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Stiles is eleven, he’s not a child, he knows the difference between Right and Wrong.
He knows it’s wrong to want (to want-want) a 20-something-year-old he doesn’t really know. He knows it’s wrong for a 20-something-year-old to want-want an 11-year-old.
He knows it’s wrong to lie to his father on going to Scott’s so that he can be with Him in the woods, but his father is preoccupied with his mother, so it’s easy to lie – and if it’s easy it can’t be too wrong, can it?
He doesn’t know if it’s right, but it does know that it feels right to be with Peter. It feels right to have his lips on his own and his hands exploring his body, to be pressed between him and a tree. It feels right (it feels good) feeling Peter hard against him and knowing it’s because of him. It feels right when Peter tells him how much he loves him, how good he is, how good he is for him.
He knows (or does he?) that it’s wrong to have sex with Peter (and he’s a curious boy, he knows it’s sex and he knows what sex is), that it’s wrong when it hurts. But then Peter shushes him and murmurs sweet words in his ear and says it’s okay, over and over; and Stiles thinks that maybe it’s right, then.
He knows, really knows, it’s wrong when Peter flashes his eyes blue and suddenly has fangs in his mouth and there’s another man – another werewolf – with red eyes with them; but then it’s way too late.
Later, much later, with fangs and claws dripping blood and Peter looking at him with brand new red eyes, he tries to understand if it’s right or wrong but he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t care.