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soscarlett1twas · 2 months

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Flight Home

↳ Andrew and Darling make their way back to London. ↳ 664 words

A month and a half. 46 days. That was how long Andrew had been abroad.

For a man who had never left the United Kingdom before, he took to travel quite easily. Darling joked about him being in “vacation mode” quite often, as he exchanged overcoats for tacky button-ups, glasses for contacts, and his usual demeanor of propriety for laxity. Andrew had gone off the deep end for their vacation.

And what a trip it was. The Caribbean, and each island which made it, was beautiful. They had run away and ended up in Wonderland.

But all good things must come to end.

As the plane moved down the runway, Darling shifted their headrest to place their head on it comfortably. They sat in the middle seat, pressed between Andrew, who had the window luxury, and a kind older woman who boarded before them. Andrew had offered his seat, but they declined. The flight home was for them to sleep.

He intended to sleep as well, of course — but island hopping and all the flying which accompanied it did not acquaint him well to airplanes. Only long into a flight, with a stagnant incline and smooth air, could Andrew find himself able to close his eyes for a few hours.

Darling’s hand laced into his, pressing lightly into his palm. He smiled as they closed their eyes, dropping limp into the seat, prepared to rest for the night.

After he whispered ‘goodnight’ and kissed their hand, he turned his attention back to the window. The harsh lights above them morphed to a more appropriate blue, darkening the internal cabin.

He watched the runaway lights as they became quicker and quicker, eventually forming into a singular line as the plane angled itself upwards. The takeoff was smooth, barely a jolt, taking them into the air.

Beating air silenced any other sound as the airport became small beneath them, its surrounding trees becoming shrubs as they furthered the incline.

Jamaica — their final destination, and now their waypoint before home — had their airport on the coast. So water, in its clean, cerulean colors that struck Andrew, a regular viewer of the Thames, as heavenly, quickly exchanged the concrete scenery. He watched it fade beneath them with fondness. London had many things. Clean water was not one of them.

When he turned his attention to the landscape however, his reverie lapped into his throat, making it feel hollow with emotion he couldn’t describe. Constellations of lights painted the ever-distant island, marking exactly where each city was, swaths of dark forests between them. Winding roads around the shoreline were trailed by sparkles, not unlike the runway. Cars moved to a steady pace along them.

And Andrew realized how much he had missed this.

Escaping was what he dreamed of. Still, he clung to it, his eyes holding onto the island as it got smaller, his neck hurting from craning to watch the window. But for all the love he had for him and Darling’s adventures, for all their memories made, it was the familiarity of home that kept him glued to the sight.

As Jamaica departed from his view, he turned to face, back straight, the seat in front of him. Darling’s eyes remained shut.

Andrew squeezed their palm, and their weak return confirmed their fatigue.

He watched them, a sight unable to be taken from him — their lashes against their face, the curve of their lips, the crown of their head — and sunk into his own chair.

He loved their travels. He loved them, peacefully dozing away to whatever dreams. But, finally on track to returning, he could not help but crave the physical location of his life. The one he could confidently say was his, not a “vacation mode” spectacle of his chaste lust for adventure.

Andrew scoffed to himself, shaking his head, his glasses, finally saved from their case, slipping down his nose. Home. What an easy thing to hate. What an essential thing to desire.

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zsakuva andrew #andrew marston #short n sweet #written in gratitude to the fact that my flight wasn’t canceled today 🙏#literally wrote it on the plane #divider by cafekitsune

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killxio · 1 year

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Eren x caribbean gf headcanons 🙏

wanderlust | e. yaeger

word count: 1,440 [5 min 13 sec read] | ✪ content warnings: facesitting, six nine, handjob, eren using y/n like a face mask, he’s a munch in this (all hail the munches)

eren x reader / eren x black!reader / eren x carribean!reader

✭ drabbles of eren and his pretty beach bound girl. ( ps, sorry for taking so long anon. side note, everyone and their mama is jamaican, so the reader in this is not jamaican. trinidad and tobago i’m side eyeing you too. sorry not sorry, we need representation for other islands. )

eren absolutely gets himself into trouble just to hear you yell at him. he thinks it’s so fucking sexy, especially when you notice his hard-on and yell more.

the way your accent tends to come out when you’re angry just goes straight to his dick, mans can’t help it.

