Hello everybody! After a long bought of writer's block, I'm back with a new idea and a new series! That's right! For everyone who loved the antics of my first (abandoned) work, The Mankey House, comes a differently-toned tale of one mad psychologist, an afterlife full of victims, and all the behind-closed-doors wackiness you can expect when Aizen Sosuke is a practitioner of therapy. If you haven't guessed, this is a Bleachfanfic. Also, each chapter is a separate story.

As usual, I do not own Bleach or any other existing materials within the fanfic.

First up is Ichigo Kurosaki, "Substitute Shinigami"

Ichigo warily slouched into the office, deathly aware of the fact that he was in a fanfic of fluctuating quality that could easily kill him off at any given second. The room, so drab and professional-looking, was empty. A padded leather chair sat behind an impressive wooden desk that supported a bittersweet photograph of Momo Hinamori and her Captain-slash-stalking victim, Aizen Sosuke. Hinamori had never looked happier. Aizen looked like he would rather be somewhere- anywhere- else. Currently, outside the photo, it seemed that he was somewhere else.

The room remained empty, to Ichigo's disappointment and slight relief. He really didn't want to talk to Aizen about the hollow incident, no matter how much Rukia protested. Deciding that he tried his best, Ichigo turned to leave when the door slammed shut, blocking his escape and revealing none other than (Dun-dun-DUNNN!) Aizen's hair! (And Aizen as well...)

"Ichigo Kurosaki. Right on time," said the shrink in a cool, confident voice, "You look tense. Please, lay down on that couch."

Ichigo turned to see a stereotypical therapist's couch in a darkened corner of the office. The substitute shinigami began to get comfortable when Aizen accosted him.

"No. Not that couch. I meant that couch over there." He gestured grandly to a massive white couch with fluffy white cushions and ivory-colored leather that glistened in the sunlight as it flowed in a ray through the open window that looked out on Aizen's koi pond and the surrounding grounds.

Ichigo's face lit up, "Y-you mean it?"

"Of course. Bankai-strength stress like yours needs a Bankai-strength comfort zone, so you sit in the Ban-couch and I'll take the other."

"The Ban-couch?"

"Indeed. Few know this, but that couch is actually the creation of my Bankai."

Ichigo whipped around and reached for his zanpakuto. "Your Bankai? You mean your sword is out?"

Aizen motioned to an umbrella stand where the released zanpakuto glimmered dejectedly, "You have nothing to fear: my couch is not made for combat purposes. Just the opposite, in fact. After long battles and using my Shikai, I then rest by using my Bankai. That is its perfect state you see before you, Ichigo Kurosaki. It is the most epically and intensely comfortable couch you could ever dream of resting upon. Go. It's calling for you."

In fact, it was, in a metaphorical sense. Ichigo could not resist caressing the plush leather arms, or leaning in to smell the new-furniture scent that all newly installed pieces of furniture waft naturally. After a minute of couch-harassment, Ichigo settled in to the soft cushions and breathed deeply. Damn! he thought, This is one comfortable couch!

"I'm ready."

"Good. First question. We'll start off slow. When did you meet this... hollow of yours?"

"I met him after I fought Kenpachi. I really had no idea what was going on until later, but... that's when he appeared."

"Excellent. Now, when exactly did you start to have trouble with the hollow?"

"Umm... during my fight with Byakuya, he was giving me directions like a backseat driver the entire time! 'Dodge left! No, your other left! Right hook, left hook, uppercut!' Useless stuff like that until he hijacked my body!"

"Hmmm. Interesting." Aizen absentmindedly tapped the pen he was holding on his clipboard, "How did it make you feel when he 'hijacked your body'?"

"I felt like he was stealing my win, that's how!"

"So, did he stop?"

"Yeah, after I pulled the mask off."

"You what?"

"I pulled the hollow mask that started to form over my face off. Damn creepy thing, urgh!" Ichigo shivered.

"Impressive. How did ripping away that mask make you feel?"

"It felt good. Like I was... in control. Like I was free again- which I was."

"I see. And, are there any other barriers in your life? Preventing you from that feeling of freedom? Events holding you back? People, perhaps?"

"No. None."

"None?" Aizen looked up from his clipboard increduously.

"Well-" Ichigo's memory whipped back to the night he became a shinigami, when Rukia had bound him, mocked him. Later, that day when he was fighting for his mother, she had seen that he had no sure chance of ever fathering children.

Even a few months ago, after she was held captive and about to be executed, she told him to run even while he was rescuing her. Was she his friend? Was she?

"Rukia." His voice had a metallic, almost unhinged quality.

"Come again?"

"Rukia Kuchki. The girl that holds my reins."

Aizen's eyes flicked to the back of Ichigo's head worriedly. "Ichigo, could I get you to look me in the eyes?"

Ichigo slowly turned his head, massaging his neck against the heaven-on-earth that was the Ban-couch. While his face was the same, aside from a stupid grin, his eyes were radically different: they were nearly black with yellow irises.

Aizen merely shrugged and scribbled on a note. "I'll refer you to Captain Unohana for some eye medicine, and you, Ichigo Kurosaki, need to assert yourself!"

Not-Ichigo stood up and shook Aizen's hand, "Thanks, Aizen. You've been a real eye-opener."

"I try, Ichigo, I really do, but if you stay much longer, I'll have to treat you as a second patient."

Not-Ichigo smiled evilly, the slightest swirls of a white hollow mask beginning to form around his ears, "Right." And with a peal of insane laughter, Not-Ichigo rocketed down the hall and out the building with a speed-of-sound shunpo. Soon, numerous explosions could be heard, along with Not-Ichigo accusing the Kuchki girl of giving him a man-abortion before randomly blasting Byakuya's obscenely large house with his Bankai. To patient and therapist alike, it was quite satisfying.

"Aizen, you sly dog, you," the evil therapist laughed to himself as he reclined on the Ban-couch.

Got any comments? Suggestions? Ratings? Give me a review, if you would.