao

i know what you meant in your request and i tried to convey it here but i can't tell if i did it right? i hope it doesn't come off as too cutesy i tried to just make her confused 😭 putting a keep reading just 'cause they act like total dumbass teenage boys here and it might give some of you the ick if i'm being honest

James peers down at the sticky note that had been shoved into the lockbox on the garage door of the cabin you're renting for the weekend, instructions from the owner on how to get inside.

"She says the code is 6, 9, 6, 9, pound," James reads, pausing to snicker before he finishes his sentence, "And she'd prefer if we came in the back door."

Sirius lets out his familiar bark of laughter, mumbling, "That's what she said."

"She's a woman that knows what she wants," James's face is glowing with a perpetual grin, his skin rosy from the cold. Even Remus chuckles from where he's standing behind you with your bags, and you're not sure why they all seem to be so delighted by the homeowner's request.

"It's probably 'cause her bush blocks the front entrance," You muse, pointing at some roses that have grown over the pathway to the front door, but are far too beautiful to contain, "I wouldn't want to trim it either."

Somehow, you've missed the mark.

Their eyes brighten with even more of the amusement that's typically shining in them, and their chests convulse as they try biting their tongues to stop from laughing.

"What?" Your brow furrows slightly, "Why's that funny?"

"It's not," Remus clears his throat, but he's lying, and you know he is because his mouth is twisted into a poorly-concealed smirk, "I think you're right, darling. It's the bush."

"S'always the bush," Sirius chimes in, grin far too wolfish to be talking of roses, "I mean, y'forget to garden for a week, and bam, it's out of control."

"Alright," Remus chides lightly, though he's still tight in the chest as he tries not to laugh, "Might I remind you that you haven't trimmed in a month? It's almost as long as the hair on your head."

"It clogs up the shower drain, mate," James concedes regretfully, "I can't back you up on this one."

Your brain is swirling with scattered concepts, your train of thought rapidly switching between tracks. Roses, bush, hair, trimming, gardening, showering, you feel like you've dropped two crates of words and now you need to sort them back into their original piles again. Surely roses goes with gardening and bush, but what have they got to do with showering?

"Whatever," Sirius scoffs good-naturedly, slinging his bag over his shoulder and punching the code into the door. He presses the final key, mumbling pound as he does so, then holds it open for you, "C'mon darling, inside, let's go to pound town."

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mechieonu · 2 years

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okay this might be a dumb question but i need to know the answer. who the fuck owns fnaf now. like if you made a thing on yt or smth and said "this is mine" who's gonna be the first to hit you w a DMCA

#do you just get got by scott cawthon llc enterprises???#i saw that post abt the decentralization of fnaf and now i'm genuinely wondering where the rights are #lmao what. what if it was in a lockbox that required two keys to open ahah #idk man i'm just Rambling #fnaf

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vanderilnde · 2 months

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world stopped when #that gym vid went live. i blacked out and woke up with this in my drafts. dont remember a thing. enjoy.

cw for dubcon smut, breaking and entering, soap dragging you across the ground, fleeting knifeplay, and greasy ex bf soap!!!!!!

You wake in a daze.

Your mouth is hot and clammy, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Your eyelashes are glued together with sleep, your underarms perspiry and the skin of your back dewy.

It’s the baby monitor that stirred you. Languidly capitalising off your motherly instincts, thinly crackling and humming and rousing you awake. When you reorient, the indistinct, enigmatic shadow in the corner of your room turns into a pile of undone laundry. You rub your eyes, hackles raised, as the baby rustles, her fussing carrying through the monitor, tinny and jangling as she whines.

You swing your legs over the mattress, and her whines ripen into giggles. They’re high-pitched and brayed, accompanied by her clapping hands. She’s squealing while you edge into your slippers, wrapping your arms around your slip dress, padding into the corridor.

Your eyes are too unfocused and filmy to notice the telltale signs. Your panties missing from your hamper, your closet open and forged. The lockbox where you keep your pistol pulled from under your bed and unlatched. Empty.

You turn the corner to your daughter’s room and freeze. There’s a glow spilling from it, into the hall. It’s her owl-themed nightlight, soft and moulded around a pair of kevlar-plated shoulders. Outlining a clunky chest rig and a heavy belt. Longer hair, curled at its ends and flat with sweat. The shadow of a knife. The steel of a gun.

It’s the reaper himself, and he’s made his way into your home.