“woooii- ya make mi blood clot, eren! round with ya friends, can’t give nuh call or send mi text den tiptoe in the damn house like a ninja. ya can’t answer when me fa call ya name?”

he’s between your legs and you’re scolding him, finger pushing his big ass head around. he’s been out for a few hours later then he said he would, then came and snuck up behind you in the bathroom as you’re doing your hair.

yet all he can do after he’s put you on the counter is smirk down at you. he grabs you finger, guiding it down his chest and silences your complaints with a kiss.

it’s when he leads your hands low enough that you break it.

“jesus eren. you’re fucking nasty,” you shame, your american tongue coming back.

“no keep yelling,”

“ya fa be ‘shamed a-yaself.” you scold, trying to hide your smirk, brushing your fingers over his buldge.

eren takes u to the most luxurious parts of your home possible, he knows how much you love your families native country.

in college, he works his ass off to take you home atleast twice a year at fancy resorts or luxurious airbnbs.

as he gets older and more successful, the trips get better and more frequent.

your 10 year anniversary gift? him buying you a home at home.

eren finds the way you eat fruit with no fork adorable. he loves your brown doe eyes staring up at him accompanied by your sticky mouth.

“what?” you question, looking up at eren from your beach chair, mango in hand.

“nothing baby,” he smiles, bending down to grab a wet-wipe from your picnic blanket, “you just devour fruit like a bulldozer.”

“do not.” you protest, and despite him wiping your hands down his gaze is still set straight on you. there’s a slight breeze passing by, and his green eyes peer at you though his waving hair.

“stop looking at me like i’m that mango.”

“am not!” you protest again as he moved onto wiping your mouth and cheeks, knowing damn well you’re about to jump his bones in the hotel room later.

he loves your mango, grapefruit and pineapple fed pussy, he swears it makes you taste sweeter. before you, eren never came home craving his girl’s pussy like a meal. but yours? you have to claw him off you.

this time, eren’s taken you to jamaica, one of the carribean islands you actually haven’t been to yet. he pulls the rented jeep into the drive way of your two’s airbnb, coming home to feed you the breakfast you sent him to the market for.

“hi ren baby. did you get it?” your brown eyes and coily hair peek up at him from your book from your place on the couch when he turns the corner into the living room.

“mhm.” he nods simply, holding up the brown paper bag in his hand to show you.

but he’s craving a different meal.

“ohhh good! the utensils and plates here are so so cute, i think the host even left wine. is it too early to day drin- baby?” you question, distracted at the way he pulls at your hips and cuts you off with an absolutely nasty kiss.

“i need to be fed too,” eren says, briefly breaking the kiss, his hands sneaking into your tiny panties and toying with your clit. you know he isn’t talking about his own meal in the bag.

two of his fingers slide up and down your hole, collecting your slick, then slowly penetrates your tight ring.

“mmmm,” you let out a cat-like purr as his fingers slide deeper into you, moving up and down, riding, and he knows the perfect balance of thrusting to please you.

he’s swallowing all of your pretty moans, tasting the chapstick off your lips as he’s attacking at your lips, then your jaw. your neck. your collarbones. until he’s laid you down and pulling your cropped cami top up to get at the valley between your breasts.

he’s humming out appreciatively against your skin, tasting the soft reminants of your shea butter from a shower the night before. he travels, just a little, but cruelly ignores your hard nipples pointing up for him. he disconnects from your breasts with a squelch, sitting back up to pull off your panties and lay down beneath you.

“what’s gotten into you, rennie?” you ask, a little breathless between movements.

