The James Report

As you may recall, James is my 18-month-old kitten who used to be the Pulp Friction poster boy in his little argyle sweater.
Now he's a big, muscle bound tomcat, yet his spoiled, adorable kittenhood mentality remains intact.
I recently acquired a new loveseat, upholstered in a sturdy, tapestry style fabric.
James and his accomplice Bart, my older tomcat, have managed to lacerate several spots on my new loveseat with their oft-trimmed claws.
The baby's foster mother Katie suggested I brew a tea out of some herb called rue and spray it on the loveseat. Rue?
In case the witchcraft botanica doesn't stock rue, has anyone else got any suggestions on how I can stop my bad, bad boys from tattering my furniture?
Meanwhile, Aviva likes cats, but she can't tolerate them in bed with her. Allergies.
James thinks my bed is his and he allows me to share it with him, providing he's allowed to stroll over me at will, and gets to get under the covers and fuse his spine to my ribs while he sleeps. If I move, he meows angrily.
James does not like the words no, get off, get away or stop it.
James is not a cat to reason with. He is uncompromising in his viewpoints and far too cute and fuzzy to kill.
Aviva is not a woman who will tolerate her allergies being stirred. She too is far too cute and fuzzy to kill.
So I have a dilemma. Shall I sequester the boys into their bedroom at night, with the door shut off from the heater in the hallway?
Or, shall I risk the wrath of Aviva, who has ways of communicating her discomfort that might include the words no, get off, get away and stop it?
One way or another, some pussycat will have to adjust.
All three are capable of retribution.
I know not what to do.