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Summary
It's their own private joke. Their little hush-hush. A mutually assured, closely kept secret: Those censors are thrilling.
They've played with the settings. My, oh, my, how they've played. Off again, on again, a little slip of Mettaton's fingers on that switch to cut him off just long enough to hear that strangled yelp and bring him back again.
The tricky thing is, they create an absence of. That switch has no advanced settings. No filters. It's all or nothing, which can only take them so far. There's nothing to fight against. They are there, or they aren’t there, and that's all there is to it.
It just won't do.
Mettaton wants him straining.