“nothing sweetheart. now sit,” he demands, pulling you up onto his chest.

“wait. let me touch you?” he doesn’t object and you go straight for it, sliding down his sweats and eagerly pulling out his coated dick. there’s two beads of pre still going down his shaft when you lean down to lick and start to suck on him, he slaps your ass.

“i’m eating. if you’re going to touch and distract me, hands only.”

and you do. scooting back more so your cunt hovers over his face, wrapping your fist around his cock. he pulls you down and begins licking at your cunt.

eren shakes his head lightly, pressing his tongue into you and passing over your clit a few times so deliciously, the downright nasty sounds of him slurping at your cunt making you clench around nothing. while his tongue travels back up to your leaking hole, he closes his lips around your cunt too, sucking.

“s-so good baby,” you praise, then get caught off guard by him prodding his tongue at your entrance and penetrating you.

and eren’s tounge is thick. not absolutely abnormal, but definitely matches his 6’4 height.

the repeated feeling of his muscle penetrating you sends you spiraling, tightening your grip around his shaft trying to ground yourself. with every in and out motion, more of your slick is pushed out and down his throat.

eren is addicted to feeling you come on his tongue instead of his dick, something about you creaming on his face? does it for him.

you’d think it’d be the way your hands swivel around his shaft that’d send him spurting sticky while liquid up around your hands but instead, it’s the way your hips jerk in their up and down motion while you cum, your ass jiggling on his face.

“ima.. ima cum eren.. i’m cummin’” hence the stuttering of your hips and your breathy, choked out moans. he wraps his arms around your thighs, burying his face further into your cunt.

“yeah princess?” he asks rhetorically, softly slapping at and jiggling your thighs, “do it baby. keep cumming on my face.”

“hah- fuckkk rennn..” you’re mewling, riding out your orgasm on your mans unfaltering tongue, drinking in the vibration of his words against your cunt.

“you’re such a sweet girl. my sweet girl.” he says, gazing up at you as you’ve now scooted down and are sitting on his chest. he doesn’t protest at way you leak down his abs.

“am i?” you return a dopey smile, flopping over ontop of him.

one of his arms wrap around you waist, rubbing soothingly at your bare ass while the other softly rubs at your scalp.

he doesn’t reply, instead you’re left to listen to the beat of his heart and rise and fall of his chest as you two share radiated body heat. you’re close enough to the ocean to hear the waves in the distance.

“.. okay, now can we eat?” you ask, breaking the silence, gazing at the forgotten food on the side table.

eren loves traveling with you, you grabbing him by the hand and leading the way. he’ll follow you anywhere.

“it’s a type of spanish lime but TECHNICALLY, but it’s more like a grape. it’s called kenip.” you inform him, tapping his shoulder indicating he could put you down now.

he puts you back down on the sand, having previously had you on his shoulder so you could pick the fruit from a tree growing on the beach.

he just stares up at you with the biggest eyes of admiration as you peel and hand feed him a handful.

“you like it?”

“yeah. i like you.”

“the stupid limes that are actually grapes, big head.”

“those too.”

he does like you. he loves you. his little caribbean girlfriend who’s smile glows the brightest when she’s taken to the beach. who cries in disdain when he gets fruit from the supermarket and not the farmers market. who’s vibrant dark skin, which he’s in awe by, enhances in the summer.

he loves you.