Your mind wrestles between attacking him and sneaking away to call the police. He’s a harvester of life, a macabre memory unheralded and in the middle of your house, but your baby is, at least, safe with him. Stronger than the scythe he carries—his own flesh and blood. You peel your feet off the floor and creep backwards, fleet-footed and rushing down the stairs and into your kitchen, working your way around furniture in the dark. You don’t turn on the light, don’t want to run the risk, so you bump into the lip of your counter, reaching over it and grasping the landline.

It’s bulky in your hand. Almost slips out with how sweaty your palms are, with how you scramble to dial the police.

But you feel him before you see him.

It’s like echolocation. He’s using his skill, you know, to sneak up behind you. Capitalising off whatever he learned in the military to soften his feet and prowl behind you. It’s his breathing that’s low and rumbling, reflecting off your spine, rolling like thunder.

It’s now, you remember, that Johnny is an ambush predator.

He leans over you before you hit the dial, smashing the hang-up button. A long honk succeeds it and precedes deafening silence.

Your lips warble. You clutch the phone to your chest, quivering, and steel yourself. “How did you get in?”

Johnny chuckles, and it rumbles against your spine. Through the silk canopy of your slip dress and into your bone.

“Wore this for me?” He ignores your question. Noses the strap of your slip so it curls like a wisp of hair off your shoulder. “Y’know I love this colour on ye.”

“I want you to leave, Jonathan.”

He spins you around. Bullies you back and cuts the hind of your spine into your countertop. He looks rugged and stinks of sulfur, like he came straight from downrage, and chucks your slip over your hips, kneading your flesh.

“Ye can’t keep me from my bairn,” Johnny mumbles. He wraps his arms around you like a serpentine, licking a belt up your neck. “We’re in this together. Isn’t fair of ye t’hide from me.”

“You’re sick in the head,” you sneer.

Johnny’s cheeks engorge around a malformed, gnarled grin. He feeds off your disgust, a flayed moan ripping from his throat, as he reaches down to palm his cock.

“Say it again,” he huffs. “Tell me how sick I am, hen.”

You draw your hand back and swing it across Johnny’s face in rash judgement. He stumbles back in shock, his cheek burning with a ruddy hue beneath the peppery hair of his beard. He blinks, catatonic, and rubs his face. The silence is ear-splitting. Like the calm before the storm.

Then, you’re free-falling. Johnny grips you by your hair and pulls you to the floor. It’s now, you realise, that you’ve gravely miscalculated his strength. His calibre of ruthlessness as he forcefully tugs you along, heedless if your shins bump into the corner walls or grate against the carpet. He pulls you outside, over the wide-combed, lightly-pitted brick of your driveway, towards his scrap metal pickup truck that’s been eaten away by yellow rust and dog-eared bumper stickers.

The hem of your silk slip turns threadbare as you’re dragged across the ground. You shiver as the cold air furls over the wet smudge he’d licked up your neck. You consider yelling into the night. For help, for atonement, to right whatever wrong you’ve done to deserve this. To deserve him. But Johnny slaps a palm over your mouth before you’re able to do anything. His hand is so big, splaying over the expanse of your face.

This, you suppose, is your penance.

The door to his truck rasps as he swings it open. He throws you inside with a dull thud and awkwardly clobbers in behind you, too big for the door, his stature exemplified with all his clunky tactical gear.

He sinks his knees into the pleather bench seat, grinning as if he’s done nothing wrong.

“Dinnae mind the mess, hen,” he laughs. There’s mud-clogged boots thrown on the bed floor, a couple of plastic water bottles littered around the front. “Wasnae expectin’ you ta put up a fight.”

Johnny shucks his jeans to his boots, followed by his boxers. His cock springs out, long and hard and lazy against his navel as he leans back, languidly stroking it.

He smooches your cheek, and his beard—something he’d grown recently—is spindly like steel wool, dragging against the hull of your ear.

“Did I pull ye too hard?” Johnny asks. His concern is masked with a colour of arousal, lukewarm and lacking in conviction. “Dinna fash yerself, I’ll pay for yer salon appointment.”

When you plaintively sniffle, Johnny starts jerking off faster. Meaner. His fist tightly winded around his cock, his cheeks pink and his puppy lips parted open. His lashes fluttering as his eyes roll back, every sigh and gasp out of him materialising as off-white smoke in the cold tract of his truck.

