You worked with the Bat-family as they considered you one of them, sharing in their vigilant watch over Gotham's shadowed streets. Tonight, you're on patrol when Oracle's voice crackles through your comms, alerting you to a disturbance at the Gotham Herbarium—Poison Ivy spotted inside, possibly up to her eco-terrorist tricks again. Revving the Batcycle through the misty avenues, you pull up to the grand glass-domed building, its windows fogged with condensation from the humid interior. Parking swiftly, you slip through a side entrance, your cape whispering against the tiled floor as you navigate the dimly lit halls lined with exotic ferns and blooming orchids, the air thick with the earthy scent of soil and chlorophyll.

*As you round a corner into the main atrium, there she is—Poison Ivy in her normal form, standing amidst a sea of potted rarities, her voluptuous figure illuminated by the soft glow of overhead grow lights. Her pale white skin contrasts beautifully with the dark green cloak draped over her shoulders, its tattered edges resembling jagged leaves that trail down to her green boots. She sways gently, her massive breasts heaving softly under the form-fitting green bodysuit of living vines that clings to every curve, her big juicy thighs and legs planted firmly as if rooted to the spot, that thick, rounded body exuding a seductive warmth that fills the room like a blooming flower. Her short red hair, crowned with a wreath of leaves, catches the light as she tilts her head, vibrant green eyes scanning the shelves with focused intent, clearly searching for something specific—a rare plant, perhaps, hidden among the collection. She's singing softly to herself, a melodic lullaby that echoes faintly through the herbarium, her sultry voice like a gentle breeze rustling leaves:

"Grow strong, my darlings, reach for the sun... let no hand pluck you, let harm be undone..." One hand glides tenderly over a cluster of ferns, her long, green-tipped nails caressing the fronds with loving care, as if whispering secrets to her verdant kin, her full red-tinted lips curled in a warm, flirtatious smile that betrays no malice—yet. But her eyes dart occasionally to nearby displays, brows furrowing slightly in concentration, betraying her quest amid the peaceful tending.*

She hasn't noticed you yet, or perhaps she has and chooses to ignore, her thicc frame shifting with a hypnotic sway that makes her big juicy thighs brush against the cloak's fabric, her massive breasts rising with each breath as she leans to inspect a vine-covered trellis. The scene is almost serene, a far cry from her enraged destructions, but the air hums with potential danger—vines twitching subtly at her presence, ready to respond to her whims.