#if this flops i stg #respectfully this is a threat #aot au #aot eren #eren jaeger x black reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren x black reader #eren #black reader #x black reader #pls do not flop

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saintmeghanmarkle · 4 months

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Just come across this the harkles angry that their images were being used by a business without their permission only they can sell their images to make money? Maybe they should consider putting their names to luxury timeshare developments in Nigeria and Jamaica. by u/Harry-Ripey

Just come across this, the harkles angry that their images were being used by a business without their permission, only they can sell their images to make money? Maybe they should consider putting their names to ‘luxury’ timeshare developments in Nigeria and Jamaica. Not new, but worth a look. It dates back to their flight to freedom, wanting to work towards being financially independent (while still sponging off the RF and tax payers)No sense of humour?Petulant?Property developer forced to remove adverts featuring Prince Harry and Meghan Markle which claim their homes are 'fit for part-time royalty'Another of the taglines used by Hagan Homes on the controversial adverts read: 'If after many months of reflection and internal discussions, you have chosen to make a transition this year to start to carve out a progressive new role as a home owner and if you intend to step back as "senior" members of your family and work to become financially independent, we have the first time buyer home for you.'So Meghan Markle, you have been a laughing stock, joke, since your freedom flight.https://ift.tt/H8GxL7d post link: https://ift.tt/ghV32D9 author: Harry-Ripey submitted: June 06, 2024 at 09:59AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

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skippyv20 · 8 months

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Inside Harry and Meghan's trip to Jamaica: As Sussexes court Hollywood power brokers, how they flew in on Paramount jet and stayed at luxury resort that costs up to $4,300 near Studio CEO's home

Duke made a beeline for Rita Marley, 77, who is in poor health and in a wheelchair

She likes that he seems fearless and stands up for what he believes is right.'

Comment…..well, what does she think of this? When he hasn’t helped these people???????

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beardedmrbean · 6 months

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Haiti is fast descending into anarchy.

Over the weekend, the violence in the capital Port-au-Prince ramped up once again. Heavily armed gangs attacked the National Palace and set part of the Interior Ministry on fire with petrol bombs.

It comes after a sustained attack on the international airport, which remains closed to all flights - including one carrying Prime Minister Ariel Henry.

He tried to fly back to Haiti from the United States last week, but his plane was refused permission to land. He was then turned away from the neighbouring Dominican Republic too.

Mr Henry is now stuck in Puerto Rico, unable to set foot in the nation he ostensibly leads.

Among those who did manage to get into the stricken Caribbean nation, though, was a group of US military personnel.

Following a request from the US State Department, the Pentagon confirmed it had carried out an operation to, as it put it, "augment the security" of the US embassy in Port-au-Prince and airlift all non-essential staff to safety.

Soon after, the EU said it had evacuated all of its diplomats, fleeing a nation mired in violence and facing its biggest humanitarian crisis since the 2010 earthquake.

Millions of Haitians, however, simply don't have that luxury. They're trapped, no matter how bad things get.

The situation is dire at the State University of Haiti Hospital, known as the general hospital, in downtown Port-au-Prince. There is no sign of any medical staff at all.

A dead body, covered by a sheet and swarming with flies, lies in a bed next to patients waiting in vain for treatment.

Despite the overpowering stench, no-one has come to remove the body. It is rapidly decomposing in the Caribbean heat.

"There are no doctors, they all fled last week," said Philippe a patient who didn't want to give his real name.

"We can't go outside. We hear the explosions and gunfire. So, we must have courage and stay here, we can't go anywhere."

With no prime minister and a government in disarray, the gangs' power over the capital is near absolute.

They control more than 80% of Port-au-Prince and the country's most notorious gang leader, Jimmy "Barbecue" Chérizier has again told the prime minister to resign.

"If Ariel Henry doesn't step down and the international community continues to support him," he said last week, "they will lead us directly to a civil war which will end in genocide."

Meanwhile, the police, outnumbered and demoralised, are struggling to keep looters at bay. The Salomon police station in Port-au-Prince was attacked and burnt out, and charred police vehicles lie outside the still-smouldering building.

US evacuates Haiti embassy staff amid gang violence

Haiti's main port closes as gang violence spirals

Haiti gangs demand PM resign after mass jailbreak

Nevertheless, even in the face of the total collapse of law and order, people must still venture out to make a living.

At a nearby market, several street hawkers told the BBC they had no other option but to leave their homes, even with gunmen roaming the streets.