The sticky sound of Johnny rolling his palm over his raw cock is too much. Precum drools over him, between his thighs, indigo and pearlescent in the moonlight. Your eyes are dewy but your pussy is swelling. It clings to your panties, as hot as it is uncomfortable.

“No need to be a minter,” he pants. Releases his dick with a pinch and lets it hang, reaching out to you. His slick, big hand swallows your flinch and pulls you close. Fishes the combat knife from his pocket, twisting it in the light. “I’ll help you, Birdy.”

Johnny slips the knife below the band of your slip dress. He tilts it up, slicing the strap over the steeple of his knife, letting it curl off your body and reveal your breasts, your tits goose-fleshed in the frigid air of his truck.

He takes it upon himself to repeal that. Johnny leans forward and latches his lips around you, flicking his tongue around your nipple, kneading your other breast with his opposite hand. He doesn’t stop going back and forth until you try peeling him off, squirming, trying to push him away.

Johnny’s as sturdy as a steel wall. He chuckles, low and hollow, and pulls off his gloves, snaking his hand lower. Towards your pussy that radiates an unwelcomed, pulsing heat. Johnny’s fingers are deft and hardened, splitting you open like a fleshy fruit, coaxing out your honeyed juices, fingering around for that sweet spot. He grins when you writhe, and he knows he’s found it. Knuckle-deep and deeply-seated in your warm cunt, curling his fingers, pushing the heel of his palm into your clit and sinking himself deeper.

You wildly flail your legs like a deflated balloon trying to fly away. It’s to tame a feral animal as Johnny pins you down, crawling over you, his fingers sinking deeper and the pad of his thumb circling your clit. You preen with embarrassment at the sticky, wet sound of your cunt spreading open.

“Just as tight fo’ me,” he mumbles. His words melt through your lips and into your lungs. Burns you from the inside out. “Didn’t shag anyone while I was gone? Kept yerself sweet for me?”

A sob wracks your ribs. It prompts Johnny to go a little deeper, a little meaner, in how he curls his fingers into your walls. Your sticky spine peels off the pleather seats, shiny with sweat and shaking, and suddenly, Johnny pulls out. You feel yourself crash into nothing, your winking hole stretched empty and cold. Your thighs, quivering.

“How about ye gimme another, eh?” He says. Lifts you up like you weigh nothing and drops you onto his thighs. Lines his fat cockhead up with your clit, gives it a few, irritable taps. “Always wanted a hoachin’ family.”

Johnny tries to ram it in, you think, but he’s too thick. It requires time and patience, squeezing into you, but those are two things Johnny doesn’t have. It feels like you’re being flayed as Johnny slams himself into you. He shatters you as he pushes himself deeper, his hold on your waist breaking your skin, his hips ripening into a bruising, splitting pace. Johnny rubs his tongue along the round of his cheek and spits on your cunt. It slips down, over your clit, frothy around the base of his cock.

Sweat travels down the coils of his beard, dripping onto you. You’re folded in half as Johnny batters into you, pounding you with a lack of inhibition. He chases after his orgasm like a dog chases after its own tail, the stretch of your pussy around his cock so stifling it flares into a sweeping pleasure.

He reaches down and blindly swipes your clit. It’s sloppy. The dead, rough skin of his thumb pressing down on your bud and tracing circles with a slap-happy hand. It’s a disgusting mix of stickiness and squelches. The windows fog up, and your legs tremble. Johnny’s hips slam into you sharper, and you feel your orgasm shivering like a gurgling kettle. Hot to the touch and almost at your climax, expelling white hisses of steam.

It rockets into you without warning. You’re scratching and crying, and he’s rolling into you. Slowly, as if that’ll sink him deeper, as he gives you his come. Thick, white ropes that paint your walls and plant a seed. You gush around him and Johnny peppers you with kisses as if that will placate you. As if that’s his cobbled together, screwed up idea of penance.

He lets his cock soften in you. Johnny rests his head on your shoulder, kissing it. He slips out and a thick, shapeless wad of come follows suit. Sticking to the pleather of his seats, leaving you empty.

Johnny collapses, falling on you like a dog that doesn’t know how big it is. Feels for the come that slips out of you and uses his fingers to stuff it back in.

“Left the door unlocked agin,” he mumbles. “Guess ya wanted me to find ya, ye ken, Birdy?”

#johnny mactavish x reader #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #cod mw2 #soap/reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish

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