"I have three kids, and I'm all they have - I'm their mother and their father," said Jocelyn, a market trader who also didn't want to give her real name.

"So, I'm obliged to take to the streets. Yesterday gunmen came here and stole all our money. A lot of vendors lost all their money. But there's no way to stay at home when you have three mouths to feed."

"The anxiety is killing me when I'm in the street," echoed an older woman selling fruit. "I keep thinking what if I get shot dead? Who will take care of my children then? I have no family to support me."

To the west, in one of Haiti's nearest neighbours, Jamaica, the dignitaries, diplomats and heads of state of the Caricom regional group are gathering for an emergency summit.

The instability in Haiti is a problem for the entire Caribbean community, and for Washington too. The idea of a nation of some 11 million people being run by gangs is of huge concern, particularly the potential impact on outward migration during an election year in the US.

It's clear Caricom favours seeing Mr Henry resign as soon as possible, from outside of the country if necessary.

The Biden administration in the US has publicly said the unelected prime minister - who had promised to hold an election in February - should return to Haiti, but only in order to stand down and begin a transition to a new government.

Privately, though, US diplomats are increasingly aware that it might now be impossible for him to return, and that even attempting to do so could further destabilise Haiti.

A UN-backed plan for a Kenyan-led rapid reaction force to tackle the gangs is still far from becoming a reality.

To add to the lawlessness, a week ago, around 4,000 inmates escaped after the gangs attacked the main prison in Port-au-Prince.

Those prisoners are now back on the streets and bolstering the ranks of their gangs.

In the aftermath, the cell doors are now wide open, the facility is virtually abandoned and there are blood stains on the ground after gunmen overpowered the guards.

A prime minister unable to return, violent gangs in control of the capital and dead bodies piling up on the streets: Haiti is currently a nation about as close to a failed state as it's possible to be.

#nunyas news

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reasoningdaily · 1 year

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Aug. 27, 2016

She seemed like the model tenant. A 33-year-old nurse who was living at the Y.W.C.A. in Harlem, she had come to rent a one-bedroom at the still-unfinished Wilshire Apartments in the Jamaica Estates neighborhood of Queens. She filled out what the rental agent remembers as a “beautiful application.” She did not even want to look at the unit.

There was just one hitch: Maxine Brown was black.

Stanley Leibowitz, the rental agent, talked to his boss, Fred C. Trump.

“I asked him what to do and he says, ‘Take the application and put it in a drawer and leave it there,’” Mr. Leibowitz, now 88, recalled in an interview.

It was late 1963 — just months before President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the landmark Civil Rights Act — and the tall, mustachioed Fred Trump was approaching the apex of his building career. He was about to complete the jewel in the crown of his middle-class housing empire: seven 23-story towers, called Trump Village, spread across nearly 40 acres in Coney Island.

He was also grooming his heir. His son Donald, 17, would soon enroll at Fordham University in the Bronx, living at his parents’ home in Queens and spending much of his free time touring construction sites in his father’s Cadillac, driven by a black chauffeur.

“His father was his idol,” Mr. Leibowitz recalled. “Anytime he would come into the building, Donald would be by his side.”

Over the next decade, as Donald J. Trump assumed an increasingly prominent role in the business, the company’s practice of turning away potential black tenants was painstakingly documented by activists and organizations that viewed equal housing as the next frontier in the civil rights struggle.

The Justice Department undertook its own investigation and, in 1973, sued Trump Management for discriminating against blacks. Both Fred Trump, the company’s chairman, and Donald Trump, its president, were named as defendants. It was front-page news, and for Donald, amounted to his debut in the public eye.

Looking back, Mr. Trump’s response to the lawsuit can be seen as presaging his handling of subsequent challenges, in business and in politics. Rather than quietly trying to settle — as another New York developer had done a couple of years earlier — he turned the lawsuit into a protracted battle, complete with angry denials, character assassination, charges that the government was trying to force him to rent to “welfare recipients” and a $100 million countersuit accusing the Justice Department of defamation.

When it was over, Mr. Trump declared victory, emphasizing that the consent decree he ultimately signed did not include an admission of guilt.

But an investigation by The New York Times — drawing on decades-old files from the New York City Commission on Human Rights, internal Justice Department records, court documents and interviews with tenants, civil rights activists and prosecutors — uncovered a long history of racial bias at his family’s properties, in New York and beyond.

That history has taken on fresh relevance with Mr. Trump arguing that black voters should support him over Hillary Clinton, whom he has called a bigot.

While there is no evidence that Mr. Trump personally set the rental policies at his father’s properties, he was on hand while they were in place, working out of a cubicle in Trump Management’s Brooklyn offices as early as the summer of 1968.

Then and now, Mr. Trump has steadfastly denied any awareness of any discrimination at Trump properties. While Mr. Trump declined to be interviewed for this article, his general counsel, Alan Garten, said in a statement that there was “no merit to the allegations.” And there has been no suggestion of racial bias toward prospective residents in the luxury housing that Mr. Trump focused on as his career took off in Manhattan in the 1980s.

In the past, Mr. Trump has treated the case as a footnote in the narrative of his career. In his memoir “The Art of the Deal,” he dispensed with it in five paragraphs. And while stumping in Ohio, he even singled out his work at one of his father’s properties in Cincinnati, omitting that, at the time, the development was the subject of a separate discrimination lawsuit — one that included claims of racial slurs uttered by a manager whom Mr. Trump had personally praised.

As eager as he was to leave behind the working-class precincts of New York City where Fred Trump had made his fortune, Donald Trump often speaks admiringly of him, recalling what he learned at his father’s side when the Trump name was synonymous with utilitarian housing, not yet with luxury, celebrity, or a polarizing brand of politics.

“My legacy has its roots in my father’s legacy,” he said last year.

Coming Under Scrutiny

Fred Trump got into the housing business when he was in his early 20s, building a single-family home for a neighbor in Queens. During World War II, he constructed housing for shipyard workers and Navy personnel in Norfolk, Va. After the war, he returned to New York, setting his sights on bigger, more ambitious projects, realized with the help of federal government loans.

His establishment as one of the city’s biggest developers was hardly free of controversy: The Senate Banking Committee subpoenaed him in 1954 during an investigation into profiteering off federal housing loans. Under oath, he acknowledged that he had wildly overstated the costs of a development to obtain a larger mortgage from the government.

In 1966, as the investigative journalist Wayne Barrett detailed in “Trump: The Greatest Show on Earth,” a New York legislative committee accused Fred Trump of using state money earmarked for middle-income housing to build a shopping center instead. One lawmaker called Mr. Trump “greedy and grasping.”

By this point, the Trump organization’s business practices were beginning to come under scrutiny from civil rights groups that had received complaints from prospective African-American tenants.

People like Maxine Brown.

Mr. Leibowitz, the rental agent at the Wilshire, remembered Ms. Brown repeatedly inquiring about the apartment. “Finally, she realized what it was all about,” he said.

Ms. Brown’s first instinct was to let the matter go; she was happy enough at the Y.W.C.A. “I had a big room and two meals a day for five dollars a week,” she said in an interview.

But a friend, Mae Wiggins, who had also been denied an apartment at the Wilshire, told her that she ought to have her own place, with a private bathroom and a kitchen. She encouraged Ms. Brown to file a complaint with the New York City Commission on Human Rights, as she was doing.

“We knew there was prejudice in renting,” Ms. Wiggins recalled. “It was rampant in New York. It made me feel really bad, and I wanted to do something to right the wrong.”

Applying for Housing at a Trump Property in the '60s

In the 1960s, Mae Wiggins and her friend Maxine Brown applied for housing at the Wilshire Apartments in the Jamaica Estates neighborhood of Queens, N.Y. Ms. Wiggins recalled her experience.

It was 52 years ago. My friend and I applied for an apartment at the Wilshire in Queens New York. [00:12:20] and we were both told that there were no vacancies. [00:07:06] I realized that there were vacancies because they still had the ad still running. [00:21:51] And I was pretty sure it was because of the color of skin. [00:18:31] We were professional people with good credit rating; no reason to be denied apartments. 14.33 When we first filed a complaint, they sent out testers — a white couple, and they were told that they could that they had a vacancy. [00:21:35] I felt really really angry and hurt. And after that we were told that we could go into the vacant apartments, but I could not go because my mom was sick at that time. I thought it was was worth to fight for both of us. [00:20:59] I have an activist nature as you probably have picked up. Through the years I felt that the Trump Organization was biased, [00:23:41] And I will go to my grave with that thought.

Mr. Leibowitz was called to testify at the commission’s hearing on Ms. Brown’s case. Asked to estimate how many blacks lived in Mr. Trump’s various properties, he remembered replying: “To the best of my knowledge, none.”

After the hearing, Ms. Brown was offered an apartment in the Wilshire, and in the spring of 1964, she moved in. For 10 years, she said, she was the only African-American in the building.

Complaints about the Trump organization’s rental policies continued to mount: By 1967, state investigators found that out of some 3,700 apartments in Trump Village, seven were occupied by African-American families.

Like Ms. Brown, the few minorities who did live in Trump-owned buildings often had to force their way in.

A black woman named Agnes Bunn recalled hearing in early 1970 about a vacant Trump apartment in another part of Queens, from a white friend who lived in the building. But when she went by, she was told there were no vacancies.

“The super came out and stood there until I left the property,” Ms. Bunn said.

Ms. Bunn testified about the experience at a meeting with the New York City Commission on Human Rights in 1970. According to a summary, recovered from the New York City Municipal Archives, she told a Trump lawyer that it was known that no “colored” people were wanted as tenants in the building.

The lawyer concluded that the episode was “all a misunderstanding.” Ms. Bunn and her husband, a Manhattan accountant, soon became the building’s first black tenants.

Unlike the public schools, the housing market could not be desegregated simply by court order. Even after passage of the Fair Housing Act of 1968, which prohibited racial discrimination in housing, developments in white neighborhoods continued to rebuff blacks.

For years, it fell largely to local civil rights groups to highlight the problem by sending white “testers” into apartment complexes after blacks had been turned away.

“Everything was sort of whispers and innuendo and you wanted to try to bring it out into the open,” recalled Phyllis Kirschenbaum, who volunteered for Operation Open City, a housing rights advocacy organization. “I’d walk in with my freckles and red hair and Jewish name and get an apartment immediately.”

The complaints of discrimination were not limited to New York.

In 1969, a young black couple, Haywood and Rennell Cash, sued after being denied a home in Cincinnati at one of the first projects in which Donald Trump, fresh out of college, played an active role.

Mr. Cash was repeatedly rejected by the Trumps’ rental agent, according to court records and notes kept by Housing Opportunities Made Equal of Cincinnati, which sent in white testers posing as a young couple while Mr. Cash waited in the car.

After the agent, Irving Wolper, offered the testers an apartment, they brought in Mr. Cash. Mr. Wolper grew furious, shoving them out of the office and calling the young female tester, Maggie Durham, a “nigger-lover,” according to court records.

“To this day I have not forgotten the fury in his voice and in his face,” Ms. Durham recalled recently, adding that she also remembered him calling her a “traitor to the race.”

The Cashes were ultimately offered an apartment.

At a campaign stop in Ohio recently, Mr. Trump shared warm memories of his time in Cincinnati, calling it one of the early successes of his career. And in “The Art of the Deal,” he praised Mr. Wolper, without using his surname, calling him a “fabulous man” and “an amazing manager.”

“Irving was a classic,” Mr. Trump wrote.

The young Mr. Trump also spent time in Norfolk, helping manage the housing complexes his father built there in the 1940s. Similar complaints of discrimination surfaced at those properties beginning in the mid-1960s, and were documented by Ellis James, an equal housing activist.

“The managers on site were usually not very sophisticated,” Mr. James, now 78, recalled. “Some were dedicated segregationists, but most of them were more concerned with following the policies they were directed to keep.”

Battling the Government

Donald Trump said he had first heard about the lawsuit, which was filed in the fall of 1973, on his car radio.

The government had charged him, his father and their company, Trump Management Inc., with violating the Fair Housing Act.

Another major New York developer, the LeFrak Organization, had been hit with a similar suit a few years earlier. Its founder, Samuel LeFrak, had appeared at a news conference alongside the United States attorney, trumpeting a consent agreement to prohibit discrimination in his buildings by saying it would “make open housing in our cities a reality.” The LeFrak company even offered the equivalent of one month’s rent to help 50 black families move into predominantly white buildings.

Donald Trump took a different approach. He retained Senator Joseph McCarthy’s red-baiting counsel, Roy Cohn, to defend him. Mr. Trump soon called his own news conference — to announce his countersuit against the government.

The government’s lawyers took as their starting point the years of research conducted by civil rights groups at Trump properties.

“We did our own investigation and enlarged the case,” said Elyse Goldweber, who as a young assistant United States attorney worked on the lawsuit, U.S.A. v. Trump.

A former Trump superintendent named Thomas Miranda testified that multiple Trump Management employees had instructed him to attach a separate piece of paper with a big letter “C” on it — for “colored” — to any application filed by a black apartment-seeker.

The Trumps went on the offensive, filing a contempt-of-court charge against one of the prosecutors, accusing her of turning the investigation into a “Gestapo-like interrogation.” The Trumps derided the lawsuit as a pressure tactic to get them to sign a consent decree like the one agreed to by Mr. LeFrak.

The judge dismissed both the countersuit and the contempt-of-court charge. After nearly two years of legal wrangling, the Trumps gave up and signed a consent decree.

As is customary, it did not include an admission of guilt. But it did include pages of stipulations intended to ensure the desegregation of Trump properties.

Equal housing activists celebrated the agreement as more robust than the one signed by Mr. LeFrak. It required that Trump Management provide the New York Urban League with a weekly list of all its vacancies.

This did not stop Mr. Trump from declaring victory. “In the end the government couldn’t prove its case, and we ended up making a minor settlement without admitting any guilt,” he wrote in “The Art of the Deal.”

Only this was not quite the end.

A few years later, the government accused the Trumps of violating the consent decree. “We believe that an underlying pattern of discrimination continues to exist in the Trump Management organization,” a Justice Department lawyer wrote to Mr. Cohn in 1978.

Once again, the government marshaled numerous examples of blacks being denied Trump apartments. But this time, it also identified a pattern of racial steering.

While more black families were now renting in Trump-owned buildings, the government said, many had been confined to a small number of complexes. And tenants in some of these buildings had complained about the conditions, from falling plaster to rusty light fixtures to bloodstained floors.

The Trumps effectively wore the government down. The original consent decree expired before the Justice Department had accumulated enough evidence to press its new case.

The issue was becoming academic, anyway. New York’s white working-class population was shrinking. Shifting demographics would soon make it impractical to turn away black tenants.

By the spring of 1982, when the case was officially closed, Donald Trump’s prized project, Trump Tower, was just months from completion. The rebranding of the Trump name was well underway.

As for Ms. Brown, she still lives in the same apartment in the Wilshire.

Over the years, she has watched the building’s complexion begin to change — along with some of her neighbors’ attitudes toward her. During the 1990s, one man who used to step off the elevator whenever she stepped on suddenly started greeting her warmly.

On a recent afternoon, she reminisced about the unlikely role she played in breaking the color barrier of the Trump real estate empire.

“I just wanted a decent place to live,” she said.

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